The days passed, uncertainty a continual torment as they waited for a message from Henry. Mary’s monthly flux was late and this brought new fears. Let her not be pregnant, not here, not now. She needed all her strength to fight the terrors that came in the night. Such dreams she had, blood red and filled with gore as she watched Charles’s handsome head struck from his neck. Night after night she woke, crying out, her body bathed in sweat and her hair clinging damply to her neck.
Daily, their worries compounded. Henry had, the previous year, gained the town of Tournai in battle. His new possession was a source of great pride to him, representing as it did his dreams of emulating previous victorious warrior kings. Francis, naturally, had an equally great desire to get it back.
As well as offering Henry’s congratulations to his new brother sovereign, Charles’s diplomatic mission to the French court included instructions to negotiate on the matter of Tournai. Mary’s tears had come between him and his duty. But now he told Mary that he was commissioned to extract every last farthing of her marriage portion from the French king as well as negotiate on the question of Tournai. But how could he bring this off when he was under an obligation to Francis who had been so understanding of his and Mary’s confidences?
Mary had no answer for him. Charles had told her also that, every day now, Francis called on him at his lodging to know what was happening on the matter of Tournai, reminding Charles how much of an obligation to him he was under. Mary, wracked with guilt, could only watch as Charles squirmed, caught as he was between the opposing demands of two mighty sovereigns.
This difficult situation was still unresolved when a messenger arrived from England. Mary and Charles snatched eagerly at the letters he brought, relieved that both Henry and Wolsey’s letters to them were kindly. They both felt cheered that Henry had written to tell them how great was his love for them both and that he desired to see them happy. However, Henry’s next words took the edge off their cheer. He told them there had been jealous murmurings in the Council against the match. Charles and Mary looked uneasily at one another as Henry confirmed what they had suspected would happen.
The long-awaited letters had resolved nothing. Their only comfort was that Henry had repeated his good intentions towards them. It would have to be enough because Mary, convinced she was pregnant and that concealment of this condition would soon be impossible in any case, felt they had no choice but to live openly in Paris as man and wife, something they hadn’t dared to do before. But in spite of the ominous mention of the Council in Henry’s letter, his own loving words gave them courage.
It was a courage they were soon to need because it wasn’t long before rumours of their presumption reached England. The shock waves brought by this revelation travelled even more swiftly than had the previous rumours. Mary and Charles, cowering in their honeymoon chamber, were horrified that Henry, faced with the angry and bitter voices raised against Charles in Council, had back-tracked and was now strongly denying he had ever given them any encouragement.
They could only cling to one another, aware if they lost Henry as their champion, Charles was indeed doomed. It could be that Henry’s display of anger at their actions had only been put on for his Council’s benefit, Mary told him.
But Charles wasn’t to be comforted so easily. ‘What if your brother’s anger is real?’ he demanded. ‘I have defied the solemn vow I gave to him. He would be justified in having me put to death for marrying you.’
Mary, feeling he would be better occupied doing something instead of brooding on such terrors, set him to write a contrite and humble letter to Wolsey, confessing their marriage and the probability that Mary was already pregnant with his child. Fear made Charles eloquent, Mary saw as, over his shoulder she read the words that flowed from his pen in which he begged Wolsey’s help to conceal the truth of their actions from Henry. Hard on the heels of this letter, they sent the great jewel, the Miroir de Naples that Louis had given Mary, hoping its beauty would prove more persuasive than words alone.
Again they waited, hoping the clever Wolsey would be able to find a solution to their predicament. But Wolsey’s reply when it finally arrived only served to confirm that they had good reason for their terror. For although the author was Wolsey, the anger of Mary’s brother, the king, was writ large on every page. Wolsey had ignored their plea for secrecy: Henry knew all.
Mary and Charles read doom in every line of Wolsey’s letter, filled as it was with bitter accusations. It made clear that Henry felt affronted, deceived and betrayed. And though the letter was ostensibly from Wolsey, it was surely Henry who had demanded that Wolsey write to remind Charles of his lowly birth and how it had been Henry who had raised him to his present lordly status. Wolsey’s words made clear that Henry felt his generosity had been but poorly rewarded.
They stiffened as they read the line they had most feared to read. For in ink that looked somehow even more dark and threatening than the rest, Wolsey told them that the king was so angry that Charles looked certain to lose his head.
Near swooning, Mary reached for a chair and shakily sat down. Her first thought was to deny the fear that Wolsey’s words had instilled in them. ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ she insisted. ‘He but plays with us, you’ll see.’
Charles shook his head. ‘He does right to threaten me. I feel ashamed. King Henry has ever been a benign sovereign to me and I have thrown it in his face.’ He sat down on the bed, and stared down at the letter clutched in his hand with such an over-riding gloom that it might indeed be his death warrant. ‘I can’t expect the king to forgive this. Truly, I have earned his harshest revenge.’
Alarmed that Charles seemed so accepting of the death he felt he richly deserved, Mary cried, ‘Don’t say that. I don’t want a dead martyr for a husband. Just let his anger cool and he’ll be loving again, I know it.’
But Charles wasn’t to be comforted. It was apparent that Wolsey’s letter had made him so appreciate the depth of his betrayal that he believed he deserved to receive the ultimate punishment. Mary could only watch as he rose from the bed like one with the ague and stood gazing out of the window at the never-ending rain.
And no matter what she did, she was unable to persuade him from his melancholy. With a sigh, she picked up the letter and read it again, searching for some glimmer of hope. They had reached no further than the threat before and now, as she quickly scanned the rest of the letter, her heart gave a leap. Was Wolsey giving her a hint, a way out of their dilemma when he mentioned her jewels?
Whether it was a hint or merely wishful thinking, Mary snatched at it. How likely was it that a man with Wolsey’s subtle brain would torment them with false hope? He had mentioned her jewels for a reason, she was sure. Wolsey would not have mentioned what might yet be their salvation if he had not gauged Henry’s feelings on the matter.
Part of her was fearful of clutching too eagerly at this tiny thread of hope, lest it break. But it was all they had. She now pulled Charles from his gloomy study of the rain and forced him to read the rest of the letter. ‘See, I told you,’ she said, when he had done so. ‘I told you Henry’s temper would cool. Is it not clear to you now that between Wolsey starting the letter and finishing it, Henry’s mind was altered by the reminder of my ‘winnings’ here?’ And how he might wrest them from her, Mary added silently to herself. After Henry had helped himself to her Castilian dowry jewel Mary had no illusions about the strength of her brother’s love for shiny and expensive baubles. It was something for which she now thanked God.
Mary took up her pen and urged Charles to do the same. Soon, more contrite letters were despatched across the Channel. Mary insisted on taking all the blame. She revealed the predicament in which her tearful demands had placed her lover who had felt unable to withstand such a torrent.
Again they must wait, tormented by growing doubts that Mary’s eager interpretation of Wolsey’s words had been mistaken. Caught in the eye of the storm, their lives stood still while the frenetic life of the court
carried on around them. Veering from optimism to darkest terror, they could only await the arrival of yet more messengers and whatever news they would bring.
Mary tried to calm her mind with prayers. But Charles, like Henry, a man of huge physical energy, found the waiting intolerable. And although Mary tried to dissuade him from it, to her dismay, without waiting for a reply from Wolsey, Charles insisted on publishing the news of their marriage to all France. But first, he took the alarming step of telling Francis what they had done.
As Mary had feared, Francis’ jealousy now returned in full measure, his rage fuelled by the lust she knew he still felt for her. How could he not feel doubly insulted, in his kingship and in his manhood also? Had he not wooed her determinedly for weeks to no avail? Yet here was this low-born Englishman who need do nothing but deny her to gain her bed.
Mary’s knowledge of Francis gave her even more reason to fear for Charles’s life. Only this time the threatening monarch wasn’t miles away across the sea, but here, close at hand and well able to extract swift retribution.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fortunately, Francis, to conceal his dented pride, chose to pretend that by lustfully debasing her honour Mary had killed his desire for her and he washed his hands of them both. But this didn’t prevent him from coolly telling them that Charles would be held fast till he knew what Henry would have him do with them.
Mary breathed again when she learned Francis’ intentions. They were in no worse case than before, apart from Charles’s detention. Truly, Francis’ rage had frightened her and its cooling was greatly welcome. However, his rage roared again a few days later when he discovered the magnificent Miroir of Naples had vanished across the sea into Henry’s coffers. Furiously, he demanded its return. It belonged to each succeeding Queen of France in turn, he told her, and was not hers to dispose of as she wished.
While Francis continued to rage about the palace, Charles wrote urgently to England. But in their hearts Mary and he suspected these urgent pleadings would fall on deaf ears. Claude, Francis’ wife, had little chance of ever seeing the return of such a fabulous jewel, as Henry’s grasp on such baubles was as tenacious as ever. Anxiety filled their days and nights as they waited to see what would be Francis’ reaction when the truth finally dawned on him.
Francis ranted and raved at Charles as he tried to excuse his actions. ‘I had but thought to appease King Henry,’ he told the furious French king. ‘I understood the Miroir belonged to Mary.’
‘Of course it didn’t belong to Mary,’ Francis roared at him. ‘She knew that full well.’ Francis’ gaze narrowed dangerously. ‘You try my patience, Englishman. First you seduce my widowed mother-in-law, then you steal my jewels. What will you do next? Rape my sister, perhaps? Steal my crown and prise out its jewels to pawn? Why should I not part you from your head?’
Charles felt the colour leave his face at Francis’ threat. He swayed slightly and recoiled as Francis stood eyeball to eyeball with him.
‘Why should such a pleasure be saved for King Henry?’ he demanded. ‘Mary is my subject, made French by her first marriage. You think you have betrayed your master?’ Francis’ voice lowered, but if anything, its softer tones seemed even more dangerous than the previous ranting. ‘I tell you, I am the more injured. Don’t, I pray you, give me any more cause for anger. You have already tempted me sorely.’
His uncompromising warning delivered, Francis turned on his heel and strode off. Alarmed and humiliated, Charles did his best to ignore the sniggers of the courtiers as he made his way to Mary’s chamber.
Mary rushed to Charles’s side as soon as he entered the room and clutched at him in desperation to learn the worst. ‘Was Francis very angry?’
Charles nodded. ‘He threatened to save King Henry the trouble of cutting my head off. He said he would gladly do it for him.’
Mary gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth as Charles, denied an outlet for his feelings in the French king’s presence, began to vent his spleen on her.
‘I should never have sent that jewel to England. Compared to his present rage, Francis was before all sweet reason.’ He scowled at the window. ‘I can’t take much more of this stinking prison. Will this accursed rain never end? Everywhere is mud, mud and more mud. God, but I’m sick of it all, sick unto death.’
To Mary’s distress, he flung out of the chamber, his demeanour left her in no doubt that he intended to get blind drunk and that right soon. Mary couldn’t blame him. But his anger made her feel even more wretched. How much longer could they endure this tension, which only seemed to increase as each day passed? She sank down on the bed. She doubted their love would recover from so many mortal blows. How could it? Was there a man alive who would continue to love a woman whose demands had brought him so close to death?
Mary remained dry-eyed at this latest worry. It seemed she had no more tears left to shed. Instead, she clutched at her belly. Within it lay the creature who could tip the balance between Charles’s life and his death. But would the child save him or condemn him? She knew not. She was worn out with thinking. To add to her woes, her body betrayed her again and her agonising toothache returned in full measure.
They had heard nothing from England, not a word came from Henry or Wolsey. Mary became convinced now that she had wilfully mistaken Wolsey when he had mentioned the jewels in his last letter. Had she simply been clutching at a straw that had no existence other than in her own increasingly desperate mind?
Mary took up her pen yet again and wrote forlorn little letters to her brother, the tears she had thought all dried up scattered freely amongst the pages as she pleaded brokenly for his forgiveness. She begged him to allow them to return home or at least to have an open ceremony of marriage in France. She clutched her belly again, grimly aware that their secret marriage could yet be quashed and the child of their illicit union tainted with bastardy. What would become of them then?
All around them they felt the hostility of the court as the French, to a man, to a woman, sided with Francis. The courtiers felt as aggrieved as their king at the loss of the Miroir. Worse, they left Mary in no doubt that they felt she had dishonoured the title of Queen by taking Charles as her husband.
Mary and Charles could only wait, their sense of isolation increasing, as still no word came from England. Each day, they looked for a messenger so they would know their fate and each day they were disappointed.
Would Wolsey never write? He was their only hope, their only anchor in the angry seas that surrounded them. If he should desert them there would be no one to speak for them. No one to protect them.
Nerves stretched taut, Mary’s head developed a nervous tremor and nodded on her slim neck like a flower on its stalk. Every noise, every arrival, set her whole body quivering in harmony with her head such was her agitation. All her life she had been pampered and cossetted. The baby of the family, the prettiest daughter, she had scarcely known trouble. Always, there had been someone to lift her worries from her shoulders. Nothing in her short life had prepared Mary for the travails she now suffered. She could not even look to Charles for comfort as he was in a worse state than she. He had taken to regularly rubbing his hand over his neck as if to reassure himself that it had not been severed by the headsman’s axe. As he had said, he had more cause to fear retribution than she. Which was the worse, she wondered? To suffer the penalty yourself or to watch the one you loved suffer it, knowing you had brought the suffering upon them?
But even now, in her secret heart, she couldn’t feel that what she had done was so wrong. All she had done was marry the man she loved. What price her high estate when even the simplest village maid could marry where she wished? More woman than queen, Mary had placed a higher value on love than great titles and it had brought her more trouble than six dukedoms.
The weather was still grey and wet. As she sat watching the steadily-falling rain and waiting for Charles to return to her after their latest disagreement, the thought crossed her mind that he might take his
chance and flee, abandoning her to Francis’ mercy. He had proved his mettle in battle and his sword would find welcome anywhere he chose to offer it. Mary felt she could scarce blame him if he threw in his lot with the German mercenaries and fought the wars of the highest bidder. Didn’t the cynical French believe that in all love-matches there is one who kisses and one who is kissed? In her heart, Mary suspected that her love for Charles was greater than his for her. The thought did nothing to ease her mind.
She started up in alarm as she saw a messenger arrive. He was wearing Wolsey’s livery. Her agitation at the sight caused the tremor of her head to increase alarmingly. She stumbled to the door, but once there her fear of what any letter might contain stayed her. She jumped in terror as someone knocked on the door. Gathering her courage, Mary found her voice and bid her visitor enter.
It was the messenger. Mary stared at him. Was he the angel of doom? Or the angel of their salvation?
The messenger seemed disconcerted by her behaviour. Barely had he stumbled out his words of greeting, than Mary, unable to bear the suspense any longer, snatched the letter from his hand and tore it open. She scanned the contents of the letter quickly, desperate now to bring the long days of wretched uncertainty to an end, and to know their fate one way or the other.
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