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

by Jean Plaidy

  Her grandmother put the embroidery into her lap and rising, kissed her. Then she went away as though in a great hurry.

  Mary paused outside her father’s apartments.

  “My lady,” said the page, “His Grace is with his ministers.”

  Mary turned away relieved. She had been rehearsing what she would say, and it sounded false to her; she was glad the need to say it was postponed.

  The King asked who was at the door, and when told it was the Lady Mary he smiled.

  She had some request to make, he thought. What does she wish? Some new bauble? She grows more like her brother every day.

  Yet he had a yearning to see the pretty creature; and if it were a new gown or even a jewel she wanted he would perhaps grant her her wish; but he must impress upon her the need for sobriety and explain that all the extravagant display, which had accompanied her nuptial celebrations, had not been for personal vainglory but to show to foreigners that England was wealthy, because wealth meant power.

  He turned back to the task before him. He had decided that all those who had been imprisoned in London for debts of under forty shillings should be discharged.

  He was beginning to be tormented by remorse when he contemplated the extortions, which Dudley and Empson had committed in his name; and now that his conscience was beginning to worry him on this score, he realized that he was a very sick man indeed.

  There were cowslips in the meadows near Richmond and the blackthorn was in blossom. The air was enlivened by birdsong, and all this meant that it was the month of April and spring had come.

  But in the Palace the old era was ending and the new one had not yet begun.

  The fifty-two-year-old King lay on his bed and thought of his subjects; he wondered ruefully how many of them would shed a real tear at his passing.

  Fifty-two. It was not really old; yet he had lived a full life and there was so much of it that he wished he had lived differently. He had recently pilgrimaged to Our Lady of Walsingham and to Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and there he had sworn to build a hospital for the sick poor.

  Time! he thought. I need time. He hoarded time as once he had hoarded gold; he was fighting with all his strength to hold off death a little longer until such time as he could make peace with himself.

  But death would not wait.

  Mary came to his apartments, planning what she would do and say. She would go to his bed and put her arms about his neck. “I will not call you Your Highness, but Father,” she would tell him. “Oh, Father, we do love you … Henry and I. We understand that it was necessary for you to be stern with us. We love to dance and play and we often forget our duty … but we want to be good. We want to be the sort of children of whom you can be proud.”

  Did that sound false? For false it was. Neither she nor Henry wanted to be anything but what they were.

  “It is the Lady Mary,” said one of the pages to another.

  “I have come to see my father.”

  “My lady, the priests are with him.”

  Holy Mother, thought Mary, is it then too late?

  His body had been taken from Richmond to Westminster, but not with any speed for, although he died on the 21st day of April, he was not moved until the 9th of May.

  There was reason for the delay. An image of him in wax must be made ready to be clad in his robes of state and placed in the coffin, and remain there during the funeral, holding the ball and scepter in its hands. The chariot which would hold the coffin had to be covered in black cloth of gold; and all those noblemen who lived far from Court must be given time to arrive for the ceremony.

  It was to be a grand funeral. The King had left money to pay for masses which were to be said for his soul, as he asked, for as long as the world should endure. He had become very uneasy during his last days on earth when he had realized that he would not have time to make all the amends he had planned.

  The new King had already left Richmond for the Palace of the Tower. That was well, because he found it difficult to hide his elation. His father was dead and he had been a good father; but what a stern one! And had he not treated his son as though he were a child?

  Freedom! thought Henry VIII, dreaming of his future.

  And Mary, while she prayed for the soul of her father, could not prevent her thoughts wandering as she considered what a change this was going to make to all their lives.

  It was a great occasion when the funeral cortège passed through the capital. At London Bridge the Mayor and the City Companies received it and merchants mingled with apprentices in the crowds which followed it to St. Paul’s.

  As was the custom with the dead, people remembered virtues rather than failings.

  And when all was considered, his epitaph was as good as any king could hope to achieve.

  “He brought us peace,” said the people.

  Yet never had they cried: “The King is dead. Long live the King!” with more hope, more exultation than they did in those spring days of 1509.

  The sorrowing Countess of Richmond sat with her grandchildren. She had an arm about the girl but her eyes were on the boy.

  “It was your father’s wish that I should continue to guide you, Henry,” she explained. “My dear grandson, you will find the task before you not always a glorious one. There is more to kingship than riding through streets and listening to the cheers of the crowd.”

  “I know it well,” answered Henry, not as coolly as he would wish, for he was still in awe of his grandmother.

  “So I shall always be at hand to give you my counsel and, remembering your father’s wish, I trust you will consider it.”

  Henry took her hand and kissed it.

  He would always remember, he assured her.

  And Mary, seeing the shine in his eyes, knew that his thoughts were far away in the future. He was looking at freedom stretching out before him—glorious, dazzling freedom. He was eighteen and King of England. At this moment he was too much intoxicated by the joy of being alive himself to think of anything else.

  Oh, thought Mary, it will be wonderful now he is King! England will be merry, as she was meant to be, and all the country will be in love with such a sovereign.

  A cold fear crept into her mind. And where shall I be? How much longer can I hope to remain in England? Am I forgetting that, over the sea, a bridegroom is waiting for me? But not yet … not yet.

  She was too much of a Tudor not to live in the moment.

  Mourning for King Henry VII could not be expected to last long when there was a young handsome man waiting to put on the crown.

  Hope was high throughout London and the country. There would be joy such as had never been known before; gone were the days of high taxation. He had shown his intentions by throwing Empson and Dudley—those notorious extortioners—into the Tower; he had proclaimed that many debtors to the crown would be excused. He made it clear that he wanted the old days of anxiety to be forgotten, that the merry era might begin without delay.

  He rode through the streets, this golden boy, and often the Princess of Castile rode with him; he so handsome, she so lovely; and the crowds cheered themselves hoarse for these charming young people.

  There was another who rode with the King, for he had decided after all to marry his brother’s widow, and this was a match which found favor with the people, for Katharine was known to be meek and serious by nature; the fact that she was a few years older than her bridegroom seemed favorable too. She will steady him, said the people. For he is gay and over merry, bless him. It will be good for him to have a serious wife.

  So the days of mourning were quickly over, for how could the people mourn when they were about to see their King and Queen crowned?

  On the eleventh of June—less than two months after his father’s death—Henry married Katharine and the coronation of the pair was arranged for the twenty-fourth of that month.

  Mary, who was then three months past her thirteenth birthday, must of course take a prominent part in the celebrations. />
  What a joy it was to ride in the procession from the Tower to Westminster, to see Archbishop Warham anoint the head of her beloved brother.

  His open face shining with delight, he looked magnificent in his robe of crimson velvet edged with white ermine which fell away from his massive shoulders. Beneath it his coat of cloth of gold was visible and he looked even bigger than usual because he sparkled with diamonds, emeralds and rubies. Katharine was beautiful too in her gown of white satin, and her lovely hair loose about her shoulders.

  “Did you ever see one so handsome as the King?” asked Mary.

  Then she saw who it was who was standing beside her. In his fine garments, worn in honor of the occasion, he was strikingly handsome himself.

  “Never,” murmured Charles Brandon, smiling down at her.

  She studied him speculatively, and pictured him in crimson velvet and ermine, and she thought: There is one to equal Henry, and that is Charles Brandon.

  And she was suddenly very happy to be in a world which contained those two.

  A coronation must be celebrated with appropriate entertainments, and Henry assured his subjects that because he must mourn his father he was not going to cheat them of their pleasures. They must look forward not back; and the glittering pageants they would witness should be symbols of the future.

  At the banquets Mary found herself seated close to her brother and his wife; and where Henry was, there was his good friend Charles Brandon. In the dances which followed the feasting Mary often found herself partnered by this man, and was dissatisfied when he was not at her side; she was sure that he knew this and endeavored to remain with her.

  When she was alone with her women she would do her best to bring his name into the conversation, for the next best thing to being with him was to talk of him.

  “Charles Brandon,” said one of her women, “why, there is a man to avoid.”

  “Why so?” demanded Mary.

  “Because, my lady, he is one of the biggest rakes at Court.”

  “Doubtless he is much pursued.”

  “That is likely so. What a handsome fellow! And what a roving eye! I’ve heard it said there are secrets he would rather not have brought to Court.”

  “There will always be slander against one so attractive.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows and looked knowledgeable. Mary understood such looks and knew that she must curb her tongue lest in a short time the rumor went through the Court that the Lady Mary, who was no longer a child, was over-interested in Charles Brandon.

  When she next danced with Charles she said to him: “Is it true that you are a rake and a philanderer?”

  He laughed, and she laughed with him because she was always so happy in his company that everything seemed a matter for laughter.

  “My lady,” he replied, “I never intended to live the life of a monk; although, by some accounts, it would seem that monks are not all we believe them to be.”

  “And if the tongue of slander can touch them,” said Mary, “how much readily will it busy itself over one so … so …”

  He stopped in the dance; it was only for a few seconds but to Mary it seemed for a long time, because that was the moment of understanding. She had betrayed her feeling, not only to him but to herself. A great exultation took possession of her and it was immediately followed by a terrible frustration; for how could that for which she longed ever be hers?

  She loved Charles Brandon. More than any other person in the world, she loved him and she could only be completely happy in his company; but across the water a boy with a heavy jaw and sloppy mouth, heir to great dominions, was waiting until the time when he should be old enough to send for her as his bride.

  In the ballroom, with this knowledge bursting upon her, she understood the tragedy which befell so many royal princes and princesses, and knew that it was hers.

  Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, was very tired, for the coronation celebrations, following so quickly on the funeral, had exhausted her, and from the moment she had looked upon the dead face of her son she had known that life had lost all zest for her.

  Her beloved son was dead; what reason had she for living? The children? He had wished her to take care of them; but they would answer only to themselves. She had known that for a long time. Neither of them resembled their careful father, and would go their own way, no matter what advice was given them by their grandmother.

  She had lived for sixty-six years, which was a goodly span; and it was because she had been only fourteen years old when she had borne her beloved son that she had been able to take such a prominent part in his counsels; there was no great difference in their ages, and Henry had always been old for his years.

  Now she could say: “Lord, I am ready. Let thy servant depart in peace.” She could look back on a life of piety. The universities of Oxford and Cambridge would remember her generosity for as long as they were in existence; nor were they the only beneficiaries of her good works.

  She took to her bed before the coronation festivities were over and when she died peacefully, bringing the celebrations to an end, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, declared: “All England for her death had cause for weeping”; and it was true that the news was received with sorrow throughout the land.

  The old King and his mother dead! A new way of life was certainly opening out before the country.

  Perhaps the new King was not quite so grief-stricken as he declared himself to be. Perhaps he felt the last of his bonds breaking. He was no longer in leading strings. Absolute freedom was his, and that was a state for which he had always longed.

  And the young Princess? She wept for her grandmother, but the old lady was a figure of the past, and at this time of exultation and apprehension Mary could only look to the future, could only ask herself whether it was possible, if one were determined to have one’s will, to flout the whole Court, the whole world, to get it.

  One could not deeply mourn the passing of a woman who had lived her life, when one’s own was opening out before one.

  There was no room in Mary’s heart and mind for other thoughts or emotion.

  She loved with all the force of a passionate nature. It was no use telling herself that she was not yet fourteen years of age. Her grandmother had borne a son at that age. She was a woman now, understanding a woman’s emotions; and because she had always had her way she did not believe she could fail to get it now.

  Charles Brandon was the man she had chosen for her husband. She cared nothing for ceremonies which joined her to a boy whom she had never seen.

  “I must marry Charles,” she told herself. And she added: “I will.”

  The Rise of Charles

  CHARLES BRANDON was well aware of the effect he was having on the Princess Mary. He was amused and flattered, for she was a charming creature and he—who prided himself on his knowledge in such matters—would have been ready to wager that not only would she in a very short time become one of the most beautiful young women at the Court, but also one of the most passionate.

  It was a pleasant situation, therefore, to be the object of the child’s adoration.

  Had she been anyone else he would have been impatient to exploit his advantage; but the King’s sister must be treated with caution; for the King’s sake, or perhaps more truthfully for his own.

  He knew Henry well, as they had been together for years; there was a certain primness in Henry’s character which could make a man’s dalliance with his sister a dangerous occupation. Henry was as sensation-loving as his friends; he was not averse to a flirtation here and there; indeed he was just discovering the full delights of the flesh and, if Brandon was not mistaken, would gradually become a more and more eager participant in what they had to offer. But he had quickly discovered that, in dealing with the King, an element of caution must always be employed; and knowing Henry’s great regard for young Mary, it was obvious that he, Brandon, must enter with the utmost caution any situation involving her.

&nb
sp; It was a pity. He was thinking of her constantly; and strangely enough he was becoming critical of his mistresses. They were not fresh and young enough. Naturally. How could they hope to compete with a virgin whom he knew to be but fourteen years old? He was as certain of the first fact as of the second. And there she was, as deeply enamored of him as any woman had ever been; and he must remain aloof, constantly reminding himself who she was.

  A fascinating situation, yet one he must resist.

  If she were not affianced to young Charles, would it be possible … ?

  Oh no, he was allowing the King’s friendship toward him to put preposterous ideas into his head. He had been very fortunate; it was up to him to see that he remained so.

  So during the weeks which followed that moment of revelation Charles Brandon often thought back over the past and saw how luck had brought him to his present position and that he must not run any risk of jeopardizing his good fortune.

  Yet what harm was there in seeking the company of this charming girl? A touch of the hand, an eloquent look, could mean so much; and even a cynical adventurer could not but be moved by the love of a young girl.

  In her impetuous fashion Mary was falling deeply in love with Charles Brandon; and he, in his way (though it was not artless as hers was, for it was not without calculation and reservation) was following her lead.

  Charles could remember the day he first came to Court. He had been very young indeed, but not so young that he could not understand what a great honor was being bestowed upon him. His mother had often told him the story of Bosworth Field.

  “Your father,” she had said, “was standard-bearer to Henry of Richmond, and had been a faithful follower of his, sharing his exile in Brittany.”

  It was a wonderful story, young Charles had always thought, and he could never hear it too often. As his mother told it he could clearly see Henry Tudor embarking at Harfleur and arriving at Milford Haven with only two thousand men.

  “But my father was one of them,” Charles always said at this point.