Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  She gasped in concern as she watched small boys speeding across dangerously thin ice on wooden sledges, their shouts of excitement carrying in the still air. For a moment she envied their freedom. Brandon had taken to riding to Greenwich early each day, leaving her at Suffolk Place with only her ladies for company.

  A few, including Lady Elizabeth Grey and Jane Popincourt, had been with her in France. The others were daughters of nobles looking for influence at court. Their gossiping amused her while she sewed silk nightdresses for the baby, and helped keep her informed about what was going on at Henry’s court.

  The low winter sun gave way to a shadowy dusk before Brandon returned. He kissed Mary then pulled off his heavy riding boots to warm his feet in front of the roaring fire before sharing his news. ‘Catherine’s child is a girl.’ His eyes twinkled with amusement as he watched her face to see her reaction, knowing she’d been waiting for word to arrive.

  Mary hardly dared to ask but was unable to guess from his expression. ‘Are they both well?’ Her hand instinctively went to the growing shape of her own child as it gave a little kick. Her physician assured her it would be a boy, as it lay to the right.

  ‘With God’s grace.’ Brandon grinned. ‘Henry named her Mary, in your honour. First his ship and now a daughter.’

  Mary sat back in her comfortable chair, one gold-ringed hand resting on the gently moving shape within her. She’d prayed for Catherine to have the son she longed for, yet it was a great honour Henry paid her.

  ‘I’m pleased for Catherine – yet I fear for her future.’ She frowned as she counted on her fingers. ‘Three lost sons and two daughters we know of.’

  Brandon agreed. ‘It’s little wonder Henry grows more impatient each time, although now King Ferdinand is dead we no longer need to worry about where her loyalty lies.’

  ‘It’s been difficult for her,’ Mary heard the defensive note in her voice, ‘but despite her father’s scheming she’s always been loyal. Catherine might fall from favour again – but a healthy child will encourage Henry, even if it is a girl.’

  Brandon yawned and took off his black velvet cap, straightening the gold badge before running his fingers through his auburn hair, grown longer since their return from Paris. ‘I’ve been invited to the christening. Henry plans to make quite an event of it. He’s sent men to bring the silver font from Canterbury.’

  Mary smiled. Since Brandon had been restored to the lists it was as if he’d never been out of favour. After the last joust Henry gave him a present of a fine black destrier, complete with a new jousting saddle. He spent long hours with Henry and, as his brother-in-law, was more influential at court than ever.

  They were sinking deeper into a bottomless pit of debt but it seemed of little concern to Brandon. He’d sent more of Mary’s remaining jewels to Thomas Wolsey. His note explained they could not make the payment due to delays with her dowager income from France. Then he’d promptly borrowed another thousand more from a Venetian merchant.

  At least the craftsmen’s work was done at last and Suffolk Place had become their home. She looked up at the dozen white candles glowing in an ornate gilded candelabra, one of many furnishings sent from France. Her ladies confessed that her choice of decoration inspired by her time in Paris was a talking point in London society.

  ‘I wish I could see her.’ Mary gave him a wistful look. Her visits to Catherine had ended, as she would soon be entering her confinement. Wolsey offered his own mansion for the purpose and she’d felt obliged to accept. It was yet another reminder of how he exerted a subtle control over their lives.

  Since becoming a cardinal he’d been even more full of himself, if such a thing were possible. He’d replaced Bishop Warham as Henry’s Lord Chancellor on Christmas Eve, and had taken to sitting on a cushion of cloth of gold, like a king. Brandon told her Wolsey’s wide-brimmed scarlet cardinal’s hat remained on display at Westminster Abbey like some revered holy relic. It was good to have his support yet, as always, there was a price to be paid.

  * * *

  Wolsey’s mansion at Bath Place near Temple Bar smelled musty, despite the bunches of dried lavender, and reminded Mary of her time at Cluny in Paris. This time it was for the good of her unborn child yet she felt just as cut off from the world. Although the harsh winter was finally turning to spring her room had no view of the courtyard outside. The walls and windows were draped with heavy hangings according to her grandmother’s ordinances for royal births. The tall beeswax candles had to be kept burning all day to lighten the gloom and Mary lost track of time.

  At least she had Elizabeth Grey and Jane Popincourt for company. Jane revealed to her a secret letter bound with a thin blue silk ribbon and written in an elegant French hand. The Duke of Longueville begged her to return to him in France, with promises of a grand new life. Mary looked up at Jane and saw her eyes sparkling with excitement at her news.

  She smiled. The scandal of Jane’s affair still hung over her like a cloud but the duke seemed a decent man, handsome, influential and wealthy. ‘He’s still married?’

  Jane nodded. ‘I will stay with you until the baby is born, my lady, then I must go to Provence. He is the governor there now.’

  ‘Anyone else would tell you to find a good marriage, Jane, but a love match is a rare enough thing, so you have my blessing.’

  ‘Truly?’ Jane’s eyes widened.

  Mary felt touched by her gratitude. ‘You shall have a hundred pounds for your loyalty, Jane – and I expect you to write to me with all the news from France.’

  ‘Of course. I’d be honoured, my lady.’

  ‘I’m concerned about my dowager income, which has still not been paid,’ Mary admitted, ‘and am also worried about Queen Claude. She wrote to me after her daughter was born but there has been nothing since.’

  Jane Popincourt frowned. ‘I can ask Duke Louis to enquire about the money due to you, although Provence is a long way from Paris, so it might not be so easy to see the queen.’

  ‘Claude should remember you but I shall write you a letter of introduction. The last time I saw her she told me she has few enough friends she can trust.’

  The holy girdle of Our Lady, assured to bring a safe and successful delivery, had been sent by Queen Catherine and lay across the small altar on one side of Mary’s room. She kneeled at it now with some effort, as her time was close. Clasping her hands together Mary prayed, until her knees went numb, for the life of her unborn baby. She knew the risks. Her own mother died a week after giving birth to her eighth child.

  Mary lit a candle in memory of her mother and tried to remember her kindly face. Taking the taper, she lit a second candle for the little sister she’d never had the chance to know. Women in childbirth were supposed to be surrounded by their relatives. She had no one other than her sister Margaret, last heard of fleeing the dangers of Scotland. Mary had no idea where she was.

  It began as a dull ache that grew stronger in waves, with the relentless power of the tide advancing on a rocky shore. Her ladies had retired for the night, so Mary gripped the hard wooden bedpost until the worst passed. She called out to her midwife, sleeping on a pallet bed at the far side of the room.

  ‘Quick! I think it’s coming!’

  The midwife, a stout matron who’d served Queen Catherine, looked doubtful. ‘We have a little time yet, my lady.’ She dampened a white linen cloth with cold water and held it to Mary’s forehead. The coolness helped but now a new fear gripped her.

  ‘We must have a priest ready, in case...’

  The midwife smoothed Mary’s long hair from her face. ‘There are many priests close by, my lady, but if I’m any judge we’ll not be needing to wake one in the middle of the night.’

  Mary watched as the midwife rang a bell to rouse servants to build the fire and boil water. They’d talked about what would happen when the time came but now she struggled to remember the midwife’s advice. Whatever the outcome, she sensed her life would never be quite the same again.

&
nbsp; The door opened and Jane Popincourt appeared, a dark woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a white linen coif covering her hair. ‘I asked to be woken if the baby started coming in the night.’ She saw the midwife’s nod and carried a chair to Mary’s bedside, taking her hand.

  Mary tried to smile but gritted her teeth as another powerful wave passed through her. As it subsided she gave Jane’s hand a firm squeeze. ‘I’m glad to have you here. I must admit I’m scared.’

  A look of concern crossed Jane’s face. ‘Is something wrong with the baby?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘The discomfort is hard to bear.’ She glanced at the midwife, making her preparations with the servants at the far end of her chamber. ‘Talk to me, Jane. Take my mind off this—’ She gasped again and closed her eyes for a moment as another wave struck.

  ‘We could talk of the christening.’ Jane Popincourt smiled. ‘The king and queen will both wish to attend, so there is much to do.’

  Mary bit her lip as she tried to concentrate on the christening instead of the contractions. ‘I’d like it to be at Suffolk Place, in the great hall.’

  Jane agreed. ‘There’s more room there than at the church in Greenwich. At little Princess Mary’s christening many of the guests had to wait outside in the snow.’ She smiled at the memory.

  ‘Bishop John Fisher should perform the service. He was my grandmother’s confessor.’

  ‘The king will be godfather,’ Jane glanced back at the midwife and a look passed between them, ‘and Queen Catherine of course will be godmother.’

  Mary cried out at another contraction. She crumpled the silk coverlet with her hand and tried to focus on their plans. ‘I’ll have to ask Cardinal Wolsey to be godfather as well,’ her voice sounded strained, ‘and my Aunt Catherine as second godmother. I think my mother would have liked that.’ Mary lay back in her bed and stared up at Jane Popincourt, unable to speak for a moment.

  ‘The great hall must be decorated with red and white roses.’ Jane still held Mary’s hand, despite the way she squeezed with all her strength until her fingers ached.

  ‘Would they be able to find roses this time of year?’

  Before Jane could answer a new agony coursed through Mary’s lower body, causing her to scream out in anguish. The sound reverberated around the chamber like the wail of a ghost.

  The midwife came to her bedside and placed another cool cloth on Mary’s forehead. ‘I know it’s not easy, my lady, but get what rest you can. You’ll need all your strength soon enough.’

  ‘Rest?’ The idea seemed impossible. ‘Do you have anything for the pain?’ A note of desperation made her voice sound harsher than she intended.

  The midwife frowned. ‘There are potions of herbs, but I don’t abide by them.’ She gave Mary a knowing look. ‘Nature knows best, that’s my watchword. How often are the pains now?’

  ‘All the time – but the worst are coming more often.’

  ‘A good sign, my lady.’ The midwife smiled. ‘The child is on its way.’

  Exhausted but happy, Mary held her baby and stared into his large eyes with the special love only a mother can feel. Her prayers had been answered with a fine healthy boy, as her physicians predicted. ‘He’s perfect.’

  The midwife waited to bind him in linen swaddling and hand him over to the wet nurse. ‘What name have you chosen for him, my lady?’

  ‘Henry.’ Mary smiled. ‘My little Henry Brandon.’

  Jane Popincourt leaned closer and let the baby grasp her finger with his tiny pink hand. ‘It seems strange to think he could one day be King of England.’

  ‘Take care who hears you say that, Jane,’ Mary’s eyes narrowed, ‘even though it’s the truth.’

  Jane blushed at the mild reprimand. ‘Shall I find Duke Charles and tell him the news, my lady?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Please do. He must be beside himself with worry.’

  * * *

  The years had not been kind to Mary’s sister Margaret. Her waist had suffered the consequences of seven children and her teeth were discoloured and uneven, reminding Mary of her father. Her defiant eyes stared out from a pockmarked face and her fine new gown was a gift from her brother Henry.

  Although they’d exchanged letters, Mary last saw Margaret thirteen years ago. She’d been seven at the time but remembered the look of anguish on her fourteen-year-old sister’s face as she left to marry the rakish King James IV of Scotland.

  Now Margaret had returned and was lodged at Baynard’s Castle, once their grandmother’s London home. Like Mary, she was running out of money and caused a scandal by marrying for love. Her new husband, the Earl of Angus, was the same age as her and on the wrong side of the civil war in Scotland. She’d also given him a daughter named Margaret the previous autumn.

  Henry invited them both to a state dinner at Lambeth Palace, the first time the three of them had been together since they were children. An awkward silence descended as Mary stood staring at her sister. She’d somehow imagined that their age difference would appear less now, but the contrast between them was stark.

  Margaret stepped forward and embraced her with unexpected warmth. ‘Dearest Mary,’ her voice had the soft accent of the Scots, ‘I’ve prayed for this day so long.’

  ‘As have I.’ It was true. Mary always remembered her sister in her prayers although she’d not expected they would meet again.

  Margaret still held her by both arms, as if reluctant to let her go. ‘I must congratulate you on the birth of little Henry.’ There was an odd note to her voice and Mary saw her sister’s sly glance at Queen Catherine, who watched their reunion surrounded by the ladies of the court.

  The two of them had been on opposing sides while she’d been in France. Catherine had celebrated the slaughter of King James after his disastrous border raid. Reconciliation would take time and Mary realised it would fall to her to become the peacemaker.

  She forced a smile. ‘You must see him, and I can’t wait to see your little daughter, Margaret.’

  Margaret returned Mary’s smile, forgetting to conceal her bad teeth. ‘We have so much catching up to do.’

  Henry joked he had three queens to contend with, each with a baby. The novelty drew every noble in the land and crowds of the curious to the tournament at Greenwich, as he knew it would. Queen Catherine sat in the centre of the royal grandstand with Mary to her left and Margaret to her right as Henry led the competitors in a colourful procession.

  Mary felt a surge of pride as Brandon rode past on his huge black destrier at the king’s side. He wore his best armour with a blue ostrich plume on his helmet, matching the king’s. No one watching could doubt he’d become the most important of all Henry’s companions.

  They watched and cheered as, one by one, Brandon defeated thirty-four knights with apparent ease. As the last threw up both hands in surrender Catherine turned to Mary with a frown. ‘You know what this means?’

  Mary did. ‘Only my brother remains, so they must ride against each other?’

  ‘It troubles me. Henry is so competitive, yet your Charles is not one to surrender without a fight.’ Catherine shook her head at the thought.

  Until then Mary had imagined it was like watching a mummers’ play where no one could come to real harm. Now she saw Catherine’s point. If Brandon unhorsed the king it could undo the progress they’d made since returning from France. If he dropped his guard to let Henry win he could be injured.

  Trumpets blasted a fanfare and the Master of the Joust announced the final tournament of the day. The two champions would meet in a grand finale. Mary held her breath as she watched them line up at each end of the tiltyard. Henry raised a hand to a cheer from the watching crowd then lowered the visor of his helmet.

  Brandon took his lance and did the same. Then, at the sign that both were ready, they charged. Mary wanted to look away but had to watch as they closed with a violent crack of shattering lances. The air seemed tense as the Master of the Joust declared the first pass for Brandon.r />
  On the second run she gasped as Henry’s lance crashed into Brandon’s breastplate, forcing him back in the saddle. The crowd cheered and called out ‘Long live the king!’ This time the points were awarded to Henry, so the winner would be decided by a final joust.

  Mary tried to catch Brandon’s eye but he was too far away to see. He raised and lowered his new lance then charged with a rumble of hooves on the hard-packed ground. They closed again with a deafening clash and she saw both lances shatter.

  It looked a draw, then Brandon’s seconds rushed to his aid. He dropped the broken lance and grimaced as he pulled off his right gauntlet. It seemed he’d injured his hand. Mary hoped this was a ploy and not a serious wound. Her brother must always win but not at any cost.

  Brandon cursed his luck. ‘It hurt like hell, Mary.’ He held up his bandaged hand for her to see, like a badge of honour. ‘I’m told it will heal well enough – but I won’t be riding at the joust for a few months.’

  Mary threw back the brocade bedcovers, inviting him to join her. ‘That might not be such a bad thing. I might see more of you – and it could have been worse for us if my brother were injured.’

  Brandon gave her a wry grin as he struggled to undress with his good hand. ‘You think I meant it to happen?’

  Mary smiled. ‘You fought well. I was proud of you.’

  He climbed into their bed and pulled her into his arms. ‘And I was proud of you, Mary.’ He kissed her. ‘Your sister looks old enough to be your mother. You’d never guess she’s only seven years older.’

  ‘Margaret’s been through a lot.’

  Brandon stroked Mary’s long hair, freed from its restraining plaits and brushed until it shone in her nightly ritual. ‘Margaret seems determined to exploit the possibilities of her visit to her brother’s court.’ A note of disapproval sounded in his voice.

  ‘She confided to me that she plans to stay at least a year.’