Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  A stern-faced Thomas Wolsey remained in his saddle as he bowed his head to Mary. ‘We thank God to see you safe back in England, my lady.’ He gave a curt nod of acknowledgement to Brandon. ‘The king waits to greet you at Sir George Neville’s manor of Birling.’

  ‘How is my brother the king?’ Mary studied Wolsey’s face, hoping to read the truth of their situation.

  ‘The king is in good spirits, my lady.’ Wolsey urged his horse closer and lowered his voice. ‘He wishes you to wed the duke at Greenwich without undue delay.’

  Mary was about to point out that they had already been married twice in France when she saw Brandon’s signal. Henry was right. Thomas Wolsey was right. They had no record of either wedding and no bans had been read. Although there were witnesses, including the King of France, they risked their marriage being contested. Any child would be in the line of succession, so their legitimacy must be beyond question.

  Their long procession caused quite a stir as it passed through Kentish towns and villages on the fifty-mile journey to Birling. The orchards were in full blossom and it felt good to be back in the warmth of an English spring after what had seemed an endless French winter.

  A skylark sang high overhead as they followed the old drovers’ roads through the undulating grassland of the Kent Downs. Dotted with peaceful, grazing sheep, the English countryside looked idyllic and Paris, with its gossiping court and stinking streets, already seemed a long way off, a different life.

  When they stopped to rest the horses Mary took the opportunity to speak with Wolsey, conscious she must learn as much as she could while there was time. ‘Is the king, my brother, still angry with me, Master Wolsey?’

  ‘He is, Your Grace.’ Wolsey gave her a stern look. ‘It was a grave mistake to marry without the king’s consent.’ His tone softened a little. ‘It was not the principle of the marriage, but the means by which it was achieved.’

  ‘King Francis left me no choice.’ Mary decided her best defence was to blame the French. ‘He would have had me marry to suit his own purpose if I’d delayed any longer.’

  Wolsey looked at her as if making a judgement. ‘Did you leave King Francis on good terms?’

  Mary nodded. ‘He blessed our union and promised to honour my dower lands.’

  Wolsey glanced back at Brandon, deep in conversation with Norfolk’s younger son. ‘The king has decreed that the French marriage is to remain a secret. I caution you to speak no more of it.’

  Mary felt indignant at his sharp reprimand yet remained silent. This was not the time to cross Thomas Wolsey. His power extended through church and state and Henry listened to his counsel. Then her curiosity got the better of her.

  ‘How do you propose to keep secret the fact we were married in France?’

  ‘Sir William Sidney has been sent to persuade King Francis that it will be in his best interests.’

  ‘King Francis will enjoy extracting a price for his silence, although I don’t see how we stop the gossipers in the French court.’ She saw Wolsey’s frown of disapproval. ‘I shall write to Queen Claude and ask her to support Sir William’s mission.’

  Henry had grown a well-trimmed beard and was dressed for hunting, with fine leather riding boots and cape, and a gold-handled dagger at his belt. His sharp eyes studied Mary’s face, as if seeing her for the first time, then he reached out with both arms to embrace her.

  ‘Dearest sister, you have returned to us!’

  Mary stepped forward and embraced him, then spoke softly in his ear. ‘Forgive me, dear brother.’

  She pulled back, reassured by the smile lighting up his face. ‘I served you to the best of my ability in France – and learned a great deal of their ways.’

  Henry gave her a shrewd look. ‘We will talk later.’ He looked behind her. ‘Brandon, you rascal, you would defy the wishes of your king?’ His tone was bluff yet there was an amused edge to his voice.

  Brandon bowed. ‘I am guilty of obeying your sister’s wishes, Your Grace.’

  ‘With no thought for yourself?’ Henry laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Has my errant sister tired you out – or will you come hunting with us?’

  Brandon’s face brightened at the prospect. ‘I’ve missed our hunting expeditions, Your Grace. Let’s see what hides in the woods.’

  ‘Good man.’ Henry glanced back once at Mary then headed for the door, followed by Brandon and several younger nobles of the court.

  Mary felt a great weight lifted from her as she watched them go. It seemed Thomas Wolsey exaggerated Henry’s anger. She looked around for Catherine, then turned to Wolsey, who had watched her welcome in silence.

  ‘Where might I find Queen Catherine?’ Her tone was a little more confident now, yet she knew she must keep Wolsey close.

  He hesitated, as if deliberating how much to reveal. ‘The queen is indisposed, my lady.’

  ‘Is she here, in Birling?’

  He shook his head. ‘The queen chose to remain at Greenwich.’

  Mary sensed he withheld some important information but there would be time to find out what it was. He still treated her as an innocent young girl, rather than the Dowager Queen of France. She decided it suited her to encourage his mistake – for now.

  Mary understood why the Church of the Observant Friars in the grounds of Greenwich Palace was chosen for their third wedding. A short walk from the palace, it was where Henry had been christened as a child and where he’d married Catherine. The limited space within the ancient church also suited their purposes.

  King Henry, Queen Catherine and the entire royal court attended as witnesses, filling every seat. The ambassadors of France and Spain were conspicuous by their absence, although they would usually witness a royal marriage.

  Mary wore the same silk gown she’d used for the ceremony with King Francis in France. The sum to be repaid each month had been halved, after some negotiation with her brother and Wolsey. It would be a struggle to repay even twenty-four thousand pounds and she’d already begun making economies.

  She took some comfort that their union was blessed by her old friend John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, Lady Margaret Beaufort’s confessor. Mary remembered how Bishop Fisher had shown kindness to her grandmother at the end, as he had with her father.

  She spoke her vows clearly, her voice echoing in the high-vaulted church so all could hear. Mary smiled as Brandon brought a note of sincerity to his well-rehearsed words. He took one of her hands in his and looked into her eyes as he repeated his promise to love and cherish her. She’d never heard of any couple being married so many times, but at least now there was no secrecy or contrivance.

  They returned to the palace after the ceremony and she sought out Catherine, whom she’d not been able to speak to since her return. Catherine seemed to have aged during Mary’s time in France. She wore an old-fashioned brocade gown which did little for her figure. A pomander scented with cloves hung from her belt and her face looked pale under an ornate gable hood.

  Mary didn’t care about raising eyebrows by wearing the fashionable, lighter French hood, which showed more of her reddish-gold hair. She wanted to bring something of the sparkle of the French court and her low-cut gowns were already making the English ladies take note.

  Catherine embraced her. ‘I thank God for your safe return, Mary. I was concerned for you.’

  ‘You must tell me everything that has happened since I left – and I shall tell you stories of my adventures in France.’

  Catherine nodded but didn’t smile. Instead she placed her hand on Mary’s arm and glanced at Henry, already surrounded by young nobles. ‘Will you come to my private rooms? I could do with someone to talk to, other than my confessor.’

  Mary followed Catherine, who dismissed her ladies and closed the door on her servants. ‘You’ve heard the rumours, no doubt?’ Her voice had a note of sadness, mixed with resignation.

  ‘No. I’ve hardly spoken to anyone since my return.’ It was the truth, although she guessed what the
rumours might be. She’d rarely seen Henry looking more pleased with himself or Catherine looking so sad. ‘Is it Henry?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘He’s taken a mistress. One of my maids of honour, Elizabeth Blount.’ The bitterness in her voice as she said the name was unmistakable.

  Mary remembered Bessie Blount. Young and full of fun, she was one of Catherine’s most attractive ladies. ‘Can you not dismiss her from your service?’

  ‘It’s too late. He’s obsessed with her.’ Her sharp tone revealed how deeply she’d been hurt.

  ‘Does he still visit you?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘I pray each day that I will give him a son.’ She frowned. ‘I know the consequences if I fail.’

  Mary took her hand, as if making a pact. ‘Let us both pray we can give our husbands strong and healthy sons.’

  Catherine’s eyes went to her narrow waist in surprise. ‘You are with child?’

  Mary smiled. ‘Not yet – but it’s not for lack of trying.’

  Catherine laughed at her frank admission. ‘You must come and visit me often, Mary. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I shall, Catherine.’ She saw something replace the sadness in Catherine’s eyes and realised she still clung to the hope of a son. ‘Have faith, and remember Henry loves you.’

  The setting sun cast a golden glow over the River Thames as Mary left Greenwich Palace. Like Henry’s court, the glittering surface perfectly disguised the dark, murky waters beneath. It angered her that Henry turned his back on Catherine for a pretty seventeen-year-old girl but now she understood this was the way of kings.

  There were no celebrations to mark their marriage and they’d not been invited to stay on at Greenwich. They had no money and all her remaining possessions fitted in two wagons, yet Mary felt at peace with the world, happier than she could ever remember.

  * * *

  Brandon’s riverside mansion at Suffolk Place needed a woman’s touch. More like an abandoned soldiers’ barracks than a home, the wood-panelled walls were decorated with the antlers of long-dead stags, ancient weapons, and faded tapestries of hunting scenes.

  The rambling property was inherited from Brandon’s family and enclosed a large courtyard. As well as formal gardens leading to a private jetty, there were some eighty acres of established oak woodland to the south, a potential source of useful income if money ran short, as Mary knew it would.

  Brandon had grand plans for their home, despite their lack of funds. Inspired by what he’d seen in Paris, he commissioned an imposing new entrance and the courtyard soon rang to the clink of masons’ chisels on stone and carpenters sawing wood.

  The work had hardly begun when he had to travel north to oversee the transfer of his estates. There were over forty manor houses in different ownership and tenancies to resolve. It was work Brandon needed to do in person but Mary would have travelled with him if she’d known he’d be away so long.

  Instead, she remained at Suffolk Place and filled her days by making their house fit for a family. Mary explored the rooms before choosing one with the best view out over the River Thames. She set to work, directing servants to sweep away cobwebs, whitewash the walls and lay fresh rushes on the floors.

  She smoothed her hand over the bulge, hardly visible under her gown, yet growing larger each week. She’d been loosening the lacing of her kirtle a little each week but now more drastic work was needed. Mary examined the new panel her seamstress had sewn into her gown. The material was a good enough match but the dress, one of her favourites, would never be quite the same.

  She smiled as she remembered telling Catherine her news and hearing that they would both be having babies before Eastertide. She’d prayed they would have sons and they’d laughed together as they realised the obvious choice of name would be Henry.

  After the baby was born she planned to send for Brandon’s daughters by his first wife, Anne Browne, to complete their family. Little Anne, now eight years old, had been sent to the court of Margaret of Austria the year before. Despite Brandon’s protests, Mary still wondered if it was because he’d planned to marry the archduchess. Little Mary, only five years old, remained in the care of her mother’s relatives.

  Upstairs in her new chamber she found the servants had left the painted wooden casket containing her personal belongings. She’d not opened it since their hasty packing in Paris and she had to try several keys before finding the right one. Mary opened the lid and took out the contents, placing them on the polished wooden top of her dressing table.

  The little portrait of pale-faced Prince Charles seemed from another, more innocent age. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept it but couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Next she took out a book of poetry in French which she’d read to King Louis in his last days. Another memory that seemed to belong to another time.

  She opened the little book at a random page and with a little effort translated the old French as she read: I die of grief a hundred times a day, and a hundred times revive with joy. She remembered the twinkle of adoration in Louis’ eyes and wondered if she’d ever see quite the same in Brandon’s.

  Finally, Mary unwrapped the royal seal of the Queen of France. The symbol of the power she’d once had felt cold and heavy in her hand. The only time she’d used it for anything important was to sign over her dowry and all her property to Henry. A high price had been paid but she had no regrets, other than the way they’d been kept away from court.

  Apart from occasional visits to Catherine at Greenwich, neither of them had been made welcome at the royal court since their wedding. She soon realised Catherine chose times when Henry was away, although that was hardly going to hasten their return to favour.

  When the first invitation came it was delivered by the king’s messenger. Mary broke the seal and studied the contents. Thomas Wolsey had finally achieved his ambition to be made a cardinal and Brandon was chosen as one of the lords to escort him to a celebratory banquet. She showed the letter to Brandon as soon as he returned from the north. He read it and grinned at her.

  ‘He’s done us few enough favours – but now he’ll enjoy even greater influence. Whatever you think of him, Wolsey is our only true supporter at council,’ Brandon reread the invitation, ‘and look – it’s signed in Wolsey’s own hand.’

  ‘This is the forgiveness we’ve been waiting for.’ Mary smiled. ‘Henry had to show our critics he’d not been too easy on us, although I was beginning to wonder...’

  Brandon produced a second invitation with a flourish from a pocket in his doublet. ‘There’s more. We are also invited to the launch of the king’s latest warship and to voyage with him down the Thames. A good omen,’ Brandon contrived to look serious, ‘although her name might cause you some embarrassment.’

  Mary took the invitation from him and studied it, then looked up and smiled. ‘The Virgin Mary? I hardly think my brother named her after me.’

  ‘I’ve heard they are already referring to her as the Princess Mary.’ He grinned. ‘She’s a full-bodied ship, you see, broad at the waterline.’ He placed his hands on her hips as if she might not understand.

  Mary laughed and gave him a playful jab in the ribs. ‘I shall take it as a great compliment from my brother the king. I know he loves his ships more than anything he owns.’

  The Virgin Mary towered over the buildings on the banks of the Thames, the latest symbol of Henry’s power. With four great masts and over two hundred guns she was a floating fortress, and like the Venetian galleys, the massive sails were supplemented by sixty pairs of long oars.

  The gathered crowds cheered as King Henry waved from the deck. Dressed in cloth of gold, he wore a diamond-studded sailor’s whistle on a chain around his neck and called to Mary and Brandon as he spotted them.

  ‘Dear sister!’ Henry beckoned them to join him on the deck. ‘Is she not the most beautiful ship?’

  Mary lifted the hem of her gown as she made her way up the steep walkway on to the deck, then curtseyed as she approached her brother. �
��Your ships are the envy of the world, dearest brother.’

  She saw his nod of approval and smiled at Queen Catherine standing at his side. ‘You look well, Your Grace.’

  It was true. Catherine seemed transformed by the child developing inside her. Her eyes sparkled with happiness and she wore a magnificent gown of burgundy with gold brocade. Her lost children had tested her faith yet she remained confident that this time she would provide Henry with the heir he so desperately wished for.

  Even the chill October wind did nothing to spoil the cheery mood as Queen Catherine had the honour of naming the ship, and gave a meaningful look to Mary as she did so. A choir sang a Mass of dedication and an army of servants carried tables and chairs on deck for a banquet of fish and seafood, with a sugar centrepiece of King Neptune holding a silver trident.

  Brandon stood next to Henry as the king personally steered the Virgin Mary through the myriad small craft come to escort her down the Thames. Henry placed his whistle to his lips and blew a deafening blast, laughing loudly at the startled ladies.

  Mary raised a gloved hand to acknowledge the cheering crowds jostling dangerously close to the water’s edge for a view. She placed the other hand on her bulging middle. Her new life had begun and soon she would have new responsibilities.

  A dark cloud of premonition made her look across again at Queen Catherine. She remembered the anguished sound of a mother who’d lost a newborn child and said a silent prayer. If all did not go well Mary doubted her friend would have another chance.

  14

  February 1516

  High-pitched shrieks of delight brought Mary to the open window. She shivered and pulled her fur-lined cloak closer around her as she peered out into the misty morning. Children were playing on the frozen River Thames. This winter was the coldest she could remember yet the people of London made the best of it, as they always did.