“I am not worried about my future,” Mary snapped. “I am worried about my mother.”
“Of course, you are,” Margaret soothed, laying a hand on Mary’s tense shoulder. “You are a dutiful daughter, and the queen could not ask for anything more.”
Mary simply looked at her, urging Margaret to fill the silence with the answers to her questions.
Sighing, Margaret continued. “You may have heard that your father seeks an annulment.”
Mary’s face was not readable. Margaret was not sure if she should be proud or uncomfortable to see the control the girl had gained over her emotions.
“He will argue that his marriage to your mother was never a true marriage because she had been his brother’s wife.”
“According to Leviticus, I know,” Mary interrupted impatiently. “But will the Pope grant him his annulment?”
Margaret wished that Mary could go back to asking what made the sky blue and the grass green. Those had seemed like difficult questions once upon a time.
“I do not know,” she admitted.
Mary looked startled. Her governess always knew everything, and it shook her world’s foundation to realize that this most important question was an unknown to her.
“But what about me? Will he make me a bastard?” she cried in opposition to her earlier insistence that she was not concerned for her own situation.
Margaret wished that she could console the child, but she was no longer a child. She was a young woman and a princess who needed to know the truth.
“I do not know,” Margaret repeated.
October 1530
“Henry!”
Margaret’s excitement got the best of her and she practically flung herself into the arms of her firstborn son. He easily caught her up, grinning at her exuberance. She was surprised to notice fine lines stretch out from the corners of his eyes. Had she grown so old that even her children were getting old? No one thinks of these things when they are young.
“It restores my soul to see you. You must share stories of the other children. It is a joy to have your Katherine here with me, though I sometimes see too much of myself in her.”
“Has she grown stubborn and demanding since leaving home?” Henry asked in false concern.
Margaret swatted at him. “She is emotional and expects too much of herself. She reminds me of my younger self, but she will benefit from a better upbringing. She and Princess Mary are good for each other.”
“Good,” Henry said, his head bobbing in approval. “I am eager to see her as well.”
His eyes were surveying the courtyard, and Margaret felt momentarily disappointed that she was not the one he most desired to see. She was nobody’s most desired companion, always a second choice.
“She is completing the day’s lessons, and will greet you promptly,” she assured him, and his focus fell back to her.
“That will give us time for a little talk and some refreshment.”
His smile and strong arm held out to her buoyed her mood, and she gladly led him inside.
“I will not mince words,” he started as soon as they were settled. “There are some things that you should know, for Princess Mary’s sake and that of our family.”
Cold fear settled like a stone in her stomach, but she only said, “Carry on.”
“The king plans to offer the Archbishopric of York to Reginald,” he said and then paused to examine her for a reaction.
“Well, that is good news, is it not?” she asked.
“That depends,” Henry continued, slowly moving his head from side to side as though considering two sides of a coin. His dark hair flopped from side to side with his movements, and Margaret wished she could push it away from his face for him.
“Henry will expect Reginald’s support in return for the position.”
Margaret had spoken to no one, not even her oldest son, about her conversation with Reginald before he departed England a year earlier. Henry seemed to be fully informed, nonetheless.
“Reginald will not deny his God for his king,” Margaret stated flatly.
“But would he be?” Henry asked. He moved to the edge of his seat, and Margaret could see that this was the question he had been waiting to ask. “The king is a godly man rewarded with the title Defender of the Faith for his pamphlet opposing the heretic Luther. He sincerely believes that he was in error when he married Catherine. Why does Reginald think he is wrong?” Henry sat back, having concluded his argument.
Margaret composed her thoughts before responding. She had not expected to mediate between her sons on this topic. She examined Henry’s face and realized that he did not believe it either. He was afraid.
“Henry,” she began in the voice she had used to explain harsh truths to him since he was old enough to hear them. “The king had approval from the Pope to marry Catherine. Her marriage to Arthur was never consummated.” She forced herself to maintain eye contact as she said this. It was not something she enjoyed discussing with her children, but she had been in the best position to know if Catherine and Arthur had shared a bed. “The king may have convinced himself of the truth of his argument because it is what he wants, but I do not believe that he has truly persuaded you or that he will ever convince Reginald.”
As she said it, she knew that it was true. If the king insisted on pressing his case for an annulment, her family may once again be on the wrong side of a king. She seemed destined for sorrow.
When the young ladies arrived, Henry set aside his conversation with his mother in order to give his daughter his full attention. Margaret wondered if he realized how very much like his father he was, especially when interacting with his children. What would he do to protect them? Would he lie for his king the way he was asking Reginald to? Yes, Margaret decided as she watched Henry offer his arms to the girls for a stroll through the gardens. He would, but Reginald, unburdened by the divided loyalties of family versus church, would not.
April 1533
“He has done it.”
Margaret allowed the missive to fall from her hand, careless of who may see it because the news would travel like wildfire regardless of her efforts or wishes.
“Done what, love?” Kathryn asked.
Margaret had almost forgotten that she was in the room when she had whispered to herself in horror. “See for yourself,” she said with a shrug toward the parchment but no other movement to retrieve it.
Kathryn’s normally friendly features shriveled into doubt and concern as she bent to pick up the note that Montague had sent to let his mother know to prepare Princess Mary for heartbreak.
A gasp informed Margaret that Kathryn’s eyes had discerned the key portion of the message.
“He did not!” she said with uncharacteristic anger.
Margaret could only move to the window and face the outside in order to hide the tears forming and threatening to spill. Richmond’s gardens were in vibrant bloom, promising a colorful summer filled with pleasant scents and beautiful bouquets. Unreasonably frustrated that the scenery was not grey to match her mood, Margaret spun away and swiped at her eyes.
What could she say?
After the devotion that Catherine had given the king, he had still chosen to shove her aside. Arthur had died before making her a wife in the true sense of the word, and his brother insisted that she was not his either. Nearing her old age, Catherine was without a place in this world. What would she do? What could she do?
Nothing.
She would have to go where Henry sent her and accept his new wife. Not only because she had no power to do anything else, but because her concern now must be for her daughter. What if Anne Boleyn bore Henry a son? What would happen to Princess Mary?
Margaret was frustrated that only questions coursed through her mind. No answers ran to chase them.
“She will not accept this,” Kathryn stated, reminding Margaret of her presence once again.
Scoffing, Margaret held out her hands toward her. “What else can she do?
The king has already married that woman, and my Henry says that he believes she is already with child,” she added, indicating the note still in Kathryn’s hand.
Kathryn’s fine, light hair escaped its pins as she furiously shook her head. “He does not know her as well as he thinks she does. These Tudor kings think that marriage means whatever they wish it to mean!”
Margaret sucked in a breath, finally understanding Kathryn’s underlying feelings. The current king’s father had felt certain that Kathryn would not love her first husband once she was convinced that he was not Richard of York, and now this Henry Tudor set aside his royal wife with a false argument. She had not considered the similarities since Henry VII had been utterly devoted to his wife, Margaret’s cousin. However, she saw things differently from Kathryn’s point of view.
“Oh, Kathryn,” she whispered, taking her into her arms. “I did not think.”
“It is not your fault,” Kathryn insisted, pushing Margaret’s arms and affection away. “I do not wish to think of my husband or my son.”
Now Margaret’s heart truly broke for her friend. Kathryn had never had another child after the king had taken away the son that Kathryn had conceived with Perkin Warbeck. Born to be a prince, his father’s failure sent his future veering off course. Kathryn had never been able to discover what had been done with him, and could only take comfort in envisioning him living happily with a loving family. She could not believe that the king had killed him as he had executed the boy’s father. Surely not, he was just a little boy.
Kathryn had turned away sobbing as Margaret replayed scenes from the past in her imagination. She had been young, married to Richard, and raising a family of her own when Kathryn was going through her personal hell. At the time, Margaret had not given Kathryn a second thought, but now they were bound together by many common threads.
When Margaret saw that Kathryn’s shoulders were no longer shaking and heard sniffling dry up, she approached again, gingerly placing her hand on Kathryn’s elbow.
“Forgive me for my thoughtlessness,” she whispered.
With tears still clinging to her wet lashes, Kathryn turned and nodded. A new firmness was evident in her tense jawline and line forming between her eyebrows. “We will do what we must for Princess Mary. She will not be the next woman whose future is carelessly ruined by a Tudor king.”
Gazing deeply into Kathryn’s steely blue eyes, Margaret nodded. She was still not sure what they would do, but they would do it together.
The first task they must bear was notifying Mary that she had a new stepmother.
Of course, it had been foolish of them to assume that the girl was so poorly informed. As they quietly approached Mary, where she sat in close conversation with her cousin, Margaret Douglas, they realized that the young women were already discussing the possibilities that were now Mary’s future hopes.
Kathryn motioned to Margaret to be silent, and Margaret obeyed though she felt guilty about eavesdropping on the girl she was supposed to be helping.
“Mary, you will simply find yourself a husband on the continent and leave your heretic father to his own devices,” the younger Margaret was insisting.
The older woman’s eyes grew round, and she was just about to remonstrate the girl when she noticed Kathryn urging her to remain silent. She pressed her lips together and waited to hear Mary provide her own correction. But she did not. In fact, she laughed out loud.
“Yes, the princes of Europe will be lining up at my door now that my father is an adulterer who hopes to make me the bastard sister to a sinfully conceived son.” Mary raised an auburn eyebrow at her cousin, but their moods remained light.
“Very well, you can go to Scotland then,” Margaret stated, unperturbed.
“And marry who?” exclaimed Mary in growing concern for her friend’s sanity. “A minor nobleman reigning over a frozen sheep pasture?”
The Douglas girl simply shrugged, her bright red curls bouncing on her shoulders. She and Mary were good for one another, one so serious and the other too frivolous. But on this topic they seemed to agree. Mary must find a way to escape her tyrant of a father. They knew how to go about this no more than Mary’s governess, however.
“He will grow weary of her,” Mary said, sounding not at all certain of her words.
It was Margaret’s turn to giggle at her friend’s suggestion. “Weary of the woman he has chased into his bed for years?”
Mary’s eyes warned her cousin to take care, and the girl held up her hands in surrender. “Very well. What do you suggest?”
Margaret was eager to hear the answer to this herself, and she felt herself creeping closer until Kathryn thrust out an arm to bar her way.
“I will wait.”
“That is all? You will wait?” Margaret Douglas’ face was a study in disdain.
“Yes,” Mary insisted, rising from the bench and twirling to look down upon her cousin. Her governess was afraid that they would be spotted, but Mary was too focused on the conversation at hand. “I will wait. The concubine may die giving birth, my father may see the error of his ways, or he may choose to affirm my status as his heir. Impetuous action at this time will not serve me or my country well.”
Her argument made, Mary lifted her chin and regally stormed off, never noticing her governess hiding in the bushes looking most undignified.
~~~~
Margaret did not wait long to approach Mary within her rooms. Sending away listening ears, she indicated that the girl should take a seat while handing her a goblet of watered wine.
“You know why I am here, and I know that you know why, so we can start from there,” Margaret announced, heavily dropping into the seat nearest Mary’s.
Mary smirked. “You have become like a mother to me,” she began. “Except that my mother would never start a conversation like this so informally.”
“Your mother has her lighter side as well.”
“Not with me and surely not now,” Mary locked her gaze on Margaret and demonstrated that she was no longer a little girl with the knowledge that was swimming in the pools of her eyes.
“No,” Margaret admitted after a sip of wine. “Not now. We must decide together what course will best serve you and the queen.”
Finally, Mary smiled. She would never refer to her father’s concubine as the queen and it felt like a small victory to find an ally in that.
“My cousin says that I should find a way to leave the country. That is what some will choose to do, but I do not know if it is what God intends for me.”
“You refer to Reginald,” Margaret said, her shoulders drooping slightly. Her son had written a letter harshly criticizing the king and his annulment. She wondered if she would ever see him again before their heavenly reunion.
“I do, but I do not fault him for it,” Mary quickly reassured her. “How could I when he is my mother’s greatest supporter and you are mine?”
Warmth flooded Margaret’s heart as Mary took her hand and pressed it near her heart.
“Thank you, my dear girl,” Margaret said, her voice heavy with emotion as she placed her other hand on Mary’s soft cheek. “You have become a beautiful young woman, but even more importantly, you have a wisdom that belies your years and great understanding.”
Mary did not blush, as many young women would in the face of such praise. A small, pleased smile crossed her lips before being replaced with a look of determination.
“I also believe that you are correct,” Margaret continued, allowing her hands to fall back into her lap. “You must forgive me, but I overheard you in the garden.”
Mary had grown accustomed to controlling her features, but Margaret noticed some fear of reprimand flash past.
“Waiting for your moment is what you should do. Watch for the path that God will open to you. Please your father, but not at the risk of your conscience or good name. He has already lost his.”
“And what about my mother?” Mary wondered. “My father will not let me see her, and I
am concerned for her health and well being.”
Margaret held up her empty hands. “Pray for her.”
June 1533
Margaret sat in the chapel at Richmond with her prayer book open in her lap. She so desperately longed to feel God’s presence, but she felt completely alone, surrounded by cold, lifeless stone. Her prayers were rote, though she wished to beg God to set things right. The requests she meant to form were lost as she remembered the king as a child.
He had been precocious and engaging. When he danced at Catherine’s first wedding to his older brother, he had stolen the limelight from the boy who was meant to be king. Not because he was cruel or selfish, at least not then. It had simply been the way he was. People had flocked to him and loved him.
How had that vivacious little boy become the man who would set aside the wife he had called beloved and put his own desires above the word of the Holy Father? Margaret hoped that it was true that there were no tears in heaven, because that would mean that the king’s mother could not see the havoc her son was wreaking upon those he claimed to love.
Giving up, she slammed the prayer book closed and was leaving the chapel when a page almost collided with her.
“My apologies, your grace. A messenger awaits you in the hall.”
Margaret closed her eyes and gathered breath to sustain her through what was almost certainly bad tidings. Weren’t they always?
“Have Princess Mary join me,” she ordered before moving on. They had quickly become partners, their relationship evolving from one of student and teacher to equal conspirators and allies. Whatever the news, Mary would hear it as well, and they would decide what to do together. The king may have been able to cleave mother from daughter, but he had not given a thought to the countess of Salisbury.
With long, confident strides, Margaret made her way to the hall. She was just fine with the king not realizing her worth. She knew what it was and would use it to ensure that Mary received justice.
The messenger was one she did not recognize, so she sent him to refresh himself before Princess Mary arrived. As she waited, she came to the realization that she no longer even knew what news to expect. Anything could happen in an England under Henry VIII.
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 18
