Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (3 page)

Catherine put a brave face on her plight. ‘It is what I pray for daily. But you are right, Mary. I will concentrate my mind on happy thoughts of sons.’ She gazed  up ahead, at Henry’s broad back, and winced as, in his youthful exuberance, he challenged one of the courtiers to a race. The pair galloped off in a heavy cloud of dust through which Henry’s whoops of delight drowned out the coughing fits of those left in his wake. ‘I would please my husband.’

Henry didn’t like sad looks, as Mary had recently had reason to know. He thought, rightly in her case, that they hid discontent and lack of obedience. As for Catherine, though Mary knew well how mightily she sought to please her husband, the queen would be twenty-nine in December. Wearied by pregnancy, she looked every year of her age. Although Catherine’s skin retained its admired pink and white colouring, the youthful prettiness Mary remembered had faded. Henry, by contrast, was still a young man, his boisterousness accentuating even more the five years between them. Mary was afforded a glimpse of how Louis, her much older husband, might feel when he came off worse in a similar comparison. But the spurt of compassion for Louis was brief. Louis had had a choice in the matter. Mary tried again to comfort her sister-in-law. ‘But you do your duty, Catherine. No one could have tried harder to provide Harry with an heir.’

Catherine's smile failed to show its usual serenity and Mary had a glimpse into the other woman’s soul. She hurriedly looked away, not wishing to witness such pain.

‘Tried and failed,’ said Catherine softly. ‘Such failure is not regarded as a virtue in Queens. But you, Mary, you are lucky in some ways. Oh, I know you don't agree with me now, but perhaps in time you will. You are to marry an old and sickly man, past worrying about heirs. You won't have to suffer the pain and loss of repeated failure as I have.’

Though that was small consolation to Mary, she admitted she might have been wed to a lusty and possibly long-lived prince and should count her blessings. There was still hope that she and Charles would eventually be able to marry.

As they rode on along the dusty, potholed roads, Mary’s thoughts went back through the weeks that had led her on this journey. After alternate soft and harsh words from her brother, her friend Jane's cajoling, joined with the Duke de Longueville's persuasive attentions, she had given in, wearied by it all and wanting it to end in the only way, as she had known in her heart all along, that it could end.

Once she had agreed to the match, many glittering balls had been held in her honour. Given no time to brood or reflect, she had been whirled through the weeks to her marriage, held in August, in that palace of bitter memory, Greenwich. The Duc de Longueville, acting as Louis' proxy, had put the bridal ring on her finger. Mary's colour rose as she remembered the bedding ceremony after the banquet. She had been undressed by her ladies and put to bed and there, before the assembled court, her proxy husband had climbed into bed with her, one leg naked out of his bright red hose. The marriage announced consumated when he had touched her body with his bare leg.

Mary shivered in spite of the heat of the day. King Louis, old as he was, would no doubt expect to do more than touch her with his leg. Although she had yet to set eyes on her husband he had already managed to upset her. After being assured on all sides that Louis would be eager to please her she had never thought that his first action should be one he must know would upset her. She had assumed that since the choice of husband was not hers she would at least be allowed to choose which of her ladies would accompany her. It had seemed little enough to expect.

But Louis had thought otherwise, though he had delayed the messenger who carried the unwelcome news that Jane Popincourt, her childhood friend, wasn’t to be allowed to accompany her to France, until after the proxy marriage ceremony. Although Mary still felt that Jane had betrayed her by plotting with her lover, de Longueville, believing de Longueville to have put the marriage scheme into Jane’s head, Mary had forgiven her. Besotted, Jane had simply wanted to please him. Now, instead of the glittering future she had hoped for, she had lost both Mary and her lover.

Mary had counted on Jane's company to lighten her hours at Louis' dour court and she had asked Henry to intervene. But as he had explained, she was now married to Louis and was his responsibility. Henry had suggested she should try charming her husband into changing his mind. Doubtless, he meant she should play the harlot in order to get her own way. The far more knowing Jane had tried a similar ploy. It had gained her nothing. Perhaps if she had held out Henry would have come round. But Mary had felt hounded into giving a hasty assent which Henry had seized upon. After that, there was no going back. It was too late to wish she had been stronger. Now she had all the time and peace in the world to regret her momentary weakness.

If only Charles, her love, hadn’t so skirted around the subject and hedged them in with ifs and buts and maybes that their love had been doomed before it had a chance to take wing. She had pleaded with him to declare himself, sure that together, they could have swayed Henry, but he had refused, his low birth and his fear of what her brother might say and do to him for having the temerity to aim as high as the king’s sister, put forward to placate her.

Mary's gaze flew again to the front of the train. Henry, some of his ferocious energy burned off by his gallop, was once again in fine fettle, laughing and enjoying himself as he knew well how to do. But thwarted, Henry wasn't such a merry companion, as she knew to her cost. Mary dropped her gaze to her bridal ring. Louis' bridal ring and thought of might-have-beens. She and Charles, her lost love, had had a last meeting in a quiet part of the palace gardens. Charles had plucked roses for her to try to cheer her, red and white roses for Lancaster and York, the two rival arms of her family whose warring had largely ended with the marriage of her parents, Henry of Lancaster and Elizabeth of York. He had kissed her and they had plighted their love, using their secret language of love, as the red and white blooms tumbled from her arms.

Mary had felt herself drunk with love, but Charles, twelve years older, and more cautious, had restrained her abandon, pushing her from him in spite of the longing in his eyes, in spite of the ardor that heated her body. Wretched, she had taunted him. ‘Do you not truly love me, then, Charles?’ she had asked. ‘How can you let us part like this? Do you not care that soon old King Louis will kiss me as you now kiss me? That he will take what should be yours? I offer myself to you yet you spurn me.’

He had tried to comfort her. ‘Mary, sweetheart, try to understand. You know my situation. I can offer you little as yet. You are the daughter of a king, whereas I am merely the son of a lowly knight. How could I dare marry you now?’

‘Lowly knight he might have been,’ Mary replied. ‘But he was a valiant one. If he had not sacrificed his life to save my father on Bosworth Field, there would have been no kingship and none of these royal marriages, either. My brother might remember how much our family owes to yours and give you your due.’

‘But sweetheart’, Charles had protested, ‘the king, your brother, gave me the Dukedom of Suffolk February last past. Doubtless he considers he has now given me my due and that I should not look for more.’

‘It seems you would rather please my brother than me. You cannot love me as much as I love you or you would not give me up so easily.’

‘I would please both of you, if I could. You must know how I long for you. How can you think that I do not?’

She had clung to him then, thinking he was weakening, but he had only pushed her away again and told her not to torment him. ‘It appears I must find restraint enough for both of us. What do you think your brother and his Council would do to me if we were discovered? Let us only bide our time. Your brother is right, Mary. Old King Louis is not a well man. You must marry him since you have  agreed, but it'll not be for long, I swear. Only be patient, sweetheart, be patient and do your brother's bidding this once and he'll be tender towards us later. Have you not his promise? Our position will be that much stronger in the future for giving him what he desires now. We must just be patient and trust the king.’

Mary had protested. ‘I would have one sweet memory at least to look back upon to make the waiting easier to bear. Must I beg you to love me?’

‘Nay, sweetheart, please do not. I'm not sure I'd have the strength to resist, for resist we must. You know it as I do.’

Dismayed, with an ache in her chest and a throat so tight she feared it would choke her, denied even one memory of their passion to warm her in France, Mary said, ‘If you won’t ask my brother for my hand, I hope you will at least kiss it — and me — goodbye.’

‘Not ‘goodbye’, he insisted. ‘Only ‘au revoir’.

‘We cannot be sure it is not ‘goodbye’ in very truth and that forever,’ Mary reminded him. He said nothing. ‘Very well. ‘Goodbye’ or ‘au revoir’, whichever it is to be, I bid you farewell.’ She held out her hand, her manner distant, as if she was already moving away from him.

It disconcerted him for a moment, she saw, for he quickly seized her hand and kissed it as fervently as she could wish, before he raised his lips from her hand to her mouth and kissed that more fervently still. Mary threw her arms round his neck and pressed her body down the length of him. If she couldn’t take away with her the memory she wanted, she could at least leave a lasting memory of her with him. She felt his body give a lusty response and began to caress him.

But Charles tore himself away again. His breath ragged, his voice hollow, he said, ‘By the Mass, Mary, I pray you do not do this to me. The king, your brother, would cut me to collops if he caught us.’

Mary gazed at him from eyes made languid by love. ‘We won’t let him catch us, then. I can get one of my maids to hire us a private room at an inn and we can—’

Charles turned away from her and the temptation she offered. ‘I cannot,’ he told her. ‘I dare not. You know I dare not.’

Anguished, she gazed at his broad back. ‘Some men dare much for love,’ she taunted. ‘Abelard loved Heloise so much, he—’

He turned back to her then. ‘Aye, sweetheart. And look what happened to him. Would you have me gelded, as he was?’

Haste had made Mary choose a poor example. His words served to sober her, too. ‘No, of course not. You are right. I’m sorry.’

‘Let us part as friends, so we may come together as true man and maid.’

‘Maid no more if Louis does his duty.’

‘We must then pray that age has gelded him.’

Mary, who had never realised how much pain could be brought on the wings of love, whose very heart ached for love of Charles and whose body rose up in revolt at the thought of Louis, said a heartfelt, ‘Amen to that.’

Mary came back to the present and the choking dust of the road. She mustn’t think of it; each time she did, her stomach heaved. There would be no more stolen kisses. She was on her way to her ancient husband and she must try to resign herself to it. Resign herself too, to the fact that her love would be taken as of right, rather than given freely as she had wished.

A shout went up and broke the chain of her thoughts. And as she looked up she could see the mighty stone walls of Dover Castle in the distance. One of the largest castles in England, built high on the cliffs, it dominated the town and had served England well through many episodes of invasion. Mary was struck by the irony that the latest role of the castle would be to hold her fast in its keeping till she sailed for France on the morrow.

The last of several long days that had begun at dawn, was winding down to its nadir as the royal party clattered through the castle’s magnificent gateway. Mary's head now beat in tune with her heart and as soon as she had climbed wearily from her horse, she begged leave of Henry to retire. Thankfully, he was more than willing to bid her wan face adieu and she was able to escape to the chamber allotted to her.

The bedding, under the circumstances of her imminent departure, was rather makeshift, but somebody had at least put a pallet bed in the room and, after being relieved of her head-dress and gown by one of her attendants, Mary sank on to it and settled back on the cool pillows. She didn’t expect to sleep as her mind was too troubled. Besides, her Maids of Honour entered the chamber then, chattering like so many argumentative magpies, excited by the prospect of travelling to France. Mary couldn’t bear their excitement and turned her head away. Along the corridor, she could hear Lady Guildford sternly rebuke another of her ladies before she bustled in and banished the rest from the chamber so Mary could sleep in peace.

Her thoughts drifted and she fell into a light doze, her dreams filled with pictures of an ardent Louis, all scrawny limbs and drooling, toothless red mouth, pursuing her around their bedchamber. She wasn’t sorry to be wakened from such a dream by the crack of thunder overhead. Immediately, lightning raced across the sky, lighting up the room.

The warmth had vanished from the day. A chill struck her as she climbed from the pallet and she shivered. Lady Anne Grey, daughter to her cousin, the Marquis of Dorset and one of the ladies who were to accompany her to France, was sitting by the window, quietly reading by the light of a candle and Mary asked her, ‘What hour is it?’

‘Tis after five of the clock, Your Grace.’

Mary had lain for an hour, but didn’t feel rested; no doubt worn out by the necessity of making sure that, in her troubled dreams, Louis didn't catch her. But at least her headache had subsided to a dull throb.

Anne closed her book, summoned the other ladies. Mary submitted to their ministrations as they prepared her for supper. All her gowns were packed, so she must climb back into the one she had worn on the road. But while she had slept, her ladies had seen to it that the dust had been brushed from her gown and head-dress, her jewels burnished till they shone once more. Now, with her hair brushed, her skin perfumed, and her head-dress fixed on her head to shut in her dreams, Mary took a last, lingering look at her reflection in the hastily set-up glass. She hoped her brother wasn’t feeling too hearty, as this evening, she felt as hard put as the ever-pregnant Catherine to match his energy. Mary turned away from the glass and with a resolution that was new to her, she walked to the door and descended for supper.