Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (38 page)

Mary stared at her daughter, shocked that court gossip had indeed penetrated this far. It could only have been some gossiping servant returned with her from court that could have spread the tale. Her daughter’s voice had again held that sly note and Mary looked closely at her. Frances was fond of pretending she knew more than she did. Such airs made her feel superior to the brother who was the elder by a year.

But the child was only seven, Mary was forced to remind herself. Even if she had heard some gossip about her parents’ marriage, she was too young to understand it, as, to Mary’s relief, the child’s next words proved.

‘I heard she had brought him some troubles,’ Francis told her. ‘I’m sure my father will be able to help her sort them out.’

Mary hadn’t realised she had been holding her breath. She now breathed out on a sigh, thankful to learn that Frances’ youth and ignorance of the world had indeed saved herself and her siblings from knowledge that could only bring them pain. She would have to question her ladies and the servants and make sure they talked no more of the matter, at least not in the children’s hearing.

‘No, he’s not with Lady Mortimer, child,’ Mary told her now. She kept her voice light as she asked, ‘Who’s been telling you such things?’

Frances shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. But I heard tell he once liked the lady, so our Father would be likely to help her if he could, wouldn’t he?’

‘Never mind about Lady Mortimer, Frances.’ Her brother interrupted to return to a subject that he considered of far more importance. ‘Mother, will you come and watch me ride? I can go like the wind.’ He dragged impatiently at Mary’s hand and she laughingly submitted to his importunate pleading.

Mary was conscious of the sullen looks and dragging feet of Frances as she trailed after them. She tried to share her love equally, but Frances made it very difficult. In character, she took after Margaret, to Mary’s secret regret. The child looked, too, as if she would develop her Uncle Henry’s tendency to be greedy about food. If not curbed, she would become unhealthily plump. Already, she was inclined to pudginess. She had also, unfortunately, inherited more than sufficient of Margaret’s character and would bully little Eleanor unmercifully if not watched. Still, Mary consoled herself, Frances was young yet. She might easily grow out of such unattractive traits. Children went through so many phases. Perhaps now she was home to offer the child more motherly guidance, Frances would be less wilful.

The days with her children passed pleasantly for Mary, which was as well. For this period of retirement in the country was made even more necessary by her husband’s increasing extravagance at court. Determined to remain by Henry’s side, Charles needed to compete on an equal footing with the other nobles. But such competition required much outlay and their income was still greatly reduced. Certainly, it was insufficient for them both to be at court with all its expenses or only for a short while. The requirement that Mary keep regal pomp was even more of a drain when at court. But as the questions about the legality of their marriage had still not been answered, Mary preferred to remain away rather than suffer again from the eternal gossip and speculation. Cardinal Wolsey had spoken truth when he had said she would require patience. The vast machinery of the Vatican was as slow and ponderous as he had warned.

Charles’s visits were infrequent and were becoming shorter, so they spent many weeks separated. Even when he was home in the country with her, he told her little of his doings. She had wondered if Anne Boleyn was still high in Henry’s favour and had asked Charles, but he had merely nodded and had added nothing more. His taciturnity on the subject had puzzled her until it had struck her that the matter touched too closely on his own past careless infidelities for him to be anxious to discuss it with her.

Henry, her brother, of course, had never been fond of letter-writing; not that he would confess to his own sister about the course of an adulterous love affair. And Catherine, doing her best to ignore it, would be more likely to confide such a humiliation to her confessor than to a letter. But truly, Mary thought, it sounded as if things at court went on much as they always had. The thought comforted her. She was conscious that she had lately become something of a country sparrow, out of sight and out of mind of the court and its doings. It was cheering to think that she was not as out of touch as she had thought. What was it the French said? Plus ?a change, plus c’est la même chose. That was it. The court was like that. Whatever events might occur there, things remained essentially much the same as always.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Even in the quiet of her country retirement, Mary learned the latest startling news. The Emperor, without the aid of Henry’s troops, had triumphed over the French, overwhelmingly defeating them outside the walls of Pavia. More incredible still, the Emperor had captured King Francis and taken him to Madrid as his prisoner.

News had it that Francis had put up a good fight although being attacked on several fronts; by the papal troops in Italy, where his forces were driven out; in the north of France, where Henry’s troops together with those of the Emperor, had invaded, and at Pavia, where the Emperor’s troops had completely routed Francis’.

Mary tried to imagine the elegant, proud Francis in the humbled role of prisoner, but it was impossible to picture him thus. How he would hate his situation. And how set-about must be his doting mother that this most shining member of their ‘Trinity’ should find himself a captive, especially as it seemed likely he would remain one for some time. Because the French army was shattered. Thousands of its men had been killed, among them, Richard de la Pole, the ‘White Rose of York’, who had dared to lay claim to Henry’s throne from the safety of Francis’ dominions.

Mary was saddened to think of all the French gallants she had known lying bloodied on the battlefield, food for the carrion crows. Henry, of course, would have his thoughts set on higher things. With France open like a ripe peach, he would be eager to share his ally’s spoils and would now certainly look to have his French crowning.

Henry, always keen for witnesses to his glory, penned a brief note asking her to return to court. And Mary, for once putting aside her misgivings about the costs, duly travelled up from her country retreat. But when she reached court and had settled in to her apartments, Mary learned that events had overtaken her. After Henry had sent off urgent and eager letters to the Emperor, his flame of hope for a French crown brightly burning, the Emperor had caused the flame to flicker. Catherine’s triumphant nephew, Charles V, insisted that he was now penniless and anxious for peace; the time was inappropriate for Henry to seek Francis’ crown.

So, the peach wouldn’t be plucked after all and Henry’s bright flame had died. He had set great store on his alliance with the Emperor, but now he stormed about the palace counting his grievances against him, not least that he had lent him huge sums. How ruefully did Mary think on them, for a fraction of their value would have made a world of difference to her and Charles’s financial difficulties. To add insult to injury, the Emperor had cast aside his betrothed, Henry and Catherine’s young daughter and Mary’s namesake.

Odd that she and her niece should, in turn, have both been betrothed and spurned by the same man. As if taking Henry’s money and rejecting Henry’s daughter wasn’t enough, the Emperor also deprived Henry of any share of the spoils. No wonder her brother’s mood cast a pall over the whole court.

As Mary renewed several old acquaintances, she learned that Henry was determined to teach the young puppy of an Emperor a lesson and had decided that the best means of doing this would be for England to come to terms with France. This was glad news for Mary whose income was always in short supply when her brother chose enmity with France over amity. But for all her relief, Henry’s feelers in this direction brought the sad news that Claude, Francis’ queen, had died. Only twenty-five, she had never enjoyed good health and her strength had been worn down by her many pregnancies, continuing ill-health, and melancholy at Francis’ numerous infidelities. Mary remembered Claude’s many kindnesses during her own marriage to Claude’s father. Though only a young girl, she had graced the throne with her kind heart and her many good qualities. France would, Mary judged, be the poorer by her death as the many epithets her name now attracted attested. Mary mourned her truly. She felt, with Claude’s passing, she had lost a valued friend and the last of her youth. But at Henry’s court, her sadness was shared by few. Indeed, these days, the court was more lively than ever. For here, Anne Boleyn held sway and she it was who, with her wit, had the overseeing of the many masques and balls. It seemed that Catherine had little say, which was another sadness for Mary. She was further demeaned when Henry created his son by Bessie Blount Earl of Richmond.

Perhaps to discourage any remonstrances from Mary he created her and Charles’s son, Harry, Earl of Lincoln. It was rumoured that Henry, who had clearly given up hope of getting himself a son from Catherine, was even toying with the idea of making his son legitimate; the giving of the title would pave the way for such a move.

After her long sojourn in the country, Mary had found herself looking forward to the excitements of court life. But the excitements she had found were far from those desired. Although her dower income from France now looked as if it would be restored to her, the news was overshadowed by Henry’s unkind treatment of Catherine. Now he had a lively, attractive mistress and had created his illegitimate son an Earl, Catherine’s many failures seemed the more marked. Not only, his actions seemed to underline, had she failed to give him a son, she was also lacking in womanly attractions in that she had become old, stout and unable to join in any of the king’s pursuits.

Henry, still only in his mid-thirties, enjoyed dancing and hunting as much as he ever had, often staying in the saddle all day and then dancing all night. With Catherine no longer able to take part there had grown up a band around the king who shared his interests. This band was in the main comprised of the liveliest and most witty of his courtiers. Charles, of course, still as ambitious as ever, must form part of this band. It caused more arguments between Mary and her husband. How could it not, when at the centre of this band was Anne Boleyn, with whom Henry had become besotted. Her little Maid of Honour now queened it over them all.

There was something about Anne that hadn’t been present in her plump and sensuous sister; a calculating intelligence that seemed able to warm Henry’s fires from the empty furnace of her cold heart. And she didn’t lack wily advisers; behind her, was her father and her arrogant uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Between Anne, her father and her uncle, it seemed they were more than capable of steering Henry in the direction of their desires.

Woe betide Catherine if they succeeded. What future might there be for an ageing and barren queen if her husband spurned her? With her own worries about her marriage weighing heavy the thought wasn’t a happy one and Mary went in search of her sister-in-law.

The queen was in her apartments. Still regal and gracious, she was delighted to see Mary. Catherine cast off her sad looks and managed one of the broad smiles that had so frequently wreathed her face in happier days.

Although Mary commiserated with Catherine, the queen’s high Spanish pride made it difficult to voice any sympathy; to do so would mean that Catherine must acknowledge her own humiliation. Charles, of course, sided with the king and his paramour. He had tried to insist that Mary refrain from showing any outward sympathy for Catherine, fearing it would anger the king and be damaging to him, but Mary felt that her sympathies were her own to direct where she would. Although she sympathised with her brother in his kingly need for a legitimate son, emotionally, Mary had always been a woman first and a royal princess second, so her compassion was all for Catherine. Did they not share common troubles? One with a marriage threatened by the power of a ruthless mistress and the other with a marriage threatened by the power of the church.

Even with troubles aplenty of her own, Catherine could still find time to soothe Mary’s worries. ‘I’m glad you’re back at court,’ she told Mary. ‘You shouldn’t hide yourself away in the country so often. There is no need. You can hold your head high as the Mortimer affair is rarely spoken of.’

‘Maybe not,’ Mary replied. ‘But it is very much alive for me. The Pope still keeps me waiting for an answer. Anyway,’ Mary forced a cheerful note into her voice, ‘Wolsey’s hopeful, so I must bide my soul in patience that everything will turn out right.’ Although she knew that Catherine was reluctant to discuss her own marital troubles she was always ready to listen to Mary’s woes; perhaps, listening to the troubles of others helped her to cope with her own. Mary found it all but impossible not to speak of Catherine and Henry’s marriage and she made a sideways allusion to it, hoping to encourage Catherine to unburden herself. ‘The court has changed greatly since I was last here and not for the better. I confess I could scarce believe my eyes to see the Bullen woman lead my brother such a dance. However did she reach such heights? I remember her sister, Mary. Although she was a mare who gave many men a ride, she was kind-hearted enough. It is difficult to believe she and her sister come from the same stable.’

Catherine permitted herself a tiny nod and the comment, ‘You will find much here now difficult to believe. Sometimes I can scarce believe it myself.’

‘There must be some way we can make Henry come to his senses.’ Mary had become fiery on Catherine’s behalf. ‘He loved you well at one time and that not so long ago. Could you not—’

Catherine gave a laugh that contained little humour. ‘What would you have me do, Mary? Flirt and dance with the most handsome of Henry’s courtiers to make him jealous?’ Catherine lifted her skirts to show her swollen ankles and puffy legs. ‘These poor limbs are beyond the task, I fear.’ She lowered her skirts and sat back. ‘My greatest mistake is beyond my ability to correct.’ She directed a courageous smile at Mary. ‘I failed my husband in my most important duty: that of getting sons. It must always come between us.’