Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII

by Geraldine Evans

  But her tears had done their work. He grabbed her and folded her in a great bear hug as he muttered against her hair, ‘For the love of God, Mary, all right, I’ll marry you. Only I beseech you, stop this weeping. You tear me apart.’

  Mary’s smile pressed unseen against his neck. As if by magic, her tears dried. Now her eyes shone bright with love alone. She had got her heart’s desire at last. It was a heady feeling. One she was determined would linger longer than this brief interlude. Worried that once he left her chamber and her tears behind, Charles might begin to fret in fear of what her brother might do, and renege on his agreement to marry her, Mary meant to make sure she held him fast. Her body would give him the courage of her convictions, she vowed, as she kissed him with the passion Francis had been denied.

  It took just a few moments for Charles’s passion to swell to match her own. Soon, the chamber echoed and re-echoed to the sounds of their mutual delight.

  Caught up in the tumult of rapture, Mary’s senses were oblivious to the sound of the door opening or the faint waft of the perfume Louise favoured.

  But the lovers sprang apart at the harsh accusation when they heard Louise demand, ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  They stared fearfully at Louise as she walked towards them. Her voice scornful, she asked Mary, ‘How can you behave in such a shameless fashion, Madam? How many men do you draw into your web? First my son and now my Lord of Suffolk. ‘Tis no way for a queen to behave, I’ll swear. And you sir.’ Now the scorn was aimed at Charles. ‘Is this how you behave to your master’s sister, queen as she is though she be unfit for the role? You had better make good your promise and wed the lady here and now, before she causes more scandal.’

  Mary turned hesitantly to Charles. Much as she wanted to marry him, it was demeaning to be caught like this and by Louise of all people. Especially as, ill-concealed behind the scorn, Mary could detect the woman’s triumph that, having caught them in each other’s arms, her lustful son could be saved from the folly of his pursuit of Mary. Finding them like this must have been exactly what Louise had hoped for when she had set her spies. How richly she had been rewarded.

  ‘Why do you hesitate?’ Louise now demanded, as Mary and Charles both remained silent. ‘You made the lady a promise, my lord. I presume you would honour it?’

  It was a humiliating few moments for Mary before Charles said he would.

  Once Louise had obtained Charles’s agreement, she turned back to Mary. ‘And you, Madam? You pushed him hard enough to wed you, I vow. I could hear your tantrums from the garden. Have you changed your mind so soon?’

  Mary shook her head.

  ‘Very well then. Adjust your disordered clothing and come with me.’

  A few minutes’ later, they followed bemusedly behind Louise as she strode briskly through the door to the exquisite little chapel that was along the passage from Mary’s bed-chamber. They barely had a chance to exchange a look or a word before a hastily summoned priest led them through their falteringly exchanged vows as they stood before the altar under the determined eye of Francis’ mother. When the priest asked for the ring, Louise pulled one from her finger and handed it to Brandon. Mary could feel his hand tremble as he slipped it on her finger.

  And so they were wed. But it didn’t feel real to Mary. She only woke to reality when they were bid to kiss. The physical embrace broke the spell and Mary gazed at Charles in sudden fear as she realised the enormity of what they had done. But the matching fear she saw in her new husband’s eyes brought back a measure of courage and defiance to Mary. This, however, didn’t last any longer than the time it took them to retrace their steps back up the aisle.

  What would Henry say? Mary asked herself as her heart thundered in her breast. Worse – what would he do? By now, fear had them both in its grip. Mary told herself that she now had her heart’s desire. But only time would tell what it would cost them.

  Again defiance crept into her mind. Let Henry do what he would. She was now Charles’s wife. And, after all, she had Henry’s promise - didn’t she? Mary clung to this thought with the tenacity brought of desperation.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alone again in Mary’s bed-chamber, she and Charles gazed fearfully at one another. The spectre of Henry’s wrath hung over them both. Mary, worried that Charles’s dread of Henry’s reaction to their marriage would encourage resentment that her love had put his very life in danger, flung herself into his arms. She was relieved when he clung to her instead of pushing her away as she had half feared. But it could not be long before he realised it would be him who would bear the brunt of Henry’s anger. How could he not then blame her for it?

  But, at least for now, Charles seemed set on quietening Mary’s anxieties. He poured a glass of wine for her, then another. When she had quietened, he removed the glass from her trembling fingers. He stroked her hair and gently, at first, kissed the rest of her tears away.

  Mary, her senses heightened by their plight, felt the last tremors of fear turn to passion. As their kisses grew more urgent, fear was thrust aside before an even stronger emotion. Charles undressed her, kissed her arms, her breasts, her belly, as each part of her clothing fell away. Hastily, he stripped off his own garments. Lifting her into his arms he lay her down on the tumbled covers of the bed.

  Mary, eager to forget their plight, yielded with delight to his demanding hands. This was what she had yearned for for so long. After poor Louis, the experienced Francis had made her senses churn and reminded her of the feelings Charles had brought her to in England. Now, she was free to indulge such feelings. And indulge them she did. Her hands caressed Charles’s muscular back as he rested on his elbows above her. She kissed his face, his chest, his lips.

  She realised her inexperience only tormented him when he grabbed her hands and held them above her head so he could take charge. Masterfully, he did so, kissing and fondling every inch of her till she twisted and turned like a wanton. Finally, driven mad with desire, eager for the consummation, she arched herself to him and begged. She didn’t have to beg for long.

  Passion spent, they lay still. With the passing of passion, their fears had leisure to return.

  Mary, used to strong guidance all her life, now sought the guidance of her new husband. But when she asked him what they should do it was clear that her earlier fears had been prescient. For Charles had no more words of comfort to offer her. He lay staring at the painted ceiling, as rigid as if he saw depicted there all the hellish sufferings a mere mortal must endure after defying the gods.

  Certainly, the wrath of a Tudor could be every bit as awesome and Henry was Tudor to his very core. What might he not do to the man who had secretly married his sister and who had then compounded his folly by laying with her? Mary trembled as it dawned on her that Charles could lose his head over this.

  It seemed Charles shared her worry, for he fingered his neck as if to check his head still remained attached to it. His breath became ragged. Did he, too, hear the voices of Henry’s Council as they demanded death for his treachery, Norfolk’s voice above all, baying for blood? As she watched, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. She reached for him to offer what comfort she could, but he leapt from the bed, evaded her clutching hands, and began to throw his clothes on. He paused in his dressing for long enough to reply to Mary’s earlier, unanswered question.

  ‘We don’t tell him. We won’t tell Henry that we are wed and have lain together. You must write to him, Mary, ask his permission as though we had never exchanged our vows.’

  But they had and they meant the world to her. Mary stared at him in dismay. Charles didn’t notice, she saw. He was too keen to line up his defences.

  ‘Write tenderly to him, Mary. Remind him of his promise. He’ll relent and release me from my oath and we can be married again as though the first had never been. Your brother need never know of our folly. It is the only way.’

  Mary scrambled from the bed. She put a robe around her nakedness, crossed the room and
took his hand. It was her fault that her magnificent warrior of only a few weeks’ past had turned into this fear-filled creature. She must do what she could to assuage his fears and reassure him. But to do that he must first face facts. ‘You forget there were witnesses, Charles. Do you think Madam Louise will keep our secret? She has no great love for me. She has long looked to do me some harm and she now has her weapon. We cannot conceal our marriage as easily as you say.’

  He frowned as she forced him to face the truth. But if they were to come out of this with as little damage as possible, they needed to think clearly and make plans based on reality. Mary’s next words damaged his hope even more. ‘Besides, what if Henry refuses to be as accommodating as you hope? What if he insists on the Flanders match for me? Unless he knew of our marriage and its consummation he might push for the match only to have the embarrassment of extricating himself when he knew the truth. He would look a fool, ignorant of the doings of his own kin. It would not increase his kindness towards us.’ Mary, anxious not to add to his worries, forbore to mention the possibility of their love-making bearing fruit.

  As Charles was still reluctant to tell Henry the truth, they searched desperately for a solution to their dilemma. Possibility after possibility was considered and as quickly discarded till they ran out of ideas. They had been wed but a few short hours and already worry had tarnished Mary’s bright happiness. Charles had retreated into a heavy brooding that was a silent reproach. Would he have married her at all without the forceful persuasion of Louise? For all his height and manly strength, Mary knew he was more frightened of the future than she - and had every right to be. Guilt gnawed at her as she accepted that her tearful recriminations and Madam Louise’s scorn had combined to put him in jeopardy. Now, not only his worldly ambition, but his very life was threatened. And it was her fault.

  Charles broke his brooding to ask, ‘Why did we let that woman push us into such a hasty marriage? We could now be on our way home to England.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘What have your tears brought us to?’

  Mary flinched as he put her fears into words. She tried to stay calm, for both their sakes. She pleaded with Charles to remain calm also. ‘Anger will not solve our problems,’ she told him gently. ‘It may increase them by clouding our judgement.’

  ‘Calm you say? How can I be calm when the Council are likely to be soon demanding my destruction? Is it your head that the axe hovers over? Nay. ‘Tis my head they’ll seek, not yours. You are safe enough.’

  Mary threw herself on her knees before him. ‘Don’t, Charles,’ she begged, as fresh tears washed her eyes. ‘Please do not speak so.’

  But her tears only served to madden him the more. ‘Not more weeping? It was your tears that forced me to this. Why couldn’t you have waited as I asked?’ He wrenched himself away from her clinging hands and strode to the window to stare out at a wintry night bright with stars. ‘Curse this day and your lovesick weeping.’

  Mary staggered to her feet on trembling limbs. Was ever happiness so short-lived? In a small voice, she asked him, ‘Do you no longer love me then, Charles, to curse me so?

  He tore himself away from his angry contemplation of the stars and turned back to her. ‘You know full well I do, Mary. Has my folly not proved it?’ He began to pace the room as if unable to keep still. ‘Look at us.’ He waved his arm at the ornate wooden doors. ‘Skulking behind closed doors, scared of our own shadows. Do you expect love to blossom under such constraints?’ Dumbly, Mary shook her head. He stopped his pacing and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘What do you think your brother will do? Will he be swayed by the Council?’

  Anxious to convince him as well as herself, Mary’s answer came quickly. ‘Nay, I’m convinced he won’t. We must believe in Henry’s intention to honour his promise. He loves us both well,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Enough to withstand the Council? Enough to forgive this?’ As his hand described the disordered room, the rumpled bed, and the scattered, hastily discarded clothing, the enormity of the hoped-for forgiveness seemed to hit him again and he slumped in a chair as though exhausted.

  Mary was desperate to comfort him. But how could she? She was the cause of his present misery. Any comfort she attempted to give him was more likely to rekindle his anger than douse it. Because he was right. Her tears had brought him to this. Who knew to what they would now lead him? She had scarce had a thought beyond her own needs and desires. Wishful thinking had made Henry’s acceptance a thing easily imagined. Did she not have his promise? Blinded by the rosy hues of love she had been unable to see beyond to the consequences of her reckless actions. Now, as she watched Charles and his growing terror of retribution, she had all the time in the world to dwell on such matters.

  Exhausted suddenly, she sank on to the bed. So much depended on her brother and how seriously he viewed his promise. And how much he truly loved her and her husband, the man he had often called his ‘great friend’ Maybe their one friend in all this might be Henry’s over-worked conscience. Perhaps she should try pricking this delicate part of her brother to see if she could sting him into forgiveness. Mary knew how much Henry hated being made to feel in the wrong. He had often proved vulnerable in his attempts to escape such an unwelcome sensation.

  Her gaze hovered over her new husband. She had cause to know how weak, how tender these big men could be. A few words might be enough, if coupled prettily with tears. She would have to be careful though, lest she pressed too hard. It would be better to let Henry’s conscience provide most of the persuading. Henry’s delicate conscience could be unpredictable if cornered and would be likely to turn on whoever caused it grief.

  If only Wolsey could be persuaded to help them. He was a man of much ability and, in spite of his rather gross exterior, he could be surprisingly subtle. Often, he had caused a complete turn-around in Henry’s thinking, with Henry believing it was his own mind which had wrought the change. She knew Henry depended on Wolsey for many things and was greatly influenced by him. If only, Mary thought, if only she could persuade him to raise his voice in their defence.

  She left Charles to his brooding , crossed to her bureau. and picked up her pen. But words didn’t come easily. Her gaze, wondering round the chamber, rested on one of her jewel boxes. It contained some of the countless valuable jewels that Louis had given her. Much help all the riches they contained were to her now.

  She stilled, even as the thought entered her head. Unbidden, came a picture of her brother as he had looked at the waterside at Dover when he had confirmed his solemn promise. He had looked big, confident and decked out in expensive jewels. But surely none were more expensive than her pilfered dowry jewel with its glittering diamonds.

  Mary stared pensively at her jewel boxes as a faint hope entered her heart and trembled on her lips. Unwilling to give Charles false hope, she turned the idea round in her mind for a while. She could find nothing wrong with it. Charles looked so forlorn that she knew she must seize on any chance to encourage hope in his breast.

  He raised his head as she said his name and gazed at her with dull eyes.

  ‘What does my brother love above all else?’ she asked. ‘Above his queen, his mistresses, his friends?’

  Charles frowned as he pondered this. Then he shrugged. ‘He has a great fondness for wealth, I suppose.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Aye. Wealth and jewels, of which I have an abundance. Do you think they might be sufficient to buy Henry’s forgiveness?’

  Relieved to see some of Charles’s melancholy lift, Mary realised she might well have hit on the way to escape Henry’s anger. Louis’ generous gifts of jewellery would provide it, she was sure. But first, she must offer Henry the bait. Feverishly now, Mary took up her pen again. ‘We must find out his feelings before we dare tell him of what we have done. I’ll make him a deed of gift. Louis gave me many, many costly jewels. Worcester told me he had seven coffers filled with them. He’s showered most of them on me.’ Mary’s voice sounded lighter now, as some of its heavy burd
ens eased. ‘If need be, Henry can have them all. They are worth a king’s ransom.’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘Surely they will be enough to ransom a mere Dowager-Queen and her low-born husband? I won’t send the deed yet, though. First, we’ll see how the land lies. It may not be necessary to relinquish them at all.’

  Mary’s quill flew swiftly across the page, words coming easily to her now. Finally, she sat back. The atmosphere in the room was subtly different. Hope had slithered under the door. She could feel it.

  While Mary and Charles awaited the response to the letters, her time in widowed seclusion came to an end and she was thrust from her quiet, if troubled retreat, back to the life of the court. But at least it gave them something else to think about than what reply the letters would receive.

  She and Charles took part in Francis’ joyous entry into Paris. They both felt they must be the censure of all eyes and checked furtively for sly looks and hidden laughter. Mary was surprised when they saw none as she had fully expected their secret marriage to have leaked out and be the talk of the court. But no one gave them more than a second’s glance amidst the excitements the celebrations of Francis’ coronation brought. And no wonder, thought Mary. The procession that entered Paris this February day was said to be the most gorgeous ever seen. In the midst of it rode Francis, on a magnificent white Arab stallion. With all the easy charm at his command, he graciously acknowledged the cheers while encouraging his heralds to throw even more gold and silver coins to the crowd.

  Francis caught Mary’s gaze on him and blew her a kiss. She quickly lowered her eyes lest he see their turmoil. For some reason best known to herself, Louise had kept the secret of their marriage to herself. She must have done, Mary reasoned, otherwise, even amidst all the ceremonies, Francis would have sought her out and cross-questioned her relentlessly. But he was ever one for prying and she couldn’t afford to give him an opportunity to part her from this secret. Although it was true he had given their theoretical marriage his blessing, he might feel differently were he to know it was actually accomplished and consumated. Mary knew she couldn’t afford to rekindle his jealousy. Who knew what might be the result? To cause the anger of one king was bad enough, but to anger two would be utter folly.