Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  At the banquet which followed, the ambassadors seemed in good spirits. One made a speech on behalf of the emperor, thanking Henry for the hand of Princess Mary. Raising his goblet, he proposed a toast to a new future for England and Spain. It was only at this point that Mary realised Queen Catherine was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  Harry seemed taller each day, growing out of his clothes faster than Anne could keep up with her skilful alterations. His latest outfit, a jerkin of forest green, made him look more like a verderer than the heir to the dukedom of Suffolk, in direct line of succession to the throne of England.

  Mary laughed as he strutted around the great hall at Westhorpe with his overlong sword slung low on his belt, in an amusing impression of his father, still away at court. The dangerous sword was yet another attempt by Brandon to win his son’s affection. He could not be prouder of his son but didn’t seem to realise all the boy wanted was his attention.

  His daughter Anne, now a tall fifteen-year-old, had become Mary’s constant companion and together they ran the household and estate. Money was as tight as ever yet they’d grown used to finding economies, making the most of the gardens and sewing their own gowns.

  Anne’s sister Mary, now twelve, helped to look after Frances and little Eleanor, who were also growing fast. She took a great interest in the horses and, like Harry, complained that she missed their father. The prospect of an invasion meant he spent far more time at Suffolk Place to be close to Henry when needed.

  Mary had remained at Westhorpe since the emperor’s visit, relying on her husband to keep her informed of matters at court. Never much of a letter writer, he’d become increasingly reticent about the impending war with France, although she knew the prospect troubled him.

  Mary worked in the room she called her study, checking the estate accounts, initialling each entry as she’d watched her father doing at Richmond Palace. When she was a girl she hadn’t understood his personal attention to such details, yet now she did. It was important to keep a firm hand on the reins if they were to live within their means, particularly now her dower income was at risk.

  The windows were open to let fresh air into the room and she could hear a commotion in the courtyard. It was hard to tell, because of the thick walls, but Harry seemed to be annoying his half-sister Mary again. She made a mental note to have a word with them both. Harry had developed a forceful personality, not unlike her brother. He was easily bored and had taken to finding new ways to annoy his sisters.

  She frowned as she saw how much they’d spent on the upkeep of Brandon’s horses. He’d been keen to breed them and swore the income would far outweigh the cost. If he troubled himself to look at the accounts he would see they needed to sell the foals before the winter.

  Mary came bursting in from the courtyard, her face red. ‘Harry is shooting arrows at my doves.’ She raised her hands in despair. ‘He says he’s hunting them, just like Father does.’

  ‘I told Harry he is not to use his bow in the house.’ Mary frowned. ‘Please send him to me, it’s time I had a talk with him.’

  She turned back to the accounts and picked up her quill, dipping it in her silver inkpot when she heard a sharp yell from outside. Her mother’s instinct told her there was something wrong. The cry had been followed by an unnatural silence. Laying down her quill she rushed down the corridor and into the courtyard.

  Harry lay on his back on the cobblestones, making a strange whimpering sound and holding his head with both hands. Mary kneeled at Harry’s side and saw blood on the cobbles. She turned to her stepdaughter, who seemed to be in shock.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘When I came to fetch Harry he was climbing up the dovecot to recover his arrows, then…’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘He was nearly at the top when a dove flew out and I saw him fall.’

  ‘Fetch Anne, as fast as you can – and tell her to bring clean linen for a bandage.’

  While she waited she cradled her son in her arms. His eyes opened and he groaned, ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

  The family followed Mary’s habit of rising early but Harry was the one exception. He liked to remain in his pallet bed for as long as possible, so Mary didn’t miss him until mid-morning. She sat at her desk writing a letter to Queen Catherine when one of her maids from the nursery approached.

  ‘It’s Master Harry, my lady.’ She bobbed a curtsey. ‘He refuses to rise from his bed.’

  She turned to look at the maid. Known as Mistress Radford, she was a well-meaning woman but with little initiative, which meant everything had to be explained to her, often more than once. It was annoying to be distracted from her letter, as she was struggling to find the right words. If the rumours Brandon hinted at were true, Catherine must be going through a difficult time.

  Mary sighed as she set down her quill and climbed the narrow staircase to Harry’s bedchamber, followed by the maid. The wound on his head had soon stopped bleeding, although she told him to keep it bandaged and hoped he’d learned an important lesson. Harry looked up as she entered and groaned, holding his hand to his bandaged head.

  ‘I have a thirst, Mother, and my head aches.’

  Mary held her hand to his forehead. It felt cool, with no sign of a fever. She removed the linen bandage and examined the wound where he’d hit his head. It was healing well, so she turned to the maid, waiting in the doorway. ‘Bring a cup of sweet mead, Mistress Radford. I shall sit with him for a while.’

  She frowned as she turned back to Harry and saw he’d closed his eyes. There was something wrong. Harry was a lively boy and had gone to bed early, so he shouldn’t be tired. Mistress Radford returned with Harry’s mead, a trencher of freshly baked bread and a slice of cured ham.

  ‘The cook thought Master Harry might be hungry, my lady.’

  Mary thanked her and gave Harry a gentle shake to wake him. ‘Please sit up, Harry. Cook has sent you some fine ham and bread.’

  Harry pulled himself up and waited while Mary put a pillow behind him to support his head. He sipped his mead and nodded in approval, copying his father, then tasted a little of the bread and ham.

  Mary crossed to the window and opened it to let in the fresh air. ‘It’s a lovely day, Harry, would you like to ride to the village?’

  He shook his head. ‘I feel too tired today, Mother.’

  Mary thought he looked pale. She had little confidence in physicians, who had failed to help reduce the ache in her side. At the same time, if his condition worsened she would have to seek a professional opinion, if only to put her mind at rest.

  When she went to check on Harry later she found him still sleeping. She felt his forehead. It was much the same as before, so she pulled a chair to his bedside and sat with him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest as she tried to decide what to do. At times like this she wished her husband wasn’t so far away.

  Mary asked Anne to sit with Harry while she returned to writing her unfinished letter. Catherine had shown no inclination to invite her to court since the visit by Emperor Charles in March. In the meantime, Brandon seemed to think the king had found a new mistress, although her identity was a closely guarded secret he didn’t wish to share.

  She decided to suggest that Catherine make the pilgrimage to the shrine at Walsingham Abbey and stay at Westhorpe, which would be on her route, overnight. Although it would mean additional expense, it would be good to see her again.

  The house would be filled with the queen’s entourage, which would be good for the girls and a welcome break from the daily routine of Westhorpe. She thought she might arrange a concert and play the lute with Anne to entertain them. Mary finished her letter, satisfied with her proposal, and placed her seal in the molten sealing wax.

  She was arranging for a groom to ride with her letter to Greenwich Palace when Anne appeared in the doorway, a troubled look in her eyes.

  ‘You need to come and see Harry – I think we need to send for a physician.’

  The physician
was a thin, dour-faced man with a grey beard. He’d ridden all the way from Bury St Edmunds and spent some time examining her son before asking to see Mary.

  ‘Do you think his condition is serious?’ Mary studied his deep-set eyes for any clue to the truth.

  The physician looked grave. ‘How old is the boy, my lady?’

  ‘He was six in March – why do you ask?’

  ‘He seems to have taken quite a fall.’ He shook his head. ‘I fear there may be internal bleeding or damage to his brain, my lady. I shall prescribe a potion to be made up by the apothecary and taken each morning and night.’ His matter-of-fact tone was that of a man who saw such things every day.

  Mary felt an ominous premonition. ‘Yet he will recover?’

  The physician hesitated before replying. ‘Some children with such an injury will heal in time, but I must tell you in my experience they are the exception.’

  ‘He seemed to be recovering well.’

  ‘My lady, the difficulty with young children is it takes longer for the consequences of such injuries to be observable.’ The physician softened his tone. ‘A child of your son’s age might remain conscious, so injuries might not be thought serious, even though they may well be.’

  Mary put her hand to her mouth. ‘Do you think I should summon his father from London?’

  He nodded. ‘It would be a wise precaution, my lady.’

  She sat at Harry’s bedside through the night, lighting a new candle from the stub of the previous one as each burned down. Unable to sleep, she began to blame herself for her son’s accident. She’d been quick to criticise her husband for the lack of attention he gave to his son, yet at least he had good reason.

  She could have ridden with him to the village but instead had left him to play with his bow while she studied her accounts. She’d intended to help him learn to read and write, yet for no good reason had not found the time. She consoled herself with the knowledge it was an accident and the physician had said he could make a full recovery, in time.

  As she watched over her sleeping son she recalled his christening at Suffolk Place. She’d been in her confinement but ordered the great hall to be decorated with hundreds of red and white roses. The king and queen attended with the senior nobles of the court, because Harry was in the direct line of succession. Poor Catherine had failed to provide Henry with an heir, although it seemed her new plan might work. There could one day be an Empress Mary Tudor on the throne of England.

  * * *

  Mary made her way to their private chapel. The stone floor felt cold, as there was no fireplace and the stained-glass window filtered the early morning sun. She kneeled alone before the statue of the Virgin, clasped her hands together and wept.

  She cried for little Harry, who had woken briefly at dawn, and opened his eyes and looked into hers. Grey-blue and expressive, they seemed to be asking her a question. She’d taken his hand and felt his fingers grip hers for a moment, long enough to give her false hope.

  She wept for the life he would never now have, taken from him too soon. Everything which had seemed important now seemed futile and pointless. She would have to be strong for the girls. No mother should ever have to bury her child. Now she must arrange his funeral. First, she would have to tell her husband and knew it would break his heart.

  20

  March 1523

  Mary supported her middle with both hands as her carriage rattled over another deep rut in the narrow road. The decision to make a pilgrimage to Butley Priory was not an easy one, as the aching in her side now made riding painful and the roads worsened with each mile she travelled east.

  God willing, her child would be a boy, a Brandon heir to inherit the Suffolk title and estates. She knew her husband believed so. He’d said her pregnancy gave him hope and helped him deal with his grief. At the same time, she knew no child could replace little Harry. They would mourn his loss for the rest of their lives.

  The tragedy changed them both and brought them closer as a family. Brandon spent less time at court, returning from London whenever he could, often riding through the night to be with them. He took back control of the household, and new income granted by Henry meant he could begin improving Westhorpe to better suit their growing family.

  Their good fortune had come at the expense of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, who’d been executed for treason, his children disinherited. Although it eased their debts, Brandon had attended his trial and confessed to Mary that it was a sham. He’d known and respected Buckingham all his life and had been troubled by the way his enemies celebrated his downfall.

  He tried to be a better husband to Mary, supporting her when all she wanted was to descend into despair. He also became a better father to the girls, buying much-needed new gowns and promising to see they all married well. He seemed to know another child would give Mary the renewed purpose she needed, and now she wanted to rebuild her life.

  Prior Rivers bowed his tonsured head as he greeted Mary. ‘Welcome, my lady.’ He made the sign of the cross in the air and blessed her. Once they were in the privacy of the cloisters he looked at her with sympathy in his eyes. ‘I was sorry to hear of your loss, my lady.’

  ‘Thank you, prior. I confess my faith has been tested.’

  He nodded in understanding. ‘Saint Augustine taught us faith is to believe what you do not see.’

  ‘And the reward is to see what you believe.’

  The elderly prior smiled. ‘You remember our teaching, my lady.’

  ‘Could I ask the Lord to grant me another son?’ Mary blurted out the question that had been in her head all the way to the priory.

  ‘Who can know what miracles our future has in store, my lady?’ He studied her face for a moment. ‘We shall pray for you, and your unborn child. Each birth is a new beginning.’

  Mary found comfort in the simple routine of the old priory. She dressed in a plain, undyed habit and read the psalms and prayers four times each day. She soon became used to rising with the bell for prime at dawn and watching the sun appearing over the sea on the eastern horizon.

  She joined the canons for the two simple meals a day, served with small loaves and eaten in silence in the refectory. She learned to tolerate the malty taste of the weak ale, brewed in the abbey grounds, taken both at dinner and supper. Talking was not allowed but there would always be reading at mealtimes and Mary took her turn, reciting aloud in Latin from the psalms.

  She passed the long hours learning the psalter by heart, as required by the order, and in prayer, alone in the privacy of the shrine of the Virgin. The excess, intrigue and infidelity of her brother’s court seemed a distant memory. She thanked the Lord that the tragedy of her son’s accident helped her see what was truly important.

  The child within her kicked, reminding her life must go on. When she’d first arrived at the priory she’d prayed each day for a boy, for Brandon’s sake. Now she prayed only for a healthy baby. Mary’s condition limited her usefulness to the close community until the prior suggested she might assist in the infirmary.

  Set apart from the other buildings, the infirmary was a tranquil sanctuary of peace and rest. The long room was scented with burned incense and had six pallet beds, of which only one was occupied. An elderly, white-bearded canon named Joseph waited for his time with dignity, despite being in great pain.

  He seemed glad of Mary’s company and after prayers she would sit at his bedside and share stories of their lives. Well-educated, the old canon could converse in Latin and French and had once made a pilgrimage to the Holy City of Jerusalem.

  ‘My lady,’ his frail voice rasped. ‘I have been praying for you…’

  ‘I came here to pray for the child I carry yet my mind was full of doubt.’ Mary looked into his rheumy eyes. ‘I believe the will of God is sufficient for me, yet each time I have suffered a loss, my faith is tested.’

  Canon Joseph nodded. ‘God knows what is needful for us … but we are not always ready to receive it.’ His words seemed to ta
ke great effort.

  ‘My time here has reminded me to be thankful for the short time I had with my son.’

  Canon Joseph managed a weak smile. ‘Return to your family, my lady. We serve the Lord through our acts, as well as our prayers, and your family has need of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Canon Joseph.’ She smiled. ‘I shall pray for you and will carry your words in my heart.’

  * * *

  The midwife brought the baby swaddled in fresh white linen. ‘Your prayers have been answered, my lady.’ She handed the tiny bundle to Mary, propped up on pillows in her bed. ‘A strong and healthy boy.’

  A single tear ran down Mary’s cheek as she studied the face of the tiny child in her arms. She’d promised herself not to be disappointed if it was another girl, yet she knew what this would mean.

  ‘Will you send for my husband.’ She looked up at the kindly midwife. ‘He has waited long enough.’

  Brandon seemed to sense the good news from her face before she even spoke. ‘A boy?’ He grinned and kissed her. ‘We shall name him Henry.’

  ‘I hoped to call him Joseph…’

  ‘Joseph?’ Brandon shook his head. ‘It must be Henry. He might one day be King of England.’

  Mary looked up at her husband and remembered to be grateful for what she had. She brushed the tear from her cheek and forced a smile. ‘Welcome to my world, Henry Brandon.’

  The routine of Westhorpe changed after her return from the priory. Instead of leaving her children to the care of nursemaids and servants, Mary knew she must treasure every moment spent with them. This made it difficult for her when the queen’s herald arrived with an invitation from Catherine.