To Crown A Rose

by Anne R Bailey

  Only a person of low class would agree to associate with them. She had thought that her mother was sending her to live with a dear friend for she had accompanied her to France, but it was clear there was no tender feelings between the two of them. In fact, it seemed to amuse Margaret that she now had command of the daughter of Mary Tudor, to whom she had bowed and scraped to.

  Frances could not disobey her future mother-in-law. She thought of Katherine and knew now how she must have felt when she first arrived at Suffolk Place. But she had been kind to Katherine.

  In the Grey household she was treated coldly.

  Two of the younger sons were still in the schoolroom and young Mary Grey was in the nursery barely able to walk, but she felt pushed aside for them.

  Her rooms were comfortable but nowhere near as grand as those she had at Suffolk Place or Westhorpe. She thought longingly of her fine Turkish carpets and the clothes she would borrow from her mother on special occasions. Margaret Grey did not seem inclined to provide her with the same treatment.

  Every day seemed to go the same. They would attend Mass, hear a preacher give a talk, depending on the weather go take a stroll around the gardens and then have an afternoon meal before retiring to do chores from sewing shirts to working on embroidery to other menial tasks.

  Margaret, like Frances’s mother before her, seemed to enjoy insulting Frances at every turn.

  She was sure Margaret felt she was taking her under her wing, but Frances knew how a household should be run. She did not need to listen to Margaret. The first thing she would do once she was married was to hire more servants. There was no need for them to spend the afternoon weaving wool. Couldn’t they have some woman from the village do that? And didn’t even Anne Boleyn hire a woman to sew shirts for the King?

  Frances wouldn’t demean herself with such lowly tasks.

  “If you applied yourself better you could become good enough with a needle that you could gift this to the King himself.” Margaret was frowning as she examined her latest attempt at black work on a collar. “The first few stitches are fine but I can tell you lost interest halfway through.”

  Frances had the decency to look abashed. “I shall redo it.”

  Margaret seemed to regard her for a few moments. “These sorts of skills are important for any young lady to possess. Your husband shall appreciate you for them more than for your ability to ride horses or play cards well.”

  Frances nodded, but she had to hide her face so Margaret wouldn’t see the contempt there.

  “Not all households live as large and freely as others.” Frances knew she was having a go at her parents, who were notoriously extravagant.

  “My son has placed us in debt when he refused to marry the Earl of Arundel’s daughter. We have to pay the price now. You shall have to pay the price as well.”

  Frances gaped. “He was betrothed before?”

  “Of course he was. If his father was still alive he would have made them marry. She was such a good girl. Very pretty and handy to have around.”

  Frances puffed out her chest, ready to retort that whoever this girl was she did not have the lineage she possessed.

  “He was tempted though,” Margaret went on, giving her a look of extreme displeasure.

  “Not by me. I never met him before,” Frances said indignantly.

  “No, not by you — by power, by greed, by ambition.” She shook her head. “You will find you are not enough to keep him happy.”

  “I do not know what you are insinuating, madam, but I will be a good wife to your son. He is lucky to have gained my hand in marriage,” Frances said coolly.

  Margaret looked ready to strike, but then sat back in her chair and regarded her as though seeing her for the first time.

  “I have to congratulate your confidence. You are very sure of yourself. Perhaps you shall be well matched, seeing as both of you have airs of grandeur. It will lead you into trouble.”

  And that was the last Margaret said on the matter, though her comments continued to grate on Frances’s mind long after the conversation.

  Of course, her lineage would always be a major attraction. Frances was not a fool, but the fact that her mother-in-law had basically doomed them to a life of unhappiness terrified her. She knew enough about curses and prophecies to be nervous about her words. Would simply ill wishing them be enough to make her words come true? And what kind of mother was so mean to her own child and heir?

  Though her mother constantly berated her, Frances knew that she would never say half the things Margaret said about her son a daily basis. She was surprised she hadn’t become terrified of her betrothed. The man Margaret described led her to imagine a short miserly man counting coins, but she had seen his portrait and knew that she was lying.

  It was on days that Margaret was too busy for her company that she found solace in the forest surrounding Bradgate. The trees were thick and green — the air fresh and the sky blue as she rode through the undergrowth on well-trodden paths.

  The Marchioness of Dorset kept a large herd of deer on her park and rarely hunted them. Frances thought it was Margaret who was the miser.

  On rainy days, she stayed inside writing letters to her mother and father as well as to Katherine who she sorely missed now that she was gone from her side. She wished to have a friend again. Perhaps once she was married then she could ask Katherine to come stay with her as a lady-in-waiting.

  She daydreamed of showing Katherine the park and taking her around the pleasant palace gardens.

  She did not complain of her treatment for she felt that was exactly what her mother-in-law wanted of her. She could picture what would happen in her mind. Either her mother would take her side and demand the Marchioness treat her better, which might lead to the Marchioness deciding to convince her son to put her aside, or her mother would be angry at her for complaining.

  There would be no winning either way.

  If the betrothal was set aside, who would want her after that? She might be seen as spoiled goods, and she wouldn’t put it past Margaret to spread vile rumors about her. Was it her fault she was used to certain luxuries? She felt sure that Margaret was depriving her of them on purpose.

  She just wanted to punish her son by punishing his betrothed. It was no wonder he never visited.

  She had hoped she would catch sight of him, so she could tell Margaret that she had lied about her son. But there was no news from him. He had never even written her a note or sent her a message. She had seen the signed contract of their betrothal. He had signed his name above hers so she knew he knew of her existence.

  Was he not curious about his future bride?

  She thought of his spiteful mother again. No doubt, if she had remained with her parents, he would have paid her a visit there, but, here at Bradgate, he must feel unwelcome and stayed away.

  This was Margaret’s doing again. She was being held captive and she had not even realized it. Perhaps she had been the one to stall their wedding. Her mother had been married at her age after all, so she wasn’t too young.

  She took these thoughts to bed with her every night. At Mass she would pray to be rescued or for some reprieve.

  She was tired of being drilled on numbers and the accounts of the household. How much wheat was produced, how much wool, why should she care? Wasn’t this the reason why they hired a steward to manage their affairs?

  At length, her prayers were answered. A messenger baring the royal coat of arms entered the presence chamber and presented a summons to the Marchioness.

  She broke the seal gingerly, as if she did not wish to and scanned the message with her beady eyes. Frances leaned towards her to see what it said but the older woman rolled up the scroll.

  “Thank you, we shall be attending. It would be an honor.” She motioned for her lord chamberlain to tip the man.

  Frances could not wait, and, the minute he left, she asked what was happening.

  “We are going to Windsor. We have been invited to witness
the investiture of the Lady Anne Boleyn.” She declared this without the familiar resentment usually present when one talked of Anne in her presence.

  “And what title is she going to get?” Frances scowled.

  “Marchioness of Pembroke.”

  Frances froze mid-step. A Marchioness? That woman would be made a Marchioness? Was there no end to cruelty in this world? Was the King still hoping to marry her after all this time? Was he not content with dismissing his wife and daughter from court?

  Margaret had paused at the end of the hallway, obviously noting she had stopped moving. She smiled knowingly at her.

  “You shall be attending as well, and I seem to need to remind you to smile. If you don’t and you bring any sort of trouble on my head, I’ll have you sent back to your parents and annul your betrothal faster than you can blink. Is that understood?”

  Frances was shaken and could only nod.

  “Good.”

  Her mother was thankfully absent at the investiture. Another key person who was absent was the Duke of Norfolk’s own wife, who had refused point blank to carry Anne’s train.

  Frances smiled to herself, remembering the kind letters she passed along to Queen Catherine. After all this time, she had not abandoned her friend.

  Frances watched Anne’s procession to the King with a grim hope the woman would trip on her way. She was followed by her uncle, the French ambassador and several heralds. Garter carried her Letters Patent of creation on a pillow as though they were fragments of the Holy Cross.

  Frances felt dowdy beside Anne in her crimson red sur-coat. She looked at the ermine with particular distaste. Only a select few were allowed to wear it, herself included. She hated to think she would be allowed to now.

  Besides her fantastic dress, she was also decked out in new jewels as well as some very recognizable ones.

  “Is that Queen Catherine’s…” she whispered, but her future mother-in-law pinched her so she stopped.

  “Do not mention Queen Catherine.”

  “But she is wearing the Queen’s jewels!” Couldn’t she see how ridiculous this was?

  Margaret looked at her as though to say: and what is wrong with that?

  Frances looked back towards Anne with a barely concealed contempt as they walked behind her. Finally, they reached the great presence chamber, and she spotted her father standing prominently beside the King.

  Anne moved forward and knelt before the King. Frances could only imagine her grim satisfaction. Garter handed the Letters Patent to Bishop Gardiner who read them out loud.

  Frances was seeing red by this point. Why was Anne receiving a title in her own right? Did she, as one of the few Tudor descendants, not deserve one herself? She thought of her aunt, deprived of her jewels and her cousin kept away from court without even a single marriage prospect.

  She managed to collect herself as the whole court processed into the Chapel Royal to celebrate a special Mass. The occasion was further marked by a signed peace treaty with France.

  Frances could not even begin to comprehend. In her mind, she was already penning the letter to her mother telling her of everything she had seen.

  A day after, they headed back to Bradgate and Frances was not sorry to leave the court and its madness behind.

  She was not envious that many of them would travel to France with the King, for Anne Boleyn would also be there and she refused to curtsey to her. She was now technically of higher rank than Frances and she was sure the King would only increase her status.

  It made her even madder that during their short visit to court, she had been so distracted by Anne she had not even thought to look for her betrothed.

  Time passed slowly for Frances.

  Margaret did not keep her abreast of the news from court. She had to rely on maids’ gossip, which was hardly reliable. There were rumors that the King had indeed married Anne, for they were taking their time returning to London. But Frances could not believe any of this. She knew she should be following in her mother-in-law’s shoes and be loyal to the Boleyn faction but she could not bring herself to do it.

  She thought of how her father would be happy if their family could fully reconcile to the King and be friendly with the Boleyns who had shown how deadly their displeasure could be. Perhaps, above all, he had hoped this marriage would make her change her mind.

  But then she thought of her mother who had barely managed to speak to Anne without distaste. Her mother who was made ill by her friend’s banishment.

  She couldn’t bear to like that woman or pay her any respect. Somehow no one asked for her opinion. She was merely required to obey.

  She wondered if her betrothed thought as she did. She imagined he did.

  By November they had confirmation that the King and Anne had taken up residence at Greenwich.

  “Are we to join the court for Christmas?” Frances inquired one cloudy afternoon. She had not been able to escape her mother-in-law’s rooms to go hawking.

  “No, I do not believe we will. We shall pass a quiet Christmas here, and I have received news from your parents.”

  This truly surprised Frances. Seeing her eagerness Margaret seemed happy enough to postpone the news for as long as possible.

  “We have decided that it would be appropriate for you to wed in March and your sister is to be officially betrothed.”

  “I am? She is?” Frances gasped. This was her chance for freedom.

  “So, naturally, I would like to have a few extra months with you alone so you may learn as much as you can. I am afraid I have not had enough time, but the King has given your father his blessing on the match and my son seems eager enough.”

  “And my wedding? Shall the King attend?”

  Margaret looked like she wanted to laugh at her audacity, but then she seemed to remember who she was.

  “I don’t think the King will be able to attend, but fear not, your mother has written to me and informed me that you would be married from Suffolk Place, so perhaps you shall have your opportunity for glory.”

  “I shall have to go prepare a few weeks before then. After all, I need to be adequately prepared,” Frances pressed.

  “Not a moment sooner than when I think you are ready,” Margaret stipulated.

  Frances did not complain. “I shall write to my mother.”

  She rushed from the rooms to her little writing desk before Margaret could forbid her.

  Immediately, she began asking her mother about what the wedding preparations would be like. Would she have an Archbishop say the ceremony? Was there perhaps a Cardinal who would marry them? She didn’t think there were any Cardinals left in England but why not try? She also asked about dresses and how many she would be allowed to get.

  By the time she was done, the sun had set. Her letter was filled with mostly questions and demands, so she thought it prudent to ask after her mother’s health and to give Eleanor her congratulations on her upcoming betrothal.

  Then she wrote a letter to Katherine telling her she would have to be her Lady and carry her train on her wedding day. She told her not to be jealous of her good fortune.

  Since the roads were still good and had not been covered by snow, the replies piled in quickly enough.

  Her mother’s letter was dictated to Eleanor, who had written down every word their mother had said. Frances blushed red to know that Eleanor heard their mother scolding her for vanity and reminding her to be obedient. The rest of the letter was much more promising.

  Her father had agreed to supply her with a wardrobe of ten gowns, with accompanying accessories, in addition to a splendid wedding dress.

  Her mother wrote she had already selected the fabrics that would best suit her. For her wedding dress, she had settled on a beautiful patterned white and gold silk imported from Italy at great cost, she added. Frances could picture her mother’s pointed look, expecting gratitude for this generosity, which Frances would be more than happy to give. The gown would be measured to her general size and adjusted on
ce she arrived.

  Beyond this, her mother went on about the great responsibility that would be hers now and that she would have to obey her husband in everything.

  Above all, she was not to shame their family.

  Frances could only imagine how dazzling she would seem to Henry Grey when he finally saw her.

  She was suddenly glad they had not met, though she had found his portrait in the gallery upstairs and often paused to examine it. She thought she saw a smile beneath the serious exterior. A secret smile just for her.

  True to Margaret’s word, Christmas was a miserable affair. They burned a Yule Log in the great hall and enjoyed a small feast with the servants. The elder Grey sisters and their husbands paid them a visit too. For this Margaret decided to cull a few beasts from the herd of deer that she so coveted.

  They feasted on venison and pies as hired musicians played. There was no dancing or masking, however, and Frances could only rely on Katherine’s letters for any gossip of substance.

  It seemed the King had ordered renovations to be made on the Tower, and then specifically the Queen’s quarters. Everyone believed Queen Catherine would be sent to the Tower, but, in fact, it was Anne who stayed there a few nights.

  During this time, the King also awarded her gold plate for her household. It was rumored by now that they had married in secret. Katherine feared for the Queen.

  Frances could not bring herself to consider the luxuries heaped on Anne, although after her creation as the Marchioness of Pembroke she should have hardly been surprised.

  Then, in a letter at the end of January, Katherine told her the most scandalous thing of all.

  Anne was rumored to be pregnant.

  Cranmer had been named Archbishop and there was much haste being made in Parliament to hurry along the matter of the King’s divorce. Katherine stressed that these were rumors and she did not believe them herself.

  Frances could not wait to leave Bradgate and head back to Suffolk Place. She would see what she could discover for herself.