Convinced by such arguments that the rumours must be false, Mary did her best to ignore them. But this was easier said than done. And as his previous love-life was laid bare in all its confusion, Mary was horrified to find the gossips might have the right of it.
She had been a child when Charles had wed the wealthy Anne Browne, the daughter of Sir Anthony Browne. Her, Charles had dismissed on some pretext. He had then married his first wife’s close kin, Lady Mortimer, but the church had obliged him to return to his first spouse. She had died in 1513, leaving him with two daughters whom Mary had taken under her wing.
After the death of his first wife, Charles had engaged himself to the young heiress of Lord Lisle, being created a Baron in anticipation of this marriage. But she, on reaching maturity, had declined to marry him. Then, as the cruel gossip-mongers had it, he had been quickly on the trail of another advantageous marriage. Sent on a diplomatic mission to Flanders in connection with Mary’s own expected marriage to her betrothed, Prince Charles, he had been much taken with Charles’s aunt, Archduchess Margaret, though whether it was the lady or her rich dowry that most impressed him, the gossip differed. Her brother, Henry, had encouraged his friend’s wooing of Archduchess Margaret when she visited the town of Tournai after its capture. The Archduchess had apparently been sufficiently captivated by Brandon - who had at the time just cut an extremely dashing figure on the field of battle - to exchange rings with him. But then, Margaret, fearful of the possible consequences, had desired her ring back. Soon after, Charles Brandon had turned his attentions to another high-born lady - Mary herself. And Mary, spurned by the Prince to whom her father had betrothed her, and having for some time admired the tall and handsome Brandon, had fallen in love with him.
Mary wondered now whether Charles had ever truly loved her at all. Admittedly, it had been she who had pushed for the marriage and Charles who had tried to persuade her to wait. But such caution hadn’t characterised his previous behaviour in England when he had been more than willing to kiss and fondle her. Happy, too, to allow romantic thoughts of marriage between them. Even Henry had let Mary go on in happy ignorance and the belief that she would be allowed to marry for love until, with his ambitions for the French alliance, he had insisted she marry Louis. Henry, although he had apparently found it amusing enough to encourage Charles’s wooing of Archduchess Margaret, hadn’t been willing to lose any advantage to himself when it came to his sister’s marriage, even if it cost Mary her happiness.
What price that happiness now? thought Mary. After nine years of marriage and three children, Lady Mortimer, Charles’s second wife, whom the church had forced him to abandon, had chosen to remind them of her existence. Apparently involved in an increasingly acrimonious dispute with her family, her one-time marriage to Charles had been recalled and enquired into and the legality of his marriage to Mary herself questioned.
As Charles’s colourful past rose up to haunt her, Mary took refuge in her bed-chamber. Heartsick, she paced the room, scourging herself with memories of past events; events that she might have been wiser to examine more closely at the time. Hadn’t her brother, on her widowhood, attempted to snatch back the carrot he had so enticingly dangled before her to obtain her agreement to the French marriage? Had he, even then, suspected his friend’s marital affairs would not stand too close a scrutiny? Or had it been that Henry, ever one to look for advantage to himself, had simply sought how best he might again make use of her?
And what of Charles? The man she called husband, the man with whom she had gone through three marriage ceremonies? He, too, had attempted to backtrack on his promises. Had this been because his declarations of love had meant so little to him? Or was it because his fear of retribution from Henry was based on far more than their secret marriage?
Mary no longer knew what to think, whom to trust. All she felt sure of right now was that she had been grievously betrayed by those on whose love she should have been most able to rely.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mary’s anguish over her marriage that might not actually be a marriage. went on and on. Even in her bed-chamber she could find no respite from the gossips, for when she ordered her women from the room, she spent the solitude tormenting herself with the thought that they would be more able to indulge their gossip in the outer chamber.
Desperate to find some quiet corner in the palace, in her own head, she was driven into the gardens. Fortunately, the weather was calmer than her thoughts, with a bright, though fitful sun that sought to hide itself behind clouds, much as she sought to hide herself from others’ prying eyes by seeking out that part of the gardens that she knew to be rarely visited.
To her dismay, as she approached the enclosed arbor, Mary heard voices. She was about to retreat when she realised to whom the voices belonged. It was her brother and Anne Boleyn. Startled, Mary was transfixed. She had heard rumours about her brother and Anne, but had disregarded them. The court ran on rumours as her own recent experiences had brought home to her. She had considered these particular rumours baseless; in her mind, whatever the present reality, Anne remained the gawky little chit she had known and pitied in France. But now, as she stood in rigid pose, she heard her brother’s voice again.
‘You play with the heart of so many men, Mistress Anne. I have watched and wondered if the heart of your king dared stray within the orbit of such a bright star.’
Henry’s voice thickened with what Mary recognised as desire. ‘You have made of me a man uncertain, confused and fearful, Madam. I would only that you would look at me as you look at Wyatt and the other poets of the court. For am I, too, not a poet of passing skill?’
Mary was unable to catch Anne’s murmured response, but then Henry spoke again. ‘See, I have written an ode to you.’
Taut with a mixture of embarrassment, anger and pity, Mary heard Henry clear his throat and begin to recite his ode, an ode to Anne that clearly came straight from the heart. In spite of her own distress, Mary pitied him. Had she not also felt the pangs of such a love? A love that brought with it the bitter taste of anguish, the green god of jealousy and the uncertainty she herself had felt and which her brother was clearly suffering. But, most of all, the ode spoke of a passion that was, like her own for Charles, all but soul-consuming. Strange, Mary thought, as an image of her parents came into her mind, that such passion, which had passed their parents by, should have so gripped their three remaining children; Henry, with his latest light-of-love Anne Boleyn; Margaret, their elder sister, whose passionate love for Archibald Douglas had now turned to such hatred that she was seeking to divorce herself from him. She had become the mistress of Henry Stewart, the handsome young courtier who was the latest love of her life and whom she would marry if she could.
And me? Thought Mary. Why, I still love Charles, whether it be a sin or no, though whether he loves me.. Her thoughts broke off as she eavesdropped on her brother. Never had she heard him speak in such an imploring manner to the wife to whom he had in his youth declared himself ‘Sir Loyal Heart’. Never had he given the slightest sign that his love for Catherine filled him with a white-hot and burning passion as he did now for the woman Mary knew she must think of no longer as her shabby little Maid of Honour.
Quietly, not even waiting to hear Anne’s reply - for what would it be from such as she - a wanton’s sister, but more of the teasing and withdrawing that, to judge from her brother’s anguished words must have gone before? - Mary backed away, out of earshot. And even as it occurred to her that Charles would be furious with her if she was discovered spying on the pair, she remembered her own anguish and the possibility that he might not have a husband’s right to chide her.
And as the concern about what Charles might think faded, Mary thought of Catherine. Catherine who had endured so much and always with a smile. How bravely she had borne all the tribulations of her married life. But at least she has been spared my particular pain, Mary reminded herself. No one had ever questioned the validity of Catherine’s marriage. Th
at was a unique pain, as Mary was daily discovering, one that Catherine, for all her many sufferings and disappointments in childbed, had never experienced.
As she retraced her steps, Mary hoped that Catherine would be spared the knowledge of this, her husband’s latest dalliance. It was but a faint hope. Life at court, especially for the king and his consort, was never private, always there was someone ready to make one aware of that which one would rather not know. Catherine would have been aware of the identity of every woman with whom Henry broke his marriage vows. Had it not been Catherine to whom she herself had turned when she had first become aware of the gossip about her and Charles’s marriage?
Catherine had been kind. Always devout and becoming more so with the passing of each disappointing year, she had advised Mary to trust in the Lord and to hold fast to her husband.
Mary had tried to follow her advice. Truly, she had trusted in the Lord at least, if not in her husband, if such he be. Earnestly, had she prayed that God would bring her safely out of these marital storms. But her prayers had come to naught. Here she remained, still not knowing whether she was wife or maid. She lacked Catherine’s piety. She had drawn away from the stern teachings of her grandmother and Lady Guildford. Always, they had warned her against lightness of mind, of love of the dance and the dangerous emotions of high passion. She had been brought to her present woeful state by ignoring their teachings of how life should be lived. Perhaps that was why God had been so slow to answer her prayers.
As her lonely footsteps paced the paths, deserted now as a sharp breeze blew from the river and a squally rain began to fall, Mary dawdled. Fleetingly, she considered taking the veil and abjuring a life that had turned its pleasures to pain. But then she thought of her children and what they would suffer if their parents’ marriage should prove to be an illicit one For their sake, she could not remove herself from the torment that filled her nights with fear and her days with shame. She must fight. Fight for her marriage, for the sake of the children. And for the sake of herself also. Deeply as she was hurting, Mary admitted to herself that her love for Charles was not something she could lightly toss aside even should she wish to. He might have hurt her deeply, but she still loved him with all her heart.
With a new resolve, Mary went in search of Cardinal Wolsey. Surely, by now, he must have some news for her from the Pope?
Mary’s anguish over her marriage that might not actually be a marriage continued, as the Cardinal still had no good news to tell her. But, with mixed emotions of relief and regret, she, acknowledged that the court gossips found – in Henry and Anne Boleyn – another rich source of titillation to amuse them. The marriage of the king’s sister was of less moment to ambitious courtiers than currying favour with the king’s latest mistress.
Mary wondered if Anne Boleyn would last longer in her brother’s favour than had her sister. It seemed likely. Anne had gained a reputation as a wit; a wit with a sharp tongue when she cared to use it, which didn’t endear her to the ladies of the court who were frequently the objects of her clever word-play. It was clear to Mary that the young Anne, like a sponge, had absorbed and retained remembrance of all the subtle and not-so-subtle cruelties Mary had endured during her time at the French court. For she could seemingly make language do what she would, with as much skill as any of the acclaimed poets, only her word selection was the more barbed.
But whatever Mary and the other high-born court ladies thought of her, it was clear that the men saw a different Anne. Her elegance and brittle charm had attracted a string of admirers, as her brother’s anguished words had attested. The girl had only to flash her great, dark eyes to have another young courtier fall under her spell.
Caught up as she had been in her own troubles, it had taken Mary’s discovery of them in the garden for her to realise - that which the rest of the court well knew - that one of those caught up in the girl’s spell was none other than her brother, Henry. If she had thought of the matter at all, she had thought that at thirty-five, Henry must be old enough to be immune to this young woman whom the younger courtiers seemed to find so fascinating. But now Mary knew that her judgement was flawed. Her brother was a man as other men and just as susceptible to Anne Boleyn’s charms.
Mary found her gaze drawn to her brother that evening after supper was cleared. And what she observed was only too revealing. For Henry’s study of Anne’s lissom figure as it swayed seductively in the new dance she had brought home with her from France, seemed all-absorbing. Startled, Mary saw a hunger in her brother’s eyes that she had never seen before. It was a hunger she recognised well; was it not the twin of her own hunger for Charles? How well, too, she knew its demands.
In spite of the supper of many courses she had just consumed, an aching hollow seemed to find a niche in her stomach as, still watching Henry, she saw his gaze narrow as it turned to the dumpy figure of the wife seated at his side. It was obvious to Mary and must be so to Catherine herself, that ‘Sir Loyal Heart’ was loyal no more and was comparing the exciting Anne to the staid Catherine to the latter’s detriment.
While she admired her sister-in-law’s fortitude, even Mary had to reluctantly concede Anne Boleyn’s attractions. From the shining fall of her dark hair under its elegant French hood, to her grace as now she danced the stately pavanne, she was the focus of every eye in the court and knew it. How could Catherine begin to compete with such as she for her husband’s love?
As the music ended, Henry was up from his seat and across the floor to claim the next dance, a more lively Spanish pavanne. And as the music started up again, the shimmering banks of candles seemed to flicker only for Anne and Henry. It was clear from his eager attentiveness and the pleading that Mary had overheard in the garden, that Anne hadn’t yet succumbed to his desire. But Mary guessed that it would only be a matter of time before Anne followed the example of the long-since married-off Bessie Blount, Anne’s own sister, and the others who had followed her into Henry’s bed.
Her brother wanted consolation for the loss of the coveted French crown and the continuing lack of a male heir, which he looked increasingly unlikely to get from Catherine. And he wanted that consolation now.
It seemed the rest of the court thought the same, for, everywhere Mary’s gaze alighted, she saw the same avid looks, the same speculation. The whole court, it seemed, had eyes only for Anne and Henry. Their concentration verged on the voyeuristic. And Henry? Henry only had eyes for Anne. It was a wonder the heat in them didn’t devour her.
Of course, it didn’t take long before the court gamblers – who would bet on how soon the sickly would succumb to their ailments or how long a wooing a maid would require –began making bets on how soon this devouring would occur.
However, to everyone’s astonishment, not least Henry’s, this Boleyn was of a different mettle to the wanton sister Mary remembered from her time in France. One had only to look at Anne’s head, held proudly on its long and slender neck to know that she looked for more from life than a quick tumble in the king’s bed. To be used and then discarded for a newer, younger toy, clearly held no appeal for this Boleyn.
Mary, with troubles enough of her own, could still find compassion to spare for Catherine. Approaching forty-one, Catherine, unlike Mary, had long since become inured to the many disappointments that life contained. When the ceremonies of the court left her free to follow her own inclination, the queen spent most of her time on her knees.
Mary longed to say to her that this was no way to retain her husband’s affection. But with a growing estrangement between her own husband and herself, Mary felt she was in no position to advise another woman on how to best order her marriage. Still, it was true, that for all her brother’s professed piety, he enjoyed more lively amusements also, and Anne Boleyn looked as if she promised to be the liveliest of them all. Anne’s time in France had not only taught her style and elegance; clearly, in that debauched court which followed Francis’ promiscuous example, Anne had learned many subtleties in the arts of court
ly love. Her admirers, once caught in her web, desired no escape. Their only desire was to please her and find her dark, hypnotic eyes turn on them with favour.
Henry seemed more tightly caught in these spidery coils of love than any. Strangely, although court intriguers questioned those who had spent time at the French court, no wanton’s reputation had followed Anne as it had her sister. If the girl had taken lovers she - and they - had been very discreet about it. Not a whisper of impropriety attached to her.
Mary wondered, as the days passed and her brother’s infatuation grew, if this chaste reputation was not more alluring to Henry than her wit. Her brother admired virtue in a woman. But for all his fondness for womanly virtue - whether real or, as seemed likely in Anne’s case, skilfully feigned - he would consider it a challenge also. It was becoming apparent that Anne Boleyn was not only an intelligent woman who knew well how to use her God-given and French-polished wiles, but a dangerous one also.
And as Mary thought back over the interview with Anne on the girl’s return to England, she found herself wondering uneasily how deep the girl’s influence would go with Henry. Had she been unwise to show her dislike for this new Anne so plainly? Mary found herself watching the girl, wondering at her own feelings of dislike. Was it that she, who now had reason to side with a wronged wife, gave all her sympathy to Catherine for reasons that were not entirely selfless? Or was it simply that she was jealous? She had once been considered the court beauty, still was by those who preferred her fair colouring to Anne’s unfashionable brunette. But she was now the mother of three children and at an age to be considered a matron. Her love-match with Charles made over ten years before, had, before the legality of their marriage had been questioned, settled into a tame domestic routine.
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