That time they had been fortunate and the flower of Scotland’s nobles had died at the Battle of Flodden, their sister, Margaret’s husband, King James, among them. Catherine had sent the king’s bloody coat to Henry in France.
‘They would as lief plunge the knife for the sake of their friendship with France as for their own sake. We would not wish to defend the Emperor’s dominions at the possible cost of your own.’
‘Of a surety,’ Henry murmured.
Reminded of this enemy at his back who would be ready to seize an advantage from any continental adventure, Henry looked to have lost some of his lust for battle. Wolsey encouraged this loss still further. ‘Albany, the Scottish regent, is only too ready to do Francis’ bidding. He would be across the border into England before our army had advanced fifty miles. It would be essential, Sire, that we secured our back door before we opened the front.’ Henry nodded. Wolsey was gratified to see that the fire in the king’s belly seemed to have been doused. Scotland, that ever-present bogey, was a useful tool to cool the king’s ardor for war.
However, despite the Cardinal’s ability to sway Henry, some things were beyond even his abilities to alter. And events on the continent soon forced a rethink. For Francis, too, had trouble on his doorstep. The thoughtless confiscation of Charles Bourbon’s lands on the death of his royal wife had turned this powerful noble into France’s enemy and his rebellion against his over-lord, the King of France, turned the tide in the allies’ favour. Francis now had his very own Albany.
Bourbon’s disaffection, together with the Emperor’s second visit to England, provided the impetus to encourage Henry and Wolsey to enter the ring. A herald was now despatched to France to make declaration of war.
Once again, to Mary’s bitter disappointment, her income from France was in jeopardy. It seemed that no sooner were their finances set on a fair course than the unpredictable political winds that blew through Europe must swamp and overset them. Mary put down her book and shut it. She had told Catherine she was keen to again take up the Latin that she had been taught as a child. Catherine had been delighted and had been full of encouragement. But today, Mary found concentration impossible. She listened anxiously for the clamour that would herald the arrival of the refugees from the French court which was expected imminently. Amongst those refugees was Anne Boleyn, Mary’s youngest Maid of Honour from her time as Queen of France. Mary was eager to talk to Anne and learn, first-hand, what news there was from France.
When Anne Boleyn and the others finally arrived, Mary sent a maid with a message for Anne to come to her apartments. Her summons was quickly answered. Smiling, Mary welcomed her to court. Apart from learning of recent events in France that might adversely affect her dower income, Mary was also keen on renewing an old acquaintance. She and her young Maids had shared worrying and dangerous times together. Their experiences at the court of France had created a bond of intimacy which Mary was keen to revisit.
She was surprised to see how much Anne had blossomed during her years in France. Although she was still slim, it was now a slimness of willowy grace where before it had been mere gawkiness. She appeared so polished, so cultured and stylish that Mary could see no trace of the shy and sallow little girl to whom she had given her unwanted gowns. But she was being foolish; how could anyone remain a child at Francis’ court?. She laughed and told Anne what she had been thinking. ‘But of course you have changed from that little girl whose growth outpaced her gowns. France obviously suited you. But sit down, Anne. I am eager for news of France. Tell me something of the court’s doings.’
Her smile gracious, Anne seated herself with the smooth elegance that had so surprised Mary. She still felt disconcerted that the little Maid of Honour of her memory should be such a startling contrast to the Anne who now sat so composedly before her. She sensed from the girl’s demeanour that Anne had not liked to be reminded of the shabby and outgrown gowns or of the necessity of accepting Mary’s charity. It seemed her little Maid of Honour had discovered a certain hauteur during the process that had turned her from an ugly duckling into a swan. Although on the surface, she was pleasant enough, Mary sensed an underlying resentment and wondered at the girl’s ability to so long harbour a grudge over so small a matter.
But perhaps it was not only the matter of the gowns, Mary thought as she encouraged the girl to chat. It would be understandable if Anne was irked that Henry’s determination on war had put to an abrupt end her pleasant life in France. She might indeed feel resentment towards Henry’s sister that she should have been hurried from France and the only home she had known for many years. Whether such was the cause of Anne’s ill-feeling, Mary didn’t know. It was, in any case, beyond her power to ease the cause of either resentment. Anyway, it was surely beyond time that Anne returned home. She was no longer a child and must be anxious for her father to find a husband for her.
The renewal of intimacy that Mary had hoped for didn’t occur; that intimacy had vanished as surely as the little Maid with whom she had shared it. Whatever the reason for its loss, Mary found she couldn’t take to this new Anne. She put away the hopes she had cherished of girlish confidences and of learning whatever Anne might have gauged of Francis’ intentions. After no more than half-an-hour, she drew the visit to a close.
Of much more importance to Mary was her anxiety about her husband. For Charles had been appointed to lead an English expedition across the Channel. Originally, Henry’s plan had been limited to the capture of Boulogne, which, if it could be achieved, would provide them with another Channel port and give a great boost to the next year’s campaign. But Bourbon and the Emperor proposed a more dangerous and ambitious plan; that Charles Brandon should link up with Margaret of Austria’s army from the Netherlands and march on Paris, while Bourbon launched his revolt against Francis at the same time as the allies crossed the French frontier.
Mary had been dismayed when, although Henry had been against it, Wolsey had been persuaded by Count Buren, the Emperor’s general, that the difficulties of besieging Boulogne would be too great. Despite Henry’s misgivings, Wolsey persuaded the king to back this new and more ambitious plan.
War and its many perils filled her every waking hour and she dreaded Charles’s departure. As well as worrying about Charles, she had another, underlying cause for concern: what would become of her if she should be widowed a second time? Widowhood would, she knew, free her to once again become a marital pawn in Henry’s power-plays.
Charles, of course, brushed her fears aside, so delighted was he to have his chance to prove his worth to Henry that he even attempted to deny his doubts that the new campaign plan was wise. Mary was worried that his desire for glory would make him over-daring and place him in even more peril. Charles had laughed at her anxieties. It was clear he couldn’t wait to be off.
Stung, Mary said, ‘You seem eager to leave me, Charles. You may find the prospect of war entertaining, but I do not.’ She took his arm and pleaded with him. ‘All I ask is your promise that you will not do anything foolhardy. The king’s favour will be of no use to you if you are dead.’
He sighed, but did as she had asked. ‘You make your point, Mary,’ he told her. ‘I promise not to indulge in any unnecessary heroics.’ Solemnly, he crossed his heart. ‘But please, no more of your entreaties. They weaken a man.’
Mary held her tongue after that. And at least during the weeks of preparation she was kept too busy to brood, sewing the many banners and flags that the army would take with them to France.
The collection of money to pay for the war, the many preparations required for the transportation of the troops to Calais and negotiations with Bourbon, all caused so many delays that Charles bemoaned the passing of the summer and the loss of so many campaign days, for wars were rarely fought during the difficult winter months. It was not till the beginning of September that everything was in place. Then came yet more delay. Francis had discovered Bourbon’s treachery and their ally was forced to flee to Italy, just avoiding c
apture and arrest as a traitor.
Charles complained to Mary, ‘The campaign season will be over before we even leave Calais. How can I win this war if my army is hog-tied by winter’s mud?’
Mary, knowing how eager was Charles to head a glorious army and return home in triumph, did her best to soothe his ill-temper. But finally the expedition was ready to set out for Calais. Their goodbyes were muted; Mary trying desperately to keep her fears to herself; Charles anxious not to give her cause to revive them.
He held out his arms. ‘Come, sweetheart, kiss me and wish me luck. The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll return to you. Do not delay me with more tears,’ he warned, as Mary’s eyes glittered. ‘We’ve had delays in plenty already. Any more and we will never get to Paris before winter sets in and that’ll not please the king.’
Mary sighed and went into his arms. ‘I can’t help it. I still wish Henry had given the task to someone else. He has enough fighting nobles to choose from, as the good Lord knows. Why did he have to choose you for this dangerous enterprise?’
‘I would hope it is because he values my martial abilities.’ Charles gazed at her in astonishment. ‘By the Mass, Mary, there were any number competing for the honour. Besides, we need the king’s friendship. I need his friendship. You know full well that there are many about him who still see only my lowly birth. They regard my marriage to the king’s sister with envious eyes and if they could do me a hurt they surely would. Your brother’s friendship, aye, and his admiration, too, are worth a great deal to me. If I can obtain his favour by winning his wars for him I’ll do it, right gladly. You have long known of my ambitions, Mary. You used to be proud of them once. Don’t attempt to hold me back. I’ll not be put in leading strings.’
Mary kept quiet. She had no alternative. But for him to choose this occasion of their leave-taking to reveal the depth of his ambition increased her fears tenfold. In spite of his promise not to do anything foolhardy, she suspected that ambition would blind him to danger until it was too late.
Taking her silence for acquiescence, Charles’s voice softened. ‘Let us not part with harsh words, Mary. I want to be able to remember you with a smile, not a frown, when I am in France.’ Gently he teased, ‘Do you think me, the hero of Tournai, so inexperienced in war that I will act like a smooth-skinned boy? For shame, Mary. I had thought you held me in higher esteem than that.’
Mary had the grace to look discomfited. She attempted a denial, but Charles waved her efforts away. Strengthening his embrace, he demanded, ‘Now, are you going to kiss me or not?’
Having kissed her soundly and allowed her a few final minutes of fussing around him, Charles departed. His next word was a message that he had reached Calais safely. The following letter told her that he had set out from there on 19 September, which left only seven or eight weeks of campaigning weather left. Mary knew that must have infuriated him. She then sat back to fret and worry and wait for his next letter.
At first, all went well. At the end of October, Charles wrote jauntily that he had advanced a hundred miles into French territory, crossed the Somme near Bouvain and was within sixty miles of Paris. Proudly, he listed his achievements and how pleased with him Henry would be; English troops had not been so near the French capital for generations.
Mary began to share her husband’s pride in his achievements. The excitement in England at fever-pitch, Henry, full of dreams of at last wearing the coveted French crown, enthusiastically agreed to throw in reinforcements to keep the campaign going through the winter. But by the beginning of November it was clear things were going less well. Charles’s next letter told of the early sharp frosts they had experienced. Mary, concerned lest he might take a chill, hurried to her bureau to reply. She urged him to make sure he wore dry clothing, even though she knew in her heart he would spurn to cosset himself when the ordinary soldiers would suffer far greater hardships. Which they did, according to his next letter; a hundred of his soldiers had died from cold and disease. Francis had rushed troops to Paris and its population looked set on making a determined stand in defence of their city.
Clearly, there was to be no easy victory. Charles’s dreams of success had turned into a nightmare of bone-chilling weather, sickness and disaffection. The looked-for thaw, when it came exchanged icy ground for thick, clinging mud. It was now impossible to even pitch a tent and the supply carts of their Burgundian allies were bogged down. His soldiers were mutinous because they hadn’t received their pay. Charles berated Margaret of Austria’s ministers who refused to risk sending the money for the soldiers’ pay from Antwerp so far into France along the unguarded roads. Large contingents of the foreign troops started to melt away, seeing their chance of booty vanishing. Once again, Charles complained, England was let down by allies who had the unfortunate habit of giving up or turning tail at the most inopportune moments.
Mary suspected that, for Charles, the thick mud would be an ill-omened reminder of that earlier time in France when they had waited in fear for Henry’s response to their secret marriage. And so it was to prove, for his next letter was clearly penned in the bitterness of ignominious failure.
Without the means to advance, retreat was the only option. As swiftly as conditions allowed, Charles and his Burgundian co-general turned back to Flanders, even as the reinforcements from England were being made ready for dispatch from the south coast.
Henry, all his dreams left lying in the mud of France, at first refused to believe that the campaign was over. He put his mind to feverishly devising schemes to continue with it, but eventually, even he had to accept the inevitable and agree to postpone campaigning till the next year. Such was Henry’s disappointment, that the troops were left to linger in Flanders. Charles, to Mary’s relief, was recalled home.
She awaited his return with some trepidation, for how could she not be aware of the pinpricks her husband had endured from the high nobles of Henry’s court? Low-born, like Wolsey, Charles had not risen like her brother’s right-hand man from intelligence and ability alone. For all that many of the courtiers hated Wolsey, they could not deny the man’s ability, whereas Charles, it was felt, had risen only by virtue of his friendship with her brother and his marriage to herself. She knew how the knowledge gnawed at him and how much he longed to make one achievement that would force men to look at him with respect that he had earned visible in their eyes. That was why he had wanted so desperately to do well during the French campaign. And it had all come to naught. How bitter must the knowledge be that he would now secure for himself not only further and more savagely-jabbed pinpricks, but had failed also to secure respect as a fighting man and, into the bargain, had certainly ensured the loss of her dower income.
As she waited for him to return, Mary could almost wish that Charles lacked ambition, for it was that which curdled his soul. But, without the ambition that coursed so strongly through him, would she have loved him so well? Perhaps it would have been better for him if she had never done so, she thought sadly when she saw him. He had lost a lot of weight and looked worn and weary when he finally arrived at their apartments after having first been close-closeted with Henry and Wolsey. He was no longer the confident warrior who had set out believing the war was his opportunity to crown himself with glory. But at least he still had the energy for anger. For once, Mary was glad to see it as he flung himself restlessly about their chamber and launched into a torrent of rage on his favourite theme.
‘This result is Wolsey’s doing. He it was who wanted us to push for Paris. Even the king was against it and warned that we would be obliged to retreat to Flanders. It was too ambitious and sudden a plan and too late in the year. I had feared this,’ he reminded her, ‘but that meddling prelate must, as always have his own way, thinking to save the cost of a campaign next year by joining now with the Emperor and the rebel Bourbon to bring France to defeat. I had bad feelings about the changed policy, but the king agreed, so I had no choice but to press for Paris. As usual, Wolsey took too much on himsel
f. He’s a churchman, what can he know of war and its many difficulties? Better had the king never listened to him. But for Wolsey’s ambitious schemes, we might now have had a good base in Boulogne to work from next year. Now, it’s all to be done again.’
Mary hated to see him so full of resentment. It brought a resurgence of the old grievances against Wolsey to go with the new ones. To suffer such a failure through no fault of his own must be as bitter to him as wormwood. He so longed for Henry’s approbation. Instead, he must be apprehensive that Henry, angry and disappointed at this failure, would lay the blame for it at the door of Charles’s generalship. For this, too, he blamed Wolsey. Mary knew not what she could do or say to comfort him. Nor did she know how to comfort herself. There was no comfort to be had for either of them.
Their spirits were at such a low ebb that Mary managed to find consolation in the thought that nothing else could go awry for them. Unfortunately, in this she was proved wrong. One day, she caught the tail-end of a conversation between two courtiers concerning her marriage. Believing their chat to be no more than jealous tittle-tattle, Mary put it from her mind. But then the rumours started in earnest. Tongues vicious against Charles, eager to wound him and not caring that Mary would also be wounded, tattled that their marriage was not a true one.
Stunned, Mary of course had known that Charles’s marital history was chequered. Such things were the staple of daily gossip. He had been thirty at the time of their marriage so previous entanglements were implicit. Mary, young and in love, had given little thought to just how tangled his previous love-life had been. She had assumed that he was free to marry her. Why would she not? Charles wasn’t a fool. It was one thing and dangerous enough, to secretly marry the king’s sister. But to marry her bigamously was altogether too enormous a folly to be even contemplated by any man, certainly not by one who sought the king’s friendship above all.
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