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

by Geraldine Evans

  ‘Am I not to get a kiss, then, Charles? Your departures are always so hasty these days. You’re barely here but you’re gone again.’ Mary’s reproach brought him back to her side. He kissed her cheek lightly.

  ‘The king’s business demands all my time, Mary, you know that. Have you not warned me of the dangers I might face if I should fail?’ Wistfully, he studied her face. ‘Would that you were able to keep a respectful tongue in your head towards the Lady Anne, you would be welcome to return with me.’

  ‘Even if such a miracle should occur, I doubt I could manage the journey now,’ Mary told him. ‘This wretched pain in my side makes travelling difficult.’ In fact, it made of it a torture, but Mary had kept the extent of her suffering to herself; Charles had enough problems to concern him, she would not add to them more than she did already. ‘The roads are so poor that I’m in constant fear of the litter being over-turned. But I shall miss you.’

  ‘And I you, but what would you have me do, Mary? I have to be at court, you know that as well as I do. Would you have me split myself asunder?’

  He had taken her last remark as a reproach she saw and was sorry for it. But she had spoken no more than the truth. She would miss him sorely. She would have loved to go with him to court, even with the pain that getting there would entail— if the court did not contain the Lady Anne.

  ‘A wife’s place is with her husband,’ he reproached her in turn. ‘Cannot you try a little harder? Now Frances is betrothed, she would enjoy the pleasures of the court as much as you did at her age. ‘Tis a shame you scarcely ever take her there.’

  ‘Yes mother,’ Frances chimed in as she and Dorset returned to their seats. ‘How am I ever to become the great lady you are forever telling me I must learn to be if I have no chance to study the ladies of the court? I am nearly a woman, soon to be a wife, yet still I am denied. ‘Tis unfair.’

  It was an all too familiar complaint. And Mary, who would not brook her daughter studying at the feet of her brother’s harlot, issued a sharp reminder. ‘You are neither woman nor wife yet, madam. And until you are you will do as I say. Now kiss your father goodbye. You can then escort me to chapel and we will pray for the king’s happiness.’ And the fall of his harlot, Mary added to herself.

  Frances scowled. And after kissing her father and watching the departure, she reluctantly escorted her mother to the chapel. Mary was aware her daughter’s resentment at the restrictions she placed on her life were growing, but she didn’t know what to do about them. It was unfortunate that denying her a place at court should so displease Frances. But the girl was now betrothed and would soon be her own mistress. Mary didn’t doubt that she would have little trouble in persuading the young and biddable Henry Grey to reside with her wherever she chose.

  Things were moving on apace. Another Thomas, another commoner like Thomas Wolsey, had the ear of the king. Thomas Cranmer it was who had planted the seed that had taken root in Henry’s head. Did England need the Pope? went the question. Or did the Pope have greater need of England?

  Mary, still in the country, was beginning to feel akin to some sort of poor relation, for Henry, Anne Boleyn, her own husband and many of the rest of the court were off on a jaunt to France. Mary had been invited, but she had turned the invitation down. Her refusal had angered Henry and she was sorry for it. For Charles’s sake and for the love that still existed between her brother and herself, Mary would have liked to please him. But she would not join a party that included Anne Boleyn. Her brother had then demanded her jewels to go in her place. Resentfully, conscious of Charles’s need to please Henry in all things, Mary had handed them over so they could adorn Nan Bullen, newly created Marchioness of Pembroke for the French visit. But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that Henry had rebuked the high and mighty marchioness for the shrill tantrum that had ensued on the discovery that Henry had permitted Mary to refuse the invitation. The news of his rebuke had spread swiftly around the court. It gave Mary hope that Anne Boleyn’s power to hold the king was waning.

  For all her ill-health, for all her determination not to honour Anne Boleyn, Mary envied the great throng that were travelling to France. How long ago it seemed since she was a young girl, admired for her golden beauty and part of such an exciting journey. Now she was a middle-aged matron and her life revolved around household matters, Frances’ growing tempers and coping with the increasing pain in her side. More and more often lately she had been forced her to take to her bed because of it. She had frighteningly little energy these days and what little she had was depleted by pain and Frances’ demands.

  Charles had written to tell her that Henry and his paramour hoped for much from their French trip. It seemed King Francis was happy to accept Henry’s mistress at his court, though Mary doubted his ladies would be so accommodating.

  It seemed that Anne and Henry had been right in their optimistic expectations of their French trip. Even deep in the country, Mary learned how happy they were. It did not take much working out that Anne had finally given Henry his heart’s desire and had surrendered her once prized virtue. Truly, she felt, Anne must have been frightened after Henry’s rebuke to surrender that which she had so-zealously guarded. She was no longer young, had a tongue as sharp as any fish-wife and had many enemies. Anne had played the long game skilfully and would recognise when the time had come to part with her maidenhead.

  ‘So he has married her, then?’ Mary had guessed what might have been the final outcome of the trip to the licentious French court. ‘It must have been a very hole-in-the-corner wedding.’ As theirs had been, Mary reminded herself. At least, in copying their example, Anne would not now be able to taunt her with a similar reminder.

  ‘It was very quiet,’ Charles admitted. ‘A secret ceremony. But they’re wed right enough. It’s not so secret now of course. Everyone could see that the king was bursting to talk about some great event. He’s happier than I have seen him in years. Anyway, the news is all over the court and will be all over the country soon enough.’

  Mary felt hurt that her brother had chosen to keep her in ignorance of his marriage. She supposed she had only herself to blame. And it was not as if she would have chosen to attend the ceremony.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Charles mused. ‘They had been getting like an old married couple before. But now it’s ‘sweetheart’ this and ‘sweetheart’ that. The king can’t do enough for her it seems.’

  ‘That can only mean one thing. She’s pregnant.’

  Charles stared at her. ‘Do you think so?’

  May smiled. Men could be such blind fools. ‘Nothing else would make Henry behave so, not even Anne’s precious maidenhead. Count on it.’

  Charles shook his head in wonder. ‘Christ’s blood,’ he said, ‘I believe you’re right, Mary. It could be naught else, as you say.’ He looked thoughtful now. ‘It must have been when they were in France. Or just after.’

  Mary nodded. She had already guessed as much but hadn’t confided her suspicions to Charles. ‘It’ll be an August or September birth, I’d guess.’

  He nodded. ‘Tis hard to believe after all these years of striving they are finally wed and the lady is pregnant. We can hope for some peace now it is achieved.’ Relieved, he added, ‘The king is very careful of her, very tender.’

  ‘So was he to Catherine, once. Have you both forgotten that Catherine still lives, is still, in the eyes of the church, Henry’s lawful, wedded wife? Henry’s long-awaited son, if son it be, will still be a bastard like any other.’

  Charles glanced nervously over his shoulder. ‘Lower your voice, Mary. Such comments are dangerous.’ His words revealed the depth of his fear.

  Mary refused to be cowed in her own home. ‘It’s the truth, whether the lady likes it or no. Nothing will alter that.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. The king intends to alter it. He’s determined on it. He’ll not let anything stand in his way, not now. He’s all force and vigor. He’s nominated Thomas Cranmer to the vacant See
of Canterbury. If Rome agrees and he’s confirmed as Archbishop, Henry will get his divorce. Cranmer has all but promised the king.’ Charles shook his head in wonder as he added, ‘You should see your brother, Mary. He’s like a boy again, playing pranks and laughing all the while. ‘Tis good to see him so joyful.’

  Mary said a silent prayer for Catherine, her brother’s abandoned queen. Sure it was that Catherine would never enjoy a second youth. She had had little enough joy in the first one. Thinking of Catherine and the many disappointments she had endured over the years, made her comment thoughtfully, ‘What if Anne Boleyn bears a girl? What then?’

  The suggestion horrified Charles. ‘A girl? It won’t be a girl.’ Grim-faced, he added, ‘It can’t be a girl. Too much hangs on the birth of a son for that.’

  Mary marvelled at his capacity for self-delusion. They didn’t want a girl, ergo, it wouldn’t be a girl. Had the possibility even entered his head before she put it there? Or Henry’s? Catherine would no doubt see such an occurrence as Divine retribution. She wouldn’t be alone in the opinion. Mary pushed, ‘But if she did carry a girl, what might be the result do you think?’

  Charles shrugged. ‘Who knows? Though whether the king could – or would – take kindly to another disappointment... It could be the beginning of the end for her. Your brother wants a son and the lady has promised him one.’

  She was surprised to hear Charles admit that Anne Boleyn might not be given a second opportunity if she failed to deliver on her promise. Her many enemies would be happy to see her fall. But Charles, who had come home for a break from court troubles, refused to discuss the matter further, though his voice warned Mary that the change of subject matter would not be to her taste. And so it proved.

  ‘Frances will soon be sixteen. It’s time she was wed. And if I arrange for the ceremony to be conducted in our London house you’ll have to come to court and bring our daughters. The king is joyful, as I told you, and demands that everyone around him are similarly joyful. Once she brings forth her boy there’ll be none allowed to spurn her or deny her her place. You’ll have to make friends with her whether you would or no. You may as well get used to the idea and get the deed over early with Frances’ wedding as the excuse for your presence.’

  Mary longed to refuse, but she knew Charles was right . He had soon forgotten the possibility that Anne might have a girl, she noticed. Now, his confidence made Mary, too, forget the possibility.

  Later that day, Charles rode off back to London with her promise to follow him as soon as possible. She had waved to him and kept a smile fixed on her face all the while. She had long feared the arrival of this day. Charles was right, of course. If - when - Anne Boleyn had her boy, no one would be allowed to treat her coolly; not even the king’s sister. She had longed to refuse to go, but she knew that, in this, she had no choice but to accede to Charles’s wishes. Her husband’s conviction, her brother’s great joy, both made her wonder at her own doubts as to the flavour of the fruit Anne carried. Was it possible that the arrogant Anne, so long triumphant in all things, would fail now? Mary had shaken her head and gone off to speak to her daughters as Charles had suggested.

  At least the news had lifted the sullen look from Frances’ face. For once, her elder daughter was helpful and eager to do Mary’s bidding. She left them and the servants in a flurry of packing, excitedly discussing the wedding and retired to her chamber to rest.

  The prospect of the long journey and her likely reception at the end of it made her heart pound and left her breathless. She would be thirty-seven in March and felt every year of her age. And as she eased herself down onto the huge bed, she found herself looking back over the years. She thought of her first marriage, to the aged King Louis and gave a smile at the ironies of life. She had been accused of shortening his life by her love of late nights. She had been young and thoughtless then, but now she could understand to what trials the aged and sickly Louis had been put to keep up with her youthful energy. The Wheel of Fortune had turned full circle in very truth, and now it was she who was the sickly one. She did not feel well enough to make the long journey from Suffolk to London, but then, when did she ever feel well nowadays? Charles would be extremely vexed if she wrote refusing to go. And if her wedding was postponed Frances would become impossible. There was no escaping. She would sooner endure the journey than Frances’ tantrums.

  Besides, Charles was already en route, his head stuffed with wedding arrangements and pleas from Frances that he buy her various expensive London gewgaws to adorn her on her wedding day. No, the wedding could not be put off and she had to go to court. She must resign herself to it.

  Mary had persuaded her physician to empty his bags of his remedies so she might stave off some of the pain in her side during the interminable journey to London. Even so, the roads made the journey a nightmare; the horses seemed to stumble over every rut, jolting Mary in her litter till she almost cried from the pain.

  The weather didn’t help. It was bone-chillingly cold and she huddled under her fur-lined robes, shivering, the foot-warmer she had enjoyed at the start of the journey to London long since cooled. Frances, as ever, added to the torments of the journey. She was impatient at their slow progress and made her displeasure known to her mother.

  ‘Can we go no faster, mother?’ she demanded from her palfrey, which, having spurned the use of a litter, she rode beside Mary. With a scowl, she added, ‘my wedding will be over before I get there at this rate. My betrothed will have tired of waiting and organised some stand-in to take my place.’

  Mary took the long, calming breath that was so often necessary before speaking to Frances. ‘Patience, child. It is unseemly for a young girl to show such eagerness. Dorset will wait for you, of that you can be sure.’ In truth, thought Mary, her young kinsman would wait a year to ally himself in marriage with the king’s niece. He had thrown off his previous betrothed quickly enough.

  Just then, the horses carrying Mary’s litter went over a particularly pot-holed section of the road. The horses stumbled and Mary was so badly jolted that she cried out in pain. Eleanor, her other daughter, beside her in the litter and so unlike her sister, asked kindly, ‘Are you all right, mother? Is the pain no better?’

  ‘A little, sweeting,’ Mary lied. ‘But these treacherous winter roads don’t make for easy travelling. I wonder that your father didn’t wait and arrange your sister’s wedding for the summer.’ Mary longed for her warm and comfortable bed at Westhorpe, but it would no longer be there; dismantled, it was even now, on the road to London, just as she was. She began to wish she had defied Charles and never set out on this wretched journey. Frances could just as easily have been married from their Suffolk home. But Charles wouldn’t have permitted that, she knew and as for Frances... She was at last to get her wish and go to court. She would have become impossible if she had been denied both court and a London wedding.

  So, the gruelling journey continued. Mary swallowed more of her physician’s remedies and fell into a drugged doze. Finally, after what had seemed like interminable days on the road, she woke to the familiar clamour and stink of London.

  The people seemed sullen. As they travelled through the streets, she heard several angry shouts against Anne Boleyn. Unlike Catherine, Anne had never been popular with the Londoners. But then, she had never thought enough of them to care about their dislike. It was a mistake too late for her to remedy now.

  As they reached London Bridge, adorned with its usual human heads, to cross to Southwark, Mary averted her gaze, relieved they had arrived at last. But it was a relief tainted with thoughts of what must follow; her humiliation, like Catherine and her daughter before her, at the hands of Anne Boleyn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mary sent word of their arrival to Charles, and apologies to Henry for her tardiness, before she retired to her chamber. She was so thankful to sink into bed and enjoy some comfort at last, that she longed to stay there. But she could not forever put off her meeting with Anne, and aft
er a few days’ rest, feeling a little better, she ordered her most becoming gown and allowed Susan and her other maids to dress her.

  Henry was delighted to see her. He made much of her and his nieces, chaffing Frances on her coming wedding till Mary feared some ill-natured retort. Of this at least she need have no fear; now that Frances had got her way she was all smiles and sweetness, blushing becomingly at her Uncle Henry’s teasing.

  Anne, of course, showed none of Henry’s delight in her presence. It was clear she regarded herself as virtually Queen now and the gaze she fixed on Mary was haughty and unforgiving. It gave warning that she had no intention of making Mary’s capitulation an easy one. But at least her brother seemed determined to overlook her lack of humility to his new wife. His expression told them all that he would tolerate no tantrums today.

  Mary sensed Anne wasn’t to be so easily cowed. Her black eyes were as bold as ever and her pregnancy, though not yet far advanced, provided the only army she required to defy the king.

  ‘So you have finally come to court, your Grace,’ she said to Mary. ‘I understand your daughter is to be married. I must congratulate you.’

  Surprised at this unexpected conciliatory tone, Mary agreed it was so.

  ‘It must be a great relief to you that the Pope finally agreed to legalise your union with the Duke of Suffolk.’ Even as this venomous dart was loosed, Anne was preparing another. ‘The taint of bastardy is an evil thing, is it not?’

  Mary had resolved before this meeting that she would make no retort that would damage her husband’s favour with Henry. But Anne’s slur, though delivered in honey-sweet tones, was a slur none the less and one that Mary refused to tolerate. How dare the smug trollop taunt her about bastardy when she carried the seed of another woman’s husband in her womb? For all her airs, Anne was yet no truly legal wife to Henry. She was in a weak position to pour forth such slurs.