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

by Geraldine Evans

  ‘You didn’t say that? To the Cardinal? Oh Charles. What did he say?’

  Charles gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. ‘Some nonsense about the king not wishing to be troubled by our problems. That I shouldn’t put the king in the awkward situation of being asked to help his own sister. I took little notice of that, you can be sure.’ He flung himself down again then, on a chest this time and refused to speak further on the matter.

  Charles had retreated to the brooding silence that Mary had come to know so well in France. He would speak no more about it for the present that much was evident. Upset, she settled back to her discarded needlework, hoping the repetitive work would soothe her mind. She felt hurt that Charles should put his ambition to rise in her brother’s service higher than he put his wife. No doubt he would say she was being ridiculously romantic and perhaps he was right. But theirs had been a love match; surely it wasn’t foolish of her to feel hurt that he hadn’t put her first? But even if Charles did share others’ feelings that romance was but a light game, his clear reluctance to share a married idyll with her in the country was another matter. His admission that he had thought greatly on her jewels was yet another stab in her heart. She had believed he had cared little for her jewels. Had he not said so?

  But as, beneath her lashes, she studied his sullen expression, Mary wondered if she was not being too hard on him. It was reasonable that he should want her suitably dowered; other men expected as much. That she had been forced to barter most of her dower was now causing a strain between them and that was the last thing she wanted. She put down her sewing again and came to sit beside him. ‘Will you listen to me, Charles, if not to the Cardinal?’ She took his ungracious mutter for agreement. ‘You may not like the Cardinal’s manner of speech, my love, but I would caution you to pay heed to its content. I know my brother. Oh, I know he can be charming and boyish with his short-lived enthusiasms, but there’s a darker side to him. You should take notice of Wolsey. The king likes not to be placed in difficult situations. Before you married me you were simply a courtier, one of many. Your only duty was to please the king. He likes you well, but if now, in your new position, you tried to make demands on him, do you think he would still favour you as much?’

  He didn’t answer, but Mary could see he was listening. Softly, she asked, ‘You’ve not seen Henry, yet, I trust?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘I couldn’t find him to ask him anything.’

  Mary thanked God for that at least. ‘Please Charles, do not make my brother feel guilty on our behalf. Guilt is not an emotion he enjoys. You can feel sure that if Wolsey is dealing with the matter it is only because my brother doesn’t wish to. All you would do if you managed to speak to Henry would be to annoy him.’

  Some of the sullenness left Charles’s face and he admitted, ‘Wolsey said the same. I thought he had some motive of his own for trying to keep me from the king.’

  ‘Will you believe me? I am your wife and love you.’ Mary gazed worriedly at her still-sullen husband. ‘Promise me you’ll not trouble the king with this matter.’

  Charles heaved himself to his feet and made for the door. His voice sounded bitter. ‘Very well. I’ll not see him, but don’t expect me to see Wolsey again either. I begged for his help and he refused me, told me our troubles were all of our own making. I’ll not forgive him for this humiliation, so don’t ask it of me.’

  He went out then, clearly still angry. Mary was left alone with her unwelcome thoughts and the realisation that her dreams of married bliss were just that - dreams. She was now seeing another facet of her husband’s character, one that worried her. She hadn’t realised during the days of her girlish hero-worship that Charles Brandon’s bluff exterior hid an unreasoning pride. She remembered a casual remark of Lady Guildford’s—that the low-born who rose high were often more proud than those of inherited rank. Mary hadn’t taken any notice then; she did now. Her head began to nod on her neck again, as it had done in France. What might Charles’s pride bring him to?

  When he had got over the worst of his temper, Charles allowed Mary to persuade him into the country; at least he would get away from his creditors for a while.

  They had many estates from which to choose as the king had granted them property from the previous Dukes of Suffolk, the de la Poles. They had Donnington Castle and Letheringham Hall, Wingfield Castle and Westhorpe in Suffolk, as well as their London home, Suffolk House in Southwark. Mary’s favourite was Westhorpe.

  Six miles north of Stowmarket, the hamlet of Westhorpe had a beautiful little church, St Margaret’s. With its floor of medieval tiles, bricks and ledger stones, it had a simple, unspoiled atmosphere, which appealed to Mary after the unhappiness she had experienced in the magnificent buildings of France. She enjoyed the country life, too. Charles did not. He longed to be back at court - if only his creditors would let him. He was afraid his enemies would pour poison in the king’s ears if he was not there to provide the antidote. Mary tried to distract him with entertainments as lavish as their straitened circumstances allowed, but, even as he pretended pleasure for her sake, he was conscious that all her efforts succeeded only in getting them deeper in debt.

  Although he had done his best to snap out of his sullen mood and had managed to convince Mary that he was happy and not so concerned with ambition, he still, more and more often, found his gaze straying to the road that led to the court. He had told her he had no interest in her money, that it was the king’s money now. She wasn’t sure if she had believed him. She suspected Charles wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

  Desperately had Mary wanted to believe Charles when he had spoken of the money, but she felt he hadn’t been honest with her and suspected he cared very much about it. The great differences in their backgrounds was creating a division between them, one likely to widen with the years especially if his ambitions continued unmet.

  The thought saddened her anew. She, who had lately had more than her share of unhappiness and despair had hoped the Wheel of Fortune had turned sufficiently to allow that first, brief joy to continue. She could be content in the quiet of the country with Charles if he would only give over brooding about what could not be.

  It was late summer. The countryside looked lush and ripe, the hedgerows garlanded with cow parsley and foxgloves, the fields full of swaying corn; a fitting time, Mary felt, for her body too, to ripen with the fruit of the womb. Although she had only missed one of her monthly courses and could not be certain she was pregnant, Mary still longed to share her hopes with Charles. But given his current preoccupation she wasn’t sure how he would take the news. Maybe he would balk and complain at the likely cost of the ceremonies due to such a high-born infant.

  Besides, at the moment, he spent so much time out on the estate or with their neighbours, seeking news of the court that he was scarcely at home. And when he did return he was so inclined to be morose she scarce knew how to broach the subject. So she nursed the secret to herself.

  One day, gathering roses in the garden, her eyes misted over as she thought back to that other time in the garden, with Charles. How long ago that seemed. Their love had been so new then, so fresh. They should have seized their chance for happiness then. They would scarcely have endured more trouble if they had done so. She smiled through suddenly damp eyes as she remembered how he had plucked red and white roses for her, the white for York and the red for Lancashire and how their passion had scattered them on the ground. Her smile faded. Such bitter-sweet memories.

  She glanced up. Charles was striding towards her. She smiled a welcome and quickly wiped any hint of tears from her lashes as she tried to gauge his mood. ‘Hello, my love.’ She pressed her nose against the flowers and breathed in their heady scent. ‘I was just gathering some flowers for our bed-chamber. Do you remember when—?’

  Brusquely, he waved away the fond memories she had wanted to share with him. ‘You’re lucky to find something to occupy you, Mary. I would that I could find pleasure in such trivi
al pursuits.’

  Mary’s smile faded as his words made plain he had little interest in recalling the early days of their love. But once, he had found joy in such simple pleasures, she reminded herself in an attempt to ease her hurt. Tentatively, she asked, ‘Why are you so vexed, Charles? Has something happened to annoy you?’

  He banged his hat against his thigh with such ferocity that he knocked it out of shape which only increased his ill-temper. ‘Nothing but the same old annoyance. The same man who irks me. Stuck in this backwater for weeks is sufficient to make any man brood on the wrongs done to him. It’s well enough for a woman, such a life. But a man, Mary, needs to be at the centre of things, to help run affairs, to have a voice on the Council. I cannot be satisfied with the life of a simple country squire.’

  Such was his frustration that Mary decided to keep the news of her suspected pregnancy to herself for a while longer. It was clear he was not in the right mood to share her joy. Always emotional, pregnancy made her more so. She blinked away the threatening dampness from her eyes, only too conscious he had grown impatient with her tears. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry that he hadn’t even noticed them, never mind enquired as to their cause. Instead, he turned remorselessly on to the subject he had ranted about these many weeks: Wolsey.

  ‘He was the one who forced us from the court,’ he complained. ‘He fears my friendship with the king. He wants to be the only one able to influence his thoughts.’

  Roughly, he pulled a rose from its bush and robbed it of its pretty petals. ‘These accursed debts. They could be settled tomorrow if Wolsey desired it, I know. Damn the man for the butcher’s cur he is.’

  Mary stiffened behind the screening bouquet and pleaded, ‘Please, Charles, do not speak so. Wolsey has been a good friend to us. He was the only one willing to help us in our troubles. But for him, Henry might have let the Council have their way,’ she reminded him, hoping to recall to his mind the fear he had endured in Paris and thus kill his resentment before it grew dangerous. ‘They would have had your head, my love, but for Wolsey. We both do know it.’

  ‘How long am I expected to be grateful that he wrote a few letters and spoke a few soft words to the king? Simple enough deeds. Anyone could have done such.’

  ‘But they didn’t, Charles, did they?’ Mary reminded him. ‘Your friends at court were conspicuous by their silence.’ She grasped his arm. ‘We owe the Cardinal much, Charles. Pray don’t make an enemy of him. He’s a very clever man.’

  Charles pulled his arm from her grasp. ‘And I am not? Is that what you are saying?’ He scowled ‘Why should I fear the butcher’s cur? What could he do to me that he hasn’t already done?’

  ‘I don’t know, Charles,’ Mary told him wearily. ‘But I’d rather not find out. Leave him be, please. Don’t vex him any more. My lord of Norfolk would be only too pleased if you made of the Cardinal a mortal enemy.’

  As Mary looked at his bitter expression fear clutched at her heart. Why couldn’t he be happy? There was such peace here in the country, such tranquillity. She couldn’t understand how anyone could fail to find contentment in a home as beautiful as Westhorpe. But Charles wasn’t happy and the realisation saddened her. His heart was with the court and its doings and not with her. Briefly, Mary thought of King Louis, her aged first husband, and how easily contented he had been. He had asked only for her company, music from her lute and a little fondling. She had made him happy. Why could it not be the same with this husband whom she so desperately wanted to please?

  But nowadays it seemed nothing pleased him. Certainly, nothing she did seemed to do so. On a small, sad sigh, she left him to his brooding and turned away, heading for their bed-chamber, so she could arrange the pretty roses that had now, for her, lost their bloom.

  After all Mary’s misgivings, when she finally told Charles of her pregnancy, he was delighted. To her great joy he was very attentive during the long months of waiting. They were both pleased when they learned that Queen Catherine had, in February, the month before Mary’s own babe was expected, finally produced a healthy babe herself. Although only a girl, it seemed likely to live, unlike the son she had been carrying at the time of Mary’s departure for France. That infant, although full-term, had died shortly after his birth, during Mary’s sojourn at the French court.

  Mary’s child arrived not many weeks after Catherine’s daughter. Her labour was long and agonising, but, late in the March evening, she presented Charles with a son and heir. The birth of the child seemed to help Charles regain his good humour. His attentiveness during the pregnancy happily continued after the birth. Mary was overjoyed at the way he kept popping into her chamber to check on her and his son, round-eyed with wonder that she had presented him with such a precious gift. Mary, full of the happiness of new motherhood, now understood how much sadness the loss of previous babies had brought to her brother and Catherine.

  Charles wanted to name their son after the king. ‘Who knows?’ he said, ‘but that it may persuade your brother to be kinder to our son’s foolish father.’

  Although his words revealed that Charles hadn’t lost all his worldly ambition, Mary was glad to see that he could mock himself. She felt overcome with love for him and grasped his hand. She had had a long sleep after her ordeal and felt rested.

  Susan, her maid, had freshened her and she was glowing with the radiance that new motherhood bestowed. Readily, she smiled her agreement. ‘Henry, it shall be.’

  She knew, from his pleased expression, that she had won her husband’s heart all over again. But this time, Mary forbade herself from entertaining romantic girlish notions of love. She was a woman now and a mother. She accepted that although her love for Charles was strong, his for her was lighter and more easily borne. She believed he truly loved her, even so, as much as he was capable of loving any woman. It was simply that he lacked her ability for deep emotion; had he not always sought love where there would be other benefits also? It was the way of the world and he had his way to make in it, not being born to high estate. He had had dalliances in plenty, Mary didn’t doubt it. He had even been married. Several times.

  Mary, older and a little wiser, forced such unwelcome thoughts from her mind. Charles was hers now. He loved her. They had a son. And as he rightly said, this son she had given him might indeed bring her brother’s favour.

  King Henry, wistful as he was for a son of his own, made much of his young namesake. He even acted as his Godfather. After Henry’s little daughter, the Princess Mary, he named his nephew by Mary and Charles as heir to the throne. Charles had been overwhelmed by this, especially as Henry had set aside the prior claim of his elder sister Margaret’s sons in their favour. Mary’s labour completed the trinity of royal lyings-in, for her sister, Margaret, had presented her second husband with a baby daughter, Margaret, the previous October.

  Great state was held at little Harry’s christening. The king and the Cardinal both acted as sponsors. Mary began to hope that this indicated a rapprochement between her brother, the Cardinal and her husband. Charles had, for some time, been barely tolerated, as he had opposed the league against France for which Wolsey had pushed. In consequence, they had been forced to spend most of their time banished to their estates, much to Charles’s frustration.

  Now, Henry made much of his young namesake. Mary would catch him gazing wistfully at her son. She knew how much he longed for a boy of his own. Daily, she prayed that he and Catherine would be blessed with a son as had she and Charles.

  Quiet in the country after the birth celebrations, Mary followed with astonishment the adventures of her elder sister, Margaret. After her secret marriage to Archibald Douglas, the Council had transferred the regency of her two sons by the king to her late husband’s first cousin, John Stewart, the Earl of Albany and next heir to the Scottish throne after James IV’s two sons by Margaret. Besieged, the pregnant Margaret had been forced to flee the country, leaving her boys and her regency in the power of Albany. She had given birth to A
rchibald Douglas’s child, Margaret, in Northumberland the previous October.

  Now, Mary heard her sister was heading south and Mary and Charles were amongst those summoned to court to welcome her.

  They returned to court in May. Mary was excited. It was so many years since she had seen her elder sister that she could scarce remember her. Margaret had been married into Scotland, to King James IV, years before at the age of thirteen when Mary had been a mere child of seven. Widowed just before her twenty-fourth birthday, Margaret had secretly married Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus.

  Mary, her memories of her sister few and hazy, was convinced she and her sister would have much in common; had they not both dared to enter into secret marriages? Were they not now both mothers? Excitedly, she looked forward to their reunion.

  The court was at Greenwich and it was to Greenwich Palace, its gardens bursting forth with the buds of May, that Margaret came. To Mary’s disappointment, though Margaret had her new daughter with her, she had been forced to leave behind her two sons by the king.

  Mary remembered her sister had been a pretty girl. But pregnancies and discontent had tarnished her looks. Only in her middle twenties, not only were her looks and figure more those of a middle-aged matron, her manner regally arrogant, she also spoke down to her younger sister, as if she were still truly a child to be dismissed.

  Mary was disappointed to find the combination little to her liking. But this was her long-absent and only sister, she reminded herself. Margaret had had much with which to contend and she must not expect her to readily shed her troubles and indulge in sisterly confidences. After the many travails she had experienced in Scotland, Margaret’s character would inevitably have formed into a tougher fabric. She must make allowances.