Charles even then had been a quick study; it did not take him long to realize the possible advantages of the situation. Louis was old, and it was rumored that he was impotent. Mary might not conceive; Louis might die. If he did, the field would be clear once again for every eligible royal in Christendom. It had even been rumored that the Turk, hearing of Mary’s fairytale golden beauty, might bid for her hand if the excitement of possessing such a young, beautiful wife should prove too much of a strain for old Louis. If the French king died, Charles decided, he must be the first to lay claim to Mary. After all, she was supposed to have been his…
Charles wasted no time. He had set in motion a system of information and communication that would have made any ruler proud. Reliable men were placed in Paris to report constantly on the doings of the newly married couple, on Louis’ health, on the state of Mary’s belly. Horses were posted all along the fastest routes from Spain to France, and to England. In his mind’s eye, the young Charles pictured the posting houses, and the men and horses, moving like chess figures on a board. If Mary were to become free, he was well placed to ensure that he should not lose her again.
And then the miracle had occurred; after only three months of marriage Louis gave up the ghost, and although Mary had been sequestered immediately until it could be ascertained if she carried the heir to the throne of France in her womb, no one believed that it could be so. Hope soared as Charles set his plan in motion. The first bid for Mary’s hand to reach England should be, must be, his own!
All seemed fair fit to succeed, and then hard on the news of Louis’ death came the news that Mary had wed an English commoner in France, without her royal brother’s permission. It seemed that Mary had made marrying the king’s best friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, the condition of her agreement to marry Louis, and she did not intend to give her mercurial brother a chance to break his promise. Abetted by the new king of France, that royal snake François, Mary bravely wed Brandon and then returned to England to face the wrath of her regal brother.
François had seen to it that the richest prize on the European marriage market had been snatched from under Henry’s nose, ruining any chance the naïve English king had of using his royal sister to make another brilliant alliance that would have given the Holy Roman Emperor nightmares.
Henry soon forgave his best friend and his favorite sister for their folly and gave them his royal blessing. The others who had lost Mary regretted her, and all heaved a sigh of relief that an English alliance that might once again have thrown off the balance of power in Europe had been averted. After a time, everyone seemed happy. Everyone, that is, except the young man who had, for the second time, lost his bride and his love.
Charles closed his eyes and recalled the memory of the first time he had met Mary in person. It was in the summer of 1520. His grandfather had died the year before and in addition to his other titles, he finally became Holy Roman Emperor. He visited the English king at Dover just before Henry left for his historic meeting with King François at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. He could still see Mary as he had first beheld her, gliding down the stairs next to his Aunt Katharine, the queen of England, Mary’s pink and golden looks a perfect foil to the queen’s dark beauty. He had been so overcome with emotion at the sight of her that he had been unable to speak.
He smiled as he remembered how kind his aunt had been to him. Katharine was his mother’s sister, but fortunately did not share her madness. Charles had never really known his mother, Queen Joanna, she being so preoccupied with his father that she had little time for her royal children. And then when his father died, his mother had sunk into her final melancholy madness. From that time on, even though their paths crossed seldom, his Aunt Katharine had been like a mother to him, writing him loving letters and always looking to his interests in England.
Charles had not seen Mary or Katharine again for two years. The next time he saw Mary she had kissed him and urged him to forget her, to marry and beget an heir, which was after all his royal duty. Charles allowed himself to be betrothed to Henry’s daughter, the Princess Mary, his own beloved’s niece and namesake. He had met her on that visit, a beautiful, accomplished, delightful child of six. He had not fooled Mary, though; she knew that in addition to the political reasons for a betrothal with England, that Charles had allowed himself to be affianced to a child who would not be marriageable for many years to come, so that he could continue to brood and wait for Mary. After all, her first husband had died; perhaps her second would also?
It was not until four years later that Charles had been able to resign himself that Mary would never be his, and he at last married his cousin Isabella, daughter of another of his mother’s sisters. But he had never forgotten Mary, had never stopped loving her. And now Mary was dead, and his beloved Aunt Katharine and his erstwhile betrothed were in dire straits in England, and only he could help them.
# # #
Charles heard the metallic swishing sound of the halberdiers making way for Chapuys’ arrival, and a moment later a page announced the Imperial ambassador to England.
Chapuys entered the presence chamber bowing low as he approached. “Your Most Imperial Majesty,” he said, removing his cap with a flourish.
“Welcome, good Chapuys,” Charles replied. He meant it; Eustache de Chapuys was one of his best and most reliable ambassadors. That was why he had posted him to England. “How are the roads?”
Chapuys grimaced. “Tolerable, Your Majesty,” he said.
Charles was not one for much small talk; he came straight to the point. “What is the state of affairs in England, then?” Couched in the simple query were any number of questions; Why are you here? What have you to tell me that could not be committed to the written word? Have things reached such a pass? What remedy is there?
Charles did not stand on ceremony when he was alone with his most trusted men. He arose, walked to the sideboard, poured two goblets of wine, handed one to Chapuys, and bade him sit.
Chapuys tasted the wine, found it excellent, and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty. As you know, King Henry has demoted Princess Mary, taking her manors, and forcing her to wait upon her bastard sister. She must give way in all things to Elizabeth, which has demoralized her and demeaned her spirit. The head of the household is a creature of the Concubine’s, who treats the princess poorly. Yea, so poorly, that I truly fear for Princess Mary’s health. She craves the out of doors, but is denied it. This made her first sickly, then sick.”
“And the queen?” asked Charles.
“Her Grace is of an indomitable spirit, as you well know,” Chapuys replied. “She has hardened her heart against a hard sorrow, and is a stranger to self-pity. But the princess has not her royal mother’s experience of the world; she has not yet learned to bend. The queen is frightened for her daughter, and I believe, rightfully so. The Concubine has been heard to make threats against both the queen and the princess.”
Charles sipped his wine, his face inscrutable. “What sort of threats?”
“Not idle ones, I do assure Your Majesty,” said Chapuys. “The Concubine has been heard to say that she will force Princess Mary to wait upon her, and while she has the princess in her power, will marry her off to some common varlet, or see that she has too much dinner.”
“I see,” said Charles. “And you believe these threats to be real?”
Chapuys shifted in his chair and took a long pull from his goblet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I do,” he said. “The queen has longed feared poison, and now the princess does, too.”
“And the king, does he know of these threats?”
“He does, but believes them to be the vituperative bleatings of an impotent female. Poison is a woman’s weapon, after all,” said Chapuys. “Queen Katharine still has enough faithful retainers, even at bleak Buckden, that she need not worry. But Princess Mary is at the mercy of Lady Shelton, who hates her well. Lady Shelton is Thomas Boleyn’s sister, and she has no loyalty to the princess. My informa
nts tell me that Lady Shelton has been heard to taunt the princess, telling her that the king her father has said that he will have her beheaded.”
Charles remained silent, and Chapuys continued. “The world laughed heartily when the Concubine gave birth to a daughter, Your Majesty, but it would have been infinitely better for Princess Mary had she borne the long-awaited son. Then perhaps the king would have allowed her to marry, and to have a normal life.”
Charles shook his head. “The Tudor will never allow his daughter to marry outside his realm. The princess would not marry a Lutheran, and the king would never permit her to marry a Catholic, for fear that a foreign prince would invade England in her name.”
Chapuys nodded his agreement. “Yes, but what of Reginald Pole? Marriage between him and the princess has been mooted more than once.”
“That would have been desirable had the king wished Mary to succeed to the throne, but he does not,” said Charles. “Also, Reginald Pole is a staunch Catholic. Has he not spent the last few years in exile upon that very cause?”
Both men were silent for a few moments, brooding upon the gravity of the situation.
Chapuys rubbed his chin and drew a long breath, blowing the air out between his lips. “Princess Mary knows all too well that the birth of another princess makes her expendable. Her position is dangerous. Forget not, Your Majesty, that the errant words of Henry II resulted in the death of Thomas Becket. ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ he was known to have said. And three of his henchman murdered the archbishop forthwith, hoping for honors and preferment. The king denied that he meant for anyone to act upon his rash words, punished the men who perpetrated the crime, and did public penance. But that did not make Becket any less dead.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. “And you fear that although the king would never explicitly or implicitly approve the murder of either the queen or the princess, that some over-zealous person may, shall we say, misinterpret his desires where they are concerned?”
Chapuys considered. “Less that, Sire, than that someone hoping to please the Concubine will do so. I believe that the king would be truly horrified if any harm were to befall the queen and the princess at Mistress Boleyn’s hands.”
Charles smiled his rare smile. “But that would not make the two hapless ladies any less dead? Yes, I see the dilemma.”
“In all fairness, Majesty, Anne Boleyn’s spleen against the two royal ladies is less on a personal level than it is because as long as they will not accept the situation, there are those who will not accept the lady as queen of England or her daughter as heir to the throne. But regardless of her motivation,” said Chapuys, “it would be quite easy for the Concubine to take vengeance upon the queen and the princess. The Lady has said many times that she will wait until the king is out of the country, then have her way with them. Her own brother warned her that the king’s wrath would be terrible should she do any such thing, but she cares nothing for that.”
“The situation is far graver, then, than I thought,” said Charles. “The princess especially presents a serious threat to the king. Even if Queen Katharine cannot be persuaded to rise up against her husband in her daughter’s name, and I do not believe for a moment that she can be so persuaded, the people could rise up without her sanction, in the princess’ name. Aside from that, the princess is far more than just an annoyance to the Concubine. The people love the princess, and would displace the Concubine’s daughter in a trice should the Lady fall out of favor with the king.”
Chapuys leaned forward conspiratorially, although the two men were alone in the room. He smiled a wry smile. “But I must tell Your Majesty that the past is forgiven, at least for now. I have it on the most reliable information that the Concubine may once again be with child.”
“Jesu!” said Charles. “Say you so, then?”
“Indeed,” Chapuys replied. “Perhaps the sight of Fitzroy marrying her cousin, Mary Howard, inspired the lady to swallow her bile and reconcile with the king, despite his blatant infidelity with her other cousin, the Lady Madge Shelton.”
Charles sniggered and waved a derisive hand. He cared nothing about which lady Henry chose to make pastime with to annoy Mistress Boleyn. “But Fitzroy? The king’s son by Bessie Blount? Surely Henry does not think to try once more to foist his bastard upon the English people?”
Chapuys shrugged. “If all else fails,” he said. “I believe that His Grace will indeed try to do so.”
“The people will never accept Fitzroy as king.”
“No,” Chapuys said softly. “No, they will not. But they would accept the princess. That is why Cromwell wants her dead; that is why the Concubine wants her dead, and Queen Katharine as well. Regardless of what Her Grace might or might not do, the king has always feared that your royal aunt might emulate her famous mother and lead the people to rise up against him. And that she would turn to her powerful nephew for help in such an endeavor.”
Charles shook his head. “Cromwell is well aware that I will not invade England, even to restore the English church to Rome and place Mary on the throne.”
Chapuys sat forward eagerly. “But that is precisely what gives us the advantage, Your Majesty! We must consider at least being prepared to do so. Should the Concubine miscarry or deliver yet another princess, the time would be ripe! Sire, the English people would be with us to a man! They believe that God has forgotten King Henry entirely, hardening him in his obstinacy to punish and ruin him. I believe that the time is now to encourage the people of England to rise up against the godless tyrant! Think you not, Majesty, that God has spoken, in giving the king yet another daughter?”
Charles sat back in his chair fingering the stem of his goblet. So this was what Chapuys had not wanted to commit to paper! “What you suggest is very dangerous and would place both the queen and the princess in the greatest peril. Their Graces are already a focal point for unrest and possible rebellion. Such could happen in their names at any time, even without their complicity. A failed insurrection in their names would spell their doom.”
“I am aware of it, Sire,” said Chapuys. “I have warned Cromwell most forcefully that although Your Most Gracious Majesty has no plans to invade England on behalf of your royal aunt and cousin, you would nevertheless be forced to take action if any harm were to come to them at the king’s hands.”
“True enough, and sufficient threat to keep at least the king in line, if not the Concubine,” said Charles. “But tell me, good Chapuys, how stands my aunt’s disposition on the matter?”
Chapuys shifted uneasily in his chair. “When last I spoke with Her Grace, she bid me urge you to do nothing. But…”
“I thought as much. My aunt will never agree to rise up against her husband, neither to redress her own wrongs at the king’s hands, nor in her daughter’s name.”
“That need not stop us.”
Charles’ eyes glittered, and Chapuys fancied that he was looking at two slits of heat lightning. “If I wanted to invade England, Your Excellency, I would stand neither on the ceremony of my aunt’s blessing nor on any other nicety. No, Chapuys, the time is not yet. Let us wait and see which way the wind blows.”
Chapuys grunted. “We will not have long to wait, Sire. Already the king is pressing Queen Katharine to swear an oath to the new succession. He attempted early in December, through that buffoon Suffolk, to coerce Her Grace into swearing an Oath of Loyalty to the Great Whore’s daughter, and to renounce formally her title of queen in favor of that of Princess Dowager of Wales. She refused, of course. But soon a new law will pass in the English Parliament formally altering the succession, and it will be hell to pay for those who do not bend to that wind.”
“And the Princess Mary?” asked Charles. “Was she likewise pressured?”
“No, not yet,” said Chapuys. “but she soon will be. The princess will turn eighteen in February. She will be an adult. And refusal to swear to the oath could be treason by then.” When Charles did not reply, Chapuys continued. “
Your Majesty, please believe me when I tell you that the people of England love the princess with all their hearts, and would stand up for her if she had a champion. Why, have you not heard the story of Mary Baynton?”
Charles frowned. “No, I do not believe so. Who is that?”
“A humble girl of the north country. She apparently spent some time impersonating the Princess Mary, begging food and alms to fund her passage from England to the continent so that she might escape the king her father’s persecution and flee to her cousin, the emperor.”
Charles’ brows rose in an impossible arch. “And the people believed this tale?”
“They did indeed, Your Majesty, but do you not see the point? For love of the princess, and believing the poor misguided fool to be she, the people gave her food and money, wished her well, and sped her on her way. The girl was found out and punished, but the fact that the people sympathized with her and wanted to help her speaks volumes of the princess’ popularity.”
“Yes, indeed it does,” Charles replied blandly.
Chapuys studied his hands as if he were seeing them for the first time. He had shot all his arrows, and still the emperor was seemingly unmoved.
“Well,” he sighed, “let us pray that Mistress Anne will content herself with possessing Queen Katharine’s jewels, her barge, and her husband, without attempting her life, or the life of the princess.”
“Amen to that,” replied Charles.
Eltham Palace, London, March 1534
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 6
