Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (28 page)

“King Louis should have no cause to complain of her were she big as a sow,” Meg said. “He is an old man, gouty and toothless.”

“He is a
man,
” Elizabeth countered. “He’ll want the Lady Mary.”

“But will she want him?”

“What does that matter? She will do her duty and wed as her brother wills. And why should she object to becoming a queen of France? France is a much more important place than Castile.”

A gasp from one of the queen’s damsels reminded Elizabeth that Catherine of Aragon’s mother and then her sister Juana had been queens of Castile. To belittle them insulted the queen of England. Elizabeth flushed becomingly.

Meg simply surveyed the company aboard the barge to assure herself that none of the Spanish-born members of the queen’s household was aboard. Her gaze rested briefly on me, then moved on. “The Lady Mary will do the king’s bidding,” she asserted.

“But will she not mind being bedded by a man old enough to be her grandfather?” It was the irrepressible, golden-haired Bessie Blount who asked. Together with the chestnut-haired Elizabeth Bryan, they outshone every other woman at court for beauty, saving only the Lady Mary herself.

“If she does, she will be clever enough to conceal her distaste. Besides, being so old and infirm means he will die all the sooner,” Meg added callously, unknowingly echoing the Lady Mary’s own philosophy. “Then she will be free.”

I said nothing, but still I had my doubts about how much freedom the princess would have. Widowhood had not made Queen Margaret free, not when her name could still be bandied about as it had been during negotiations with France. A princess was a matrimonial prize and little more. I supposed all women were.
Someone’s daughter. Someone’s wife. Someone’s mistress. Our connection to men defined all of us.

“Is the king of France a grandfather in truth?” Bessie had sidled closer to whisper her question to me.

“Queen Anne could produce no living sons for either of her royal husbands, but she gave Louis two daughters. The eldest, several years younger than the Lady Mary, has just been married off to François d’Angoulême, King Louis’ heir. He is the king’s cousin.”

“I do not understand. If King Louis has a daughter, should she not rule after him? England had a queen once. Matilda. Or was it Maud?”

“Not in France.” Overhearing the question, Meg broke in, happy to have the opportunity to parrot back another of the history lessons she’d learned from Harry. “Only kings are allowed to rule there and only sons can inherit a noble title.”

Bessie glanced at me for confirmation. I nodded. In truth, matters were scarce better in England. A girl might inherit both lands and a title, but either her father or her guardian decided who she married and, once wed, her husband took control of both.

A short time later, we reached Erith and the
Henry Grace à Dieu.
We boarded the ship and were taken on a tour by the king himself. After we’d admired all five decks, High Mass was celebrated onboard. Festivities followed.

“The most magnificent pageant ever seen on the Thames,” Guy said, joining me at the rail some time later. “That’s what they are saying about our journey here today.”

“I do not doubt it. I can never remember another time when every royal barge was on the water at the same time.”

“And now the king has another vessel fit to wage war. She carries more than two hundred bronze and iron cannon. Remarkable,” Guy said.

A sidelong look at his face revealed nothing but a bland countenance. “Surely peace is at hand.”

“Is it? The king just let slip—intentionally, I am sure—that an English fleet set sail for Cherbourg last week. Their orders were to retaliate for the burning of Brighton,” he added.

I looked up at the masts and spars rising above the deck on which we stood and then down at the gleaming cannons showing through the gunports below. So beautiful…and so deadly.

I told myself that the king would not be so foolish, not after all the months of negotiation, but I should have known better. A week later, we learned that on the very same day we’d gone to Erith with so much pomp and circumstance and good cheer, English troops landed just west of Cherbourg and burned down twenty-one French villages and towns.

S
IX WEEKS AFTER
the launch of the king’s warship, the duc de Longueville and I watched the Lady Mary leave for the royal manor of Wanstead. Once there, she would officially repudiate her marriage to Charles of Castile. Members of the Privy Council would bear witness and convey the news of what they had seen to the king.

“The Lady Mary is nervous,” I confided, “but she has rehearsed her speech many times. She will make no mistakes.”

King Henry had written much of what Mary would say. Although he would pretend to be surprised by her words, he knew full well that she would charge Charles of Castile with breach of faith and say that evil counsel and malicious gossip had turned the prince against her. Claiming she had been humiliated, Mary would then refuse to keep her part of the bargain, rendering the contract null and void. She would declare that she was severing “the nuptial yoke” of her own volition, without threat or persuasion from
anyone, and end by petitioning King Henry’s forgiveness and affirming her loyalty to her brother.

“In all things I am ever ready to obey his good pleasure,” I murmured, quoting from the speech I, too, had memorized. It was all diplomatic pretense, but it would clear the way, at long last, for a peace treaty between England and France.

Longueville swung away from the window, a scowl darkening his countenance. “I have misgivings about this proxy wedding between the Lady Mary and King Louis,” he said.

Attempting to cajole him out of his ill humor, I ran my hand up the tawny velvet of his sleeve. The fabric felt soft and warm against my skin. “You do not have to assume all of the king’s duties as bridegroom,” I teased him. “Only say the words on his behalf.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “It would be no hardship to swive the Lady Mary.”

“My lord!”

Lost in thought, he barely heard my indignant protest. I could not fathom what ailed him. He should have been elated by the success of his negotiations. He had been angling for months for a ceremony here in England with himself standing in for King Louis.

“Your princess was married to Charles of Castile. A proxy wedding was celebrated then, too.”

“Are you afraid negotiations will break down even now?” I asked.

“Everything seems to be within our grasp. We have the commission to sign a treaty of alliance and a marriage contract. King Louis has agreed to pay King Henry 1,000,000 crowns at the rate of 26,315 crowns twice a year.”

“What does England give up, aside from her fairest lady?”

His smile was rueful. “The Lady Mary’s dowry is 400,000
crowns, half to be in the form of jewels and apparel that go with her to France and half to be credited to the sum King Louis has agreed to pay your king. Mary will receive dower properties worth 700,000 ducats and will be permitted to keep them for the rest of her life, regardless of where she lives.”

My eyebrows lifted of their own accord. Even the French, it seemed, expected their new queen to outlive the old man who would be her husband. I wished I could be so certain. Too many women, even queens, died in childbed. My mistress’s future was far from secure.

Longueville continued to frown as he poured himself a goblet of wine. As an afterthought, he poured a second for me. “We have worked long and hard for this, Jane, but nothing is ever certain. What if your king changes his mind? If the proxy marriage to Charles of Castile can be set aside, so can this new one.”

“King Henry has given you his word of honor.”

A skeptical lift of both brows told me how little value that had.

“Well, then, what do you suggest?”

“It is consummation that makes a marriage final,” he said slowly.

I choked on the sip of wine I’d just taken. “You cannot…
swive
the princess!”

“I had in mind a symbolic consummation, blessed by a priest.” He saluted me with his cup and drank deep.

K
ING
H
ENRY ROARED
into his sister’s bedchamber at Greenwich on the morning of Sunday, the thirteenth day of August, fury radiating from every pore. He strode past her cowering, bowing attendants and came to a halt directly in front of her, stance wide, hands on hips, and fire in his eyes. Solid and immovable as a mountain, he looked her up and down, giving a curt nod of approval as he
surveyed her kirtle of silver-gray satin and checkered gown of purple satin and cloth-of-gold. Jewels sparkled at her throat, on her fingers, and in her hair.

“You are dressed and ready. Why are you not in the great banqueting hall? Your wedding guests have been waiting nearly three hours.”

Only I was close enough to see the fine trembling of the princess’s hands. Her voice was low but steady. She had rehearsed this speech, too, but unlike the repudiation of her betrothal at Wanstead, this time she had written it herself.

“Your Grace,” she began, “while it is true I have sworn to yield to your good pleasure in all things, this treaty you have made with France offers me precious little for my pains.”

For a moment I thought he was about to explode. “Pains?” he bellowed in a voice so terrifying that it sent everyone save the three of us scurrying from the chamber. “You will be queen of France! What more can you want?”

“I want to be happy!” Her voice was almost as loud as his, her temper as high. Just that quickly, she abandoned her carefully prepared arguments. “How can you not understand that? You married whom you loved. You wanted Catherine from the moment you first saw her when you were a boy of ten, and she was about to marry our brother Arthur.”

He started to speak but she wagged a warning finger in his face. “In public you claimed that our father, on his deathbed, bade you marry her, but we both know that is not true. You wed her because no other woman would do. That she was a princess of Spain had naught to do with it.”

His nostrils flared—always a warning sign—and his eyes narrowed to slits, inviting an unfortunate comparison to an enraged boar. That her words were nothing but the truth did not move
him. If his sister refused to go through with the French marriage, it was his consequence that would suffer.

The Lady Mary’s agitation was so great that she seemed unaware she might be in danger. No one else would dare lay hands on her, but her brother the king could beat her with impunity. I sidled closer, not daring yet to intervene but hoping I might be able to pull my mistress out of harm’s way if King Henry tried to strike her.

“I have demands of my own,” she announced. “We will negotiate now, or there will be no proxy wedding.”

“The time for negotiation is past,” her brother said through clenched teeth. “The treaty was signed six days ago. Your betrothal has been announced in London.”

Greatly daring, she thumped him in the center of a chest covered in checkers of cloth-of-gold and ash-colored satin. “A very quiet announcement! No fanfare. No bonfires. No fireworks.”

“And no demonstrations of protest,” he muttered. “Be grateful for small favors.”

“I have heard the terms of this treaty,” the Lady Mary continued. “King Louis is to pay you a million gold crowns in renewal of the French pension he once paid our father.”

The king nodded, a small, triumphant smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Payments begin in September…by which time you will be in France.”

She ignored that. “We are to keep Tournai and Thérouanne.”

Another nod acknowledged those terms. This time the expression on his face was a smirk.

“And I am to be delivered to Abbeville in France at your expense.” She sent a ferocious scowl in her brother’s direction. “Like a parcel!”

“That is the way such things are done.” The king had gained
a modicum of control over his anger and now attempted to cajole his sister into cooperating. “Come, Mary, all will be well. Old King Louis will not live long.”

She’d have none of it. “But while he lives, I am his to command.” A moue of distaste showed her opinion of that!

“Women are chattel under the law,” the king reminded her. “The property of their fathers first and then their husbands.”

“You are my
brother
.”

“I am your
king
!” Temper building once more, he took a menacing step toward her.

My heart in my throat, I stepped between them. “Your Grace, I beg you be calm. No purpose is served by quarreling.”

“I suppose I have you to thank for her knowledge of the treaty.” King Henry gave me an ugly look that promised retribution.

“The terms are common knowledge, Your Grace.” My voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. I cleared my throat. “The Lady Mary has a proposal for you, Your Majesty.” Deliberately, I used the form of address just coming into fashion. King Henry was said to secretly prefer it to “Your Grace.”

“Speak, then.” He made an impatient gesture. “Your delay has already caused too much speculation among our guests.”

“My request is a simple one,” the Lady Mary said. “I will marry the king of France, I will be a dutiful wife to him, and I will bring honor to England by my every action…if you will give me your word that when King Louis dies, I may marry to please myself.”

The king stared at her, momentarily taken aback by the demand. Then his eyes narrowed again, this time in suspicion. “Has any man had you? By St. George, if one of my courtiers has dared—”

“Do you think me a fool!” the Lady Mary snapped. “I value my honor as much as you do. More, mayhap, as I am loath to waste my maidenhead on an old man.”

“Louis is only fifty-two,” the king said with calculated nastiness. “He could easily live a decade more.”

“Then I will be his faithful helpmeet for those ten years, but when I have done my duty, I want my reward.”

In the distance, a bell rang the hour. A pained look on his face, the king regarded his sister, seeing in her stance, in her eyes, a reflection of his own stubbornness. Did he realize, I wondered, that it was his friend the Duke of Suffolk Mary thought to one day wed?