Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII

by Geraldine Evans

  ‘Well, sister,’ Mary said with a smile. ‘It is good to see you. Let us hope our next meeting is not so long-awaited.’ She made to kiss Margaret, but her sister’s kiss in return, was perfunctory.

  Instead of returning her friendly overture, Margaret ignored it and burst out instead in an angry tirade of grievances against the way the fates had treated her. ‘I wouldn’t have been here now, but for that foolish Council,’ she told Mary, bitterly. ‘They had the temerity to offer the regency to that French cur, Albany, instead of letting it remain in my hands. I am, after all, the mother of the king. That Frenchman, brought up in France as he was, can’t even speak the language.’

  Taken aback by her sister’s anger, Mary tried to soothe her. ‘He is the heir-presumptive, Margaret, cousin to the late King James. Surely it is his right? Scotland has need of a strong man to rule it. It has ever been a wild, ungovernable place. I’m sure the Council thought it would be too much for a woman.’

  ‘What do you know of the matter, Mary?’ Margaret demanded sharply. ‘Sheltered by our brother till you were all of eighteen, how could you know aught of Scotland or her problems? You say they need a man to rule? They’ll have a hard task finding one of those in Scotland.’ The lords of the north were dismissed with a contemptuous wave of the hand. ‘I’m more man than any of them, but they’re too full of overbearing male arrogance to realise it.’

  Dismayed, Mary stared at her sister and thought that maybe Margaret’s own arrogance might have had something to do with her rejection by the Council. It was a thought she kept to herself. Instead, she asked, ‘Where is your husband, Margaret? I had expected to see him also. Will he be coming to court?’

  ‘Nay. He let the Council reject me for the regency. Let that fool Archibald Douglas stay in the north. What would I want with him here?’

  From her sister’s dismissive tone, Mary guessed that this second marriage had already soured. Mary was sorry for it. Hoping her assumption was in error, Mary said, ‘Surely, sister, you wish the father of your new daughter to be with you?’

  Margaret let out a harsh laugh and laid a hand on her belly. ‘Douglas did his work,’ she said. ‘He was quite content for me to do the rest alone. As I said, Mary, let him stay in the north. He’s not wanted here.’

  Mary, optimistically still hoping for those exchanged girlish confidences, persisted. ‘I had thought you and he were a love-match, Margaret, like Charles and I. Was he then not your choice? Do you not love him?’

  ‘Love him?’ Margaret echoed. For a moment she looked thoughtful and admitted, ‘Perhaps I did once. It seems a long time ago now. Nowadays, lust is the nearest we come to love. It serves well enough. I had expected him to be a strong support in the north, but, just like the king, my first husband, he’s turned out to be a sore disappointment to me.’

  Mary knew not what to say to this embittered sister and a silence fell. She was thankful when Henry arrived and swept Margaret off to see Wolsey and confer on developments in Scotland. She had so hoped she and Margaret could become friends; the wide gap in their ages when they were children had done little to encourage friendship then, but she had thought it would be different now they were both women and both mothers.

  But it was apparent that years were not the only thing which separated them. Their experiences had been so different. Mary had heard whispers of what Margaret had endured whilst married to James IV. As was King Francis now, James, too, had been a notorious womaniser, with many mistresses. It must have been difficult for a romantic, newly-wed girl of thirteen to accept such endlessly repeated humiliations. Little wonder her character had curdled.

  Then there were her sister’s more recent troubles over the regency, though Mary found it hard to understand why Margaret should so long for the role of regent with all its accompanying problems. She herself had been only too ready to leave France and return home, her French queenship well lost for love. Marriage and motherhood suited her in a way it clearly didn’t suit Margaret. Margaret, it was apparent, wanted more.

  Mary had greatly missed England, too, whereas Margaret seemed to lack the same strong love of her homeland. Of course her sons by the king were in Scotland. It made a difference. Now her ties were with that cold, wild country, rather than with England.

  Completely different in temperament and personality though they were Mary admitted a certain admiration for Margaret’s courage. Scotland had ever been a difficult land to rule, a fact successive kings had discovered to their cost. That unhappy country had had several child monarchs and as a consequence the lords had become over-strong. Many were all but kings in their own territories which would make the task of ruling far from easy.

  Mary, back in their apartments, cast about for something to occupy her. She found the shirt she had been embroidering for her baby son and picked it up. Sewing was second nature and soon her thoughts returned to her sister and her adoptive country. Margaret’s first husband, the late king, had, for all his womanising, been considered a strong monarch. At least he had managed to keep the lords in their place. But he had died at the rout that was Flodden, killed by the army of his brother-in-law, Henry of England. Many of his lords had died with him. Now his small son, James V, Mary’s young nephew, was the monarch. That yet another child monarch occupied the Scottish throne had led to much faction as the lords jostled for power.

  Mary thought sadly of the poor little nephew she had never seen and how worried her sister must be about her two boys. Mary could excuse her sister’s overbearing manner on this alone and she resolved to make more of an effort to gain Margaret’s confidence.

  Mary’s needle flew with her thoughts. When Margaret had decided to marry again, the Council had sent for Albany, he being, as they considered, the lesser of two evils. But Albany was more Frenchman than Scot, having been brought up in France and had, as Margaret had complained, no grasp of the language of the country he was expected to rule as regent. He had been urged to take on this thankless role by the King of France in order to the more easily use Scotland to further his own ambitions. The French had ever used Scotland as a stick with which to beat the English. An England tormented by Scots aggression would, so Henry had claimed was the French reasoning, be less able or willing to attack the French while that country’s monarch was left free to engage in his Italian adventures.

  Henry had hoped that Margaret and her second husband, the Earl of Angus, aided and financed by him, would be able to break the ‘Auld Alliance’ between Scotland and France. With Scotland a friend rather than a foe, Henry had hoped he would be stronger for any future attack on France. He had paid out large sums to the Scottish lords in order to win their allegiance in furtherance of this hope. Now, after the appointment of Albany as regent and with Margaret’s disenchantment with her second husband, it seemed that Henry’s hopes had gone awry.

  Strangely he hadn’t appeared too cast down by this. Mary presumed she could put her brother’s good cheer down to the fact that Catherine had finally presented him with a healthy child, albeit a daughter only. Mary had been touched that Catherine and her brother had named the child Mary.

  How proud Henry was of the child. Never had a child such as his daughter been born. He insisted that everyone must admire her. Even foreign ambassadors on important missions had to pause in their diplomacy in order to make the pilgrimage to her nursery and find appropriate adulatory responses.

  The days flew by. Margaret, after several conferences with Henry about events in Scotland, would join her sister queens, Catherine and Mary and compare their babies’ progress. Though Margaret, in emulation of her absent husband, was a disinterested parent and rather put out that she had borne a mere girl. It seemed her husband hadn’t been greatly impressed that the first child Margaret had presented him with had been a daughter rather than the son he had wanted. Certainly, he still failed to put in an appearance at his wife’s side.

  Shades of our brother, thought Mary, pityingly. But at least Henry doted on his little daughter as much as Ch
arles doted on his son. The contrast between these two new fathers and the third, Margaret’s husband, was vivid and must, Mary felt, hurt her sister greatly, even though Margaret didn’t betray her feelings on the matter.

  Mary couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her sister in her sad situation. And if the babe’s father failed to proffer the expected words of praise, the child’s aunt could manage a few. ‘You’ve borne a fine babe, Margaret,’ she told her on the next occasion they had had an opportunity for womanly conversation. ‘She must be a comfort to you now that you’re separated from your sons. It’s a shame you were unable to bring them with you. I admit I feel curious about my little nephews and would have loved to see them. Do they resemble our brother at all?’

  Margaret shrugged. ‘I don’t know who they resemble, truth to tell. I’ve not seen them these many months. Besides, when I was in Scotland, they were in the care of Lady Erskine. I had other things to attend to than playing the nursemaid.’

  Deciding this brusque exterior but defended the wounded heart of a mother parted from her sons, Mary tried again. ‘But you must have seen enough of them to notice any resemblance? Lady Guildford told me our brother was a bonny babe.’

  ‘Tis a shame he’s not so bonny now, then,’ Margaret retorted, with a sly glance at Queen Catherine. ‘You should have heard him rant at me about the state of my marriage. Why so curious, anyway, sister? You have a son of your own to coddle now, if coddle you must. Just don’t expect me to do the same. I bore the pangs of childbirth; ‘tis enough. Let someone else labour over them till they’re full grown.’

  Mary was surprised that Margaret should take so little interest in her own children when she could scarcely bear to be parted from her little Harry and left him to the care of nursemaids only with the greatest reluctance. ‘I find babies delightful creatures,’ she confessed a little shame-facedly to her hard-faced sister. ‘Indeed, I prefer to tend my son myself whenever I can. It is a pleasure, not a chore.’

  ‘I suppose the boy takes your mind off that great sulk of a husband you’ve managed to acquire. Brandon’s glum looks must silence the brat, withal.’

  Mary rose to his defence. ‘He has a lot on his mind at this time, Margaret. He has reasons for looking troubled.’ As Margaret broke in, Mary realised to her dismay that her sister was determined to pick a fight.

  ‘All do know your husband’s troubles. He’s trying for friendship with France. You should warn him he’s liable to get more trouble than joy from the wily French king. Brandon’s not clever enough to outfox Francis. He surely learned that when he was in France cowering behind your skirts after your hole-in-the-corner marriage?’

  Margaret’s sharp tongue brought an angry colour to Mary’s cheeks. Her sister, after all, had made her own ‘hole-in-the-corner’ marriage. ‘He didn’t ‘cower behind my skirts’ as you put it,’ Mary retorted. ‘It was I who urged our marriage, not Charles. So if you would reproach any it should be me.’

  ‘How you defend him, Mary,’ her sister mocked. ‘The Lord knows his love-life and marital history do not give forth the most sweet of smells. Let’s see if I can get it right. Wasn’t he contracted to marry one lady who became pregnant as a result? Her he jilted so he could marry her aunt, twenty years the girl’s senior, so he could lay claim to large inheritance. He then, as I understand it, had this marriage annulled on the grounds of the relationship between the aunt and niece and while keeping the inheritance went back and married the first lady. A pretty tale indeed.’

  The way her sister described it, it did sound a sordid tale. But Mary had known about his previous marriages. It was natural that Charles, some twelve years her senior, should have had other romances. Thus, had she excused him. But, although she had been willing to excuse his marital adventuring, how could she, on occasions, especially when there was trouble between them, not reflect on his past life? There had been other rumours too. It was said that, with Henry’s connivance, Charles had proposed marriage to Archduchess Margaret after their success at Tournai. Charles’s proposal had been graciously declined, though the Archduchess had been sufficiently taken with him to agree to his daughter by one of his earlier ‘marriages’ being educated at her court. Charles had obtained a divorce from his first wife and had been forced to gain the approval of the Pope for his marriage to Mary.

  It was a tangled enough tale and one that had kept the gossips busy, especially after Mary had married him. Her thoughts were interrupted by another unwelcome comment from her sister.

  ‘We must hope he appreciates what a prize he gained when he so ‘unwillingly’ wed you. Still, he’s handsome enough, I admit. It’s a shame his brains aren’t of the same quality as his looks.’ Margaret’s shrug dismissed the subject. ‘Husbands,’ she said, ‘what good are they, anyway? The first ignored me till he wanted sons. He managed to spare the time from his mistresses to get heirs at least. And the second.’ Margaret gave an unladylike snort. ‘Brave Douglas, now there’s a great man. I tell you sister, you were a fool to give up your gains in France to marry a fortune-hunter like Brandon. When war comes with France, as it will, for our brother’s determined on it, you and your handsome, low-born husband will lose the small French income our brother let you keep. I wonder will the great sulk be so fond when he shares you with poverty?’

  Mary, who had hoped they could be friends and confidantes, was shocked to discover what a vicious tongue her sister had. But Margaret’s tongue had touched unerringly on another particularly sensitive spot. For their debts had, indeed, made Charles less lover-like. At the unwelcome news that their income might be further reduced, Mary couldn’t help but hit out at her sister. ‘You’re an unnatural woman, Margaret. I begin to see why Douglas is reluctant to join you here.’ The ready tears were close but Mary forced them back. She wouldn’t cry in front of this hard-faced sister of hers. ‘I’m only sorry you’re here and that you’re my sister.’

  Mary leapt from her chair and with an apologetic glance towards the hitherto silent Catherine for her lack of courtly etiquette, she rushed from the room. She was followed by her sister’s brittle, contemptuous laughter.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mary returned to her chamber in an unsettled frame of mind. She found herself longing for the quiet of the countryside, far from the court where ambitious egos made life anything but simple. She wondered that her husband should so revel in the intrigues and gossip, especially after what thy had suffered from both during their time at the French court. Although Mary still enjoyed the masques and balls of the court she had learned the value of peace, both of mind and of place.

  She had tried to get on with her sister, but Margaret had not only made all her efforts an uphill task, she had forced from Mary equal unkindness’s which she regretted. For Mary, the worst aspect of their spat had been the way Margaret forced her to look again at her husband. Mary thought she had succeeded in pushing the doubts to the back of her mind. But Margaret, bitter and spiteful after two unhappy marriages, clearly hated to see her younger sister happy in hers.

  Mary wasn’t altogether sorry when debts again forced a retrenchment into the country, even though Charles would rant and fume to be again away from the court. But Wolsey was once more pressing for payment, Henry firmly behind him, his delight in his new daughter and his sponsoring of his nephew in no way diminishing his love of gold’s glitter.

  What Margaret had prophesised came to pass in November when Henry and his Council agreed a defensive league against France with Flanders, Spain and the Swiss. All Charles’s carefully nurtured friendship with King Francis availed them nothing and Mary’s income was reduced still further. It did little for Charles’s temper or their relationship. But at least Mary was thankful they were not forced to endure their reduced circumstances under her sister’s mocking, ‘I told you so’ gaze.

  ‘Wolsey’s behind this,’ Charles insisted, his bitterness at this ill-turn in their fortunes brought a fresh harping on this familiar theme. ‘He guides the king in everything, t
he spiteful, grasping wretch that he is.’

  Mary, convinced that Charles’s growing enmity towards the Cardinal was making him wilfully blind, said, ‘You wrong him. He has no more desire for war with France than do we. It is my brother who longs for war and glory. Wolsey has sought to restrain him in his ambitions. A wise man knows that wars are costly affairs both in money and men, but my brother is headstrong and will not be advised in this matter. You know how he longs to emulate his namesake, Henry V. How could cool wisdom ever, with him, compete with the heat of glory?’

  ‘War would suit Wolsey’s purpose, I tell you, Mary, so do not defend him to me. My friendship with King Francis is well-known. Wolsey knows what little use that friendship would be to me if war with France comes. Mayhap he thinks to persuade the king to throw me in the tower as a danger to the realm.’

  Mary bit her lip to stop herself from again telling him he was being a fool. But truly, he was becoming obsessed with the Cardinal. She didn’t know what to do about it. All she could do was to try to argue him from it. ‘Think you he has naught to do but thwart you? I’m sure he hasn’t the time to dwell on such matters.’

  With a sweep of his hand Charles brushed her words aside. ‘He knows the high favour I had from the king before I married you—’ He broke off abruptly, but not quickly enough to avoid revealing his bitterness.

  Mary swallowed down the sudden sick feeling as she remembered her sister’s comments about his earlier, cavalier love-life. Was she just the latest in a line of women Charles had married for his own advantage? Would he discard her as he had the others when he had drained all the advantage he could from their marriage? It was a traitorous thought. She would not believe it of him. Still, she sought his reassurance. ‘What are you saying, Charles? That you regret marrying me? Was I mistaken, like a simple maid, to think you loved me?’