Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (34 page)

Francis now sported an eye-patch as he had received a black eye riding against the Earl of Devon. This newly-dashing appearance encouraged him to flirt more outrageously than ever, which increased the Madonna-look of his queen.

Playtime was, however, drawing to a close. The two courts attended mass in a semi-open chapel at the end of their historic meeting. Henry and Francis pledged their intention of building a church on the site and even went so far as to decide on a name, ‘La Chapelle de Notre Dame De La Paix’. Mary doubted their dreams of church-building would be any longer-lived than the peace that had inspired it, for all the sadness that was voiced on both sides as the meeting broke up and for all that the two kings embraced like long separated siblings whose affection distance couldn’t tarnish. For all Henry’s show of friendship with Francis, Mary knew that he would straight afterwards ride off for a second meeting with Catherine’s nephew, the Emperor Charles. And who knew what the outcome of that would be for them all? Maybe she would yet find her recently-restored French dower income finding its way instead into Francis’ war-chests.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As Mary had feared, peace between the European monarchs lasted no longer this time than it had in the past. Although, along with the rest, Francis had signed up to the League, he broke away from it and attacked the domains of the Emperor. Charles V promptly called upon England to honour her treaty obligations and declare war on France, and Henry, his instincts for war-mongering as finely-honed as Francis’, was eager to fall in with the Emperor’s demands.

Henry was excited by the thought of pitting his skills against Francis in a real battle. And with Charles V and his vast empire behind him, war became an even more alluring prospect. Victory would be almost assured, he had told Cardinal Wolsey.

Wolsey didn’t share Henry’s optimism. He reminded Henry that war was a costly business and always uncertain of outcome. It would be better to wait a while, he counselled. Perhaps, in the interim, Francis would listen to the wise advice of his mother and pull back.

Henry stuck out a petulant lip. ‘On my honour, how could I deny the Emperor my support? I gave my word as a king.’ He frowned suspiciously at Wolsey. ‘Would you have me break it?’

Henry’s honour was a creature almost as tender as his conscience; neither could be ignored. ‘Indeed not, Sire.’ Masterfully, Wolsey put just the right amount of indignation into his voice. ‘I would never counsel you to such an action. I merely advise that it would not be good policy to be too precipitate. We should wait and see how this matter progresses. Perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘if England were to offer to mediate betwixt them, it would give time for tempers to cool. If they agreed, England’s entry into the conflict could be postponed, perhaps indefinitely.’ Henry turned sulky again, but Wolsey, who knew when to offer a carrot, pointed out, ‘Such a postponement would give us more time to prepare. If mediation failed, we should be duty-bound to support the Emperor. Honour, as you so rightly say, Sire, would permit no other course.’

Teased from his sulks by Wolsey’s words Henry eased his stiff neck and admitted that Wolsey might have a point. ‘It is true, as you say, that continental campaigns are costly. Perhaps we should take a little more time to consider what should be done before we rush to do the Emperor’s bidding. That which is fast begun oft ends awry.’

Wolsey smiled to himself when he saw how pleased Henry was with the aptness of his little homily. Encouraged in his belief that he had brought Henry round to his own way of thinking on the matter and that he would now be more receptive to his final and strongest argument against war, he added softly, ‘Scotland, Sire, is another reason for caution. That accursed country is ever ready to plunge a knife into England’s back. Remember how, the last time you invaded France, they entered by the country’s back door after we had left by the front?’ Henry nodded at this reminder of Scotland’s perfidy.

That time they had been fortunate and the flower of Scotland’s nobles had died at the Battle of Flodden, their sister, Margaret’s husband, King James, among them. Catherine had sent the king’s bloody coat to Henry in France.

‘They would as lief plunge the knife for the sake of their friendship with France as for their own sake. We would not wish to defend the Emperor’s dominions at the possible cost of your own.’

‘Of a surety,’ Henry murmured.

Reminded of this enemy at his back who would be ready to seize an  advantage from any continental adventure, Henry looked to have lost some of his lust for battle. Wolsey encouraged this loss still further. ‘Albany, the Scottish regent, is only too ready to do Francis’ bidding. He would be across the border into England before our army had advanced fifty miles. It would be essential, Sire, that we secured our back door before we opened the front.’ Henry nodded. Wolsey was gratified to see that the fire in the king’s belly seemed to have been doused. Scotland, that ever-present bogey, was a useful tool to cool the king’s ardor for war.

However, despite the Cardinal’s ability to sway Henry, some things were beyond even his abilities to alter. And events on the continent soon forced a rethink. For Francis, too, had trouble on his doorstep. The thoughtless confiscation of Charles Bourbon’s lands on the death of his royal wife had turned this powerful noble into France’s enemy and his rebellion against his over-lord, the King of France, turned the tide in the allies’ favour. Francis now had his very own Albany.

Bourbon’s disaffection, together with the Emperor’s second visit to England, provided the impetus to encourage Henry and Wolsey to enter the ring. A herald was now despatched to France to make declaration of war.

Once again, to Mary’s bitter disappointment, her income from France was in jeopardy. It seemed that no sooner were their finances set on a fair course than the unpredictable political winds that blew through Europe must swamp and overset them. Mary put down her book and shut it. She had told Catherine she was keen to again take up the Latin that she had been taught as a child. Catherine had been delighted and had been full of encouragement. But today, Mary found concentration impossible. She listened anxiously for the clamour that would herald the arrival of the refugees from the French court which was expected imminently. Amongst those refugees was Anne Boleyn, Mary’s youngest Maid of Honour from her time as Queen of France. Mary was eager to talk to Anne and learn, first-hand, what news there was from France.

When Anne Boleyn and the others finally arrived, Mary sent a maid with a message for Anne to come to her apartments. Her summons was quickly answered. Smiling, Mary welcomed her to court. Apart from learning of recent events in France that might adversely affect her dower income, Mary was also keen on renewing an old acquaintance. She and her young Maids had shared worrying and dangerous times together. Their experiences at the court of France had created a bond of intimacy which Mary was keen to revisit.

She was surprised to see how much Anne had blossomed during her years in France. Although she was still slim, it was now a slimness of willowy grace where before it had been mere gawkiness. She appeared so polished, so cultured and stylish that Mary could see no trace of the shy and sallow little girl to whom she had given  her unwanted gowns. But she was being foolish; how could anyone remain a child at Francis’ court?. She laughed and told Anne what she had been thinking. ‘But of course you have changed from that little girl whose growth outpaced her gowns. France obviously suited you. But sit down, Anne. I am eager for news of France. Tell me something of the court’s doings.’

Her smile gracious, Anne seated herself with the smooth elegance that had so surprised Mary. She still felt disconcerted that the little Maid of Honour of her memory should be such a startling contrast to the Anne who now sat so composedly before her. She sensed from the girl’s demeanour that Anne had not liked to be reminded of the shabby and outgrown gowns or of the necessity of accepting Mary’s charity. It seemed her little Maid of Honour had discovered a certain hauteur during the process that had turned her from an ugly duckling into a swan. Although on the surface, she was pleasant enough, Mary sensed an underlying resentment and wondered at the girl’s ability to so long harbour a grudge over so small a matter.

But perhaps it was not only the matter of the gowns, Mary thought as she encouraged the girl to chat. It would be understandable if Anne was irked that Henry’s determination on war had put to an abrupt end her pleasant life in France. She might indeed feel resentment towards Henry’s sister that she should have been hurried from France and the only home she had known for many years. Whether such was the cause of Anne’s ill-feeling, Mary didn’t know. It was, in any case, beyond her power to ease the cause of either resentment. Anyway, it was surely beyond time that Anne returned home. She was no longer a child and must be anxious for her father to find a husband for her.

The renewal of intimacy that Mary had hoped for didn’t occur; that intimacy had vanished as surely as the little Maid with whom she had shared it. Whatever the reason for its loss, Mary found she couldn’t take to this new Anne. She put away the hopes she had cherished of girlish confidences and of learning whatever Anne might have gauged of Francis’ intentions. After no more than half-an-hour, she drew the visit to a close.

Of much more importance to Mary was her anxiety about her husband. For Charles had been appointed to lead an English expedition across the Channel. Originally, Henry’s plan had been limited to the capture of Boulogne, which, if it could be achieved, would provide them with another Channel port and give a great boost to the next year’s campaign. But Bourbon and the Emperor proposed a more dangerous and ambitious plan; that Charles Brandon should link up with Margaret of Austria’s army from the Netherlands and march on Paris, while Bourbon launched his revolt against Francis at the same time as the allies crossed the French frontier.

Mary had been dismayed when, although Henry had been against it, Wolsey had been persuaded by Count Buren, the Emperor’s general, that the difficulties of besieging Boulogne would be too great. Despite Henry’s misgivings, Wolsey persuaded the king to back this new and more ambitious plan.

War and its many perils filled her every waking hour and she dreaded Charles’s departure. As well as worrying about Charles, she had another, underlying cause for concern: what would become of her if she should be widowed a second time? Widowhood would, she knew, free her to once again become a marital pawn in Henry’s power-plays.

Charles, of course, brushed her fears aside, so delighted was he to have his chance to prove his worth to Henry that he even attempted to deny his doubts that the new campaign plan was wise. Mary was worried that his desire for glory would make him over-daring and place him in even more peril. Charles had laughed at her anxieties. It was clear he couldn’t wait to be off.

Stung, Mary said, ‘You seem eager to leave me, Charles. You may find the prospect of war entertaining, but I do not.’ She took his arm and pleaded with him. ‘All I ask is your promise that you will not do anything foolhardy. The king’s favour will be of no use to you if you are dead.’

He sighed, but did as she had asked. ‘You make your point, Mary,’ he told her. ‘I promise not to indulge in any unnecessary heroics.’ Solemnly, he crossed his heart. ‘But please, no more of your entreaties. They weaken a man.’

Mary held her tongue after that. And at least during the weeks of preparation she was kept too busy to brood, sewing the many banners and flags that the army would take with them to France.

The collection of money to pay for the war, the many preparations required for the transportation of the troops to Calais and negotiations with Bourbon, all caused so many delays that Charles bemoaned the passing of the summer and the loss of so many campaign days, for wars were rarely fought during the difficult winter months. It was not till the beginning of September that everything was in place. Then came yet more delay. Francis had discovered Bourbon’s treachery and their ally was forced to flee to Italy, just avoiding capture and arrest as a traitor.

Charles complained to Mary, ‘The campaign season will be over before we even leave Calais. How can I win this war if my army is hog-tied by winter’s mud?’

Mary, knowing how eager was Charles to head a glorious army and return home in triumph, did her best to soothe his ill-temper. But finally the expedition was ready to set out for Calais. Their goodbyes were muted; Mary trying desperately to keep her fears to herself; Charles anxious not to give her cause to revive them.

He held out his arms. ‘Come, sweetheart, kiss me and wish me luck. The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll return to you. Do not delay me with more tears,’ he warned, as Mary’s eyes glittered. ‘We’ve had delays in plenty already. Any more and we will never get to Paris before winter sets in and that’ll not please the king.’

Mary sighed and went into his arms. ‘I can’t help it. I still wish Henry had given the task to someone else. He has enough fighting nobles to choose from, as the good Lord knows. Why did he have to choose you for this dangerous enterprise?’

‘I would hope it is because he values my martial abilities.’ Charles gazed at her in astonishment. ‘By the Mass, Mary, there were any number competing for the honour. Besides, we need the king’s friendship. I need his friendship. You know full  well that there are many about him who still see only my lowly birth. They regard my marriage to the king’s sister with envious eyes and if they could do me a hurt they surely would. Your brother’s friendship, aye, and his admiration, too, are worth a great deal to me. If I can obtain his favour by winning his wars for him I’ll do it, right gladly. You have long known of my ambitions, Mary. You used to be proud of them once. Don’t attempt to hold me back. I’ll not be put in leading strings.’

Mary kept quiet. She had no alternative. But for him to choose this occasion of their leave-taking to reveal the depth of his ambition increased her fears tenfold. In spite of his promise not to do anything foolhardy, she suspected that ambition would blind him to danger until it was too late.