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

by Geraldine Evans

  Such schemes, must, even to Henry, have seemed unlikely of success. But Mary sobered as she realised that such acts showed her brother’s increasing desperation. Ridiculous as Henry’s antics were, they were truly no laughing matter; the lines of strain on Charles’s face, softened now by the mellow candlelight, bore witness to that. As did his determined burying of his head in his wine goblet.

  Mary knew, too, how distressed Catherine was at not being permitted to see her own daughter. But, of course, she had not best-pleased Henry when she had written to the Pope complaining that she would have no justice in England and asked him to transfer judgement on the divorce to Rome – which he had done.

  Mary knew better than to ask for news of Catherine; it was one sure way to force an argument and Mary wanted this reconciliation to be a happy one for it would no doubt have to sustain her for many weeks. Her heart softened as she looked at Charles. Sprawled in his seat by the fire, his face highlighted by the flames, he looked more weary than ever. High position and the favour of Henry and Anne Boleyn had clearly brought him little of the joy he had expected; his face was becoming more lined, his hair more grey each time she saw him. Mary wished they could go back and build their life together on a footing more firm than the rocky ground of Henry’s goodwill. But she had chosen to snatch at happiness in Paris and they were both now paying the price.

  As Mary studied her weary husband, drowsy from the heat of the fire and the quantity of wine he had consumed, and recalled the worn-down content of his conversation she sensed, for the first time, his longing to escape the sticky web in which he had become ensnared. Hope stirred in her breast as it occurred to her he might now be ready to listen to her. It might yet be possible for Charles to extricate himself from the mess of Henry’s desires. He seemed more open to the suggestion tonight than she had ever dared hope. Their marriage, which for long after their son’s death had seemed a poor thing of snatched meetings and abrupt partings, might again become what it had once been.

  Mary rose, moved across to him and knelt at his feet. ‘Stay here with me, my love,’ she urged. ‘Let my brother and his harlot fight their own battles. They have worn you out with their demands.’

  As he turned her suggestion over his expression lightened and Mary’s hopes rose as she watched him. He was older and wiser now; surely he had discovered that having the king’s confidence was not such a marvellous thing. Had he not the evidence of Wolsey to help him see the truth of this? For the Cardinal, for all his ability and greatness and for all the years he had spent serving Henry, was now out of favour.

  But Mary’s hopes were short-lived. For after draining his wine and refilling the goblet, the light went out of his countenance and she knew he would reject the temptation she had put before him.

  ‘Would that it were that simple,‘ he told her. ‘I am too deeply enmeshed in this thing now. I must continue. Even should the king permit me to ease myself out, Anne Boleyn would not and she rules the king. Even if she were to agree, there is still Wolsey to consider. Should he somehow manage to worm himself back into the king’s favour, he would waste no time ensuring I lost it. Too many bitter things have been said and done over this divorce for him to take any other course. No.’ Charles drank off the latest goblet and for all that his consumption had been heavy, he seemed more sober than on his arrival. ‘This divorce must be brought to conclusion and for my health’s sake I need to be at the king’s side when it is. Whether it be done with or without the Pope.’

  ‘Without the Pope?’ Mary didn’t understand. ‘If the Pope doesn’t agree, there can be no divorce. How could there be?’

  Charles gave a world-weary laugh. ‘How I envy you your naivety over this matter, sweetheart. Would that I had appreciated more the quiet pleasures of country living when I had the chance.’ He leaned forward and caressed her cheek as if he found it difficult to believe a woman could have such softness in her. ‘Anne Boleyn’s tongue grows sharper by the day. She goads the king increasingly and the rest of us must bear the brunt. You cannot begin to realise how I long for what I once had and failed to appreciate. Does it give you any satisfaction, Mary, to know you were right and I was wrong? Daily I am finding that ambition and power are not as sweet as I thought.

  ‘Wolsey is on his way out; the recall of the divorce to Rome made sure of that. It is only a matter of time now, but I must remain at court to make sure he falls. And although he has retired to his manor of The Moor and the king bade Norfolk and me to take back his great seal of office, the king is still fond of him. It is not impossible that that wily churchman might even now wangle for himself a return to the king’s favour.’

  Mary had heard about Charles and the Duke of Norfolk’s visit to Wolsey. She had heard that the Cardinal had confounded them by demanding to see the written order from the king for the return of the great seal of office. But such had been their haste, they had not thought to obtain it and had been forced to slope off without the seal, much to their mutual fury. Charles had said nothing of this to Mary and she knew better than to remind him of it.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ she said. ‘If Wolsey should fall there are other churchmen to take his place. Wolsey is not the church, merely one part of it.’

  ‘No. If – when – Wolsey falls, the church falls with him. The Lutheran leanings of many at court, Anne Boleyn included, daily fill the king’s head with new ideas.’

  Mary stared at her husband in horror. ‘But - but,’ she eventually managed to burst out, ‘that way leads to civil war, the Papal interdict and horror.’ The dead would remain unburied, babies unbaptised and the betrothed unmarried. Briefly, Mary thought of Frances and the tantrums that would have to be endured at any suggestion that marriage and freedom from parental restraint might be delayed.

  ‘Your brother says he gives not a fig for the Pope or his interdicts. He thinks to do away with Rome and himself lead the church here in England. Woe betide any priest who tried to defy him by refusing the usual sacraments. Baptisms would still go ahead, weddings, funerals. Your brother would insist upon it, ensuring his will with as many executions as necessary. We are in for a time of great turmoil.’

  And all because of the demands of her once little Maid of Honour, thought Mary. Little Anne of the too-short skirts, who, because she prized her ‘virtue’ so highly, demanded the destruction of the church which had denied her desires.

  ‘Surely, even Henry wouldn’t dare to take such a step.’ But even as she spoke, Mary knew she deceived herself. Henry would dare much and demand that the rest of the country dare also for his sake. Mary had barely touched her own wine, but now she snatched up her goblet and drank deeply, hoping the sweet Malmsey wine would somehow sugar her thoughts and blur the edges of such madness.

  ‘There are many to guide him that way,’ Charles told her. ‘I cannot risk not being one of his guides. Anne Boleyn’s influence is all now. If I am not with her and her desires I can only be against her. I’ve been involved too long and too deeply. My defection at this time would be regarded as treachery and the Lady Anne would take special care to ensure that the king also saw it in that light.’

  Charles stared dolefully into the now-dying flames as if he saw his future there and liked not what he saw. ‘I am trapped, Mary. Don’t you see? Trapped by my own actions and ambitions. There is no going back for me. I can only go forward to the end of the road and to whatever destiny it holds.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘At last, that traitorous cur is dead. Pity he couldn’t have lingered a while and we’d have had the pleasure of seeing his fat head on a pole over London Bridge.’

  Charles’s pleasure at Wolsey’s death saddened Mary, for she knew he had been a true friend. It pained her to think of all the humiliations that had chased him to the grave; titles and property had been taken from him; he, who had once thought nothing of entertaining hundreds to banquets in one of his splendid houses, had been forced to beg money from his chaplain to pay his servants’ wages. After hi
s fall from grace and his ultimate banishment to his See of York, he and what had remained of his household had no sheets, nor even any beds to put them on.

  She remembered his kindness to her when she had feared her marriage to Charles was no true marriage and was thankful death had spared him the ultimate humiliation—execution for treason.

  Charles, with the knowledge that Wolsey would now never regain the king’s affection, had been able to spare time to come home to Westhorpe and attend to other matters. Their eldest daughter, Frances, was now betrothed. But in spite of Mary’s conviction that their daughter needed a strong man, one she couldn’t rule, Charles had decided differently and with the king’s agreement had betrothed Frances to her cousin, Henry Grey, third Marquis of Dorset.

  Like Mary’s own husband, Henry Grey had been set to marry elsewhere and had been betrothed to the Lady Catherine Fitzalan. But he had cast aside this betrothal on the death of his father in order to marry the king’s niece. History had a habit of repeating itself, thought Mary. Here was another youth who would throw off old promises for ambition’s sake. Between her brother, her sister, her husband and her soon-to-be son-in-law, it was becoming quite a family tradition.

  Disappointed in the match, she had tried to dissuade Charles from it, but he would brook no interference. Had not the king sanctioned the betrothal? But neither king nor father could sanction for happiness, and Mary foresaw little of this for her daughter. For Henry Grey was a weak-minded boy, not the strong man Mary knew her daughter needed. Moreover, his weak mind was filled with ambition.

  Young Henry Grey now resided with them at Westhorpe so the young pair could get to know one another before they were wed. Charles had obtained the wardship of the boy, backed by the king’s recommendation, which amounted to a command and he was taken from his mother’s keeping and transferred to Charles’s guardianship for the remainder of his minority.

  It hadn’t taken the determined Frances long to gain the upper hand over her betrothed. For once, Frances had made use of a certain subtlety, which would, Mary suspected, be discarded once they were formally married and she had the ruling of the empty-headed young Dorset.

  Mary wondered what follies the pair - whose union fused the unhappy combination of greed, ambition and stupidity - might not be capable of together. Because follies there would surely be. How could there not be when her daughter’s wilful selfishness would receive no check? Denied the strong husband she needed, Frances’ worst traits could only deepen. Mary was saddened that a girl of thirteen could be so full of gall and bitterness. It was yet another thing for Mary to hold against Anne Boleyn. She was grateful she didn’t know what the future held, for the here and now held troubles enough.

  It was near noon and they were at dinner, just a small family group. This last ensured that Frances should be full of pout. Her betrothed didn’t seem to notice Frances’ mood; all his attention was for his prospective father-in-law who had so recently returned from court.

  ‘Now the king will obtain his divorce, my lord,’ young Dorset opined, with an attempt at the worldly air that was at odds with his youth.

  Mary saw him dart a sly glance at the pouting Frances as if he would show off in front of her by displaying such man-of-the-world manners, such clever knowingness. It was the young pairs’ misfortune, she thought, that he was not clever at all, certainly not as clever as he thought himself to be.

  But Charles was in a benign mood and didn’t check the boy. Instead, he smiled condescendingly and pretended to confide in him. ‘Aye lad,’ he said. ‘Wolsey never strove very hard for it, as the Lady Anne suspected. ‘Tis a shame we weren’t able to shut him in the Tower. What interesting discoveries might we have made if he could have been persuaded to tell us of all his connivings?’

  Mary choked on her wine. When she got her breath back, she said, ‘You can’t mean he would have been tortured, Charles? Not the great Cardinal? He was my brother’s respected advisor for many years and always served him loyally.’

  ‘You’ve lived the quiet life too long. You know little of the court’s doings.’

  Charles’s admonishment was sharp. Was he demonstrating to the young Dorset how best to reprove a royal wife? Her husband had grown proud now he was high in the king’s confidence from his own efforts rather than because of his marriage. He had smothered his doubts and thrown himself wholeheartedly behind henry’s desires, so much so, that he felt strong enough to rebuke the king’s sister in earnest.

  ‘You were ever over-friendly to Wolsey, Mary. You would be wise to keep such opinions to yourself. ‘Tis not a good season for such leanings. The Lady Anne hated him and she will soon be wedded to the king. She’ll not brook any with friendly feelings for Wolsey at court.’

  ‘The Lady Anne. The Lady Anne.’ Mary was tired of the name. ‘Why don’t you give her her proper name, Charles? She is the king’s whore. How could such as she wear a crown? When I think of poor Catherine and the dignity she brought to—‘

  ‘Hold your tongue, Mary. By the Mass, have you gone witless? Your brother wouldn’t save Wolsey and at the Lady Anne’s urging has let even his own daughter know she risks the axe if she continues to defy him. Do you think she would long permit you - king’s sister or no - to remain at liberty for speaking thus?’

  Mary refused to believe that Henry would allow Anne Boleyn to threaten her. She had to think that way, she found. There were precious few such solaces left to her. To think that she, who had risen to marriage to the King of France, should now have sunk so low that her brother’s harlot could think to threaten her... It was not to be borne. ‘Henry would let no harm come to me,’ she insisted. ‘It was you and Norfolk who persuaded him to act against Cardinal Wolsey, no doubt with his mistress whispering hate-filled pillow-talk. It is my belief than when it came to it and had Wolsey not died when he did, Henry would have given the Cardinal his liberty and sufficient income to live nobly. He was never vindictive, not the brother I knew.’

  ‘Times have changed and your brother with them. He is so desperate for the divorce that nothing else matters. The Lady Anne pushes him ever forward to that end. She has no choice. The thing has gone too far. Have I not told you that even his own daughter is treated as of no account? Truly, you are soft in the head if you believe he wouldn’t permit his sister to be so treated if Anne Boleyn decreed. Perhaps, when next you come to court you should leave your tongue behind. I well remember the last time you upset the lady. I had to bear the brunt of it for days.’

  Mary had all but forgotten the presence of her daughter and Henry Grey during this exchange, but now she became aware of their open-mouthed fascination. Charles was right in one thing at least; it was unwise to speak so openly against her brother’s whore. Now she signalled to the musicians to play and firmly suggested the young pair dance. It would not do to have them listening in to any further indiscretions if what Charles said was true.

  As they watched the young betrothed pair move down from the dais to the floor, Mary felt her own fear grow as Charles confided the latest court doings.

  ‘The Lady is too powerful now, Mary, for any to go against her. The king does her bidding in all things.’

  Charles’s words chastened Mary further. She sat back and stared into her wine cup, marvelling that lives that had once been as sweet and promising as had hers and Henry’s should have turned so about. How had her brother ever got into the clutches of such a she-devil as Anne Boleyn?

  Mary shook her head at the workings of fate and drank deeply of the soothing ruby-red wine. She could only pray that like poor Wolsey who had also climbed high, Anne Boleyn would as swiftly fall. Mary hoped her poor health would allow her to witness the event. It was true that the harlot’s temper tantrums were becoming notorious. How much longer would her brother endure them?

  Mary knew she was becoming embittered. But that woman had done too much harm for Mary to have soft feelings for her welfare. Was not her own husband as much the Bullen’s creature as the king? Was not her poor
niece being so tormented and badgered that her health was damaged, her very life threatened? Was not Catherine now queen in name only, soon not to be even that? Harried, old, sick—how much longer could she find the strength to demand her rights and those of her daughter? The happy court that Mary had known and enjoyed as a carefree young girl was no more. Charles’s explicit warnings made clear it was a place where there was danger in a word or a look. Fear possessed her as she looked at Charles. What would be his fate if he and Norfolk failed to achieve the divorce? Henry, as he grew older, was becoming less forgiving of failure, and Charles, with his low birth and high-rising attracted jealousy as had Wolsey. Like Charles, the Cardinal had cast off his lowly beginnings, but they had helped to drag him down in the end.

  Mary, her sympathy for Catherine overset by fear for her husband, placed a warning hand on his wrist. ‘I beg you, tread warily, Charles. The path of those who lead the king’s business is not, as you have discovered, strewn with gifts and glories only. If he does not get his divorce after all this, who knows who he might blame?’

  Charles’s eyes shadowed. But he managed a taut, ‘Tired of championing Catherine?’

  ‘No.’ But she feared this goal of her brother’s would bring about the downfall of many more than the Cardinal before it was achieved. Pray God one of them wasn’t her own husband. ‘But I am beginning to think the divorce could scarce lead to worse misery than all this striving to obtain it. At least Catherine might find some tranquillity if it is accomplished and she is forced to accept it as fact.’

  The mention of Catherine angered him, as it always did. Mary still thought of Catherine as a friend, a beleaguered friend. To Charles, she was a mule-headed old woman who could have saved them all this trouble if she had entered the nunnery as Henry had wanted.

  Charles banged his empty wine goblet back on the board. ‘It’s time I was off back to court.’ He shouted to Henry Grey, ‘Ride part of the way with me.’