Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  Of all the wives she had ever seen, her father’s or no, Anne of Cleves was the only one enjoying her old age, living in peace and in a manner of her choice. Anne of Cleves answered to no one. Elizabeth marked the lesson and she marked it well.

  She had been to the Tower. She had seen the Tower green where her mother and Katherine Howard lost their heads.

  Passion and lust are very pleasurable; they are the fires that feed the soul but they can bring with them consequences beyond your ken. Yea, Woodstock will do every well for me, she thought with satisfaction as she nodded and waved at the people who lined the muddy streets.

  For as long as she could contrive it she would remain as she was, unfettered and free. With her lips tilting in a broad smile she repeated the words she swore to live by-

  Much suspected of me, nothing proved can be.

  SUSAN CLARENCIEUX

  July 12th

  Philip of Spain had landed on the Isle of Wight.

  Soon, the queen would meet her husband at Winchester.

  A husband.

  The queen was a lady of a stately age, and now, at last, she was going to be taken to wife. Susan strode down the halls of Hampton, her pace brisk, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished stone floors. She was tireless. Everything must be just right for her queen. She bustled. Everything must be perfection.

  The queen’s costumes had been meticulously seen to, each and every gown was so richly set with jewels that they could stand on their own.

  At Susan’s suggestion, the queen had also ordered provisions to be made for her husband. Jewel studded doublets, trunks of silken hose and clothes spun of gold stood packed as ready gifts for the Spanish Prince. Every care had been taken to welcome the king and though the court was gay, outside the gates and in the streets, discontentment festered still.

  Every day that brought the Spanish king closer to English soil had served to heighten the anxiety of the populace. Dissent was boiling just below the surface. But everyone agreed that it was high time the queen was wed. On that point, at least, there was no contest.

  And now the people had a new refrain on their lips: God send us an heir, they said, God send us a prince. The same jarring tune had haunted the queen’s mother; it had been resurrected now to haunt Mary Tudor too.

  But the queen seemed unaffected by the thought of her upcoming nuptials. She was otherwise occupied. She had been tireless, working, pushing and laboring toward one end and one end only: she wanted the taint that was the Pope’s excommunication lifted from English soil. She wanted England welcomed back into the fold of the mother church.

  She had been managing and dictating her affairs.

  She wanted Reginald de la Pole to be the Papal Legate sent to England; she would have the son of her Margaret de la Pole, her Lady Salisbury of old, and no other. She wanted all her father’s reforms declared null and void. She consulted with her Lord Chancellor, Bishop Gardiner and Edward Bonner constantly, worrying over how best to turn the people’s hearts back toward the one true faith.

  The queen hurries, galloping toward her goals. Susan sighed. Yet unbeknownst to all, the queen’s true trials come at night.

  A Sickness. A mysterious illness was laying siege to the queen. It would not leave the lady be.

  Mary Tudor was grievously ill. Ever since the sleepless nights of the Wyatt rebellion, the lady’s health had been troubling her. Her eyes had always been weak but more and more, her sight was dimming. Sometimes there were great flashes of light in her vision and sometimes dots, black and of varying sizes would swim and swarm about in her sight, threatening to overwhelm her. It was so dire, her majesty could no longer see beyond four paces. She could still detect placement and form but she could no longer decipher and distinguish.

  Not only so, the pains in her sides had doubled their incessant torture. They came in waves. Sharp, knife like pains in her sides that plagued her without reprieve, making her convulse and beg for mercy.

  And her pains were always worst at night.

  The doctors were befuddled and they prescribed the usual tinctures and treatments, but there was no easing the queen’s pains.

  I must make safe my people, she had gasped, over and over, holding onto Susan’s hands night after night as the sweating and suffering came upon her. A weak monarch makes for bold traitors. I-I would not have my England in chaos, the queen muttered.

  Nightly, Susan kept vigil by the queen’s bed, tending to the lady as gently as a mother would her child.

  Perhaps it is best that I do not wed. I am too ill to do my d-duty. The queen had uttered the words one night when her pains were at their worst. With her hands fisted in the sheets, her teeth biting at her lip with enough force to draw blood and her brow knotted in suffering, the queen whimpered as the sweat poured off of her convulsing body.

  Susan smoothed the lady’s brow. God’s will be done my queen. Have no fear, you shall rally. A husband will do your ladyship much good. He shall shoulder your burdens and ally your fears. He shall be your champion in all things.

  Whether her words brought the queen comfort, Susan would never know. The queen did not like to speak of Philip. She had grown contemplative of late and the thought of marriage weighed heavily on her soul. The queen was no fool and though she would never admit it, she had her own fears regarding the Spanish match. Her marriage contract was iron clad but doubts lingered still. The Scriptures had long prescribed the natural state of affairs between a man and a woman, a husband and his wife.

  Change. A man would take ill to any change on the matter of their supremacy.

  Already, the queen’s ministers, councilors and parliament men had shown her how unruly they could be. They bowed to her will and her dictates, but there was always that flash of condescension, of displeasure and disbelief that they should be made to submit to a woman.

  And now a king was arriving to take his place by her side.

  Philip of Spain was no minister, no bishop, no councilor and certainly no subordinate. He was her equal.

  A king and a queen, Susan ran the words over and over upon her tongue. The queen would have to fight Philip and fight him hard. For Philip would try to lord it over her, just like any husband would.

  The man rules, that was the order the world lived by and Susan and her queen knew it well. The Queen’s greatest battle for supremacy then would be against her own husband.

  It was always going to be so. Susan knew. No matter who the king might be, such is the lot of a queen, and in a marriage such as theirs, whoever held their ground, kept their heads clear and remained aloof would emerge the victor.

  If Mary came to love her husband, the game would turn foul for the queen. There was far more at stake here than just hearts and sentiments. They were speaking of realms and empires, how they might rise and how they might fall.

  JANE DORMER

  July 25th

  She tried to steady her giddy heart. The Spanish Dons were all of them handsome devils. They were fascinating, with their dark flashing eyes and olive skin, they were very different from the Englishmen Jane was accustomed to. They were bold too.

  There was an audacious one amongst them. He had winked at her when he caught her studying him. She had thought she was discreet but he had sensed her regard and here amongst all the solemnity of the occasion, he had defied propriety and winked at her.

  Much to her disgust, Jane had felt her heart flutter in response. As one in the Queen’s long train of attendants, Jane, by virtue of her station was far back in the crowd of sweet smelling pomade, shimmering brocade and glittering jewels.

  Turning her face resolutely away from the Dons, Jane faced the light, welcoming the sun’s warmth upon her visage. Today, the Winchester sun had been most obliging. It was a good day for auspicious beginnings.

  Their queen had blazed forth this morning in all her finery. She looked well, very well indeed and on her lips she wore a ready smile for her husband.

  When her majesty and her husband me
t at last, Jane pouted. She was too far back. She could hear nothing of what was being said, nor could she decipher her mistress’ expressions or determine whether or not their king was handsome. All that she could see of their new lord and king was the glint of his brown-gold hair and the smart turn of his coat. The dignitaries and nobles in front of her formed an almost impenetrable crowd. The king’s own contingent was sizeable also, filling the halls and spilling into the gardens of Winchester.

  But Jane’s smile was bright. Her queen would have a husband before the day was out.

  A husband and some much needed tenderness and love, Jane hoped for her mistress was in much need of loving care.

  Jane heartily prayed that the king would come to love their queen. Together, she hoped they would preside over England in a long and happy reign.

  On this, her mistress’ happy day, Jane’s heart was light. She looked this way and that, taking in the sights. But soon, unbidden, her eyes turned back toward the dons. This time however, she was careful to keep her regard veiled. She was a respected lady and she would not be caught staring and speculating upon the legs and well-turned coats of foreigners. But the man who had caught her gaze seemed to know what she was about. Again, he captured her eye and winked. Immediately, Jane averted her gaze, her cheeks flaming hotly.

  I am no green girl! She berated herself. I have served the queen and been at court! Yet there was no mistaking the heat rising in her cheeks. Turning to Susan, she diverted her attention away from the young don, her eyes settling on her friend, but the look upon Susan’s face gave her pause.

  Mistress Clarencieux? Jane queried, her question a whisper.

  Catching herself, Susan smoothed and evened out her expression like the most seasoned of courtiers. The lady pasted a smile on her lips, the movement evening out the lines around her mouth, ‘tis a wondrous occasion. I am much pleased for her majesty our queen. His majesty is most attentive. See how he takes her hand? See how he smiles?

  Jane could see nothing but she was more than eager to agree. Her smile was genuine and bright, our queen, Susan, I am certain of it. Our Queen will be the happiest woman in England!

  MARY

  Night, Winchester

  Her heart was thudding and thudding fast. She was old but she was as untried in these matters as any young girl.

  She had been disrobed, coiffed and perfumed and now she would be put to bed with her husband, her young husband.

  The question was on everyone’s lips. Was the queen happy with her king? Was the king happy with his new wife?

  Like the most seasoned of diplomats, neither Philip nor Mary betrayed any of their thoughts. They were perfectly civil. Mary had smiled and smiled until her cheeks ached.

  She promised him that she would make every effort to learn Spanish and he did the same, promising to learn English with all haste. They were careful to placate each of their contingents, making smiling remarks and pledging fine and frivolous things to please.

  But there was no mistaking the truth. Philip was a young man. Mary twisted her hands in the sheets as her little Jane Dormer drew them high to cover her. She was eight and thirty and he seven and twenty. He had already been wed once and he had a son to show for it too.

  His seed, at least, had proven that it could bear fruit. But can I bear fruit? Mary wondered. She bit her lip. The pain in her insides, ravaging her health left her in doubt.

  All the same, he would lie with me, she knew, and I with him. If we are to beget an heir we must honor our vows.

  In truth, Philip of Spain was not a hard man to look upon. He might even be termed as handsome. He had an air of careless grace about him, of kingly command and determined power. He knew strength, he understood it and he had been born and raised to wield it. His eyes were dark and accessing, his manner easy and courteous, but Mary detected that beneath his calm and effortless façade was a man with a will as iron as her own.

  When he smiled upon her, she noted that his smiles never reached his eyes. When he regarded her, it was with speculation and intent.

  Mary knew what he thought. His wife was old. She was not a beauty. But she cared not. She was what she was. She could not be altered. He had known whom he was marrying when he placed his name upon the contract and sailed for these shores. He was marrying the queen of England. He was marrying England. But if he thought to lord over her, he was much mistaken…

  A knock on the door came as Jane and Susan continued to bustle around her, making her sweet for her husband. Mary felt her face flame. The time is come, and for all my professed years upon God’s green earth, I feel as young as my little Jane Dormer!

  Mary was not ignorant of what had to be done. She had the knowledge, but no matter how she fought to steel her heart, she trembled.

  Suppressing her fears with ruthlessness Mary firmed her heart and as Philip was let in to her privy chambers, she observed his progress with outward calm.

  He was far from alone. A contingent of his men followed him, here to bear witness to this most august occasion: the bedding down.

  Behind the Spanish came Mary’s own people; her lords headed by Chancellor Gardiner here to witness the bedding of the couple too.

  With all due ceremony, the covers were soon lifted and Philip slid into bed beside her. Mary composed her face and shifted away from him.

  The crowd surrounded the bed as Gardiner performed the rites and all too soon, the chorus of witnesses declared they had seen the couple blessed and bedded and took their leave.

  Through it all, Mary remained stoically still. For the first time, there was a man beside her in her bed and despite her best efforts her body was rigid with fear.

  She looked to her Susan and her Jane but they too were leaving now.

  Mary tried to calm her speeding heart. She told herself that they would not be far. Susan and Jane would be waiting to attend her just beyond the doors. There, they would keep company with Philip’s body squires, who numbered not one but three.

  In the resounding silence, the doors closed. They were alone. They were man and wife.

  In one bold move, she looked to him and saw him regarding her in turn.

  Shifting up on his elbows, he took in the sight of her. She was without her fine dresses and ornaments; she was without her battle gear. She saw him contemplate her graying hair fanned out against the pillows.

  There was no more artifice here. She was just Mary Tudor.

  Wordless, he shifted, taking to his knees. Mary tightened her hands on the sheets beside her. She opened her mouth, but her mouth was dry, her throat clogged.

  The man that was her husband now proceeded to take command of her person. He pried the sheets from her. They were both still dressed, she in her linens and he in his shift.

  With firm hands, he lifted her smock. He bared her to the apex of her thighs.

  Mary could see nothing from her place of subservience. But she felt it. He was straddling her. She turned her face away, her hands knotted in the sheets. Terror coursed through her as she felt him ready himself. He probed her and finding her not to his satisfaction, she heard him spat upon his hand. Then, she felt his manhood prod against her, the slide of his saliva between them, easing his way.

  The pain made her flinch.

  He thrust into her and she gasped, feeling as if she was being torn apart. But he did not cease. She gritted her teeth, her eyes squeezing together tight. He began a motion that rocked them both, to and fro, to and fro. The pains in her privates grew. He was invading her, thrusting through every resistance that he encountered.

  She was bleeding. She could smell the scent of blood in the air.

  To and fro. To and fro. To and fro.

  Mary opened her eyes and gasped as the pains in her sides began also, his violent jerking of her person had awakened the torment in her belly.

  She looked up at him and saw him straining above her, his eyes shut, his brow furrowed. It was as if he was in great torment also. But all too soon the shout coming from his mouth p
ronounced his pain as pleasure and he flooded her with his seed.

  In the din, she could hear his rapid breathes, his chest rising and falling to the violence of the act that he had just performed. After several moments in which he caught his breath, he dismounted. With one hand, he pulled and restored her shift to its former state. Then, disembarking her bed, he bid her good night.

  With her eyes on his retreating back, Mary held all within. She watched him leave and heard the heavy oaken doors close behind him, leaving her in the dark. Her breath hitched. Her body was wracked by pain. She needed to call for her Susan and Jane. They would see her to rights. But not yet, she could not yet summon the power and courage to call for them, and so the queen of England laid in the dark, her hands pressed to her sides, tears stinging her eyes.

  So this was what it is. This was being taken to wife.

  She felt the wet slide of blood and seed as it fell from her, painting her thighs. It had felt like a battle, a battle to which she had brought neither army nor arsenal; a battle she had lost.

  ELIZABETH

  August, Woodstock

  Charmed.

  Captivated.

  Besotted.

  Her sister was in love. Elizabeth cocked her head as she perused the letter she had been sent, smuggled into Woodstock.

  By all accounts, the Queen of England was enamored, nay, enthralled by her young husband. She kept the parchment well hidden between the pages of the Book of Prayers she held, her eyes darting over the page keenly.

  The lady clings to her husband. She cedes to his wishes. Talk of the king being crowned runs rife.

  Elizabeth frowned. Philip was only to be addressed as king. He had no control over the affairs of his wife’s realm. He was to be styled as king, but never crowned. To formally instate him would be to hand him the kingship of England. If her sister was foolhardy enough to do so, her England would rebel.

  Impossible. Elizabeth was incredulous. Her sister would never jeopardize her realm, not with the Wyatt rebellion so fresh on her mind. Mary was too wise to repeat the same mistake twice. Not only so, if Philip was crowned, Mary would be forced to hand her hard won sovereignty over to him, and her sister would not be doing anything of the sort.