Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (20 page)

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll not do it again, not to please my brother the king, or anyone else. He cannot ask it of me, it is unfair.’ How dare Henry think he could do this to her a second time?

Father Langley gazed frigidly at her. ‘Is this how a dutiful sister behaves towards her king? For shame, Madam, your brother has been too lenient with you. He should have you whipped for such disobedience.’

‘How dare you speak to me thus? By what right? I have my brother’s promise that I may marry the next time where I wish, not from any demands of state. Who are you to tell me of my duty?’

‘I come from the King’s Council, Madam, and am a man of God. As such I cannot lie.’ Father Langley’s face became even more austere and self-righteous. ‘You think to marry that upstart, Suffolk, do you not?’

Dismayed, Mary stared at him. How did this hateful creature know what was in her heart? Unless Henry...? But she didn’t have time to pursue this line of thought, as Father Langley told her scornfully.

‘You needn’t look so startled. Your folly is the gossip of the court at home. I tell you plain, Madam, for the sister of King Harry to marry someone so low-born, even if he is now raised to a dukedom, would not be tolerated. The Duke of Suffolk is coming to France,’ he told her. ‘But not to marry you. He will, if necessary with soft words and endearments, escort you out of this realm. But it will not be to England that he will take you, but to Flanders, to marry the young Prince Charles.’

‘You lie.’ Mary shouted back. ‘Prince Charles doesn’t want me. We were betrothed once and he spurned me, so it cannot be true.’

Father Langley’s lips compressed at this naive foolishness. Mary recognised her error. As, loftily, Father Langley now told her, matters of state could change in a trice. She, of all people, should recognise the truth of that.

‘It seems the Prince’s grandsire wishes for the match. His grandson won’t go against him. The marriage will go through whether you wish it or no, you need have no doubt of that. You should remember the path of duty, Madam and set your feet upon it. It would seem King Louis was as indulgent as your brother. ‘Tis soft-hearted foolishness so to treat a princess.’ He came closer as though the better to impress her duty on her. ‘You are a tool, Madam, nothing more. And if you are needed to repair an alliance, you will be so used.’

‘Never. Not again.’ Mary had had enough of these men and their cold talk of duty. ‘I’ll not listen to any more of this. Get you gone, get you gone, you and your evil tales.’ Taken-aback by her vehemence they retreated to the door. Mary pursued them. ‘Get out. Get out. I want no more of you.’

They left, muttering together at her wilfulness. Barely had the door shut behind them than Mary collapsed. It was as she had feared. Henry had betrayed her and broken his promise. Was there no one she could trust any more?

Each evening now, Francis visited her and resumed his love-making, Mary felt so cornered that she even considered giving into his demands. Perhaps if she did so, she might lose her attractions for him. After learning that Louis’s end was near, Wolsey had written to her, advising her to give no hearing to any ideas of marriage that others might put to her. Mary had laughed bitterly at this. Was my Lord Archbishop mad? To advise her against a second foreign marriage when he knew she never wanted the first.

Henry, too, had written to her. His letters had been very loving and Mary had allowed tremulous hope to rise. Maybe, in spite of her fears and suspicions, her dreams would be answered. Henry had promised, after all, never mind that the two stern-faced friars had contradicted Henry’s solemn vow to her. But whatever she might feel about the odious Father Langley, he had been right when he had told her she was a tool. She was indeed a tool, a sorely abused one. Never had she felt more abandoned. Even Lady Guildford had left Boulogne for England. And although Charles would be returning to the French court Mary knew he wouldn’t come till after Francis’ coronation. With Louis’ death the difficulty of her situation had increased rather than diminished. Perhaps, if she were kindly treated she wouldn’t feel so desperate, so very much at the mercy of Francis, his mother, Henry and the gossiping courtiers of both countries. But all she longed for were far away in England, too far to offer any comfort or ease of mind.

Mary tossed and turned in a light, troubled sleep, only to be woken by a kiss. She opened her eyes to find Francis’ face inches from hers. His lips descended again and Mary cried out in alarm. Dear God, not again.

He stroked her cheek and asked, ‘How are you this evening, little nymph?’ He kissed her hand and she struggled to sit up. Her toothache had eased for now. ‘You are quiet today, Mary. Of what do you think? Is it that you come round to my thoughts at last?’ Francis’ eyes searched hers. Not finding what he sought, he resumed his stroking, his long fingers working to unlock the key to her heart.

Mary protested. His lips cut her protest short. He was strong from many years of jousting and sports. Her struggles ceased and she lay supine under his caresses, hoping that if she made no response at all he would be disconcerted and stop.

It seemed to work. For he raised his lips from hers and although his gaze seared her and told her how much he wanted her, his expression was puzzled and revealed that he still wanted her willing, even eager. He reminded her of her likely fate. ‘Why do you spurn me, Mary? I would help you if you would only be kind to me. You know if you return to your brother he will pack you off to Flanders and young Prince Charles.’ He spoke condescendingly of his young rival.

His words revealed his hope that fear would instil desire where his passion had failed. Vehemently, Mary told him that she would rather enter a convent than entertain such a marriage a second time.

Francis soothed her. ‘Why return to England at all? You could stay in France. You have seen but little of it yet. I could arrange a suitable match for you.’ Although Mary shook her head at this, he pressed her. ‘Why not? There is nothing in England for you, you know it well. The Duke of Savoy is looking for a wife. If you married him we could remain friends, perhaps deepen our relationship.’

And join a cast of hundreds of discarded mistresses, thought Mary. Such a fate held no more appeal than the one the friars had told her about. Besides, if she did as he suggested, her income as Dowager-Queen would go straight to his mother’s family. Mary saw no reason to enrich the coffers of Louise of Savoy - or Angouleme as she now was. She refused to entertain the idea.

Francis suggested other possible suitors. Mary, with her heart set on Charles Brandon far away in England, refused all of them. But Francis hadn’t yet exhausted his ideas’ fund. ‘Marry me, then Mary.’

She stared at him. How could she marry him? ‘But you have a wife, Francis,’ she reminded him. ‘Even a king may not have two at the same time.’

‘That could soon be remedied. Louis is not the only one able to obtain a divorce from a malformed and ugly wife.’ He smiled, delighted with his idea. It was as if he believed there was no way she could refuse such an offer. ‘I will make you Queen of France once again, Mary. Does the thought not please you?’

Mary stared at him, mesmerised. How could she reject his proposal without angering him? She could give Francis no reasonable reason for refusing his offer. Nothing that would satisfy him - if indeed, there was any explanation that was capable of satisfying her rejection of him. The only thing that might do it was if she were to reveal the secret of her heart to him. But perhaps that would leave her even more at his mercy. He was staring at her, eagerly awaiting her response and seemingly in no doubt as to what her response would be.

Mary knew she must say something. Better to just blurt out her refusal than have his hopes grow with each second she remained silent. ‘I cannot marry you, Francis,’ she told him. ‘It would be unfair to young Claude. She loves you dearly.’

Francis’ lips pursed at what he must regard as her perversity. That his wife loved him was, for Francis, clearly no reason at all for Mary’s refusal. But before he could speak, Mary made up her mind that she must confide her secret love to him. Maybe such a confidence would convince him that he would never win her love and he would then leave her in peace.

‘I beg of you Francis, speak no more of this matter, for I can never marry you. But if you will promise me, on your honour as a king, to keep my counsel, I will tell you truly why I must refuse you.’

Although sulky, Francis placed his hand over his heart and promised.

Tremulously at first, nervous of rousing his anger and not totally convinced of the wisdom of placing her trust in him, Mary told him, ‘This long time now, my heart has not been free for any man to capture, no matter how ardent his wooing.’ She gave him the consolation of her smile. ‘I am honoured that you should wish to marry me, Francis, but you are too late. I love another.’

‘Suffolk.’

Mary nodded. ‘Yes. The Duke of Suffolk is the man I would marry. My brother gave me his promise on it before ever I left England.’ She sighed. ‘But there are so many obstacles in the way that I sometimes fear it will never be. So you see, Francis, it is not your wooing that lacked ardor. That was persuasive enough for any,’ she now admitted. ‘Who knows, but if my heart had been free I might have given in ere this.’ Mary hoped this last admission, revealing as it was, would soften his heart. No man likes to be spurned, least of all a king. She hoped that her cautious flattery would cushion his hurt pride and make him kind.

She waited for his reaction. But for some seconds, he said nothing and Mary, fearing her future hovered on the brink of disaster, hurriedly appealed to his chivalry. ‘Please, Francis, I beg of you, help us. I’m sure my brother will honour his promise if you only ally your persuasion to mine. Henry has long known of the love Charles and I share. His heart can sometimes be tender with lovers.’

Mary gave a sad smile as she spoke of her love for Charles. She would have preferred to hug such thoughts to herself, but it was essential to have Francis on her side. He could make all the difference when it came to getting Henry to keep his promise. She must hold nothing back if she wished for his help. ‘We had a language of love, Charles and I. Secret words known only to we two.’ Mary’s whisper confided the words she and Charles had used to signal their love. She watched as Francis’ jealousy of his rival battled with his honour as a king. Watched as he began to accept that she would never be his and started to look for compensations.

Francis’ lashes lowered concealingly. Mary guessed he was weighing the benefits to France should she be unavailable for use in the marriage market. With her sister, Margaret’s secret marriage to the Earl of Angus, if Mary, too, was unavailable the childless Henry’s alliance box would be empty of marital tools, which would weaken his bargaining position to Francis’ advantage. But Mary, having been used once as one of her brother’s tools, didn’t care. If Henry was unable to make an alliance with Flanders by marrying her to Prince Charles, he would make another.

Francis’ satisfied smile confirmed her guess as to his thinking had been correct. His words confirmed it. ‘Of course I will help you, little mother. How could I refuse? You have moved me with your pretty pleading. You will find me a strong champion,’ he boasted. ‘I, too, you see, have a tender heart for lovers.’

He kissed her hand with a flourish and bowed himself out of the room, leaving Mary to stare after him. In the midst of the preparations for his coronation Francis had given her his solemn promise to help. She could only hope and pray that his promise proved of sturdier mettle than her brother’s.

In the trail of all the joyous Coronation celebrations, Charles Brandon returned to France.

Francis gave no hint that Mary had revealed their secrets to him. He greeted Brandon with a show of affection at the public audience, amused to see that Brandon was taken-aback at his loving greeting when, at the joust but a short time before, Francis had done his best to injure him. The man was no dissembler, it was clear.

After a few moments’ silence, Brandon managed to convey his sovereign’s congratulations to his brother king and his thanks for the comfort he had given Mary in her bereavement.

Francis, never one to resist temptation, gave in to the desire to tease his rival. Straight faced, he told Mary’s would-be lover, ‘I am sure the Dowager-Queen will tell you how lovingly I have conducted myself to her.’

It was obvious, from the way Brandon’s gaze narrowed at this artful shot, that Mary had already done just that. Francis saw a shaft of pure venom beam from Brandon’s eye. For a brief, delicious second, Francis thought Brandon would commit an act of lése-majesty. But Brandon, though his lips tightened at the taunt, and his clenched fists whitened, had the sense to say or do nothing.

Francis smiled to himself, aware of Brandon’s fury that he was in no position to remonstrate with him on his ‘loving’ behaviour to Mary. Brandon’s open countenance, ill-made for concealment of the emotions, revealed clearly that he desired nothing as much as to punch away Francis’ complacent smile.

Later that day, the king saw Brandon in his bedchamber and decided to continue his teasing with the mock-stern accusation, ‘You are come to marry the Queen, your master’s sister.’

Taken aback Brandon could only bluster. ‘I assure you, your Grace, I would not be so daring. Such a thing would be folly. I—’

Francis cut his protestations short. He wanted to see Brandon squirm. ‘As you will not be plain with me, my lord, I shall be plain with you. Have you heard this word before?’ Francis stepped forward, and into Brandon’s ear he whispered a word from the lovers’ secret language. He felt Brandon’s body tense in recognition. When Francis stood back, Brandon’s face was crimson, in his eyes there flickered fear that Francis’s retribution for a man of low birth who dared to love a queen would be swift and brutal. Brandon looked all but ready to flee.

But Brandon made poor sport and Francis tired of the game. Where was the fun when the prey was so lacking in defences? Now Francis held out a friendly hand to the disconcerted Brandon and told him, ‘I give you my word as a king that I shall try to help in this matter between you and the Queen.’ It was clear at first that Brandon didn’t believe him. But gradually, Francis got under Brandon’s weak armour of bluff denial and teased the admission from him that he feared King Henry might not prove quite so understanding.