The days with her children passed pleasantly for Mary, which was as well. For this period of retirement in the country was made even more necessary by her husband’s increasing extravagance at court. Determined to remain by Henry’s side, Charles needed to compete on an equal footing with the other nobles. But such competition required much outlay and their income was still greatly reduced. Certainly, it was insufficient for them both to be at court with all its expenses or only for a short while. The requirement that Mary keep regal pomp was even more of a drain when at court. But as the questions about the legality of their marriage had still not been answered, Mary preferred to remain away rather than suffer again from the eternal gossip and speculation. Cardinal Wolsey had spoken truth when he had said she would require patience. The vast machinery of the Vatican was as slow and ponderous as he had warned.
Charles’s visits were infrequent and were becoming shorter, so they spent many weeks separated. Even when he was home in the country with her, he told her little of his doings. She had wondered if Anne Boleyn was still high in Henry’s favour and had asked Charles, but he had merely nodded and had added nothing more. His taciturnity on the subject had puzzled her until it had struck her that the matter touched too closely on his own past careless infidelities for him to be anxious to discuss it with her.
Henry, her brother, of course, had never been fond of letter-writing; not that he would confess to his own sister about the course of an adulterous love affair. And Catherine, doing her best to ignore it, would be more likely to confide such a humiliation to her confessor than to a letter. But truly, Mary thought, it sounded as if things at court went on much as they always had. The thought comforted her. She was conscious that she had lately become something of a country sparrow, out of sight and out of mind of the court and its doings. It was cheering to think that she was not as out of touch as she had thought. What was it the French said? Plus ?a change, plus c’est la même chose. That was it. The court was like that. Whatever events might occur there, things remained essentially much the same as always.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Even in the quiet of her country retirement, Mary learned the latest startling news. The Emperor, without the aid of Henry’s troops, had triumphed over the French, overwhelmingly defeating them outside the walls of Pavia. More incredible still, the Emperor had captured King Francis and taken him to Madrid as his prisoner.
News had it that Francis had put up a good fight although being attacked on several fronts; by the papal troops in Italy, where his forces were driven out; in the north of France, where Henry’s troops together with those of the Emperor, had invaded, and at Pavia, where the Emperor’s troops had completely routed Francis’.
Mary tried to imagine the elegant, proud Francis in the humbled role of prisoner, but it was impossible to picture him thus. How he would hate his situation. And how set-about must be his doting mother that this most shining member of their ‘Trinity’ should find himself a captive, especially as it seemed likely he would remain one for some time. Because the French army was shattered. Thousands of its men had been killed, among them, Richard de la Pole, the ‘White Rose of York’, who had dared to lay claim to Henry’s throne from the safety of Francis’ dominions.
Mary was saddened to think of all the French gallants she had known lying bloodied on the battlefield, food for the carrion crows. Henry, of course, would have his thoughts set on higher things. With France open like a ripe peach, he would be eager to share his ally’s spoils and would now certainly look to have his French crowning.
Henry, always keen for witnesses to his glory, penned a brief note asking her to return to court. And Mary, for once putting aside her misgivings about the costs, duly travelled up from her country retreat. But when she reached court and had settled in to her apartments, Mary learned that events had overtaken her. After Henry had sent off urgent and eager letters to the Emperor, his flame of hope for a French crown brightly burning, the Emperor had caused the flame to flicker. Catherine’s triumphant nephew, Charles V, insisted that he was now penniless and anxious for peace; the time was inappropriate for Henry to seek Francis’ crown.
So, the peach wouldn’t be plucked after all and Henry’s bright flame had died. He had set great store on his alliance with the Emperor, but now he stormed about the palace counting his grievances against him, not least that he had lent him huge sums. How ruefully did Mary think on them, for a fraction of their value would have made a world of difference to her and Charles’s financial difficulties. To add insult to injury, the Emperor had cast aside his betrothed, Henry and Catherine’s young daughter and Mary’s namesake.
Odd that she and her niece should, in turn, have both been betrothed and spurned by the same man. As if taking Henry’s money and rejecting Henry’s daughter wasn’t enough, the Emperor also deprived Henry of any share of the spoils. No wonder her brother’s mood cast a pall over the whole court.
As Mary renewed several old acquaintances, she learned that Henry was determined to teach the young puppy of an Emperor a lesson and had decided that the best means of doing this would be for England to come to terms with France. This was glad news for Mary whose income was always in short supply when her brother chose enmity with France over amity. But for all her relief, Henry’s feelers in this direction brought the sad news that Claude, Francis’ queen, had died. Only twenty-five, she had never enjoyed good health and her strength had been worn down by her many pregnancies, continuing ill-health, and melancholy at Francis’ numerous infidelities. Mary remembered Claude’s many kindnesses during her own marriage to Claude’s father. Though only a young girl, she had graced the throne with her kind heart and her many good qualities. France would, Mary judged, be the poorer by her death as the many epithets her name now attracted attested. Mary mourned her truly. She felt, with Claude’s passing, she had lost a valued friend and the last of her youth. But at Henry’s court, her sadness was shared by few. Indeed, these days, the court was more lively than ever. For here, Anne Boleyn held sway and she it was who, with her wit, had the overseeing of the many masques and balls. It seemed that Catherine had little say, which was another sadness for Mary. She was further demeaned when Henry created his son by Bessie Blount Earl of Richmond.
Perhaps to discourage any remonstrances from Mary he created her and Charles’s son, Harry, Earl of Lincoln. It was rumoured that Henry, who had clearly given up hope of getting himself a son from Catherine, was even toying with the idea of making his son legitimate; the giving of the title would pave the way for such a move.
After her long sojourn in the country, Mary had found herself looking forward to the excitements of court life. But the excitements she had found were far from those desired. Although her dower income from France now looked as if it would be restored to her, the news was overshadowed by Henry’s unkind treatment of Catherine. Now he had a lively, attractive mistress and had created his illegitimate son an Earl, Catherine’s many failures seemed the more marked. Not only, his actions seemed to underline, had she failed to give him a son, she was also lacking in womanly attractions in that she had become old, stout and unable to join in any of the king’s pursuits.
Henry, still only in his mid-thirties, enjoyed dancing and hunting as much as he ever had, often staying in the saddle all day and then dancing all night. With Catherine no longer able to take part there had grown up a band around the king who shared his interests. This band was in the main comprised of the liveliest and most witty of his courtiers. Charles, of course, still as ambitious as ever, must form part of this band. It caused more arguments between Mary and her husband. How could it not, when at the centre of this band was Anne Boleyn, with whom Henry had become besotted. Her little Maid of Honour now queened it over them all.
There was something about Anne that hadn’t been present in her plump and sensuous sister; a calculating intelligence that seemed able to warm Henry’s fires from the empty furnace of her cold heart. And she didn’t lack wily advisers; behind
her, was her father and her arrogant uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Between Anne, her father and her uncle, it seemed they were more than capable of steering Henry in the direction of their desires.
Woe betide Catherine if they succeeded. What future might there be for an ageing and barren queen if her husband spurned her? With her own worries about her marriage weighing heavy the thought wasn’t a happy one and Mary went in search of her sister-in-law.
The queen was in her apartments. Still regal and gracious, she was delighted to see Mary. Catherine cast off her sad looks and managed one of the broad smiles that had so frequently wreathed her face in happier days.
Although Mary commiserated with Catherine, the queen’s high Spanish pride made it difficult to voice any sympathy; to do so would mean that Catherine must acknowledge her own humiliation. Charles, of course, sided with the king and his paramour. He had tried to insist that Mary refrain from showing any outward sympathy for Catherine, fearing it would anger the king and be damaging to him, but Mary felt that her sympathies were her own to direct where she would. Although she sympathised with her brother in his kingly need for a legitimate son, emotionally, Mary had always been a woman first and a royal princess second, so her compassion was all for Catherine. Did they not share common troubles? One with a marriage threatened by the power of a ruthless mistress and the other with a marriage threatened by the power of the church.
Even with troubles aplenty of her own, Catherine could still find time to soothe Mary’s worries. ‘I’m glad you’re back at court,’ she told Mary. ‘You shouldn’t hide yourself away in the country so often. There is no need. You can hold your head high as the Mortimer affair is rarely spoken of.’
‘Maybe not,’ Mary replied. ‘But it is very much alive for me. The Pope still keeps me waiting for an answer. Anyway,’ Mary forced a cheerful note into her voice, ‘Wolsey’s hopeful, so I must bide my soul in patience that everything will turn out right.’ Although she knew that Catherine was reluctant to discuss her own marital troubles she was always ready to listen to Mary’s woes; perhaps, listening to the troubles of others helped her to cope with her own. Mary found it all but impossible not to speak of Catherine and Henry’s marriage and she made a sideways allusion to it, hoping to encourage Catherine to unburden herself. ‘The court has changed greatly since I was last here and not for the better. I confess I could scarce believe my eyes to see the Bullen woman lead my brother such a dance. However did she reach such heights? I remember her sister, Mary. Although she was a mare who gave many men a ride, she was kind-hearted enough. It is difficult to believe she and her sister come from the same stable.’
Catherine permitted herself a tiny nod and the comment, ‘You will find much here now difficult to believe. Sometimes I can scarce believe it myself.’
‘There must be some way we can make Henry come to his senses.’ Mary had become fiery on Catherine’s behalf. ‘He loved you well at one time and that not so long ago. Could you not—’
Catherine gave a laugh that contained little humour. ‘What would you have me do, Mary? Flirt and dance with the most handsome of Henry’s courtiers to make him jealous?’ Catherine lifted her skirts to show her swollen ankles and puffy legs. ‘These poor limbs are beyond the task, I fear.’ She lowered her skirts and sat back. ‘My greatest mistake is beyond my ability to correct.’ She directed a courageous smile at Mary. ‘I failed my husband in my most important duty: that of getting sons. It must always come between us.’
‘You may yet get a son, Catherine. You’re still young enough.’
‘A child needs someone to father it, alas. The laws of nature remain the same at least, if all else seems to have gone mad.’ Catherine lowered her eyes as she confessed. ‘Your brother rarely graces my bed these days. So you see, even if I am still capable of getting me a son, the opportunity to do so is seldom there.’
Mary, not knowing how else to comfort Catherine, took her hand and squeezed it tightly. But, in spite of Catherine’s revelation, Mary still felt there must be something they could do. She had tried appealing to Henry, but that had achieved nothing. Possibly an appeal to Anne Boleyn’s better nature might have some effect. Mary was prepared to try anything if it would ease Catherine’s pain, even if she must humiliate herself in the process. She had liked Anne well enough during their shared time in France and had treated her kindly. It was possible that another, more determined, attempt at rekindling her memories of those times would have the desired result. She could at least try. For Catherine’s sake, she would lower her dignity and talk to her brother’s harlot.
Mary put to the back of her mind her recollection of the new haughtiness Anne had acquired and sent a message to Anne that she wished to see her. She even lowered her queenly dignity to the extent that she became a courtier rather than the courted, when Anne was cool about visiting Mary’s apartments.
To her surprise, Anne was welcoming enough, and offered her wine and sweetmeats. But, aware as she was, of Mary’s resentment and disapproval, her manner was as cool as her invitation had been.
‘Tis a novelty entertain the Dowager-Queen of France in my chambers,’ she remarked, adding slyly, ‘though her husband, the Duke, is often here.’
‘Indeed,’ Mary managed to mutter. With difficulty, she overcame her fury that the woman should try to bait her, put aside her own feelings, and concentrated her thoughts on Catherine’s happiness. It was the reason she was here. They were quite alone, as Anne had dismissed her admirers, Grateful at least that there would be no witnesses to what passed between them, Mary tentatively broached the reason for her visit.
Anne’s reaction was hot and speedy. She took advantage of their privacy to commit lése-majesty. ‘Give up the king, you say? Think you, Madam,’ she demanded, ‘that I should pay heed to a woman who can’t even prove the legality of her own marriage? Perhaps you should straighten your own affairs before you attempt to offer your advice to me.’
Mary’s cheeks burned. That Anne should throw that in her face. She clung to the shreds of her dignity as she replied, ‘That the legality of my marriage gives cause for discussion is no fault of mine, as I’m sure you know.’ Mary reminded herself again that she had come here to talk about Catherine and Henry’s marriage, not her own. She tried once more. ‘If not for Catherine, will you give up the king and leave the court out of the friendship we once shared in France?’
Anne’s scorn stung her. ‘Friendship? Is that what you call it? You gave me a few of your oldest gowns, gowns which I had to alter myself, and I am to recall this occasion with gratitude? Nay, Madam, gratitude is not what I feel, nor friendship either. I know you all thought me a plain, ungainly child, but if I had little else then, I had my pride. Receiving your cast-offs didn’t make my situation any easier. Do you think the other Maids stopped their teasing because I had a few pretty gowns?’
Mary was chastened enough to apologise. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise they tormented you so.’ How could she have? She had been young, foolish and deeply unhappy, far too concerned with her own woes to notice those of others.
Anne, of course, remembered things differently. ‘You were too busy flirting with the dazzling Francis to see what was happening under your nose.’ Anne drew herself up. ‘But those days are long gone, like the forlorn little maid I once was. Good riddance to them both. So, Madam, don’t come here with your queenly airs and your talk of kindnesses. I no longer need your kindness. I have the king’s.’
This last was said with such a darting look of triumph that Mary, having no other weapons, was goaded into using the weapon of status, even though, as she spoke, she realised it was unwise. ‘Remember, Madam, to whom you speak. You—’
‘I know full well to whom I speak,’ Anne assured her. ‘But mayhap, you would do well to heed your own advice. The Queen of England has already learned to her cost of the power and influence Anne Boleyn, the little Maid of Honour, has here now. Perhaps it is time that the Dowager-Queen of France learned it also.’
&n
bsp; ‘I wish Henry could hear you. I doubt he’d be impressed by your spite.’
Anne gave a careless shrug. ‘Complain to the king if you dare. You’ll find him unwilling to listen to tittle-tattle about me. I am the virtuous Anne and can do no wrong in his eyes. And virtuous I be, though few in the court acknowledge it.’
Mary was not surprised that Anne should bait her with the name of the king. Henry would have told Anne what had passed between them. She did not need Anne to tell her that Henry would refuse to listen. As his sister, she had felt it her duty to speak to him. It had been useless, of course, as she had known it would be.
It had been early evening, the sun shining on the wooden panelling in his apartments and on Henry himself who had the vain habit of placing himself where the sun’s rays could light on him and best display his red-gold good looks and gorgeous apparel.
She had asked to speak to him alone and he had dismissed his courtiers. Nervously, she had asked him if the rumours were true and that he intended to set Catherine aside for her Maid of Honour.
Immediately, he had turned aggressive. ‘Has Catherine sent you here?’
Mary denied it. ‘I came because I am concerned for you. For Catherine also. I love you both well and would not wish either of you to suffer pain. I warn you, brother, think. Think before it is too late. You may believe it would be Catherine alone who would suffer if she is set aside. But that is not true. You, too, would suffer. You know the people do not like Anne Boleyn. Do you wish to risk losing their love as Catherine loses yours?’
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