Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

by Jean Plaidy

  Katharine took her hand and led her into the great hall, which was hung with silk and decorated with ornaments and gold and silver plate. She saw her father standing with the Sieur de Bergues and, beside him, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Henry was there too. He was excited because all such ceremonies delighted him; he loved grandeur and it was his continual complaint that there was too little of it at the English Court.

  He gave his sister a smile as their eyes met; this she acknowledged briefly because she knew many eyes were upon her, among them her father’s.

  How ill he looked! His skin was growing more yellow, his eyes more sunken; and Mary felt a pang of remorse because she had been looking forward to the time when the Court would be gay, knowing that it could mean only one thing.

  She smiled at him tenderly and the King, watching his lovely daughter, was unable for a second or so to control his features.

  Now she was standing before the Archbishop of Canterbury and he was addressing the assembly. The dull old man! She could not concentrate on what he was saying. She was thinking of a long ago day, before Margaret went to Scotland and they had all been in Richmond watching the barges coming from the Tower. She remembered hearing that her mother was dead. There had been a baby sister who had died too; they had called her Katharine. Life could be sad … for some people. She did not believe it ever could be for her, but that did not prevent her from being sorry for those who suffered.

  “Repeat after me.” The Archbishop’s voice sounded stern. How did he guess she had not been attending?

  “I, Mary, by you John, Lord of Bergues, commissary and procurator of the most high and puissant Prince Charles by Grace of God Prince of Spain, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy …”

  She was smiling at the Sieur de Bergues, who was looking at her with the utmost seriousness.

  “… take the said Charles to be my husband and spouse …”

  It was the turn of the Sieur de Bergues, but she was wondering what disguises she and Henry would put on after the banquet. Would they dance together? She hoped so. No one could leap so high and so effortlessly as Henry.

  The Sieur de Bergues had taken her hand and was pushing the bridal ring onto her finger; then he stooped and, putting his lips to hers, gave her the nuptial kiss.

  It was really a very simple matter—giving a solemn promise to marry.

  From the Palace windows she could see the light of the bonfires, she could hear the sound of rejoicing. The people were going wild this day, and all because their little Princess had gone through a ceremony solemnizing the nuptials between herself and the Prince of Castile.

  Inside the Palace the merriment was even greater. It was not often that Henry VII gave his courtiers an opportunity to be extravagantly gay. For this occasion noblemen and their wives had brought out their richest jewels. It was folly to do so because the King would note their wealth and set his cunning ministers, Dudley and Empson, to find means of transferring some of his subjects’ goods to the royal exchequer. But they did not care. They were starved of pleasure, they wanted to dance and masque, joust and hunt; they wanted to wear fine clothes and dazzle each other with their splendor; they wanted to vie with each other; and this was their chance to do so.

  Mary was surrounded by a group of her women. They were all talking at once, so it was impossible to hear what they were saying, but she understood that they were to wrap themselves in gauzy veils, which would give them an oriental look, and there were masks to hide their faces, that they might mingle with the dancers and remain unrecognized. This was Henry’s idea and she thought it a good one.

  Her women were exclaiming as she stood before them. “But I declare I should never have guessed! The Lady Mary is tall for her age. Why, no one would believe she was not yet a woman …”

  “Hurry!” cried Mary. “I can scarce wait to be among the dancers.”

  In the hall, with her ladies, she joined other masked dancers whom she knew to be Henry and his friends.

  She heard whispers: “But who are these masked ladies and gentlemen?”

  “I have heard they come from far off places to see the English Court.”

  She laughed to herself as she picked out a tall figure. She was certain who he was and, going up to him, touched his arm.

  “I pray you, sir,” she said, “tell me how you came here this night?”

  He was trying to disguise his voice, she guessed, and she had to admit that he did it admirably. “Might I not ask the same question of you, Madam?”

  “You might, but you would get no answer.”

  “Then let us agree to curb our curiosity until the unmasking. Would you dance with me?”

  “I will do so.”

  So they danced and she thought: I have never been so happy. “This is the most wonderful ball I have ever attended,” she told him.

  “And you must have attended so many!”

  She laughed. “Are you suggesting, sir, that this is my first ball?”

  “My lady, you put thoughts into my head which were not there before.”

  “You speak in riddles, sir.”

  “Then let me offer one plain truth. I’ll swear there is not a lovelier lady at the ball than my partner.”

  “And I’ll swear there’s not a more handsome gentleman than mine.”

  He pressed her hand. “Now we are pledged to stay together that we may prove our words.”

  She sighed. “Indeed, it is a duty.”

  And so it was, for even when the ritual of the dance parted them temporarily they came back to each other.

  She wanted to tell him that he had put up a very good disguise, that the change in his voice was miraculous; even so he could never hide himself from her. But to have done this would have spoiled the masque. He would want her to express surprise when they unmasked—and so she would. It was all part of the game.

  What a wonderful brother she had, who could remain at her side through the ball, for he was a young man and, she had heard, fond of women. He would be a little disturbed on her account perhaps, for she was over-young to move disguised among the dancers; so he was determined to stay at her side to protect her. Dear Henry! Beloved brother.

  She delighted in his skill in the dance. None leaped higher, none could turn and twirl so gracefully. When they unmasked she would tell him how proud she was of him, how dearly she loved him.

  When the time came for unmasking she stood before him, her eyes alight with pleasure, and as she took off her mask he cried: “By my faith, it is the Princess Mary.”

  With a deft movement he removed his mask. She stared, for the man who stood before her was not her brother.

  “But,” she began, “I thought …”

  “I please Your Highness less unmasked?” he asked.

  “You were so like …”

  “His Highness the Prince? He swears he gives me an inch … but I am not so sure.”

  “You must be the two tallest men at Court, so it is no small wonder that I was misled. But you danced as he dances … your voice is even a little like his.”

  “I crave Your Highness’s pardon, but may I say this: Charles Brandon is as eager to serve you as he is to serve your brother.”

  She began to laugh suddenly for she guessed that this man had known all the time that she believed him to be her brother and had done his best to impersonate Henry. She could always enjoy a joke, even against herself.

  He laughed with her while she studied him carefully—large, blond, handsome, vital. In truth a man; a little older than Henry, a little more experienced of the world.

  “I never saw a man to remind me more of my brother,” she said. “My mistake was excusable.”

  He bowed low. “A gracious compliment from a gracious lady,” he murmured.

  Later Mary thought: That night was the most important of my life up to that time because it was then I first became aware of Charles Brandon.

  The merrymaking over, the Sieur de Bergues with his followers went b
ack to Flanders, and the Princess must return to the schoolroom. It was true she had a dignified establishment with her own suite of waiting women, and the fact that she was known as the Princess of Castile did add somewhat to her dignity, but there were still lessons to be learned; there were Latin and French exercises to be completed and she must sit over her embroidery.

  The Court too had returned to normal. The King was disturbed by the cost of entertaining the Flemish embassy and was more parsimonious than ever. He was often irritable because he was in great bodily discomfort and, knowing he could not live long, he could not stop himself wondering what sort of king his brilliant and vital heir would make. Young Henry was vain, too fond of fine clothes and gaiety; these cost good money and he was not sure now whether, in his attempts to imbue the boy with a reverence for gold, he had not given him an urge to exchange it for worthless baubles. He was eager to arrange a match for his son; it was a matter of great relief that his daughters were satisfactorily placed—Margaret was Queen of Scotland, and that was a match which pleased him; while Mary as wife of the Prince of Spain would marry even more advantageously. No, it was not his daughters who worried him. It was his son. As for himself he did not despair of getting more children although he was aware that as he was no longer in his prime he should act promptly. His thoughts were now on the Emperor Maximilian’s daughter, Margaret of Savoy, who was aunt to Charles, Mary’s affianced. But each day he felt a little weaker and because he was shrewd he knew that his courtiers were looking more and more to the Prince of Wales than to the old King.

  One of his greatest pleasures was to watch his daughter as she went about the Court. He would study her when she did not know that she was observed; she was a wild and lovely creature and he often wondered how he could have sired her. She had a look of her maternal grandfather, Edward IV—all his surviving children had that look. It was a grief to him that out of a family of seven only three were left. But what a joy to think that his two daughters would be queens, and his son a king. When he looked back to the days of his youth he could congratulate himself; and that reminded him that there was one to whom he should be forever grateful. She was at the Court now, for whenever possible they were together and during those months since the nuptial ceremony they were often in each other’s company. This was his mother, the Countess of Richmond and Derby.

  It was she who supervised the education of young Mary and did much to impress on her the importance of her position.

  One March day, a few months after the nuptial ceremony, Mary sat over her embroidery, cobbling it a little, for she was impatient with the needle and preferred to dance and play sweet music; and while she worked she was thinking of the new song she would play on her lute or clavichord and of which she would ask Henry’s opinion. It was such pleasure to be with Henry and his closest friend, Charles Brandon, with whom she now shared a secret joke because she had mistaken him for her brother. Neither of them told Henry that; they sensed he would not be pleased that someone could really be mistaken for him, and that his own sister should fall into such an error might be wounding.

  Sitting staring into space Mary did not notice the approach of her grandmother until the Countess was beside her, taking the piece of embroidery from her hands.

  She started guiltily, and was sorry that her embroidery was so poor since it displeased her grandmother.

  “This is not good,” said the old lady.

  “I fear not, my lady.”

  “You should work harder, my child.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Mary looked at the stern face before her, thinking how sad it was to be old, and that her grandmother was really ancient, because the King seemed an old man and he was her son.

  “It would please your father if you showed more diligence. What will your husband think of a bride who cobbles with her needle?”

  “He is but a boy, my lady,” replied Mary, “and as he is the heir of Spain and Flanders, I doubt he will weep over a piece of embroidery.”

  “You are too pert, child.”

  “Nay, my lady, I did not mean to be, for it is my opinion that Charles would as lief I had a strong healthy body to bear him sons than nimble fingers to embroider. There will be women enough for that.”

  “And it may well be to perform both services.”

  Mary looked startled. “Nay, Grandmother, I should never stomach a faithless husband.”

  “That which could not be prevented would have to be endured. My child, you have much to learn. You remind me of your brother.”

  “I am pleased to do so.”

  “That is good. Tudors should stand together.”

  “Have no fear, my lady. I should always stand with Henry.”

  The Countess patted Mary’s hand. “It rejoices me to see this love between you. Always remember it, and when you are in a strange land do not forget that you are a Tudor and owe loyalty to your own.”

  “I shall always be loyal to Henry.”

  Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, took the needlework from her granddaughter’s hands and began to unpick the stitches. She was not particularly interested in the work but she did not wish those sharp bright eyes to read the emotion she feared she might betray. She was anxious on behalf of her son for whom she had lived since that day, over fifty years ago, when he had been born, a posthumous child; she had schemed for him, and the great goal of her life had been to see him on the throne of England. Few women could have seen such an ambitious dream come true; for it had been a great struggle and at one time it had seemed well-nigh impossible of achievement.

  But there he was on the throne of England—her beloved son; and never would she forget the day when the news of what had happened on Bosworth Field was brought to her.

  “Glory be to God,” she had cried; and often she asked herself, for she was a pious woman, whether then and on other occasions she had been guilty of idolatry; for never had a woman adored a son as she had her Henry.

  He was well aware of it, being shrewd enough to know who was his best friend; and the woman who had been nearest and dearest to him during his years of struggle and of glory was his mother.

  Now she was frightened, for she could see death creeping nearer and nearer; it had already set a shadow on those features, so cold and unprepossessing to others, so dear and beautiful to her.

  How could she bear to go on living if her beloved son should be taken from her? What purpose would there be in life when for so long she had had only one ambition—to serve him?

  He had shown her that she could still serve him, when he had read the thoughts in her melancholy eyes.

  “Mother,” he had said, “you must stay close to the children to guide them, for they are young yet.”

  “My beloved,” she had cried out in alarm, “they have the best of fathers to guide them.”

  “They need their granddame. Henry is headstrong. I know full well that he approaches his eighteenth birthday but he is as yet a boy.” The King had sighed deeply. “I sometimes think that being so full of bodily vigor has made him over fond of useless pastimes. He is not as serious as I could wish. Margaret is in the care of her husband. And Mary …”

  “Mary is like her brother—headstrong and greatly indulged by all.”

  “She needs a strong hand. I have tried to wean her from her frivolity.”

  “You love her too dearly, my beloved. She is sharp and knows well how to play on your feelings.”

  “But, Mother, I have never been a tender father. At times I have watched children and their parents and I have said to myself: Mine never run to me in that fashion. Mine never laugh with me like that.”

  “You are King and no child ever had a better father.”

  “I have heard my wife tell her children stories of her childhood, of the gaiety of her father … and he was a king.”

  “You have been a good father to your children, Henry.”

  But he was sad. A sign that he was growing more and more infirm. He was rememb
ering certain acts which had taken place during his reign, and was wishing they had not. He even regretted some of the methods by which he had extorted money from his subjects. As if it had not been important to build up a rich exchequer! thought his mother. As if he had not taken all for the glory of his country and never for himself! How much had he ever spent on fine raiment? Had he ever frittered away one golden crown on senseless pleasure?

  She was thinking of this now as she picked at the stitches in Mary’s woeful work. Mary watched her in silence, sensing her mood and half understanding what had inspired it; but she could not help thinking: But if my father dies there will still be a king of England. And it was so much more pleasant to picture young Henry, resplendent in purple velvet and ermine, than old Henry, withered with disease.

  “Mary, my child.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “The King suffers much in health.”

  Mary nodded.

  “He loves you dearly. Why do you not go to him and show a little tenderness?”

  Mary’s lovely blue eyes were wide with astonishment. “Go to the King!” she cried.

  “Forget he is the King for a while. Remember only that he is your father. Go to him, and when you have knelt and kissed his hand, put your arms about his neck, tell him that you have ever loved him dearly and that he has been a good father to you.”

  Mary shrank away. Was her grandmother serious? Was she raving? One did not go to the King and put one’s arms about his neck. Even his favorite daughter could not do that.

  “He would be a little startled at first,” went on her grandmother, “and then he would be so happy. Mary, your father is a great king; he took this bankrupt kingdom—which was his by right—he took it from the usurper Richard, and he made it rich and strong. Such a task was a great tax on his energies and he had little time to laugh and frolic. Perhaps this has made you feel that he is over-stern. But go to him and tell him how much you love him.”

  Mary was pensive. It would not be easy, for she, who was always spontaneous, would find it difficult to play a part, and in truth she had no great love for her father.