Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

Mary reread the letter she’d once longed to receive. The occasion requiring her attendance was to entertain Queen Catherine’s niece, the emperor’s sister, Isabella, visiting with her husband Christian, King of Denmark. Her first thought was to plead exhaustion after the birth of her child, something Catherine would understand.

  She’d found a closer bond with little Henry than she’d expected and now spent every waking moment with him. It would be impractical to take him on the long journey to London. She would have to leave him with his wet nurse for weeks and would miss him too much.

  She asked Brandon’s opinion after they’d retired for the night. He pulled her close and ran his fingers through her long hair. ‘It will be good for you to return to court, and right that you do so, my Dowager Queen of France.’

  ‘It’s a long journey by carriage. I could be away for weeks.’ She gave him a questioning stare. ‘Would you not miss me, my lord of Suffolk?’

  ‘I shall ride to London with you.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve heard the Queen of Denmark is quite a beauty.’

  She gave him a playful slap. ‘What about the children?’

  ‘We have servants enough to care for them. It will be good for Mary to have the responsibility. She’s thirteen now and we must not treat her as a child.’

  ‘Anne will travel with us?’

  ‘Of course, as your lady-in-waiting. Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to propose her as a lady-in-waiting to the queen?’ He watched for her reaction.

  Mary lay back and stared up at the velvet canopy over their bed. Now turned sixteen, Anne had grown into a dark-eyed beauty. It made her shudder to think what could happen to her innocent stepdaughter at Henry’s court.

  ‘Perhaps when she is eighteen. I’m not ready to part with Anne yet and I value her company here at Westhorpe. You won’t forget your promise to find her a suitable husband?’

  ‘I’m working on a plan to make Anne a baroness but I don’t want her to know until I’m sure.’

  ‘Or me, evidently? You keep too many secrets from me, Charles. You’ve said nothing about my brother’s latest mistress. If I’m to see Queen Catherine I need to know what he’s up to behind her back. Has my brother sworn you to secrecy?’ She stroked his greying beard.

  He reached out and took her hand to stop her. ‘You must promise not to speak of this to anyone. Henry still sees Mary Boleyn – or Mary Carey, as she is now. They’ve kept it secret from all but his closest circle.’

  ‘I guessed as much, so I’m sure Catherine knows.’ Mary leaned over and kissed him. ‘I owe it to Catherine as a friend to support her. Is there nothing you can do to influence my brother?’

  ‘It seems I can’t even influence my wife.’ He pulled her close to him again and stroked her hair. ‘For the sake of our family we must take care not to cross the king.’ His voice sounded serious. ‘Remember what happened to Buckingham.’

  * * *

  It took over a week to make the hundred-mile journey south to Greenwich. London seemed noisier, dirtier and a little dangerous after the tranquil Suffolk countryside. As they passed through the city gates they were welcomed by a skeletal corpse hanging on a gibbet. The River Thames stank of sewage and a row of grisly severed heads adorned London Bridge, their empty eyes pecked out by crows.

  Mary noted the vigilance of the armed guards at the entrance to Greenwich Palace, a sign the country still simmered with unrest. Brandon told her that, as in her father’s day, there was opposition to new taxes to fund an army. The people didn’t share Henry’s ambition to make war on France if it meant they had to pay.

  As she entered the queen’s apartments with Anne, Mary sensed the tension in the air. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting, who’d been at their needlework, stood and bobbed a curtsey yet seemed unusually silent and Mary guessed the likely reason. She recognised Anne Boleyn but noticed her sister was absent.

  They were led into Queen Catherine’s private chambers, where she waited to receive them. She wore her formal Spanish headdress and a dark, brocade gown, her only jewellery a crucifix of dark-red rubies, with three large pearls. At her side was Princess Mary, now seven years old. The red-gold hair of the Tudors showed at the front of her French headdress and her sharp eyes held Mary’s with a confidence beyond her years.

  Catherine smiled at them as they curtseyed. ‘Welcome, Mary – and Anne, how you’ve grown since I saw you last. I trust you had a good journey?’

  ‘Each time it seems longer, Your Grace.’ The ache in Mary’s side felt worse after the long carriage ride.

  Catherine studied Anne appraisingly. ‘I remember you played for us, most beautifully.’

  Anne nodded. ‘It is an honour to return to court, Your Grace.’

  Catherine turned to her daughter. ‘Mary is being tutored by Sir Thomas Moore. She is fluent in French and Latin and has a talent for singing.’ Her pride was evident as she looked down at her daughter. ‘She is learning the spinet as well as the lute. Would you take Anne to hear you play, Mary?’

  They watched as Anne left with Princess Mary. After the doors closed behind them, Catherine put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘I was sorry to hear of the loss of your son.’

  ‘Thank you, Catherine. It was a difficult time for us all.’

  ‘I heard you have been graced with another son.’ There the faintest trace of envy in her voice.

  Mary nodded. ‘I wish I could have brought little Henry for you to see him.’

  ‘Next time.’ Catherine forced a smile. ‘Now we must greet other new members of our family – my niece Isabella and her husband, the King of Denmark, Norway and Sweden.’

  ‘I am intrigued to meet the sister of Emperor Charles,’ Mary admitted. ‘They say she had her husband’s lover poisoned.’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘My niece could not do such a thing – and it can never be proven.’ There was a note of reproof in her voice yet she gave Mary a meaningful look.

  The great hall of Greenwich Palace had been improved by each successive owner. The alternating blue and gold fleurs-de-lis tiles were the legacy of Queen Margaret of Anjou. The high, arched windows were installed in the time of Mary’s father and the oak banqueting tables, carved with Tudor roses, were her brother’s contribution.

  Mary looked out through her father’s windows at the view of the River Thames as a tan-sailed barge floated silently past. She was at the top table at the banquet to honour the Danish king and queen. A sallow-faced man with a pointed black beard and flamboyant hat, King Christian sat between Henry and Cardinal Wolsey. His reedy voice sounded strangely accented and Mary smiled when Brandon gave her his secret sign to show he didn’t like him.

  Queen Isabella sat between Catherine and Mary. She had a pale complexion and looked older than her twenty-two years. She wore a gown of white silk edged with gold lace, and a starched white coif over her hair which Mary guessed was in the Danish fashion.

  Mary rinsed her fingers in a glass bowl of rose water as she listened to the grace from Cardinal Wolsey, who’d chosen to dress in his scarlet robes. He’d hoped to become pope yet Emperor Charles had failed to back him. Since that disappointment, his enthusiasm for the alliance against the French had been lukewarm.

  Once the self-important cardinal was seated, green-and-white liveried servants appeared, to pour wine and set out a bewildering variety of dishes. One placed a glazed suckling pig on the table before Mary. Lying on a bed of fresh herbs, the pig had sugared plums for eyes and a gilded apple had been forced into its mouth, as if it was about to eat it.

  ‘The poor thing looks too lifelike for my taste.’ Mary shook her head when the servant offered to carve it. She took a sip of her wine and turned to the Danish queen. ‘I understand you were at the court of Margaret of Savoy as a girl, Queen Isabella?’

  ‘Please call me Elizabeth.’ She smiled, revealing crooked teeth. ‘I’m using the English for Isabella now.’ She spoke softly in English with a Dutch accent. ‘Archduchess Margaret was most kind to me.’

  ‘My step
daughter, Anne Brandon, was also tutored by the archduchess.’ She pointed out Anne, seated with Princess Mary.

  ‘I owe the archduchess a great debt. She taught me how to ensure my place,’ Elizabeth glanced across at her husband, ‘as a woman in a world ruled by unscrupulous men.’

  Mary raised an eyebrow at the queen’s forthright tone and decided she was perfectly capable of removing King Christian’s mistress. She could see why Brandon sent his daughter to Archduchess Margaret and had been reluctant to recall her. He’d somehow known she would also learn to survive at Henry’s court and it was all part of his plan.

  * * *

  Brandon gathered the family together in the spacious new study he’d built at Westhorpe. He glanced at Mary, then turned to his daughters. ‘I have to go to France and might be away until next year.’

  Anne was the first to speak. ‘Are you going to fight the French, Father?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m in command of fourteen thousand men, so it’s a great responsibility.’

  ‘But are the French not our friends, Father?’ His daughter Mary frowned as she tried to understand.

  Brandon nodded. ‘They are, Mary. Our friends, our family and our neighbours.’ He looked around at their shocked faces. ‘The king has promised our allies, Emperor Charles and Archduchess Margaret, that England will support a revolt by the Duke of Bourbon against King Francis.’ He glanced again at Mary. ‘I have to help him keep that promise.’

  Anne shook her head. ‘There are others who can do that, Father. You haven’t been to war for years...’

  Brandon nodded. ‘Ten years, Anne.’ He softened his tone when he saw she was on the brink of tears. ‘It’s a great honour to be chosen by the king to lead his royal army. If I lead them to victory it will secure the future of our family.’

  Once she was alone with him, Mary took him in her arms and wept. They both knew his mission carried enormous risks. The French were battle-hardened from their foreign wars. The English army were a poor mix of ageing veterans and novices, inexperienced men with no idea what lay ahead of them.

  When the time came for him to leave, Brandon gave each of the girls one last embrace and took a long look at little Henry. He kissed Mary and forced a smile, then whispered, so only she could hear. ‘I love you, Mary. Pray for me.’

  She struggled to remain composed as she watched him fasten his gleaming new silver breastplate over his tunic, the badge of his command, and mount his warhorse. A hundred local yeomen, all wearing the blue-and-yellow Suffolk livery, waited for him. Mary thought some looked too old to fight, while others seemed little more than boys.

  Brandon turned to look back at Westhorpe Hall and his family one last time, as if trying to fix them in his memory, then raised a black-gloved hand in farewell. He shouted a gruff command and led his men over the old stone bridge and out of sight.

  21

  March 1525

  Mary shivered as she waited in the cold abbey church, the hard wooden pew and chill air making her more aware of the nagging pain in her side. She stared up at the blue-cloaked statue of the Virgin Mary and noticed a dusty cobweb in the flickering light of the tall candles.

  She clasped her white-gloved hands together and prayed for her stepdaughter. Although she’d long since stopped praying for relief from the ache that tormented her, she believed in the mystical power of prayer. She’d prayed each day that her husband might return safe from the war in France. Even when the rumours of disaster drifted home Mary kept faith that a merciful God would listen to her.

  She felt conscious of the empty pew at her side. Her husband had returned from the invasion of France a changed man, with greying hair, his spirit broken. It took over a year for him to lose the haunted look in his eyes. Once, he’d woken her with his shouting in the middle of the night and confessed to recurring bad dreams about those dreadful months.

  He rarely spoke about what happened but told her the rebellion by the turncoat Charles, Duke of Bourbon, proved a dismal failure. The French king’s spies alerted Francis to their plans and he’d been ready for them, although they somehow allowed the treacherous duke to escape. After all his promises to Henry, the soldiers of Emperor Charles didn’t meet up with them as agreed and those of Archduchess Margaret arrived too late.

  Mary heard from her surly blacksmith, who served with Brandon in France as a yeoman, that the English army suffered one of the worst winters anyone could recall. She’d watched as he pounded the glowing red horseshoe, his hammer blows adding emphasis as he answered her questions.

  ‘When the supplies ran out, my lady, we drank stagnant water from ditches.’ He plunged the hot iron shoe into his trough with a hiss of steam and stopped his work to mop his brow with a rag as the memory returned. He’d squinted at her with dark, deep-set eyes. ‘In truth, we survived by eating our horses. Men lost fingers and toes through frostbite. Some died of the bloody flux. Others froze to death while they slept.’

  Mary knew he told the truth. Her brother’s ambitious campaign ended in disaster when the English army mutinied. Many deserted, to make their own way back to Calais. Henry might have thrown Brandon in the Tower for returning home without permission. Instead, he forgave him. He knew Brandon was a man of his word and that he’d suffered in the freezing fields of France.

  Even after the jousting accident last year, a worrying time for them all, her brother refused to blame Brandon. His lance struck Henry’s brow at such an angle his visor was raised, allowing sharp splinters of wood to enter his helmet. Brandon said Henry was lucky to survive the blow and had suffered with headaches since that day, yet rewarded him with the office of Earl Marshal.

  The choir broke through Mary’s thoughts with the Te Deum, their pure tenor voices in perfect harmony, sounding ethereal in the old abbey church. She turned and looked back towards the half-open doors at the entrance. Their daughters waited, silhouetted in the doorway, all in matching bridesmaids’ dresses, the result of much discussion and work.

  Her stepdaughter Mary had become a beautiful and confident young woman. She would be fifteen next month and might one day become a lady-in-waiting to the queen. She loved to hear the stories of the French and English courts and longed for the day when she would be presented to Queen Catherine.

  Next to Mary Brandon stood their daughters Frances, now eight, and Eleanor, aged six, in their shimmering satin gowns. Both had the same Tudor red-gold tresses as Mary, although Eleanor had the ways of her father. They beamed with anticipation as they waited for the wedding couple to arrive.

  Mary searched for little Henry and spotted him with his nursemaid at the rear of the abbey church, ready to be taken outside when he became bored, as he inevitably would. He was already taking after his father and seemed much stronger than poor Harry, although Mary never took a single day with him for granted.

  Applause from the waiting villagers and the clatter of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of the carriage, pulled by a team of white horses. Mary watched as Brandon, wearing his heavy coat with thick collar of black fur, helped Anne step down.

  Anne looked radiant in her wedding gown, the result of a year of embroidering precious gold thread on fine silks. She wore the same French headdress Mary had worn for her wedding in France and the twenty diamonds, set in the filigree border of gold, flashed in the early spring sunlight as she moved.

  Mary saw the pride in Brandon’s eyes and felt an irrational jealousy. She’d not forgotten how he’d once said Anne looked more like her mother each day. Watching her effortless charm, it was easy to understand why he’d chosen Anne Browne as his mistress, then caused a scandal by making her his wife.

  All heads turned as he escorted Anne to the waiting Edward, Baron Grey of Powys. Brandon had kept his word as, only four years older than Anne, the baron was handsome and courteous, with significant estates in Wales. He’d served with Brandon on the disastrous mission to France and been knighted on his return.

  The choir fell silent and the elderly Bishop Foxe blessed t
hem and began the formal ceremony. With typical stubbornness, her father’s loyal friend refused Henry’s suggestion he should accept retirement. He officiated at the wedding as a special favour to Mary, despite his failing eyesight. She guessed he must be close to eighty years old yet his voice carried well in the still air of the abbey church.

  As she watched, Mary found herself recalling her first marriage to King Louis, so many years ago, in the Church of Notre-Dame. She’d been eighteen, the same age Anne was now, when the Bishop of Bayeux conducted the Nuptial Mass in his strange mixture of old French and Latin. She remembered repeating her wedding vows in a daze before the bishop blessed their union and King Louis gave her an overlong kiss. It seemed endearing now but at the time she’d felt her life was over.

  Mary decided she would have been pleased enough if she’d known what the future would hold. She felt a stab of grief as she thought of little Harry but thanked the Lord for Henry, heir to Brandon’s Suffolk estates. She was proud of her daughters and stepdaughters and had prepared them as well as any duchess of Savoy.

  Brandon frowned as he tried to fasten the silver buckle on his sword belt. His waist had grown by another notch. Wolsey’s messenger brought orders for him to disperse rioters in nearby Lavenham with the Duke of Norfolk, in the name of the king. He’d shown the terse note to Mary. In Wolsey’s own hand, it looked hastily scratched.

  ‘Have you not done enough?’ There was an edge to her voice and she felt an instinctive foreboding.

  Wolsey’s request seemed fitting work for Sir Thomas Howard, who’d inherited his father’s title after the old Duke of Norfolk passed away the previous year. Norfolk’s private army of yeomen were notorious thugs, little more than mercenaries employed to do his bidding. Brandon could barely muster a hundred local men, poorly armed and of questionable commitment.