Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  She recognised the white-bearded guard who showed her to the queen’s apartments. He’d been a loyal servant to her father yet now he stooped over and seemed to struggle for breath as he climbed the stone steps in front of her. Mary realised her brother had taken all the younger men to France with him, leaving Catherine to govern a vulnerable city.

  Mary had asked Henry to take her with him, so she could meet her young prince and learn something of the places she would live in the future. He’d dismissed the idea as too dangerous yet had taken his best bed, three hundred household servants, his musicians and the choir of the Chapel Royal, as if he was embarking on a royal progress, rather than leading an army into battle.

  Her last memory was of him waving from the deck of his magnificent warship the Mary Rose and laughing with Charles Brandon as they sailed from Dover. He’d made Brandon one of his most senior commanders, despite his lack of experience in battle. Mary could not imagine Charles Brandon being content to wait in relative safety at the rear of Henry’s army. He would want to lead from the front, with little regard for the dangers.

  She dismissed the pang of regret that she might never see Brandon again as the heavy oak doors swung open and she entered the queen’s chambers. The delicious spiced-orange scent of pomanders mixed with woodsmoke from the fire in the hearth and the honeyed fumes of beeswax candles. The guard bowed before announcing her and leaving, closing the doors behind him.

  Queen Catherine sat reading at a desk cluttered with ledgers and papers, bringing back a sudden memory for Mary of her father at his work. He’d liked nothing better than to spend long evenings checking his accounts, initialling each entry. Now she began to understand. He’d never trusted anyone to do it on his behalf and it seemed Catherine followed his example.

  Several of her ladies-in-waiting seated around her stopped working on the tapestries they were sewing, as if glad of the distraction of Mary’s visit. Catherine wore a plain gown of azure blue and a simple gold necklace glinting with diamonds around her neck. Instead of her formal hood a plain linen cowl covered her plaited hair, a sign she wasn’t expecting visitors.

  She looked up as Mary entered. Clapping her hands, she dismissed her ladies and gestured for Mary to take the chair closest to her. The duties of regency and her victory against the Scots had changed Catherine. The shadows which told of troubled sleep were under her eyes yet they shone with a new confidence.

  ‘It’s good of you to visit me, Princess Mary, with plague here in London.’ Her voice sounded tired yet carried the warmth of friendship.

  Mary curtseyed, feeling a flutter of uncertainty about how she should address Catherine. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Grace. I must confess I thought the plague had passed long since.’

  Catherine looked surprised. ‘I pray each day for it to pass yet over three hundred are reported to have died in London each day, may God rest their souls.’

  ‘I am truly sorry to hear it.’

  ‘The plague is only one of so many things I’ve had to deal with during Henry’s absence. The Palace of Westminster is still a ruin,’ Catherine shook her head, ‘and both Greenwich and Richmond are too far from my ministers, so I’ve had to spend more time here at the Tower than I would wish.’

  ‘These apartments once belonged to my mother.’ Mary pointed towards an ornate carved wooden door. ‘Through there is the chamber where she spent her last days. My father made little use of her rooms afterwards. They were filled with too many memories.’

  ‘Of course, I’d forgotten.’ Catherine looked around the small-windowed room as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Your mother showed me great kindness when I first arrived from Spain. You must miss her.’

  ‘I regret I was only six years old when she died, so my memory of her is fading, although sometimes…’ Mary looked at Catherine, making a judgement. ‘I believe she appears to me in dreams, like an angel.’

  Catherine nodded in understanding. ‘Henry told me once he could not speak of your mother, as it would open a wound which time has yet to heal.’

  ‘Henry was closer to our mother than Margaret or I. You know she taught him to read and write? My father said she indulged him too much when he was young.’

  ‘Your father indulged him once.’ Catherine smiled but looked wistful, as if an old memory had been triggered by Mary’s words. ‘He chose Henry to escort me to my wedding to Prince Arthur.’

  ‘Those were happy times at Eltham. I have a memory of him marching through the nursery in a suit of pure white silk, waving a real sword!’

  ‘His suit was a perfect match to my wedding dress.’ Her eyes twinkled as she recalled the day. ‘Henry could not have been more than ten years old but he was so proud that day.’ Catherine stared into the distance, lost in reminiscence.

  Mary wondered how best to raise the question that had been troubling her. If Henry’s plans had changed she was certain Catherine would know of it. Then she remembered her sister Margaret’s situation was far worse than hers.

  ‘What will become of my sister, now her husband is dead?’ Her words carried an unintended suggestion of disapproval.

  Catherine’s eyes flashed with surprise at the question. ‘You must not think I wished him killed, Mary. I sent your sister my condolences and asked her to help me achieve a truce with Scotland.’ Her voice sounded defensive.

  ‘Do you think she will wish to remarry?’

  ‘I expect Henry will have plans to find her a more suitable husband, when the time is right.’

  Mary took a deep breath. ‘And what can you tell me of Henry’s plans for my wedding?’

  ‘I thought that might be why you came to see me.’ Catherine smiled. ‘I asked Thomas Wolsey to arrange for Henry to see Archduchess Margaret of Savoy and my nephew the prince before he returns from France.’

  ‘Thomas Wolsey works for you?’ Mary didn’t understand. She hadn’t liked the way Wolsey schemed and plotted when he served as her father’s chaplain. Now he’d somehow become not only Henry’s right-hand man but also Catherine’s agent.

  ‘Master Wolsey’s a shrewd, ambitious man, Mary. He understands the advantage of your marriage to Prince Charles. He kindly keeps me informed of matters in France, which is just as well, for Henry seems too busy with his sieges to write.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘Henry sent me instead a troublesome French prisoner, the Duke of Longueville, together with his servants.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. Duke Louis is a famous general.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘Henry demands a generous ransom for his return, but the duke’s not pleased to be under guard here in the Tower.’ She looked close to tears.

  Mary studied Catherine with new concern. There had been a rumour she’d lost yet another child but this was not the time to ask about it. ‘You should return with me to Richmond Palace. The roses are in bloom and the gardens have never looked more beautiful.’

  ‘You are right, Mary. My work here is almost over and we must prepare the welcome for Henry’s return.’

  * * *

  Henry’s army marched through London with a fanfare of trumpets. As well as victory in Thérouanne, Tournai had surrendered after eight days of siege. Stories were circulating about how the French had run off so fast Henry’s soldiers could hardly keep up with them.

  They’d captured some thirty French nobles, brought to England like the Duke of Longueville, to be held to ransom. The bells of all the churches in London pealed in celebration and people lined the narrow streets, cheering and calling out ‘God save the king!’ and ‘Long live King Henry!’

  Mary watched with Queen Catherine as the royal procession approached. Catherine looked pleased with herself and wore her finest jewels with a new gown of cloth of gold over a brocade kirtle. Mary wore a voluminous emerald-green gown with a tight-fitting velvet bodice which accentuated her slender figure.

  Henry rode a heavy warhorse behind knights carrying his golden mace and sword of state. A white tabard covered his armour, adorned with the bl
ood-red cross of St George, and in place of his helmet he wore a gold circlet, studded with rubies. Mary could see her brother’s broad grin as he lifted a gauntleted hand in acknowledgement to the cheering crowds.

  Catherine put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘See how the people adore him?’

  Mary had to agree. Her brother could have stayed safe at home, yet chose to risk his life in France. His great gamble had paid off, although she wondered at the cost. It had been the first English defeat of the French for sixty years and Henry acted like a great victory had been won, although Mary doubted it.

  Her attention was caught by the sight of Sir Charles Brandon, now made Viscount Lisle, a knight of the Order of the Garter and Master of the Horse. Dressed in full armour he looked a striking figure, his black warhorse caparisoned with a long flowing cape of cloth of gold and adorned with trappings of gleaming silver.

  Catherine’s eyes sparkled. ‘This is quite a show but I can tell you a secret – it’s all staged, as Henry arrived here last night.’

  ‘You’ve already seen him?’

  ‘I have. The king rode to see me on a fast horse, with only a few trusted men as his escort.’

  Mary’s mind raced with questions. ‘Can I ask – has he seen the prince?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘You must ask him yourself, but I can tell you all is well with my nephew, Prince Charles.’

  ‘Am I still to be married in the spring?’ Mary held her breath.

  ‘You are. Henry spent three days as the guest of Margaret of Savoy and has promised her the wedding will proceed before the fifteenth of May.’ She smiled. ‘I shall make sure you have the finest trousseau any bride could wish for. We must send for the latest Flemish fashions.’

  ‘You will help me prepare for my wedding?’

  ‘Of course – we must choose which ladies should accompany you, and there is the matter of your new household. We shall make this a wedding they will talk about for many years to come.’ Catherine smiled at her. ‘It will be a welcome relief from dealing with matters of state.’

  That night, before she went to sleep, Mary reached out for her little portrait of Charles and examined it by the golden yellow flame of her candle. The pale, serious face of a young boy stared back at her and the weight of uncertainty lifted from her shoulders.

  Her whole future had hung in the balance since reading Emperor Maximilian’s letter yet now she could dream of a wonderful future, far away from London with its plagues and foul, stinking streets. Catherine was already busy ordering her new dresses, deciding on her ladies-in-waiting and appointing her household.

  Mary held the gold ring, set with diamonds and pearls, which Prince Charles sent at the time of their betrothal. It was incised with a quotation from the Gospel of Luke, Maria optimam partem elegit que non auferetue ab ea. Her lips moved silently as she translated the familiar inscription – Mary hath chosen the best part, which shall not be taken away from her. She’d had little choice yet now she knew her prince chose his words well, and the best part, yet to come, would not be taken away from her.

  Henry had taken personal charge of the arrangements for the wedding, including planning for her triumphant arrival in Calais. He planned to make the event a state occasion and an opportunity to display his own wealth and importance to the prince’s grandfathers, King Ferdinand and Emperor Maximilian.

  As she closed her eyes a fleeting memory returned. As Henry’s triumphal procession passed the queen’s viewing platform Charles Brandon’s eyes connected with hers. For the briefest moment something passed between them. He’d not smiled or raised a hand in greeting but his thoughts were unmistakable.

  She’d heard from Catherine that Brandon caused embarrassment at the court of Margaret of Savoy with his flirtatious talk. He’d even removed a ring from her finger and placed it on his own, causing Henry to apologise to Archduchess Margaret’s father, Emperor Maximilian.

  She was going to be Princess of Castile and one day become an empress, one of the most influential women in the world. It was so typical of Brandon, now he was contracted to his young ward and could no longer have her. The man whose love she wished for looked at her with eyes full of desire.

  6

  Spring 1514

  Cheering crowds lined both banks of the River Thames on a bright May morning, jostling for a view as the king and queen, dressed in glittering cloth of gold, were rowed in their gilded barge of state, followed by a procession of the entire royal court and the ambassadors of all the allied countries.

  Mary’s barge was still decorated with her father’s brightly painted badge of the red dragon of Wales and white greyhound of Richmond. Accompanied by her ladies, her escort included several richly dressed young knights, although Sir Charles Brandon was not among them. He’d been made Duke of Suffolk as reward for his exploits in France, much to the annoyance of the established peers.

  Mary no longer cared. Her hand moved to where she carried a recent letter from her own young Charles. Addressing her as ‘my good wife’ he’d wished her true happiness and prayed the son of God would provide her with all she desired. This time the signature at the end looked childlike, although Mary guessed the letter was written by the prince’s secretary.

  She wished he would agree a date for their wedding. First he’d been ill, then there were the worrying rumours that he thought her too old. More worrying were suggestions that he’d fallen under the spell of a maiden from the Flemish court. Mary refused to believe such talk yet prayed each day for an answer.

  Her oarsmen strained against the choppy grey waves of the incoming tide, some grunting with the effort. Mary smiled as the master of her barge let slip a curse as he urged them on, the rhythmic motion of the long oars plunging into the murky water like the legs of some great sea creature.

  Their destination was the royal dockyard at Erith, some ten miles downriver from Greenwich Palace, where the newly completed pride of Henry’s navy, the Henry Grace à Dieu, already nicknamed the Great Harry, was to be launched by the king.

  They made the slow turn around the final bend in the river and the Great Harry came into sight. The colourful royal standard flew from the towering topmast, with smaller pennants of countries represented by visiting ambassadors fluttering in the rigging. Henry intended to send a clear message with his costly investment.

  As Mary joined the guests on board the new flagship her senses were assaulted by the sharp tang of freshly tarred ropes and the gaudy colours of new paintwork. Mary clasped her hands in prayer as Archbishop Warham led the long-winded blessing of the ship and all who would sail in her.

  She glanced up as the prayers ended and her heart missed a beat. Tall and bearded, standing a little apart from the others, the new Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, watched her like a hawk sighting his prey. He didn’t approach, offering her only the briefest nod. Despite herself, Mary raised a white-gloved hand in acknowledgement.

  Tearing her eyes from his gaze, she turned to congratulate her brother, expecting to see Henry beaming with pride at his latest achievement. Instead he regarded her with an ominous frown, as if she’d reminded him of something he must do.

  The summons followed soon after their return to Greenwich. It was unusual for Henry to see Mary in his privy chamber, so she guessed it might concern her dowry. As she made her way to see him she fought off a dark foreboding. She suspected he’d already used the money provided by her father for some other purpose, such as paying for his fine new ship. If he had, it could mean delaying her marriage even longer.

  Ushered into his tapestry-lined chamber, she found Henry seated at a polished oak table between black-garbed Archbishop Foxe and Thomas Wolsey, who’d recently been made Bishop of Lincoln. Wolsey wore a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck, a badge of his new status. As always, both men’s faces were impassive, offering no clues to Mary.

  She’d never liked the dour Archbishop Foxe, despite his kindness to her father. Now she sensed the same instinctive distrust of Wolsey, who’d wheedled
his way not only into Henry’s life but also Queen Catherine’s and now, it seemed, hers as well. Although both men were unquestionably devout they seemed to be hiding behind the masks of their faith to keep the truth from her.

  Henry’s face looked grim and she guessed the news he was about to share was not good. His hands were clasped tight in front of him and his welcoming smile looked forced. She curtseyed and was offered the chair at the table opposite her brother.

  Henry glanced at Wolsey then fixed his sharp eyes on Mary’s. ‘Dearest sister, your marriage to Prince Charles of Castile is to be revoked.’

  Mary stared back, open-mouthed as she tried to make sense of his words. To Henry’s annoyance the day of her wedding had been delayed several times yet the preparations were almost complete. Her seamstresses were putting the final touches to her dresses and gowns. Her gold and silver plate was packed into several oak chests and everyone waited, ready for the voyage to Calais.

  She swallowed hard but tried to remain composed as her mind raced with questions. ‘Why, Your Grace?’ Her voice carried more of a challenge than intended.

  Henry’s hand formed a fist then relaxed and he leaned forward a little. ‘King Ferdinand betrayed us again – and so has Maximilian. They’ve gone behind our back and agreed a truce with the French.’ He made no effort to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but I don’t understand.’ Mary shook her head as her future plans unravelled like a spool of embroidery thread dropped on to a hard-tiled floor.

  ‘It means we cannot allow your marriage to their grandson.’ Henry shook his head.

  Mary knew she should submit to his will yet struggled to comprehend such a change in her circumstances. ‘But the preparations – and you’ve given your word to Margaret of Savoy?’ She heard the note of desperation in her voice. Her trousseau was ready, her dresses made, regardless of cost, the staff of her new household in place. ‘What reason would you give for calling off my wedding at such a late hour?’