by Tony Riches
Brandon pulled on his riding cape. ‘Wolsey gives me no choice. I’m damned if I go – and damned if I don’t.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘Henry’s been dreaming of his new invasion of France since King Francis was captured in Italy. Now Wolsey seeks to win his favour by raising the money he needs, regardless of the cost.’
A worrying thought occurred to Mary. ‘Cardinal Wolsey knows it’s an impossible task.’ She frowned. ‘While he sits drinking good wine in Hampton Court Palace, you risk your life to enforce his unfair tax.’
He paused his preparations for a moment and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘You sound like one of the rebels, Mary, but you are right. Parliament never approved Wolsey’s amicable grants, so it’s little wonder people are refusing to pay.’
‘I’m concerned for you, Charles.’ She embraced him. ‘There’s no telling what these rioters might do and you don’t have an army, just your retainers.’
‘Norfolk will bring his yeomen – and is bound to be too heavy-handed if I’m not there to see people are treated fairly. We’ll round up the ringleaders and the rest will soon disperse.’
‘Then you’ll speak to Henry?’
He gave her a farewell kiss on the cheek. ‘This time I will.’
Mary found herself once again on her knees in their cold private chapel, praying for her husband. Two long weeks passed before he returned, looking tired from his journey but thankfully unharmed. Mary waited until he’d washed off the dirt of the road and changed out of his riding clothes. She poured him a tankard of strong ale from a jug.
‘What happened?’
He took a drink of ale before answering. ‘I had to wait for Norfolk and his men. By the time we reached Lavenham many thousands had gathered there. They outnumbered us so greatly my men looked ready to desert, but the rioters proved to be ordinary men and women trying to make an honest living.’ Brandon rubbed his eyes. ‘Norfolk saw his chance to give Wolsey a kick up his scheming backside, so we agreed to put the rebels’ case to the king. They dispersed soon enough after that.’
‘What did Henry say?’ Mary held her breath as he took another deep drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
Brandon gave her a wry look. ‘He agreed with us – and is angry with Wolsey.’
She placed her hand on his arm. ‘If he doesn’t raise the money for an invasion, you might not have to go to war again.’
‘I hope you’re right, Mary, but preserving the peace has come at a price.’
‘Wolsey?’
Brandon nodded. ‘Let’s pray I’ve not made us a dangerous enemy.’
* * *
Bridewell Palace, on the banks of the River Fleet, was built by Henry at considerable cost to replace their father’s old palace at Westminster, destroyed by fire. Like Wolsey’s Hampton Court, the rambling, red-brick palace had high chimneys and surrounded three spacious courtyards.
As the palace had no great hall the banqueting room filled with the entire court to witness the investiture ceremony. Mary felt a frisson of pride as her bewildered little Henry was confirmed as the new Earl of Lincoln. As well as securing his place in the nobility, his title completed Brandon’s control of the former de la Pole legacy.
It would have been the talk of London but for the investiture which followed. Queen Catherine looked stony-faced as Henry Fitzroy, now aged nine, was made the Earl of Nottingham and Duke of Richmond and Somerset. Henry knew what he was doing. His son now took precedence over his legitimate daughter.
After the ceremony, in the privacy of the queen’s chambers, Mary found Catherine weeping. She placed her hand on her friend’s arm to console her. ‘You must rise above this. I thought Henry could never surprise me, yet now he has.’
‘He says my lack of sons is God’s punishment on him for marrying his brother’s wife. I know he is secretly working to have our marriage declared invalid, which would make Princess Mary illegitimate.’ Catherine dried her eyes. ‘I wish I had your strength, to overlook my husband’s failings as easily as you do yours.’
‘Brandon is far from perfect yet he’s a loyal husband and a good father to his children.’
‘Henry sat his bastard son at his right hand, for everyone to see.’ Catherine spat the words in a bitter voice. ‘At least Brandon shows discretion about the consequences of his affair.’
Mary felt the cold shock of realisation. ‘Charles is having an affair?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper, her mind numbed by the thought.
Catherine put her hand to her mouth. ‘I should never have spoken of it.’
Mary braced herself. ‘Please tell me what you know.’
‘I’m afraid it has been common knowledge at court for a long time. You know how my ladies-in-waiting gossip. I understand he also has a bastard son.’
Mary looked at her wide-eyed in disbelief. ‘Who with?’
‘I’ve said enough. You must ask your husband, Mary.’
Brandon seemed pleased with himself at the dinner which followed the investiture. Mary found herself thinking about things she’d accepted as a necessary part of his work. His profligate spending, his long absences, staying at Suffolk Place, encouraging her to remain at Westhorpe – all now took on a deeper significance.
The worst thing was imagining Catherine’s ladies talking about her behind her back. It seemed a cruel world where her reward for absolute loyalty had been such betrayal. The enormous, overwhelming sense of loss felt like a bereavement but she had to carry on. She’d told Catherine she must rise above Henry’s manner. Now Mary knew it was her turn.
She didn’t confront him until they were alone at home, preparing for bed. The servants had retired for the night and all the children were sleeping. Her words, so carefully rehearsed, tumbled out as a single question.
‘Is it true you have a son with another woman?’
His reaction told her all she needed to know. He looked away from her unblinking stare and cursed, his hand forming a fist. He took a moment to compose himself then turned back to face her with a steady gaze.
‘It was a long time ago, Mary. I’m not even certain the child is mine.’
‘Who is she?’
‘No one of importance, then or now. I can imagine what you must think. It was a mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘A poor judgement on my part, not an affair.’
‘Poor judgement?’ Her voice sounded shrill, louder than she’d intended.
Brandon held up a hand to silence her. ‘Please, Mary, for the sake of the children.’
She tried to calm herself but found his tone infuriating. A mixture of anger and despair made it hard to think, but she needed to know. Mary dug sharp fingernails into the palms of her hands as she tried to calm herself, although she could feel her heart racing in her chest.
‘When was this?’
‘Four years ago. After we returned from France.’ His voice sounded flat and matter-of-fact, as if he was giving evidence in court. ‘I’m sorry, Mary. I should have told you at the time but I didn’t think you’d understand.’
‘You were right. I don’t understand. In fact, I wonder if I know you at all.’
* * *
Mary’s life settled back into the routine of managing her household at Westhorpe. She had no choice but to carry on, for the sake of her children. Part of her felt scarred by Catherine’s revelation but she decided it was better to know such things than to live in blissful ignorance.
Brandon refused to discuss the child, as if that would help her forget. Even when she asked him to, he would not tell her the mystery woman’s name or where she lived, although he swore to her it was over. Mary believed it was, although she would always wonder whether Brandon’s illegitimate son would one day emerge into the public gaze, as Henry Fitzroy had done.
One casualty of the disastrous invasion of France had been Mary’s dower income. At the time, there was nothing to be done about it but now she needed the comfort of her own income. As far as she knew, King Francis remained a prisoner of Emperor Charles. H
enry might be willing to recover her dower income but could use the money to fund another war.
There was one man who might help her. Mary took a fresh sheet of her best parchment and dipped her sharpened quill into the black, ox-gall ink before writing:
To my Lord Cardinal,
My Lord in my most hearty wise I commend me unto you so it is divers of my rights and duties concerning my dues in France have been of late time stayed and restrained in such ways as I nor my officers there may not have me receive the same as they have done in times past.
She paused as she thought of the charming Guillaume Gouffier, Admiral Bonnivet, chosen to oversee her dowager income as her agent in France. News of what happened trickled back to England through visiting ambassadors and Henry’s spies.
The handsome admiral had been as close to King Francis as Brandon was to Henry, his right-hand man and loyal friend. After the French victory in Milan, it seemed the admiral encouraged Francis to pursue their retreating enemy south into Italy. The French king’s horse was killed and he was captured at the Battle of Pavia, along with most of his army and commanders.
Henry celebrated the death of Richard de la Pole, the last Yorkist pretender to his throne, killed fighting for the French, but Mary grieved the loss of her friend, Guillaume Gouffier. Brandon told her he’d died a heroic death, but she suspected he spared her the details.
Reading her letter to Wolsey she decided it was best to appeal to his vanity and encourage him to use such influence as he still had with her brother.
My Lord in this and in all others I evermore have and do put my only trust and confidence in you for the redress of the same. Entirely desiring you therefore that I may have the king’s grace my dearest brother letters and yours into France as such my said servant shall desire and by the same I trust my said causes shall be brought to such order and good conclusion.
Cardinal Wolsey had been her saviour in the past and would be so again if he saw advantage in it for himself. She dipped her quill in her silver inkpot and continued, aware her fortune might depend on this one page of parchment.
I am evermore bold to put you to pains without any recompense unless my good mind and hearty prayer wherof you shall be assured during my life to the best of my power as knoweth our Lord who have you in his blessed tuition.
Mary checked her words one last time and made a few alterations before signing her letter, Yours assured, Mary the French Queen.
22
April 1527
The plague ravaging the people of London kept King Henry from the capital for over a year. Horrific stories travelled north of entire families wiped out in a week, their bodies burned on pyres or buried with little ceremony in mass graves.
Mary remained at home while Brandon travelled the country on a progress with the king. He rarely returned and never wrote. She missed him, but at least felt more secure now she no longer depended on his income. Cardinal Wolsey had saved her once again, successfully negotiating the resumption of her dower payments from France and securing a generous back payment of all the money due to her.
There was plenty to keep her occupied at Westhorpe as she prepared for the wedding of her stepdaughter Mary who, like Anne, was to become a baroness. She would miss Mary, who’d stepped into the shoes of her sister Anne as her main companion and confidante.
At sixteen, Mary Brandon had many of her father’s engaging qualities. Despite her youth, she’d taken over the running of Westhorpe, which would be good preparation for her future married life. She also learned much from Mary’s recollections of life in her brother’s court and her time in France, and asked many questions.
When the long-awaited summons arrived from the queen it felt like a turning point, a new start, after so long away from court. Mary was commanded to travel to Greenwich to attend a visit by French ambassadors. She called her stepdaughter and showed her the letter.
‘This means London is free of the plague at last, Mary. I would like you to travel with me, as my lady-in-waiting.’
‘It would be an honour.’ She read the short letter again, as if it might hold some hidden clue. ‘Will I meet the queen?’
‘With luck, you might even meet my brother the king. He can’t hide in hunting lodges forever with your father.’
Her stepdaughter smiled. ‘I long to see Father again.’
Mary felt the strange sense of loss that haunted her since she’d seen him last. They’d not parted on good terms after she asked him to try to restore Catherine’s place in her brother’s affections. Her instinct told her he was keeping secrets again. He’d shouted at her and ridden off without even a farewell kiss.
Henry’s court had changed out of recognition, reminding Mary that she’d remained away too long. Greenwich Palace looked bigger and brighter than she remembered. Colourful new tapestries of huntsmen chasing stags replaced her father’s faded biblical scenes. The windows had been enlarged and the room glowed with the light from hanging candelabras.
A group of musicians with lutes accompanied a man singing of courtly love in a soft tenor voice. Henry, dressed in dazzling cloth of gold with an ostrich plume in his cap, surrounded himself with a new coterie of handsome and athletic younger men, replacing the sober clerics and soldiers of her father’s court. The old guard, except for Norfolk and her husband, were gone.
Brandon greeted her as she arrived. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been able to write.’ He kissed her on the cheek but without affection. ‘You know what it’s like on Henry’s progresses.’
She studied his face, not sure how to respond to his weak excuses. His greying beard needed trimming and he’d put on weight but she longed to have him back. Despite the company of her daughters and little Henry she’d been lonely at Westhorpe. She missed feeling his strong arms around her as they drifted off to sleep. She missed having a husband.
‘You look well, Charles.’ She flattered him like she had as a young girl, although she noted the gold embroidery on his doublet and wondered how much it had cost. ‘It seems my brother has done some much-needed pruning since I was here last.’
He looked puzzled for a moment then grinned. ‘There were far too many leeches at court, sucking his coffers dry. Wolsey saw the chance to remove those who opposed him – which is why there is hardly anyone left.’
Mary frowned. ‘The cardinal saved my dower income, for which I’ll always be grateful.’
‘And forever in his debt?’ There was a scornful edge to his voice but he was no longer interested in her answer, as he looked over her shoulder in surprise. ‘Mary? I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Good day to you, Father.’ She smiled. ‘I am here by invitation as lady-in-waiting to the queen.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘I wasn’t aware...’
‘To La Reine Blanche,’ she smiled at Mary, ‘the Queen of France.’
The French king’s ambassador was a bear of a man, with piercing eyes that seemed to read Mary’s thoughts. He bowed graciously as they were introduced and kissed the gold rings on her offered hand.
‘Charles de Solier, Comte de Morette, at your service, Your Grace.’
She’d expected him to address her in French yet he spoke perfect English. Dressed in black and gold, he wore a heavy gold medallion on a thick chain around his neck, one hand resting on the hilt of a jewelled golden dagger. By any standard he was an impressive figure. Even his beard looked like burnished gold.
‘I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, ambassador. I trust King Francis is well, after his adventures in Italy.’
The count smiled at her understatement and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. ‘The king asked me to tell you he was most touched to receive your letter on his release, Your Grace. Your loyalty is beyond value.’
‘I was grieved to learn of the passing of Queen Claude. She showed me such kindness when I first arrived in Paris.’
‘France is a poorer place without her, Your Grace, as it is without you.’ His eyes held hers for a
moment too long, full of warmth and illicit possibility.
Mary acknowledged his compliment with a modest smile but her heart raced. She’d forgotten how charming the French king’s envoys could be. ‘Your king is not a man to remain unmarried for long. Who has he chosen as the new Queen of France?’
Count Charles glanced over his shoulder to where Henry stood in discussion with the other ambassadors from France. ‘That is, in part, what brings me to England, Your Grace, to arrange the betrothal of the Princess Mary, as well as a renewed treaty of peace between us.’
Mary glanced across the room to where Henry laughed loudly at some joke the ambassadors had made. She’d not forgotten what Queen Claude confided the last time they were alone together. Her frail condition after childbirth was not helped by the fact her husband suffered with the pox, his reward for so many mistresses.
Her stepdaughter was still talking with Brandon. They had a great deal of catching up to do, particularly about her wedding plans. Perhaps at last he would realise how he’s been neglecting his family. Mary decided this might be her only opportunity. She would have to speak to Queen Catherine without delay.
It was only then she realised Catherine was not present, although several of her ladies-in-waiting were entertaining the visiting ambassadors. Mary found her in her privy chamber with Maria de Salinas, Baroness Willoughby. Dona Maria, who’d arrived in England with Queen Catherine from Spain, was recently widowed. She was also a Suffolk neighbour, as she lived at Parham Hall, a day’s ride east of Westhorpe. The elegant woman Mary remembered as a girl had grown matronly but greeted her with a curtsey.
‘Your Grace.’
Mary placed her hand on Maria’s arm. ‘I was sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. He was a good man.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace. It is a great comfort to me that I am permitted to return to court.’ Her voice still carried a trace of her Spanish accent despite having lived longer in England. ‘I find I am lonely now my husband is gone.’