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

by Geraldine Evans

  Mary, her voice as honeyed as Anne’s, retorted, ‘Yes, Madam, you speak truth. The Church has long condemned those who beget bastards. As you say, the truth of my marriage has Papal confirmation.’ The question ‘has yours?’ hung unspoken in the air between them.

  Fortunately, her brother had not witnessed this exchange. He had removed himself to the other end of the room and was in the middle of a laughing group of courtiers. Charles, though, had remained at her side. She heard him draw in a sharp breath, and knew she could expect a rebuke when they were alone. But for now, Mary savoured the satisfaction her words had brought. She excused herself from her would-be tormenter and made her way to her brother’s side. The courtiers broke ranks and made way for her. ‘You look well, Henry,’ she told her brother. Henry was wearing a doublet of tawny brocade and did indeed look well. ‘That colour suits you. I recall that you had a doublet of similar hue when you were a boy. Do you remember it? The days of our youth, hey brother? Such happy times.’

  She turned and found Anne at her elbow. ‘Does the king ever tell you of our childhood days at Eltham, Madam?’ Let Anne be reminded that Henry had had a life before she had come on the scene and it had been a life he had been happy with. Anne didn’t trouble to reply and Mary carried on. ‘I was lucky to have such a fine brother. Henry was always very loving and kind to his little sister.’ Mary turned with a smile to Henry. ‘Now look at us, brother, with growing families of our own. How is my little niece? I would remember me to her. ‘Tis so long since I’ve seen her.’

  Henry chose not to recall that his daughter had often displeased him. Instead, to Anne’s glowering displeasure, he told Mary, ‘She’s not so little now, Mary. Only a year older than your eldest girl.’

  ‘Your Mary takes after her father, does she not, Charles?’ Mary demanded of her husband. Charles hastened to agree with her. ‘Such a bright, knowing child and so affectionate. You must be proud of her, Henry.’

  Henry blushed a little for shame at his treatment of his daughter, but admitted his pride in her. ‘Mary’s quite a scholar,’ he told her, ‘though she can dance as prettily as any.’

  ‘I shall enjoy seeing her dance at her cousin’s wedding celebrations.’

  ‘She has become a little wilful of late, sister,’ Henry complained, his little mouth pursing. ‘I thought to ask your advice.’

  Mary laughed. ‘I’m no expert on dealing with wilful daughters, Henry. I would that I were. I’ll be glad to get Frances married and off my hands. Perhaps you should consider the same for Mary?’

  To her surprise, Henry nodded consideringly at this. Mary darted a glance at Anne. The arrogant look was gone to be replaced by a nervous lip-biting which pleased Mary. It indicated that Anne wasn’t quite as secure as she would have them all believe. As did the fact that not only had she managed to exclude Henry’s light o’ love from the conversation, but that Henry hadn’t even noticed. She had heard how Anne dominated the conversation at court, organising the masques and other entertainments with that ready wit that had grown sharper with the years. This was one conversation she had been unable to dominate. After all, she could scarcely evince an interest in the king’s daughter this late in the day.

  Mary commented on the alterations her brother had made since she had last been at court. After her admiration of these changes, Henry insisted he must show her the rest. Eagerly, he took her arm and led her off for a turn around the palace and the gardens, her daughters, Charles and the other courtiers trailing behind them. Only Anne was left behind, but even this Henry failed to notice.

  Mary felt an only-too-human pleasure at having trumped Anne Boleyn’s ace. Of course, it had helped that Henry had been so pleased to see her that he had deliberately ignored the undercurrents that existed between his new wife and his sister. But it was revealing that he had failed to notice she had not joined the party touring the palace. It indicated that Henry was no longer quite as careful of the lady as he had once been. Still, Mary warned herself, she must make sure she didn’t outstay her welcome. She would get Frances married and return home to Suffolk.

  She would be glad to go. The noise and odours of London upset her after so long in the fresh and quiet country air. She suspected that Charles would be as keen for her to depart as she was herself. For as soon as they had retired to dress for supper he had indeed rebuked her for her tart tongue and had impressed on her how she was to behave to the Lady Anne in future. Mary knew he would be furious with her if she disobeyed him. He was high in the lady’s favour, she knew, but if Mary was to repeat honeyed insults it would not be long before Anne’s dislike for the wife spread to the husband. It would be as well for both she and Charles if she were to go home, for Mary knew she would find it difficult to long continue to bite her tongue.

  She had forgotten, too, how exhausting was court life. She longed for some peace. But there was little of that to be found at court. For Mary, the unending round of entertainments were now something to be endured rather than enjoyed. She sat through banquet after banquet feeling faint and queasy, the pain in her side reduced to a dull ache by the combined strength of copious quantities of wine and her physician’s potions. With what fellow-feeling she now thought of King Louis. What will-power the old king must have had during their brief marriage. She remembered with a pang of remorse how many nights he had, for her pleasure, sat up late, hours after he would at one time have retired to his bed. He had been kind to her, too, whereas her robustly healthy family were impatient with her. She couldn’t altogether blame them. Ill-health was unwelcome at such celebrations.

  Henry, though, had been kind. That was a change from the old days. There had been a time, and not so long ago, when he had been at pains to remove himself from sickness and disease. His intolerance had been something of an obsession; he had even sent Anne Boleyn from his side when she had been ill with the sweat. But now, Henry showed he had become quite an authority on ailments and their various remedies. He seemed to find the subject fascinating, Mary discovered, in spite, or perhaps because of, his horror and fear of ill-health. It was a strange interest for a king. But, like her, he was no longer young and must suffer the ailments that middle-age brought. He would know what it was to be at the mercy of the physicians’ harsh remedies that were often more to be feared than any disease. Henry told her that he now preferred to treat himself when possible. He had even suggested a soothing potion for her to take and Mary had promised to try it.

  The day of Frances’ wedding dawned. Mary was glad to find that Henry’s recommended remedy seemed to have worked. She was relieved on such a day to have respite from the continual pains.

  Frances was at last displaying the nerves of a bride. In her it produced sulks, tantrums and spite in equal measures. And as Eleanor ran into Mary’s chamber in tears once again, Mary sighed and wondered what Frances had done now.

  ‘What’s this then, child?’ she asked Eleanor. ‘Tears on your sister’s wedding day? Why so? Pray, don’t tell me your sister’s slapped you again?’

  Eleanor shook her head. That was something at least, thought Mary. It would be a relief to get the girl wed. She could feel some sympathy for the fate of Frances’ betrothed if the lad wasn’t such a fool.

  ‘She’s torn my gown.’ Fresh tears erupted. ‘She said it was her day and that mine was too pretty for her liking.’

  Mary soothed her daughter and wiped away her tears. She felt the pain in her side begin to throb at this latest irritation. She strove for calm. Today should be a day for joy, she would not have it spoiled. She remembered her wedding day - or rather days - for she had, between King Louis and Charles, as she had often recalled in the days leading up to this wedding - undergone quite a few. ‘Where’s Susan?’ she asked now. ‘I’m sure she’ll be able to repair it for you.’

  ‘I’m here, my lady.’ Susan bustled into the room. ‘Come, child. Let me see.’ Susan examined the tear. ‘I can soon mend that, sweeting,’ she quickly assured the still-tearful Eleanor. ‘It’s only along t
he seam and not a real tear at all. I’ll repair it and no one will know the difference.’

  ‘But I’ll know,’ Eleanor sniffed.

  Susan took Eleanor off and Mary was left in peace once more. For a fleeting moment she considered ordering a beating for her eldest daughter. It was something she rarely sanctioned, but Frances richly deserved such a punishment. Mary knew she had been too lenient with the girl. However, it was too late now to regret her own leniency. She could scarcely start correcting the deficit on her daughter’s wedding day. For the bride and her sister both to have red, puffy eyes would be a sorry start to such a celebration.

  Mary stood up quickly. Too quickly, for the room spun and she had to grab a chair for support. These turns of hers were getting worse, she admitted. Only let her get through the ceremony and the banquet to follow.

  Thank the Lord. The wedding was over. The bride and groom had been put to bed. Even young Dorset could surely manage the rest without assistance.

  Mary retired to her chamber, thankful she had got through the day without further upset. She must try to get some sleep.

  Henry was in jovial humour these days. Mary, like the rest of the court, knew that this meant that Henry believed the long-awaited divorce was finally within his grasp.

  The Act in Restraint of Appeals had proclaimed England’s jurisdictional self-sufficiency, and all national cases were now to be heard in England, the validity or otherwise of Henry’s marriage to Catherine included, with no appeal to any higher authority, because none now existed. Thus Henry made use of the Pope’s servant, the Archbishop, to deny the Pope’s existence. Mary felt sure that the irony of it would amuse Henry.

  Quicker than a fever, the news spread round the court that Henry’s new Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, had written to Henry, begging to hear and give judgement on Henry’s important matter. Henry, of course, had graciously given his consent. After long debate, Archbishop Cranmer announced his judgement on Henry and Catherine’s marriage. He declared it invalid as it was impeded by divine law, which no Pope could dispense. The Archbishop’s findings on Henry’s marriage to Catherine were revealed late in May and were such a foregone conclusion that Anne, even before his judgement, had confidently started to call herself Queen.

  It was clear that even Henry was worried how such a bold move would be received. But by now, only the rough commoners dared to openly deride Anne. At court, most knew better than to cross the lady, and there, there were few murmurings. This gave Henry and Anne such confidence that they were now ready to declare that they had in fact, married in January, four months earlier.

  Anne had long possessed Catherine’s husband and jewellery, she would now also have her queenly title. Catherine had been brusquely informed that she must surrender her title of Queen and accept that of Dowager-Princess. Thus was she relegated to her earlier role as Arthur’s widow, as though all the long years of marriage to Henry, all the tragic still-births and lost babes, had never been.

  Catherine’s final degradation upset Mary. She had no wish to witness the coronation of her old friend’s usurper which was to take place on 1st June, Whit Sunday. It would be as costly and impressive an occasion as could be contrived. Charles had been put in charge of arranging it and although he had expended vast sums from the treasury, they had been insufficient to purchase the cheers of the people. Their sullenness was more marked than ever. Henry cursed with annoyance at his subjects’ attitude to his new queen, but they had loved Catherine well for her many charitable interests and they regarded Anne with dislike. To them, as to Mary, the lady was no lady. She was no more than the king’s harlot and they did not feel that such a one was deserving of their cheers.

  Charles confided that he would be obliged to put paid place-men in the crowd to do the required cheering. But whether he did or not, Mary was determined she would not witness Anne Boleyn’s triumph. As Charles had remarked, the lady’s position would be undeniable once she was crowned. Anne would be eager for revenge on those who had slighted her. It would be as well not to be available.

  So, in a misty blur of sickness, Mary had travelled home to Westhorpe, accompanied by Eleanor, the sulking Frances and sad remembrances of another coronation in happier times.

  No one had had to be paid to cheer at Catherine and Henry’s joint coronation. Mary was sad for Henry’s sake that the Londoners were not prepared to please him in his demand that they cheer his new queen as she made her way to Westminster Abbey for her crowning. He had always been at pains to gain the Londoners’ regard, a regard he had held since boyhood. Their sullenness would grieve him. But he had brought the necessity to pay for cheers upon himself, and no matter how much or how often Anne raged and stormed, the Londoners disliked her and her stiff-necked ways and she would be left in no doubt of it. It was some consolation to Mary when she finally reached home and could retire to bed.

  The pain was now coming in great waves that left her gasping. Now nothing she did seemed to make any difference. She was so full of pills she wondered she did not rattle. Mary smiled amidst the pain at the thought that at least Henry had had the good sense not to marry Anne until she had proved herself fruitful. It was her ability to bear children that had made her Queen, not her regal character, for that was Catherine’s alone. Anne had been unable to steal that from her predecessor, as she had stolen her husband, her royal jewels, and her crown.

  Faces came and went in Mary’s tortured brain. Some had gone before she could even recall their names. Catherine’s sad face lingered as Mary had last seen her; defiant of Henry in spite of her endless humiliations. Poor lady, to have so many years of marriage dismissed as though they had never been, was cruel. The Princess Mary would likely be declared a bastard now, the poor unhappy child. Anne Boleyn could be relied upon to insist that her offspring took precedence.

  Mary groaned as the pain caught her again. Everything went black all of a sudden. Frightened, she called out. ‘Frances, are you there?’

  Mary saw a darker shadow move within the other darkness. It came towards her and Frances’ sullen voice issued from within it. ‘Yes, Mother, I’m here.’

  ‘Call the physician again, child. He must have something to ease the pain.’

  Frances was unsympathetic. ‘He has tried all his pills and potions on you already, mother. He has nothing left to try.’

  Frances sounded resentful and Mary had no difficulty in guessing the reason for it. Frances must be thinking that her mother and her imaginary ailments had spoilt her pleasure again. She was now a married woman and shouldn’t still be under her mother’s ruling. - the cry ‘unfair’ was doubtless even now echoing around her daughter’s head.

  Mary was sorry to be the reason her daughter was denied the excitement of the coronation. If it had been anyone other than Anne Boleyn there would have been no question of them all remaining in London and witnessing it. Mary knew her daughter thought she had used her ill-health as an excuse to leave London. So, for that matter, did Charles and Henry. They had both been vexed with her, but Mary had at least managed to coax them round.

  Charles, of course, in charge of organising Anne Boleyn’s coronation, had remained at court, as had Frances’ young husband, Dorset—another reason for Frances’ resentment of her mother. Mary let out a sigh. The pain chose that moment to give her a brief respite and she breathed gently, scared that even her breathing would set it off again. She opened her eyes to find her daughter’s gaze fixed on her, dislike writ plain. All the potions Mary had taken had left her befuddled. Why did her child hate her so? ‘Why do you look at me like that, Frances?’ she asked. ‘Have I done something else to vex you?’

  ‘What have you done, mother? For you to ask that.’ Frances came close up to the bed and stared down at her mother with small, hate-filled eyes. ‘You have done what you always do—immured me in the country and prevented me having the pleasure that other girls of my station enjoy. You know how I had looked forward to my wedding. And then the excitement of the coronation. Surely, with it c
oming but a few short months after my nuptials, we could have remained in London? But no, you must drag me back here with you. I am a married woman now,’ Frances reminded her again, ‘and would be treated as such.’

  Mary turned her head away to hide the tears. Was it so much to ask of her daughter that she comfort her in her sickness? Mary felt weak and strangely light-headed. Not up to coping with another of Frances’ tantrums. If only the girl would be as reasonable and loving as her sister. But it was true that Mary and her elder daughter had never got on. Likely, they never would.

  She turned back. Frances was again at the window. She gazed forlornly out at the sunshine – that she was cooped up indoors no doubt another cause for resentment - for Frances had always found more pleasure in physical exercise than she had in intellectual pursuits; she was like her father in that.

  Faintly, Mary said, ‘I did not mean to spoil your pleasure, Frances. I am ill, truly ill, can you not understand that? Can you not show me a little sympathy? You may now be married, but you are still very young and in need of guidance. Who could I have left you with in London? The new Queen? You know well she can have no fondness for the Duchess of Suffolk’s daughter. It is said she gives your poor cousin, Mary, such pinches and slaps the child is black and blue. No, you were better to come home with me than to stay and witness the woman taking your Aunt Catherine’s place. Married lady or no, I am still your mother and I’ll not have you honour that woman for all she now calls herself Queen.’

  ‘My father honours her,’ Frances was quick to remind her. ‘We both know he desires you to do likewise. Surely, it is your place to obey your husband, Mother?’

  ‘Pray do not lecture me on the requirements of duty or obedience,’ Mary forced out through teeth gritted against the returning pain; the respite had been brief. ‘I think I can be trusted to know both better than you. Your father is a man grown and makes his own decisions. It is his choice if he chooses to honour Anne Boleyn, the same as it is mine, as a woman grown, to choose not to.’