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

by Geraldine Evans

  ‘I am truly honoured. I thought you might have forgotten me.’ He tried to look suitably modest as if he genuinely believe this was a real possibility. Such modesty was, however, beyond him, in spite of his humble arrival on the mule. Francis considered himself utterly unforgettable, but he had the grace and humour to laugh at his vanity.

  Catherine intervened to ask if he wished to dine now. It put an end to his gallantry. Francis inclined his head in agreement. He and Catherine led the way. Mary followed behind, schooling any show of amusement from her expression as she listened to Francis expend his gallantries on her brother’s stout and pious queen.

  Catherine didn’t approve of Francis. Nor did she welcome amity between England and France. How could she, when such amity would damage her influence and that of her family? Naturally, she would prefer her kingly husband to be pushed into the arms of her nephew, the Emperor, than into those of the wily Francis. But Catherine rarely intervened in such policy-making and was making the best of what must be a disappointing situation for her.

  Mary and Charles, of course, were desperately keen on this friendship and Mary set herself to charm the French king. It wasn’t difficult. Catherine no longer danced, so Francis partnered Mary. Francis was still nimble on his feet and, after the banqueting tables were cleared for dancing, she found he still moved with an easy grace. As they moved around the floor, the memories of her time in France as a girl came flooding back to her. Conscious of his arm about her, she tried to recall how many times he had held her in that over-familiar fashion. Fleetingly, she wondered how her husband and brother were faring with the French ladies. She hoped Henry didn’t embarrass shy Claude by being over-boisterous or heavily gallant.

  Francis put his lips close to her ear. ‘Of what are you thinking, Mary?’ he breathed. ‘You look far away.’

  She gazed at Francis’ penetrating dark eyes and as quickly looked away. She managed to keep her voice steady as she replied. ‘Not so far, Francis. I was just remembering the balls that were held when I was Queen of France. It seems so long ago now.’

  ‘You could still have been Queen,’ he whispered. ‘You know that you had only to say the word and I would have put Claude away. I would have given much to have you by my side.’ His voice caressed her and a sigh escaped his lips as he continued. ‘Alas, you preferred the commoner, Brandon, to the King of France. That was a sad day for me, Ma Belle. How well I remember the pain you caused me.’

  His long face was hung with sorrow which made it appear even longer. Mary was thankful to realise that the power he had once had to mesmerise her had vanished. It seemed he recognised this, for when she moved slightly away from him he didn’t attempt to prevent her.

  ‘Love cannot be commanded, Francis,’ she told him lightly. ‘It must be freely given and I loved Charles. I still love him. You have Claude. She has given you fine children, has she not?’ she reminded him in gentle admonishment.

  ‘Ah Claude. Sweet, gentle, loving Claude.’ He smiled sadly down at her. ‘Yes, I too, have much to be grateful for. But one can still yearn for what one has lost.’

  Mary heard the note of regret and wondered if it was sincere. But who could be sure with Francis? His bedroom manners were as much part of him as his long, Valois nose and just as unalterable. Relieved that she had hit on the correct topic to make him put aside his gallantries, she listened as he spoke boastfully of his children. He was as proud a father as Charles or Henry and obviously convinced that no one had ever had such marvellous offspring. His eldest boy, the Dauphin, was of course now betrothed to Henry and Catherine’s little daughter, Mary.

  Francis waxed tender at the thought of the youthful pair. ‘Who knows? Perhaps they will have the love together that you and I could only dream of, Mary.’

  ‘Tis a pretty thought, Francis. Let us hope for their sakes that it comes true. I would welcome a lasting peace and friendship between our two countries.’

  Francis gave a solemn nod. ‘I, too. But peace is an elusive thing, is it not?’

  The demands of the dance parted them for a short time and as their steps brought them back together, he commented teasingly, ‘There are always aggressors who wish to take that which is not theirs. France must defend herself from such.’ His thinly-veiled allusion to Henry and his French ambitions were a gentle reproach. ‘I wish my son to inherit a strong kingdom and shall see that he does.’ His expression was for a moment stern. But then he smiled, gallant once more. ‘Enough of such talk. It is not fitting between you and I.’

  They had come to a halt at the edge of the floor as the music stopped. But as it started up again he took her arm once more. ‘Come, let us dance some more. A king, too, must have his dreams. Let me reawaken mine to warm my old age.’ His strong hand in hers, Francis led her back on the floor.

  But Mary’s pleasure in the dance had gone with the talk of how fragile was the peace between their two countries. It had reminded her on what slender foundations her and Charles’s happiness rested. One act of aggression from Henry could so easily cost her her dower revenues; they had only just started to flow again after his last attempt at war-mongering. Francis, too, had his ambitions and could be equally fickle. The truth of this realisation was quickly brought home to Mary as he made his excuses to her when he spotted a pretty new face amongst the ladies and went eagerly off to flirt with the young woman.

  Catherine had missed little of what had passed. When Mary re-joined her, she commented softly, ‘These French - they lack seriousness, Mary, do they not?’

  It was plain the thought pleased Mary’s serious-minded sister-in-law. Mary sighed and thinking more of defending her future dower income than she was of Francis, she replied, ‘But they can be amusing companions, none more so.’

  ‘I’m sure that is so, as long as one doesn’t expect more from them than amusement. I’ve heard how the French court is conducted. It is not necessary to breathe deeply to smell the sinful stench beneath the perfumes.’

  Mary made no further comment. Instead, she and Catherine watched Francis as he flirted with Anne Brown. Catherine murmured, ‘The French have always had the tongue of quicksilver and the slippery body of an eel. It doesn’t do to trust them overmuch. I think Henry will gain but little for all this expensive show. The money could have been put to better use in England.’

  Mary was surprised to hear Catherine voice a rare criticism of Henry. It was a measure of the pain felt by the woman who lived and breathed beneath the courtly robes of a queen. Catherine had not only suffered the still-birth of the last child she had borne and, shortly after, witnessed the celebrations held in honour of the son Henry’s mistress had born him, by a cruel twist of fate, Claude, Francis’ twenty-one-year-old queen was heavily pregnant for the fifth time, having already presented Francis with a son and heir as well as a second son, born the previous June. Henry would be sure to rub salt in the wound of Catherine’s misfortune by making some comment about how admirably Francis’ queen did her duty in this regard.

  Unusually, there was a trace of bitterness discernible beneath Catherine’s surface calm. Normally, Catherine’s face was wreathed in smiles. Whatever her private anguish, she could always find another smile with which to meet adversity. But today, the smiles were not so frequent. She showed signs of strain. Even so, conscious of how badly she had failed in one wifely duty, Catherine seemed to feel this imposed on her an obligation to excel in others. She set about excusing her husband’s casual cruelties. ‘He is still a boy in many ways, easily impressed by bright and shiny things and the French know how to glitter like no other.’

  The ball came to an end and Francis, gracious as always, returned to where Mary and Catherine were seated. They had risen and were escorting him to the courtyard when, through a door left open in an attempt to cool the stifling air on this hot June day, he spied the other ladies of the English train dining and his gallantry was once again to the fore. He threw the door wide open, entered the room and insisted on kissing every lady present, ami
dst much coy squealing from the ladies.

  Ruefully, Mary noted that none of the ladies appeared unwilling; far from it. And although many of the ladies’ husbands were against an alliance with France, their wives, it was clear, thought France’s king a far more attractive match than the one with the ungainly young Emperor Charles. They loved him, with his free and easy ways and lightly-worn regality. But even Francis, for all his gallantry, couldn’t quite bring himself to kiss the old and ugly. He kissed the rest though, and there were around one hundred and thirty ladies present, the pretty ones being kissed so thoroughly as to give the impression that each one must surely be the love of his life. Mary and Catherine could only stand and wait whilst Francis amused himself. But he eventually ran out of ladies to kiss and he came back to them, his eyes shining with good humour.

  Outside at last, back under the wilting heat of the blazing sun, he climbed back on to his humble mule and departed back to his canvas palace while his latest female conquests crowded round to wave him adieu.

  The next day the competition in the lists began. Mary sat with her sister queens, Catherine and Claude, in the glazed gallery and watched their lords as they competed with gusting winds and each other. Like Mary, Queen Claude was now the mother of three surviving children. Claude was fatter than ever, her figure had not been improved by frequent pregnancies. She didn’t look well. It seemed she had never really overcome the poor health of her girlhood and tired easily. Catherine and Mary both fussed over the heavily pregnant French queen. They placed cushions at her back and made sure she had a good view of her lordly husband as he strutted in the lists.

  Although Claude’s body was fat and unattractive, her face had acquired the look of a Madonna, doubtless, Mary thought, attributable to the many martyring humiliations her marriage to the womanising Francis would have brought her. She hoped no one had brought her tales of Francis’ renewed attentions to herself; if they had, Claude gave no sign and was as sweet-natured as Mary remembered her.

  It was pleasant in the gallery, out of the rough winds that buffeted their lords. ‘Well done, Francis,’ Claude called as he unseated a rival. She smiled apologetically. ‘He likes me to applaud. Men need such admiration, I have found.’

  ‘Men are much the same the world over,’ was Catherine’s quiet observation. ‘They are welcome to their games. We’re more comfortable here.’

  ‘Francis seems as vigorous as ever, Claude,’ said Mary. ‘Does he still practice the manly arts with as much energy as in his youth?’

  ‘Alas, his duties take up much time now. To his disgust, he has put on weight. Too many rich banquets, I fear. Do you remember how Lady Guildford warned me against eating too many rich foods, Mary?’ Mary nodded. ‘My pregnancies have completed the job the banquets began. As you see, I’ve become very stout. But my children are a great consolation. They have brought Francis and me closer together.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Let us hope, your Grace, that our children will bring our two nations closer together. I was delighted at their betrothal, having got to know the little Princess Mary’s Aunt Mary so well.’

  A cheer rang out and saved Catherine the trouble of replying, which was as well, for Mary knew it was unlikely she would feel able to agree on the desirability of the match. It was now Henry’s turn to strut as he acknowledged the applause of the crowd at his victory. Dutifully, Catherine applauded her husband. In an aside to Claude, she said dryly, ‘It seems we are both married to champions, your Grace.’

  The rivalry between the two kings was strongly evident. Both were tall, broad and much of an age. Mary glanced at Catherine and wondered if her sister-in-law was anticipating more reproaches from Henry at his lack of sons now that he had witnessed the fruitfulness of Francis’ young queen at such close quarters. Catherine, well past her youth, looked and no doubt felt every one of her thirty-four years. Mary felt a twinge of pity for Catherine as she sat smiling down at the husband who chastised her for being all-but barren. She wondered if Catherine, in her present situation, didn’t sometimes feel she would have been better left a poor, neglected widow and packed off back to Spain and the court of her father, Ferdinand.

  Below, Henry acknowledged more cheers for his vigor. His horse didn’t share the crowd’s admiration; it collapsed, overcome by Henry’s magnificence and died before them all, much to Henry’s chagrin. It was his favourite horse, too.

  Mary hoped the horse’s death didn’t put her brother in an ill-humour. For she had sometimes wondered if Henry’s determination to excel over Francis in all things didn’t spring, as did her own husband’s, from consciousness that his origins were not all as noble as he would wish. Less than a hundred years before, the Tudors had been ill-educated little squires, while Francis, his rival, came from a line of kings which had reigned in France since the 10th century.

  The unwelcome thought struck her that for all this current great show of friendship between Henry and Francis, Henry was unequal to the task of making a true friendship with the man who must make him aware of his own shortcomings. Mary hoped this sudden intuition was wrong, but in her heart she knew it was not. She felt a brooding disquiet as another horse was fetched for her brother and he continued to parade his noble accomplishments.

  The entertainments continued unabated. And although the heart had gone out of Mary, she concealed it successfully. Henry, whatever his private feelings of inferiority before the sleek French nobility, on the surface at least, he continued to enjoy himself with gusto. He had always loved to dance and disguise himself and he swaggered boisterously before the elegant French, as pleased with himself as a great spoilt child. Beside her, Mary heard Catherine sigh faintly as her monstrous infant of a husband showed off. And for all her doubts about this show of friendship lasting, Mary could still feel thankful that she had escaped the fate of most princesses. Her impulsive marriage had in many respects given her the best of both worlds. She kept a queenly estate in her own home and was also second lady in both England and France. Admittedly, the queenly estate that her station demanded brought its own difficulties, particularly over the money it cost to maintain it. Even so, and though she sometimes questioned the strength of Charles’s love for her, she realised as she watched the brother kings at their games and studied their worn-out queens, she had much for which to be thankful.

  Francis now sported an eye-patch as he had received a black eye riding against the Earl of Devon. This newly-dashing appearance encouraged him to flirt more outrageously than ever, which increased the Madonna-look of his queen.

  Playtime was, however, drawing to a close. The two courts attended mass in a semi-open chapel at the end of their historic meeting. Henry and Francis pledged their intention of building a church on the site and even went so far as to decide on a name, ‘La Chapelle de Notre Dame De La Paix’. Mary doubted their dreams of church-building would be any longer-lived than the peace that had inspired it, for all the sadness that was voiced on both sides as the meeting broke up and for all that the two kings embraced like long separated siblings whose affection distance couldn’t tarnish. For all Henry’s show of friendship with Francis, Mary knew that he would straight afterwards ride off for a second meeting with Catherine’s nephew, the Emperor Charles. And who knew what the outcome of that would be for them all? Maybe she would yet find her recently-restored French dower income finding its way instead into Francis’ war-chests.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As Mary had feared, peace between the European monarchs lasted no longer this time than it had in the past. Although, along with the rest, Francis had signed up to the League, he broke away from it and attacked the domains of the Emperor. Charles V promptly called upon England to honour her treaty obligations and declare war on France, and Henry, his instincts for war-mongering as finely-honed as Francis’, was eager to fall in with the Emperor’s demands.

  Henry was excited by the thought of pitting his skills against Francis in a real battle. And with Charles V and his vast empire behind him, war became an even
more alluring prospect. Victory would be almost assured, he had told Cardinal Wolsey.

  Wolsey didn’t share Henry’s optimism. He reminded Henry that war was a costly business and always uncertain of outcome. It would be better to wait a while, he counselled. Perhaps, in the interim, Francis would listen to the wise advice of his mother and pull back.

  Henry stuck out a petulant lip. ‘On my honour, how could I deny the Emperor my support? I gave my word as a king.’ He frowned suspiciously at Wolsey. ‘Would you have me break it?’

  Henry’s honour was a creature almost as tender as his conscience; neither could be ignored. ‘Indeed not, Sire.’ Masterfully, Wolsey put just the right amount of indignation into his voice. ‘I would never counsel you to such an action. I merely advise that it would not be good policy to be too precipitate. We should wait and see how this matter progresses. Perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘if England were to offer to mediate betwixt them, it would give time for tempers to cool. If they agreed, England’s entry into the conflict could be postponed, perhaps indefinitely.’ Henry turned sulky again, but Wolsey, who knew when to offer a carrot, pointed out, ‘Such a postponement would give us more time to prepare. If mediation failed, we should be duty-bound to support the Emperor. Honour, as you so rightly say, Sire, would permit no other course.’

  Teased from his sulks by Wolsey’s words Henry eased his stiff neck and admitted that Wolsey might have a point. ‘It is true, as you say, that continental campaigns are costly. Perhaps we should take a little more time to consider what should be done before we rush to do the Emperor’s bidding. That which is fast begun oft ends awry.’

  Wolsey smiled to himself when he saw how pleased Henry was with the aptness of his little homily. Encouraged in his belief that he had brought Henry round to his own way of thinking on the matter and that he would now be more receptive to his final and strongest argument against war, he added softly, ‘Scotland, Sire, is another reason for caution. That accursed country is ever ready to plunge a knife into England’s back. Remember how, the last time you invaded France, they entered by the country’s back door after we had left by the front?’ Henry nodded at this reminder of Scotland’s perfidy.