Now, of course, it was in a state of flux and uncertainty. Mary sighed and for the present forgot about Anne Boleyn as her thoughts again settled on the question of her marriage.
The solution to the vexing question of its legality was no nearer. But as the months passed, Mary had acknowledged to herself that however Charles had wronged her, she still loved him. Had only ever loved him. But her love only increased her pain when she realised that the still uncertain legality of their marriage gave the older nobility of the court another weapon to use against him. Had they truly endured those long weeks of terror in France for a marriage that, in the eyes of the Church, might be no marriage at all? The likely consequences, if so, made Mary tremble for the future, not only for herself and Charles but also for their children. The church might even force him to return to Lady Mortimer - had she not been required to relinquish him to his first wife?
Mary couldn’t bear to contemplate such a possibility. She had married Charles, believing it to be a true marriage. She must cleave to that belief. To do otherwise would send her spiralling down to a pit that would contain nothing but despair. And that she must avoid at all costs, for the sake of her children.
The next morning, after walking with her ladies in the gardens, Mary went in search of the man she still called husband. He was in their apartments, fumbling through some papers. He hadn’t heard her entry and when she spoke his name her voice brought his head up sharply. Guiltily? ‘What are you looking for amongst those papers?’ she asked, suspecting she had caught him out in some furtive act that he didn’t want her to know about. Alas, that was the way her thoughts too frequently ran these days.
‘Nothing,’ he replied, as he quickly shuffled the papers together and thrust them in a drawer. ‘Just some legal papers. Nothing of any import.’
Mary, her heart full of her own sufferings and those of Catherine, that other wronged woman, commented sharply, ‘I thought perhaps you might be seeking the dispensation for our marriage. Have you such a document, Charles?’
This was now an old conversation, well worn, but it did not stop Mary from raising it once more. ‘The whole court speaks of our marriage. Can you have any idea what I felt when I at last became privy to that which so closely concerns me?’ She remembered the pain and shame of it as though it were yesterday rather than many weeks ago. ‘Why did you never seek a complete and proper dispensation for our marriage?’
This had become another well-worn ritual that, as though to torture themselves further, they went through regularly, as was Charles’s reply.
‘How could I, Mary, when you rushed me into our marriage in such haste? The thought never entered my head.’
It was his one defence. But it was a stout one, a defence, moreover, that laid the blame for the situation squarely on Mary.
Aware that her impetuous passion for him had helped to bring about the present situation, Mary had been the first to admit her own part in their predicament. But it didn’t help that he should constantly remind her of it. ‘And afterwards?’ she demanded. ‘Have not the many years we have been wed since provided ample time for you to seek to set matters to rights?’
Just like Henry, Charles, too, hated being placed in the wrong. As usual, he began to bluster. ‘There have been so many things to think of, Mary. First one misfortune, then another. The time never seemed right to question a marriage that seemed so solid.’ When he saw that this second, poorer line of defence was availing him nothing, he launched into attack. ‘But you gave no thought to the matter, either, Mary, did you? My past life was no secret, yet you rarely questioned me about it. Why did you never broach the subject?’
Mary hadn’t wanted to think about the years of Charles’s life - and the other women - before she had entered it to claim his heart. The only way she had been able to avoid thinking about them had been to blank them out entirely. Mary was unwilling to admit her jealousy even to herself; to admit it to him was all but impossible. ‘Naturally I did not broach the subject. How could I have known the necessity? The past was yours, yours, too, the marriages. It was surely for you to seek answers, not I. Being King Louis’ widow I knew that I was legally free to wed. Why should it have occurred to me, young and innocent as I was, to apply for dispensation on your behalf? Even had I thought such a thing necessary, I would have had no idea how to set about it. Such doings are the affairs of men, not women. Or they ought to be.’ The affair of one man, certainly, she could have added. She didn’t fling the final words in his face, but she thought them and they hung accusingly in the air between them.
‘No, but your great friend, the Cardinal knew well how to make such enquiries. Is he not, even now, probing deeply into my affairs at your instigation?’
‘What else would you have had me do?’ Mary asked. ‘What is my position at the moment? I am neither wife nor maid. Our children could be branded bastards.’ The words, finally brought into the clear light of day shocked them both. Mary sat down suddenly. ‘Oh Charles, what will we do if the Church were to force you to return to your previous wife?’
Charles put on a mask of confidence she knew he must be far from feeling. ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ he assured her. ‘Don’t upset yourself so.’
‘They did before, though, did they not?’ she insisted. ‘Dear God, what are we to do? Perhaps we should both go to see Cardinal Wolsey again and plead with him to redouble his efforts on our behalf.’
A mulish look settled on Charles’s face. ‘No. I’ll not do it. I will not plead for his help again. Would you really put me through that once more?’
Before she could say another word, he had picked up his hat from the bed where he had thrown it and vanished through the door, leaving her to contemplate going to see the Cardinal on her own once again. She really couldn’t see why Charles was so unwilling to put himself through another such interview. Had not Cardinal Wolsey been eminently practical in his attempts to sort out the sorry mess that was Charles’s marital history?
Mary’s thoughts ran back in time, to that first argument between herself and Charles and the, inevitable, interview with Wolsey that had followed it. At first, Charles had been adamant that he would not be forced again into going cap in hand to Wolsey for help. But Mary had reminded him that their future and that of their children depended upon it. ‘It is not I who would put you through it,’ she had reminded him, ‘but evil necessity. Surely you see that? He has the knowledge of the law and the Church and would be sympathetic.’
‘To you, maybe.’
‘To you also if you would only cease to think of him as an enemy.’
When he had glowered and looked ready to refuse again, she had told him sharply, ‘We have no choice, can you not see that? If you will not see him for my sake, at least do it for the sake of our children. Would you see Harry and our daughters branded bastards before all the world?’ She had felt giddy with relief when his shamed expression acknowledged capitulation and he had gone with her to see the Cardinal.
Wolsey had been a great comfort to Mary. He had been understanding, and after he had served her a sweetened wine to ease her agitation, he had soothed her worry and advised her to calm herself.
‘Such matters can often be smoothed over, your Grace,’ he had assured her. ‘It may take some time, though. So I must warn you to be patient.’
Dismayed, Mary had asked, ‘How much time, my lord? I was hoping to get it quickly settled for it is a distressing situation to have to live with.’
‘Indeed. I can see how painful it must be for you. But at least now the wrong is realised we can start to right it.’ He accepted her invitation and sat his bulk down beside Mary, his expression thoughtful.
Mary had felt strangely comforted in his presence. His confidence that matters could be put right was reassuring. This intelligent, worldly man would not so lightly have eased her fears if he were not certain he could mend the matter.
The Cardinal had addressed himself to Charles who stood glowering at the door as though ready to depar
t instantly should the Cardinal utter one displeasing word. ‘My lord?’ The Cardinal’s voice was soft as he invited him to be seated. Sullenly, Charles found himself a seat against the wall. ‘You are sure you set no dispensation request in motion whilst you were in France? We want no complications.’
‘No. I did not,’ Charles muttered through tight-clenched lips. ‘There was neither the time nor the opportunity. Nor did I believe there was the need.’
‘All we had time to think of was my brother, King Henry, my lord,’ Mary broke in. ‘He filled all our thoughts.’
‘Indeed.’ He smiled at them both. ‘I recall the busy correspondence we had at the time of your marriage. But we found the answer to the problem posed then. We shall do the same again.’ The Cardinal focused his attention on Charles. ‘My lord, you understand I will need to go through your marital history most thoroughly if I am to present a good case. Sometimes, the smallest detail can make a difference.’
Although he had known that this would be necessary, Charles looked so red-faced that Mary thought he might burst with vexation. But before he could, Wolsey spoke again, more firmly this time.
‘I am truly sorry, my lord. But it is necessary. Being previously married to the lady’s close kin would create a case of affinity, which would possibly dispose of the problem. But we two can go through the details together. There will be no need to further distress your wife, the Dowager-Queen’s Grace.’
Mary was grateful that the Cardinal should show such sensitivity and discretion for Charles’s sake. For her own, she had no desire to learn further details. All she wanted was to have the matter settled.
Wolsey turned back to Mary. ‘You can now leave this matter safely in our hands, your Grace. But I would beg you to remember what I said before about having patience. The Vatican can be slow and ponderous on such matters, it is true, but better that than a hasty judgement that has failed to weigh all the facts of the case. You will be able to rely on their decision when it arrives as the best minds in the Church will have weighed all the evidence before coming to a conclusion.’
Relieved that the problem was now in the capable hands of Cardinal Wolsey, Mary had risen to leave them, thanking him for the trouble they were putting him to. ‘It is good of you to concern yourself with our problems.’ She managed a rueful smile. ‘It seems we are ever burdening you with them.’
‘I am pleased to serve your Grace.’ He escorted her to the door. ‘Pray, try not to worry too much. I feel confident we can resolve this matter.’
‘I trust you are right, my lord. The gossip here at court has been very cruel.’ He nodded sadly. ‘Alas, there is much jealousy and spite here. I, too, have felt it fall on my own head. Most of it is caused by envy and wrong-headedness.’
Behind her, Mary felt her husband glower as though he felt the dart had been aimed at him. Perhaps it had, and not undeservedly so, she thought. Fortunately, Charles made no angry retort and she left after giving her husband one last, pleading look to encourage his co-operation.
Mary came out of her reverie to realise she was chilled to the bone. The fire had fallen low and she called for a servant to come and replenish it. Charles had told her little of what had ensued between the Cardinal and himself after her departure, though he revealed the Cardinal’s delving had been thorough and that Wolsey had intimated that his readiness to assist them was more for the sake of the friendliness that Mary had always shown him than for any concern he had felt for her husband.
Mary, sensitive to the sly looks and carefully muffled sniggers of the court as the weeks progressed to months with still no resolution, retired to the country. There, she found solace in her children. Charles had determined to remain at court, refusing to be hounded away by gossip as he had been by debt. He was, in any case, at this time incapable of affording her any comfort. Their marriage seemed doomed to mutual recriminations. Perhaps her cynical sister, Margaret had had the right of it in her views on marriage. Had she not told Mary that she had been a fool ever to marry Charles? They seemed destined to achieve little lasting happiness from their union. But at least, here in the country, she could find peace of a sort. Her children were growing up fast. Henry, her eldest was now eight, his sisters, Frances and Eleanor, seven and five. Harry was growing into a handsome boy, the pride of her heart. Mary knew she shouldn’t have favourites, but he was her first-born and her only son, born after all the worry brought about by her reckless marriage and his arrival had brought her much joy.
Thoughts of her children brought her to the nursery. They all ran to her as soon as she appeared, eagerly abandoning their books. She cuddled them all, but it was Harry who remained by her side, pressing his little body against her.
‘Shall you stay here with us now, Mother?’ he asked. ‘We miss you so when you’re at court.’
‘Yes, my son.’ She smiled fondly down at him and ruffled the thick fair hair that was as golden as her own - he took after her in looks, while Eleanor favoured her father and Frances still bore a great resemblance to her Uncle Henry, a likeness especially evident when she was displeased about something. ‘I won’t return to court for a while. I want to stay and see what you have all learned since I was last home.’
‘I can ride my pony over the ditch now, Mother,’ Harry told her proudly. ‘Do you want to watch me? It’s easy.’
His pride in this achievement brought a sharp rebuke from his sister, Frances. ‘Don’t boast so, Harry. You didn’t find it easy at all. He fell off more times than I can count, Mother,’ Francis told her slyly.
Beyond the sly slighting tittle-tattle about her brother’s skills as a rider and her own sudden anxiety that her son might suffer injury, Mary sensed Frances’ resentment that she should favour Harry. Mary smothered a sigh. Her elder daughter had a growing tendency to thrust herself forward and to tell tales; unattractive traits in one so young and a girl at that. Mary would have rebuked her, but decided instead to make her displeasure plain by ignoring her. For Frances that would be a greater punishment than any rebuke. Mary turned back to Harry. ‘I wish you would take care, my son. You’re too precious to risk your neck in reckless folly. Such skills are learned slowly and are learned best if not rushed.’
The nursery schoolroom was cosy, with a good fire burning and many candles lighting the room against the lowering sky. Mary discussed her children’s progress with their tutor. None of her children were bookish, she knew, all preferring to be outside about physical pursuits, but as long as he instilled in them sufficient education for them to take their places at court, she would be happy.
After a little while, she dismissed the man. Relenting in her decision to punish Frances by ignoring her, she now called her two daughters over to her. ‘You know that you’re all precious to me, do you not?’
Eleanor nodded immediately and buried her head in Mary’s skirts. Frances hung back, resentment evident in the small, petulant mouth that was so like Henry’s, and in the jawline that was over-heavy in a young girl. Mary bit back the desire to rebuke the girl. Truly, Frances would test the patience of any mother.
Frances, having failed to reply to her mother’s question, showed her preference for her father by asking why he had not returned. ‘I so long to see him.’
‘Your father had much business to see to for the king,’ Mary told her, thankful that gossip about her and Charles’s marriage was unlikely to penetrate this far from the court; it would give Frances another reason to resent her. ‘No doubt he’ll come home ‘ere long.’ Mary wasn’t sure that she would want to see him unless he brought the long-awaited answer from the papal court.
But Frances wasn’t so easily put off. ‘Is he with Lady Mortimer, Mother?’
Mary stared at her daughter, shocked that court gossip had indeed penetrated this far. It could only have been some gossiping servant returned with her from court that could have spread the tale. Her daughter’s voice had again held that sly note and Mary looked closely at her. Frances was fond of pretending she knew more than s
he did. Such airs made her feel superior to the brother who was the elder by a year.
But the child was only seven, Mary was forced to remind herself. Even if she had heard some gossip about her parents’ marriage, she was too young to understand it, as, to Mary’s relief, the child’s next words proved.
‘I heard she had brought him some troubles,’ Francis told her. ‘I’m sure my father will be able to help her sort them out.’
Mary hadn’t realised she had been holding her breath. She now breathed out on a sigh, thankful to learn that Frances’ youth and ignorance of the world had indeed saved herself and her siblings from knowledge that could only bring them pain. She would have to question her ladies and the servants and make sure they talked no more of the matter, at least not in the children’s hearing.
‘No, he’s not with Lady Mortimer, child,’ Mary told her now. She kept her voice light as she asked, ‘Who’s been telling you such things?’
Frances shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. But I heard tell he once liked the lady, so our Father would be likely to help her if he could, wouldn’t he?’
‘Never mind about Lady Mortimer, Frances.’ Her brother interrupted to return to a subject that he considered of far more importance. ‘Mother, will you come and watch me ride? I can go like the wind.’ He dragged impatiently at Mary’s hand and she laughingly submitted to his importunate pleading.
Mary was conscious of the sullen looks and dragging feet of Frances as she trailed after them. She tried to share her love equally, but Frances made it very difficult. In character, she took after Margaret, to Mary’s secret regret. The child looked, too, as if she would develop her Uncle Henry’s tendency to be greedy about food. If not curbed, she would become unhealthily plump. Already, she was inclined to pudginess. She had also, unfortunately, inherited more than sufficient of Margaret’s character and would bully little Eleanor unmercifully if not watched. Still, Mary consoled herself, Frances was young yet. She might easily grow out of such unattractive traits. Children went through so many phases. Perhaps now she was home to offer the child more motherly guidance, Frances would be less wilful.
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