As the meaning of Wolsey’s words penetrated her fear, she closed her eyes. Relief flowed through her, leaving her body so limp she was barely able to keep her feet. Wolsey had saved them. She would have to sacrifice all her jewels and plate and a large part of her dowry to secure Henry’s forgiveness. But what did she care for any of them? All that mattered was that Charles would live. Willingly would she give up all her newly-acquired riches to save her husband’s life.
Mary sank down on the nearest stool as her legs weakened further and threatened to give way altogether. She bid the startled messenger wait whilst she scribbled a hasty reply agreeing to all her brother’s greedy demands, then bade him go the the kitchens to refresh himself after his journey.
But still they must wait whilst the haggling over valuables raged. She and Charles were not yet free to leave Paris and its accursed mud and rain. Francis proved as obstinate as the weather and demanded that Mary must pay her late husband’s debts before she could take their possessions out of his realm.
Letters flew back and forth across the Channel, but still the haggling continued. Mary’s earlier relief turned to despair. Would it never end? Her health had become poor from so many anxieties. She longed only for peace in the English countryside with Charles. But the prospect seemed to get no nearer. The weeks turned to months, the spring buds were everywhere bursting forth and still they couldn’t escape. Mary began to feel they were destined to spend the rest of their lives suspended in this tortuous Limbo while first Francis, then Henry, played with their lives. She shed so many bitter tears that the skin around her eyes turned puffy and her eyes sank back in her head. Truly, she felt she would now certainly be safe from Francis should any of his lust for her linger.
As for Charles, he had discovered a new vigor. Determined to get Francis back on their side, he spent much time in his company, leaving Mary to her thoughts.
At last, it seemed that Charles’s efforts had paid off and agreement was finally reached. Mary learned that she was to get half of the plate and the sum of 50,000 crowns, which was about half the value of the jewels. She would also receive about two-fifths of her jointure. The lion’s share of all this would of course go to Henry and now, pacified by such wealth, he gave his consent. They could at last go home.
But before this much longed-for event could happen they were to renew their marriage vows before the French court. As it was Lent, they must secure the permission of the Bishop, but this was granted with no difficulty.
Mary dressed with care, conscious of the number of hostile eyes that would be watching. The French, with their worldly cynicism, thought she was a fool and worse, had let her emotions and her bodily desires overrule good sense. She could have taken Charles to her bed without an eyebrow being raised, but to marry him damned her in their eyes. Charles, though, they admired for acquiring such a high-born wife. Not a few of the ladies of the court eyed him with interest, clearly wondering what erotic delights lay beneath the bluff exterior. With sly looks had they watched Francis’ pursuit of Mary, then along had come the tall Englishman who had whisked Mary from under the king’s nose. Clearly, the court found it most amusing.
In spite of the care Mary took for the occasion, she could do little to improve her looks. Her eyes were still shadowed and puffy from all her weeping, her golden hair had lost its sheen and hung about her shoulders fighting her eyes for dullness. The weeks of fearful strain had inevitably taken their toll on her golden beauty and now, when she was had most need of the assurance it provided, it had deserted her.
She gritted her teeth. So be it. She would have to face the stares as best she could. At least Claude had been kind and had wished her well. Luckily, Claude was unaware of how ready Francis had been to cast her off for Mary or she mightn’t have had even her friendly face.
Mary took a deep breath, stole one last glance at her pale reflection and turned away. She was ready. This was yet another ordeal to be gone through, albeit one that would see her truly married to Charles with no risk of the marriage being put asunder. She walked to the door and as she recalled Lady Guildford’s advice, she held her head high. She felt she had truly grown up at last.
Mary stood proudly at Charles’s side and made her vows, ignoring the sly whispers. It mattered not that it was scarcely any more joyous an occasion than their secret marriage had been. All that mattered what that, in the eyes of the world, it was legal and they were truly man and wife. Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Beside her, she felt Charles’s body sag with relief.
They were finally free to set out, first to Calais and then home to England. The relief was tremendous. When she thought how it might have turned out... But Mary wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on the thought. For all the past, nerve-wracking weeks, she had been convinced she must be pregnant, but now, with the ending of her fears and the relaxation of tension, her monthly flow returned. She cursed her traitorous body for giving them an additional, unnecessary anxiety to add to all the rest they had endured. But at least her false pregnancy had helped them accomplish their marriage so it could not be despised. She wondered what Henry would say when he realised her body had deceived him also.
The weather brightened as though to match their mood. They rode at a goodly pace along the road to Calais, accompanied by many of the French nobles, half-fearful that even now Francis might change his mind and demand their return. Francis had seen them both before they left. Still vexed by the loss of the Miroir, he could barely be civil to Mary, blaming her for its being sent to England. His gallantry had vanished as surely as the jewel and there was little chance of either returning. Mary didn’t care. She had what she wanted and would soon be gone out of his reach. She smiled ruefully as she opened the traditional gift for a widowed queen returning to her homeland. Francis had sent her several jewels of little value. His subtlety gone the way of his gallantry, his paltry gift revealed what he thought of her better than any words. But she was pleased that Francis had been pleasant to Charles, glad for her husband’s sake that Francis chose to be friendly towards him.
The road was dusty, but to Mary it was a glorious dust after Paris and its endless, enclosing prison of mud. She turned to Charles, caught his eye and they both laughed, albeit with a touch of hysteria. Everything delighted them. They were free, in love and married. Soon they would be home in England. They threw coins to the urchins who ran beside them when they passed through villages and laughed at the children’s delight. They could ill-afford such generosity, but neither of them cared. It was now Henry’s money. Recklessly, they threw some more. They would worry about their lack of funds when they reached England. For now, they simply wished to bask in the warm sunshine of freedom. Nothing could dismay them.
Henry’s town of Calais rose up before them and they spurred their tired horses towards it.
Calais was quiet and offered them little welcome. Mary, upset by the sullen looks directed at them after all the hostility she had experienced in France, was doubly-wounded to be treated in like manner by her own people. Her previous high spirits lowered. Was this how they would be received in England itself?
As they arrived at their lodging and retired to the chamber allotted to them, the thought made her imagination lively with fresh anxieties. Had Henry only agreed to their homecoming to get his hands on her riches? Did he still intend to wreak his revenge on them?
The scowling faces of the townspeople of Calais filled them both with such unease that Charles sent for Sir Richard Wingfield, the Deputy of Calais and demanded to know why their welcome had been so poor.
Sir Richard explained he had forced certain of the people of Calais to delay a long-planned visit to England, thinking they should be here to greet the king’s sister. But they had been expected weeks ago. The many delays had caused frustration.
Charles was irritated that Wingfield’s actions should have caused them additional, needless distress. Curtly, he dismissed the man. But Mary was relieved that it was merely frustration and nothing mo
re sinister that had caused the sullen looks. Even so, their lack of welcome had distressed her, bringing back as it had all her old fears in full measure. And by the next morning’s dawning her anxieties had had time to gnaw away at her. She was filled with disquiet and suggested to Charles that it would be better if they proceeded slowly. ‘Better, I think, for us to remain in Calais rather than cross to England just yet. It would be safer to bide here till we hear from Henry and can better judge his intentions.’
Charles was impatient with her. ‘Your nerves but play you false, Mary. You heard Wingfield. It was he who caused the sullen looks, not anything we have done, nor any instruction from the king. Calm yourself.’
But Mary wasn’t to be calmed. She felt uneasy. ‘I don’t care, Charles. I feel there is more to it than the towns-people’s frustration at having their trip to England delayed. You said yourself you felt threatened when you ventured out of doors. Yet why should that be when it was my arrival for which they were forced to tarry?’
Her words failed to breed caution and she was forced to reveal what was troubling her. ‘I fear we but get a taste of the welcome that awaits us in England.’
She took his hand in hers and pleaded with him. ‘Please, my love, humour me. It would not be safe to cross to England just yet. We have waited so long, what difference can a few more days make? Better, too, I think, if we do not venture out while we are here.’
A look of exasperation marred her husband’s handsome looks and Mary knew her entreaties had annoyed him. He did not take kindly to being cooped up. He had had enough of that in Paris. Her eyes filled with the tears that her recent travails had made too-ready. But at least, at sight of them, Charles’s resolve weakened sufficiently for him to promise her that he wouldn’t venture outdoors again.
Mary could only pray his confinement wasn’t a lengthy one. To make it as short as possible, she wrote a hasty letter to her brother. Just in case he was planning an unpleasant surprise for them, and reminded him of his promise once more, hoping such a pin-prick would shame him from any such plan.
To their relief, within a few days they received such loving letters that even Mary’s fears vanished. There would now be no need to retreat back into France to the uncertain sanctuary offered by Francis. They were safe to cross the sea.
Mary still felt some trepidation about their likely reception, but now she believed that Henry at least meant them no harm. They could brave the rest. She was glad to see that Charles had quickly thrown off his worries. After witnessing his vulnerability and all too human fears, she had become more tender towards him. She felt the need to make up to him for all the misery she had put him through.
Now they could begin to put the dreadful start to their marriage behind them. In future, Mary was determined she would be a loving wife to Charles instead of the tying problem she had been thus far.
RELUCTANT QUEEN: BOOK TWO
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The water of the Channel was gentle for this journey. Mary had feared the same fierce seas that had brought her to France, a weeping, reluctant bride, going to her aged husband. How well had the tempest-tossed sea suited her unhappy mood.
Now Fortune’s Wheel had turned in her favour. For this journey she had a husband who was beloved by her side rather than an unloved one awaiting her at journey’s end. It was an omen of the bright future that was to be theirs. She took Charles’s hand as they stood at the ship’s rail and waved goodbye to sullen Calais, mud-sodden Paris and all their woes.
Charles smiled down at her. ‘Happy, sweetheart?’
Mary gazed up at him with shining eyes. ‘I’m so happy I feel drunk with it.’ She laughed and squeezed his hand. Nervously, given all that she had put him through, she asked, ‘And you, Charles? I wanted to come to you a properly dowered bride. Instead, I’m a widow, almost a paupered one at that. Can you forgive me for all the trouble I’ve caused you?’ Tremulously, she waited for his reply.
He silenced her with a kiss. ‘I have a Queen. A beautiful Queen. ‘Tis enough for me. You would be enough for any man, let alone one as low-born as I.’
Mary felt tears wash her cheeks at his words. But these were tears of joy and she was glad of them. Glad, too, to hear his reassurances. After all, Charles was a man of great ambition; it was one of the things she had admired about him. Yet he still loved and wanted her, with or without her dower. Everything had happened so fast that he hadn’t had time to think about how their actions might yet affect him. She feared remorse might yet set in over his broken oath to Henry and possibly blighted future. She suspected also that he would be disappointed in his high hopes that Henry would give them back a large part of her wealth as a marriage gift. But for now, she put such thoughts to the back of her mind. They had waited long enough for this happy time to come and she intended to enjoy it to the full. She snuggled up to Charles and together they turned their faces to the receding shores of France. Soon, it was just a misty blur on the horizon. The sun was shimmering on the water as they went below, the promise of love in their eyes and in the lightness of their step.
The crossing was swift. The bright breeze filled the sails till they rounded like a full-bosomed matron and pushed them and all Mary’s ‘winnings’ in France - the many riches the sickly Louis had showered on her - onward to Dover. The closer they came to home, the more Mary had to steel herself. And, in spite of Charles’s confident words, she suspected he, too, expected to receive a mixed reception.
All too quickly their loving solitude came to an end. Soon, they were able to pick out individual faces from those waiting to greet them. Mary scanned them anxiously. She couldn’t see Henry or Wolsey. Where were they? Why had they not come? Was it a sinister portent that neither man had come to welcome them home? Mary, well aware that her brother preferred to leave any unpleasantness to others, felt a fresh rush of anxiety.
She saw Lady Guildford. Her old governess had managed to push her way to the front of the throng and Mary scanned her face for any hint that trouble loomed. But Lady Guildford’s countenance, schooled to show no emotion, told Mary nothing and she had to wait till the ship had docked before she could pose any questions.
As soon as the gangplank was down, Mary flew across and threw herself into Lady Guildford’s arms, glad to feel the familiar security fold itself around her. But even then, she had to wait to ask her questions. The proprieties still had to be observed. Her old governess expected nothing less.
After a swift hug, Lady Guildford held Mary away from her and exclaimed, ‘What foolishness is this, my little Queen? As soon as my back is turned you throw discretion and sense to the winds it seems.’
‘Ah, but Mother, I’m happy, so happy.’
Her obvious joy softened the stern old lady. Mary had expected a lecture, but instead all she received was the warning, ‘Well, you’re married to him now, my lady, for better or worse. Naught I can say will alter that, so I give you my blessing.’
Mary smiled, brought Charles forward and bade them kiss each other, which coaxed a couple of chilly pecks. Finally able to pose the troubling question, she was relieved to learn that the absence of Henry and Wolsey heralded nothing sinister and that they awaited her and Charles at Wolsey’s manor at Barking. They set off eagerly. Mary gazed about her with delight to be back in England. How fresh and clean everything looked under the May sunshine. The trees seemed more green, the grass more lush, the countryside more rich than anything France could offer.
Wolsey met them along the road. Charles was inclined to be a little sheepish at first, but Wolsey, subtle politician that he was spoke to him in a friendly manner and soon put Charles at his ease. Mary chattered away happily, glad to be home and grateful to Wolsey for his kind greeting and for all his efforts on their behalf. They were nearly at Barking when they spotted the unmistakable figure of Henry riding towards them. Mary and Charles exchanged nervous glances. She saw him lick his lips as if they had suddenly become dry. Mary, too, felt a tremor course through her body as her brother
approached. Henry looked as big and handsome as ever. He stopped his horse a few paces from them and regarded them solemnly.
A sudden hush descended at this silent regard. Mary glanced again at Charles and he at her. As their gazes returned slowly, reluctantly to the king, from the corner of her eye Mary saw Charles’s hand steal to his neck, in a repetition of the nervous habit he had developed while in France.
The silence lengthened. Suddenly, Henry broke it with a great roar which made them jump. But their fear was soon allayed. Henry had been playing with them. He slapped his thigh and cried out in a hearty manner, ‘Welcome. Welcome.’
Mary slumped in her saddle. For all that he was a grown man and a mighty king, her brother’s sense of humour could be surprisingly childish. Childish, and with a hint of cruelty. Henry had just been reminding them of his power.
Henry leapt from his horse and strode towards them. Mary knew she was truly home when he swept her to the ground and enclosed her in a huge bear-hug
When Henry released her, she stood back and smiled up at him. ‘You look well, Henry. Indeed, everything looks good here in England.’ Mary heard the breathlessness in her voice and hoped Henry hadn’t noticed it. She had been so determined to be calm and serene. ‘How is Catherine?’
‘Well enough, Mary. Well enough.’ Henry’s queen and her health were dismissed. He held Mary at arm’s length and gazed at her. ‘So, you’re finally home. ‘Tis good to see you, sweetheart. We’ve missed you.’
Mary bit back an ironic smile at this revelation of filial devotion. Who would have thought there had ever been any anger or disagreement between them? Or that Henry, through Wolsey, had haggled over her rich French ‘winnings’ till he had got his way? She could have been home weeks ago but for Henry. But with him ready to play the magnanimous brother now was not the time to remind him of this. Instead, Mary kissed him and allowed him to lead her over to her husband.
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 19