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

by Geraldine Evans

  Daily, Mary would await his return to her side so he could pour out his grievances and resentments; against Wolsey that he should be subjected to such cross-questioning, against the nobles of the court who resented his grand marriage. Underlying all was the unspoken resentment against Mary herself which always strained the atmosphere between them at times of difficulty. Although she still loved him deeply and felt certain that he returned her love Mary was saddened to acknowledge that the endless disputes over money were changing her husband’s previously optimistic disposition. He was often sullen nowadays. Such a short time ago she had been basking in the glow of his love after the birth of Frances, feeling positive about the future for the first time in weeks. Mary could only wonder where all their hoped-for happiness had gone.

  She had thought that the peace brought by the truce and the promise of her dower would solve all these problems but it seemed there were always others to replace them. Even her health had become uncertain, the stress caused by her unpopular marriage and consequent lack of money had both taken their toll. She fell ill with an ague and took to her bed, which caused them to overstay her brother’s invitation. With so many enemies dogging his heels Charles was anxious not to upset Henry and he urged her to leave her bed.

  ‘We should be gone from here by now, Mary. The king will be displeased if we tarry longer. Come, surely, you can walk as far as the litter; I’ll call your maid to get you ready.’

  Mary watched with shadowed eyes as he hurried from the room, calling loudly for Susan. She hated to see her husband, the undoubted champion of the joust in France, reduced to such anxiety. Worse still was knowing she was the cause of it once again. Love and guilt forced her from her bed. Her legs trembled with weakness, the room spun and she hit the floor with a crash. Determined that, in this at least, she must not fail him, she tried to rise, but the remaining strength in her limbs dissolved and she was unable to drag herself to her feet and was forced to lie there till Charles returned with her maid.

  Susan, ever careful of her mistress’s wellbeing, shot Charles one quickly concealed look of resentment before she urged Mary back to bed. ‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere, Madam,’ she told her firmly.

  ‘But my lord is—’ Mary protested.

  Susan was insistent. ‘Never mind about that, my lady. The king will surely not force you on to the road, sick as you are. Whatever were you thinking of?’ Although the question was to Mary, it was clear that it was really Charles to whom the question was addressed and it reduced him to a shame-faced but still-glowering resentment and he left her to her maid’s ministrations.

  Mary allowed Susan to settle her back in her bed. At least Henry, when he came to visit her to see how she did, was kindly and sympathetic. She found him to be in a sentimental mood and sat by her bed for several hours at a stretch, reminiscing about their childhood. Mary, although she would rather have rested, was eager to please her brother for Charles’s sake.

  Soon after, things started to improve for them. In July, part of Mary’s promised French dower income arrived. Her health improved and daily they expected to be sent from Henry’s side. However, Henry and Wolsey had other things to occupy their minds than guests who overstayed their invitation and they remained with her brother, enjoying the expensive and sophisticated entertainment with which he surrounded himself.

  Autumn brought with it the arrival of a party of French nobles whose costumes competed with the showy colours of the season. They had come over for the signing of the peace; the price for this was the delivery of Henry’s prized, but money-hungry Tournai and the betrothal of his only child, the now toddling Princess Mary, to the Dauphin of France. Arrangements were also set in hand for Henry to cross The Channel to visit Francis.

  Mary had not seen her brother so happy in a long time. Not only was he rid of the financial burden of Tournai and had made a fine match for his little daughter, he could also enjoy planning a wardrobe for the upcoming French visit which even the elegant Francis couldn’t match. But all of these, Mary knew, were as nothing compared to Henry’s greatest pleasure. For at last, he had the son for whom he had longed for years.

  True, the boy was illegitimate, but in providing him with a son, Henry’s mistress, Bessie Blount, had proved Henry’s manhood for him. Henry’s lack of a son had long made him sensitive that such a lack indicated he was not as manly as other men, so Mary was happy for her brother’s sake. She felt saddened for Catherine though, for the birth of this boy made her failure to do her duty even more evident.

  Mary’s sad-eyed sister-in-law moved around the court like a spectre at all the joyous festivities held to celebrate the boy’s birth. Mary pitied the poor queen and guessed how wounded she must be by Henry’s open pride in his son by Bessie Blount. But even Mary was constrained for Charles’s sake from showing Catherine her sympathy too openly.

  But even though most of her sympathy lay with Catherine, Mary was able to understand something of her brother’s feelings also. For Henry urgently felt the need of sons. Had not their father usurped the crown from the Yorkist King Richard III at Bosworth, thereafter marrying Elizabeth, Richard’s eldest niece, the daughter of Richard’s brother, Edward IV and thereby presenting a double-fronted edifice of his right to the crown? In spite of this, there were still some ready to whisper that the Tudors had no such right; so such a new dynasty had a desperate need of sons.

  Conscious of the need to retain Henry’s affection for her husband’s sake, Mary daren’t show her sympathy for Catherine’s plight too openly. As Charles had reminded her, they had nothing to win and everything to lose if she showed that Catherine had the bulk of her sympathy. Besides, their financial wellbeing and with it their marital happiness, was too dependent on friendship with France; they must cleave to Henry and the match of his and Catherine’s little daughter with Francis’ eldest son.

  Catherine, of course, favoured friendship with her nephew Charles who had recently inherited the title of Emperor from his grandsire, Maximilian. This was the self-same Charles whom Mary had expected to marry as a girl. Although aware that friendship with the Emperor was not something either she or Charles should encourage, Mary couldn’t help but feel a certain curiosity for the man who could easily have been her husband.

  Catherine encouraged Mary’s curiosity. Catherine was greatly looking forward to the imminent visit of her nephew who was to come to England on his way to his crowning at Aix-la-Chapelle. She would expound on her mighty nephew by the hour till Mary was eager to see this paragon.

  Mary had only recently given birth to her third child, another daughter whom she had named Eleanor. Her labour had brought another bout of ill-health and she had suffered the most dreadful pains in her side that had caused her to mope about her chamber feeling depressed and downhearted. Thankfully, the prospect of finally seeing her previous betrothed worked a cure and she was up and about again for the arrival of Charles V.

  But, for all the competition between the three young monarchs; Henry, Francis and Charles, to the disappointment of Mary and Catherine, Mother Nature proved to be the strongest monarch of all, and Charles’s planned visit of several weeks was by inclement weather reduced to only a few days. But at last the storms abated sufficiently for his ships to cross the Channel from his anchor at Corunna. Henry, Catherine, Mary and the rest of the court journeyed to Dover to greet him.

  Mary’s curiosity about the prince who had so nearly become her husband quickly died a natural death as she viewed the pale-faced, lantern-jawed and sombre twenty-year old Emperor, who, for all his claimed intelligence, seemed dour and entirely lacking in humour. He compared unfavourably to her own Charles. Even old Louis had proved a better bargain; he, at least, by his generous gifts, had enabled her to purchase approval of her second marriage.

  Mary was at pains to conceal her lack of admiration for this hobbledehoy-appearing youth. But, as Charles had said to her only that morning, this young man – who was said to be wise beyond his years – and Catherine betw
een them, might yet persuade Henry to change his allegiance from friendship with France to friendship with the empire. So she was relieved when, his visit curtailed, the solemn Charles departed.

  It was time for the court to look forward to the real business of the year; Henry’s long-planned meeting with the King of France. Mary was excited about the forthcoming visit, intrigued to discover if the intervening five years had wrought much change in the Mephistophelian looks of Francis, her previously oh-so- determined would-be lover. Court gossip about Francis and his amorous pursuits were legion, the responsibilities of kingship had not lessened his energy, rather it increased his opportunities. It would be interesting to see him again now that she was a long-married matron of twenty-three and the mother of three growing children. Was Queen Claude still as fat and Madam Louise still convinced her son was some sort of Divine being?

  Francis’ pursuit of her had been common knowledge at the time and Mary knew the eyes of both French and English courtiers would be upon them both during the meeting of the two courts. She was determined to look her best so she would be able to outface all the watchful gazes, thankful that she was now an assured woman and not a frightened, lonely girl. This time, she could enjoy the French court and its intrigues on the arm of her husband. Her lips quirked upwards at the thought that she might even attempt a little harmless flirtation with Francis, but she immediately thought better of it. Flirtation with Francis could never be either little or harmless, she, of all people, should know that.

  But at least the weather, which had curtailed the Emperor’s visit, showed a kinder face to them. The wind was set fair as the many great ships of Henry’s fleet crossed to France for the meeting between the two kings that Mary and Charles both hoped would secure their future financial probity.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  An ocean of canvas that formed the temporary, tented town, was spread as far as the eye could see. The incredible spectacle lay revealed as the English party approached the Valley D’or.

  Wolsey had been in charge of the arrangements and with his usual skill he had overseen the transport of food, tents, horses and over five thousand nobles and their servants from England to Guisnes just outside Calais. No expense had been spared to give the rival monarchs a suitable setting for their egos. Mary could only stand and marvel, pleased she and Charles were back in Henry’s good graces and could take their place on such an occasion.

  They were lodged in a house specially built for the meeting, in the courtyard of the castle. The artists employed had excelled themselves and their efforts made a golden if temporary stage for England’s nobles to strut. Windows glittered in golden mullions, walls were hung with golden tapestries and silk in the green and white Tudor colours. Tudor roses studded the ceilings. The chapel, its rich vestments borrowed from Westminster for the occasion, had a ceiling of blue and silver, but all other ornaments gleamed richly of gold. Jewels shone from every corner, from vestments, vessels, hangings. So many, that when the sun shone through the windows, it was almost like looking into the heart of that great, yellow orb.

  A statue of Bacchus stood in the courtyard, dispensing a river of claret, hypocras and water, cups hanging by waiting for the thirsty. Sadly, the beauty of the scene was spoiled by the beggars and scoundrels who came from far and wide for the free drink. They lay about beside the statue of the god in drunken abandon, oblivious to their surroundings.

  Mary, self-persuaded from the dangerous temptation of flirting with Francis, still experienced an occasional frisson at the thought of meeting him again. Although far from handsome, he had that certain devil-may-care air that was far more attractive than mere good looks - as, no doubt, his many and varied female conquests would agree. She hoped he retained sufficient gallantry not to speak of the many indignities she had endured at his hands or of how close she had come to succumbing to his demands.

  But whether he did or no, Mary intended to hold her head high, concealing any nerves or anxieties beneath her expensive new gowns. As the recognised English beauty for this historic meeting, she knew she represented the pride of England. Henry was determined that she would outshine the French ladies. He wanted to make plain that the rose who had sadly wilted under French care could, under the benign English, bloomingly show her true beauty.

  She smiled to herself. Henry could be fanciful. But he had made clear to her how important it was to him that he and his family should prove themselves, in everything, the superior of Francis and his family. It had been a costly business and her smile faded as she thought of the unnecessary extra burden of debt. But Charles, like Henry, had insisted that she must be dressed as befitted a Dowager-Queen. It was necessary that she not only look like a queen, but behave like one; any lack of decorum would, she knew, bring Henry’s wrath down on her head. Another reason not to indulge in flirtatious behaviour. She would take her cue from Catherine, whose dignity, whatever the situation that confronted her, was innate.

  Charles was, if anything, even more determined than Henry that she must shine. She sometimes caught her husband looking at her in her expensive queenly finery as though he found it difficult to believe that she was his wife and the mother of his children. She knew he was anxious about this meeting with Francis and what he might let slip in front of Henry and the court. He had denied it, of course, but she knew he had simply been putting on a brave face. Truth to tell, she suspected he was a little over-awed at the rich spectacle made by the two royal courts, for she had caught the occasional glimpse below the surface confidence to the man she knew lay beneath and was reminded that his father had been a lowly knight. Truly, in a single generation, Charles had made great strides up the ladder; no wonder he should sometimes catch his breath. No wonder, either, that like the even more lowly-born Wolsey, his ambitions should have climbed as high as himself. It was essential to his pride that this should be so, she knew. It was why he had raged against Wolsey when he had demanded the payment of the debts he owed to the crown which had forced them from the court and away from the ambition that could only be fulfilled there.

  But now was not the time for thinking about such matters. As one of her ladies called her, Mary put her thoughts aside and prepared to assume the public role demanded of her.

  After the first formalities were over, Henry and his companions rode off to visit Queen Claude and the other French ladies, leaving Mary, Catherine and the other ladies of the English court to entertain Francis.

  Mary smoothed her gown, conscious that her hands had dampened with nerves, but the nerves didn’t outlast the first appearance of Francis. She and the other ladies were hard pressed to hide their amusement when the still-elegant Francis rode up on a humble mule, his long legs trailing on the ground. This, thought Mary, was his way of outfacing Henry, who had ridden off on his visit to the French ladies seated on magnificent horseflesh, as usual. Her brother would be vexed when he learned of Francis’ seeming humility.

  The intervening five years hadn’t been quite as kind to Francis as Mary knew they had been to her. She studied him from under discreetly veiled lashes and was shocked to see that, though he was only two years her senior, Francis’ debauched way of life had started to take its toll. He wore a beard now, but it did little to conceal how fat his face had become. His great nose still dominated his face and looked to Mary’s eyes to have grown even longer, if that was possible. If it had, it would undoubtedly be from its owner’s habit of poking it into the bed-chambers of other men’s wives.

  For whatever cause, a little of his lustre had slipped. Mary was sorry to see it; in his prime he had been something to see. However, to make up for any lack in other areas, he was more gallant than ever. His years of kingship had only added to his self-confidence and, as Mary watched, he kissed Queen Catherine’s hand with all the old Francis-flourish.

  Mary found herself stiffening just a little as he approached her, memories of their bedroom encounters sparkling in the mesmeric dark eyes that swept her figure in the old, familiar way. He looked de
lighted to find that he could still bring a blush to her cheeks. Happily, time and her situation had changed and now he could only look, not touch. Besides, Catherine stood stoutly beside her. Her pious presence would ensure that Francis behaved himself.

  ‘Ah, Ma Belle-Mère,’ he greeted her, kissing her hand lingeringly as his eyes made clear he would still be delighted to again kiss the rest of her. ‘I hope the Duke of Suffolk realises his great good fortune. Such loveliness is damaging to the eyes.’ He held a hand over them for a few seconds as though to ward off such a danger.

  ‘You look well, your Grace,’ Mary lied, curtseying as she spoke. Surprisingly, given his debauched appearance and increased weight, he still, she now found, had the power to thrill the senses. He retained, too, whatever else the years might have tarnished, that aura of majesty and power that he had seemingly donned along with his coronation crown.

  She was conscious of a faint tingle of regret, that was as quickly gone as good sense reasserted itself. As a lover, Francis might well provide a feast for the senses, but it took only the reminder that many others had shared in the feasting to curdle the appetite. Mary told herself there was no need of regrets; she was the wife of a fine man, a man who loved her and only her. How much better to be that than part of a crowd. As she collected herself, Mary heard Francis launch into fresh gallantries and realised he had not really changed at all.

  ‘I have waited these many years to again hear my name on your pretty lips, Mary,’ he told her. ‘I beg of you to use it often. You’ll not find it so difficult. I hear you have called one of your children after me.’

  Mary nodded and recognised from the teasing twinkling in his eyes that he well knew the reason why. However, he made no comment on how much her and Charles’s financial health rested on his friendship.