by J P Ceark
‘My orders are from your father and I must keep to my schedule,’ he replied, dismissive and without concern.
Mary’s shame had been damaging to her father’s standing. She would know of his contempt of her through all he associated with, yet she had been young and without sensibilities. The Dauphin Francis became King Francis I of France and Anne joined the court of his wife, Queen Claude. Princess Mary had not recommended Mary to Queen Claude. She, eventually, joined the ladies of King Francis’ mother, Louise of Savoy.
The King’s mother was aging and often intruded in her daughter-in-law’s life, forcing Queen Claude to flee from court, taking her ladies with her and making an imitation nunnery for them. Louise, however, did little to guard her ladies from her son. It was a moment of boredom and persuasion that led Mary to the bed of King Francis. She was ripe and ready to experience the sensations of intimacy; worse still, she did not regret her weakness.
‘Have you no honour? Self-respect or pride?’ Anne had chastised her when hearing the rumours. The humiliation was worse for their father, being the English ambassador at the French court. Anne’s anger ignited through concern for him.
The memory of it still made her blood hot, as Mary had replied angrily ‘it be one indiscretion! God’s blood sister! Why the concern?’
Though the weeks had been but a few, her father acted with unforgiving haste, removing her from court, from her life and diminishing her existence.
As her mind fixated on the injustices of the past, so her future came closer. Mary and her father’s retinue arrived at their first stop.
‘There is a room for you at a coach house and a female servant is to aid you,’ said Musgrave. Mary noticed he was the heaviest man out of the retinue. ‘Myself and the other men will be down that track at another inn, should you have cause to need us?’ He gave a stern stare.
Mary shook her head to reassure him she would struggle alone without spectacle. Thankfully a young girl emerged as Mary trotted her horse into the courtyard. She was swiftly attended to, but Mary refused food, instead opting for her room.
The room was small but comfortable. The girl helped her undress and brought fresh water before leaving. The door shut softly and Mary plunged her hands into the cold basin, gathering up the water to splash her face; but the water only released her tears. She continued to splash the water to cool her but her weeping became deeper. The injustice rose within her; she was held accountable for her actions when her young mind could never have foreseen the consequences. She’d had no experience, no reference to consult; yet her youthful folly garnered no clemency. She was condemned. Her father’s judgement of her never to be erased, like an enflamed scar, burnished with dishonour.
She then lay upon her bed, exhausted from her upset. She thought on the days ahead and feared the time when she would come face to face with her father again.
* * *
The small group Mary had travelled with had stayed one more night in Calais and by morning they had set sail on a merchant ship. She felt the force of the sea beneath her, bringing her home with a momentous wave of unstoppable power.
The French sunshine had been replaced with a grey English hue. She pulled her furs tighter around her small body and shivered with fear. England appeared a foreboding, demanding place. Ships docked all around the port, men pushing past and yelling. Cargo moving along on logs and fast-rolling barrels knocked into people. Mary was impatient to be away from the chaos around her.
The group ascended onto fresh horses, reserved for their use, and set to a hard pace. As they moved through the English countryside, skies began to lighten and the beauty of the English landscape appeared to her. Vast fields glinting with frozen dew, meadows of unopened wildflowers, forests of dense woodland and fast-flowing rivers. England was not the fearsome place she had been told of, nor was it the heady busyness of the port that she had first encountered. It had a beauty within.
After some time on the cold, hard tracks, the retinue on their horses came to a stop outside a coaching inn. Musgrave paid the stable boys to swap the horses for fresh ones but first they would have a moments rest.
‘Come along, girl!’ Musgrave yelled, slightly aggrieved at the long journey and his hunger.
The landlord and his wife of the establishment had a private room waiting for their use and displayed a table filled with trout, bread, wild greens and cheese; it was Friday, no meat was allowed. The ale was poured out and Mary noticed the company had grown, new faces were around her.
‘What of the King Francis?’ began one of the men after prayers had been said.
‘King Henry is still very inquisitive about the French King and is determined to meet with him,’ clarified another as the rest reached for food and ale.
‘Encouraged by Wolsey no doubt,’ another continued. ‘I believe this is the year the two shall meet. King Francis is keen to have England as an ally against Charles V. He is still smarting after losing out for the title of Holy Roman Emperor despite all his bribes. And Cardinal Wolsey is still rising high; if Wolsey wants France as an ally, he shall get France as an ally. No need to consult the King.’
‘Aye, but it’s been unpopular among the people and the King’s friends. Ever since Francis invaded Milan, noses were put out of joint. If Wolsey wants a French alliance, he has some convincing to do.’
‘Wolsey exhibits a heavy influence over the King and boasts more wealth than anyone. The decision is his alone.’
‘He can do no wrong, not in the eyes of King Henry nor that of Pope Leo. Wolsey has gained a legate, an authority from the Pope to pass judgement on matters within England. His influence is such that no man could ruin him.’
‘Realistically though, how long will peace last in Europe? The moment that treaty is broken and England chooses a side, the Pope will not guarantee support of Wolsey. He wants Europe to remain a force against the Ottoman Empire.’
‘By all accounts the Pope is for Charles V, as is Queen Katherine and many others of the King’s supporters.’
‘Well, it’s Wolsey who will decide our future and he has some room to negotiate. The protest by the German monk has forced the Pope to keep his friends near to him and Wolsey has benefited like no other.’
‘Luther will have his time. The Church won’t tolerate his dissenting for long. Wolsey will have to follow the King’s wishes.’
‘There is strong opinion rising in the German states though. His argument is somewhat emotive … is it not?’ Mary noted this man was younger than the rest. He gave something of his thoughts on the matter without condemning himself.
‘Aye,’ spoke Musgrave. ‘But that is where it will end. In a backwater bog of a German state. The French want war with Spain, and Wolsey’s only objective is to prevent it.’
Mary blushed heavily and made no attempt to be part of their conversation. She knew none of them who spoke and nothing about the subject.
After lunch the crowd assembled round the fresh horses. Mary tried to lead her horse through the throng of men to reach the wooden mounting block but with so many horses reluctant to move she looked helplessly about her.
‘Here, place your foot here,’ one of the men said. He had dined with her just a moment before and now offered to cup her foot in order to lift her into the saddle. She looked down upon the man to give her thanks and the way he returned her gaze made her examine his features further. He was a good head taller than her, with dark eyes but light hair and a thick neatly trimmed beard.
‘What is your name?’ she enquired with some hesitance.
‘William Carey,’ he replied.
‘Onwards!’ shouted Musgrave, and William broke his gaze from her and hurried to take up his horse.
Moments had been spent at a steady pace through the countryside. Occasionally Mary would look upon William with interest; he being somewhat amused, returned her glances. He came to trot his horse beside her.
‘And so, we are to be married,’ he spoke with a slyness Mary recoiled from.
‘Aye,’ he replied smiling. ‘I spoke with your uncle, he assured me of your beauty. You do not disappoint.’ He manoeuvred his horse closer to hers. ‘Perhaps I could enjoy you a little sooner?’
She held her composure. ‘Forgive me, My Lord. I am a chase woman and would wish to respect the deed as God intended it, between man and wife.’ He bowed his head, Mary hoped from shame but noted the shadow of a smirk.
‘I hear married life holds no mystery to you?’ he asked, half-joking.
She glanced at him with fear.
‘Aye, be calm. I care not,’ he said with indifference. ‘This marriage will suit my family’s ambitions.’
Mary paused with suspicion but persuaded herself not to query his reply. ‘I heard you speak about state affairs, are you involved with such dealing?’
‘No,’ he shrugged lightly. ‘I may venture an opinion in private; I would not go against the King nor advise him, should he ever ask. The Cardinal would never tolerate conceited outspokenness. He doesn’t like our closeness to the King nor our friendship and loyalty. Therefore, our positions are never as secure as we may like. He can dismiss us, should he choose … Still, he serves my cousin, the King, well.’
‘My father is most ambitious. I had feared this marriage was a desire to advance himself but if I could speak to you of my intention for our future?’ She glanced at him, still fearful, but he nodded his consent. ‘I hope to be a good wife, to work in the interests of you and not my father. I wish to be of use for your interests only.’ She held his gaze and waited for his response.
His lips curled into that smirk that he had hidden earlier. ‘Aye, and you will be, but your father is a better man than others. I tell you … your uncle is the one to fear. It’s him we are all beholden to, this marriage is of his doing … As it is, I can only pray that our marriage will bring the rewards promised. If not then we are both condemned by all those above us. I would not blame your father, you may have need of him some day.’
Mary dared not question his intrigue. She bowed her head and rode onwards towards Hever.
February 1520
Hever Castle
It took little time to reacquaint herself with the Great Hall; the smell of pine and cloves was burning in the grate. It was late and cold and Mary laid herself down on her bed and stared up at a familiar sight looming above her. Her mind reviewed the last three days and she concluded how quickly and momentously life can change. William Carey had seemed courteous as they rode to Hever and she was not completely dissatisfied with his appearance, but his temperament was still unknown to her and that remained unnerving.
The following morning brought a fresh wave of activity. Mary arrived in her mother’s presence and stood for a moment.
‘I thought you were at court?’ Mary began, but soon noticed her mother’s ashen face.
‘I’ve been attending to your brother Thomas … he remains unwell …’ She stopped so not to cause further upset. ‘The tailor has come to design a gown for your wedding … Did you speak with William Carey?’
‘Aye, Mother, he suits me well,’ she reassured her.
‘I ventured my disapproval … though I feared you being in exile and thought this be a better future …’ she began but then stopped causing Mary’s suspicion to rise. ‘My daughter shall choose the material, design and cut of the dress but must be no less than five pounds worth,’ Elizabeth said as she turned away from Mary and towards the tailor. ‘It is to include pearls and silver cloth as she will be marrying in front of court and King.’
She would be an ornament at court, gazed upon and her beauty judged worthy or not of the finest European court. Anne would say it was a base and vain desire and should be eradicated from women’s egos. But she would do — for she could never hope to captivate as Mary could. That ambition would be denied her. She would have to pursue other accomplishments.
‘Oh, the dark blue velvet is lovely!’ Mary exclaimed, holding it against her white cheek and stroking it. ‘Make sure the bodice is low and tight,’ she added, giving a cheeky smile.
‘We will be at Westminster Palace in a week’s time. The gown must be completed by then,’ Elizabeth informed him.
‘Of course, My Lady, there’ll be no delay,’ promised the tailor while he took additional measurements.
‘I have to attend on your brother. Mary, be gone. Find some worthy occupation to fill your time; if I catch you day dreaming …’ Mary waited for her threat but it never came; instead she sighed and kissed her cheek.
‘Is Thomas very ill?’ enquired Mary while noting the look of concern on her mother’s face.
‘Aye, he coughs violently and no remedy can easy it.’
‘Perhaps I should speak with him?’ Mary suggested, but her mother narrowed her eyes with pain.
‘Think upon yourself, what if you contract his illness? How am I to cope with two ailing children?’ Her eyes were heavy with grief. ‘Anyway, you must think upon your own future. The English court will be different from the French …’ she began. ‘There is more responsibility placed upon you, your conduct must always be dignified. The King is an intellectual man, he thinks on philosophy, theology and music. He’s a physical man and he likes women, educated women, who he can converse with …’
‘What of the King though?’ Mary enquired while becoming uneased by her mother’s direction. ‘Does Uncle wish for me to converse with the King?’
‘Aye … but it is you who will represent us,’ Elizabeth added. ‘Your uncle expects you to be of good humour and to be agreeable. He has worked hard to arrange this marriage. You must prove yourself deserving of the trouble.’
‘Aye, Mother. I’m grateful to Uncle for persuading Father. There was little enjoyment in exile, apart from the kindness of Lady Lisle.’
‘She is my dearest friend,’ explained Elizabeth. ‘I would trust you to no other but you apprehend the aggravation you’ve caused me?’
Mary dismissed her mother’s coldness and smiled, her excitement evident at the prospect of returning to court.
She followed her mother out of the hall and proceeded to the library. She regarded some of the golden titles glistening back at her from their leather bounds. Though Latin was not a language she enjoyed deciphering, she took a book of prayers and placed her French poetry in between the bound pages. She snuggled herself into a cushioned chair and whispered to herself the longing and lustful words she once heard from King Francis. His wooing and the memory of it pulsated her heart and mind into delirious and happy imaginings.
March 1539
Hever Castle
A couple of days had passed since the visit from Cranmer. Thomas could hear the movement of items from around his dwelling being carried away. There had already been cartloads of furniture, tapestries and plates stripped from their floors and walls. His last possessions were going. He could feel his chest begin to convulse and tighten. Such a heavy sensation filled his entire body; the compulsion to cry overwhelmed him but he did not. He lay still, gripping his fists, allowing the sudden moments of silence to deaden his emotions. Mary would have something, whether she deserved it or not. He thought of her, young and energetic, flattering all who looked upon her with glances of pleasure. She was a conniving vixen and with that thought his emotion went into anger. She always knew how to irritate him.
A letter had come along with the retinue of men from Cranmer. He asked that Thomas sign the contract of goods being transported by him for the care of his daughter. He had yet to sign it, though he knew he must before the retinue left. Robson had left the ink pot and quill beside his bed but still Thomas did not reach for it.
‘Where is she?’ he queried aloud. He thought she should be at his bedside, comforting him. ‘Robson!’ Thomas yelled with the strength he still retained. ‘Has Cranmer written to Mary? Do we know she is alive? It wouldn’t surprise me if she died yesterday just to spite me!’
‘I believe he has written to h
er, My Lord. You can attach a message to that contract, asking for her presence here at Hever?’
Thomas shook his head with sudden forethought. ‘No, I promised. Anyway, what need do I have of her? I need not her comfort or any word of thanks … not that she ever gave any. I was better to her than she thinks but I forgave … we must all forgive.’ He reached for the quill and scribbled his name. ‘Come bear witness. And those downstairs, get them to write their names. Mary is set to inherit half of all I have.’
‘‘Tis a good deed, My Lord.’
‘Aye, but tell Cranmer I must see him again.’ Thomas glanced at Robson as Robson nodded. ‘Aye, go about you now.’ Thomas dismissed him. It was strange to be unoccupied. His only distraction was his memories, which repeatedly came to mind. He relived them with great reluctance but with no other pastime he had no choice.
February 1520
Blois, France
Thomas could hear the horses on the cobbled street below; every now and then another would walk by. He listened without conscious thought and continued to work upon his expenditures for his time in France. Money was his skill: he knew how to earn it, how to save it and how to invest it. He was a man of precise calculations. The trot of horses continued but another slowed and stopped outside his residence. He waited for conformation of admittance. Then footsteps were heard upon the staircase. Robson, a young man of one year’s service to Thomas, appeared before his master. ‘Richard Wingfield, Sir,’ spoke the lad.
Thomas nodded and left his account book to greet him.
The sunshine hit him as he went out into the street. Wingfield greeted Thomas heartedly and slapped him on the back.
‘Thomas Boleyn! A fine day for my arrival,’ he smiled and Thomas returned his goodwill.
‘Come on in, Wingfield! You need restorative wine and food, and I’ve got plenty.’ He now returned the slap on the back and pushed Wingfield further into his town house.
