Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (42 page)

Frances didn’t care about that. But she knew better than to say so. If she did, she would be accused of nurturing unnatural feelings.

‘I would also have to pay homage to her, as though she were a queen. I’ll not do it. I hope, as my daughter, Frances, you would feel shame even to consider it.’

Frances was unmoved by her mother’s hopes. She cast her gaze longingly to the window. It was a bright day with a stiff breeze. On such a day she should be out on her horse, flying over hedges and ditches with one of the more daring stable boys, not forced to study for hours in a stuffy chamber.

After giving another lecture on ladylike behaviour, Mary called for the tutor and ordered them back to their lessons. Issuing Frances with firm warnings about what reward further ill-behaviour would bring her, their mother left.

Outside the chamber, Mary leaned back against the closed door, shut her eyes and pressed her hand to her side as the pain that now but rarely gave her ease flared into angry life. Dear God, how her eldest daughter vexed her. Once again the thought sprang into her head that it were a pity God had seen fit to take her son and leave her daughter. It was a wicked thought, Mary knew. Frances was her own child, but she could not like her. From the cradle, her eldest daughter had seemed to know how best to vex her and to take pleasure in acting on the knowledge.

You must try to like her, Mary told herself again, must try to get through to her. The only sound from behind the door was the low drone of the tutor. Satisfied that her rebuke had for the moment subdued her unruly daughter, Mary left them to it and made for her bed-chamber, hoping a few quiet hours would persuade the pain in her side to give her some respite.

She was worried about Frances. The girl was too wilful. In this, she took after her Aunt Margaret, whose own wilful behaviour in the pursuit of her own way had become notorious. Nightly, Mary prayed that Frances wasn’t going to be another Margaret. She would have to find a strong man when the time came for the girl to marry. A strong man might soften her and arouse a few tender feelings. For at the moment, the only person capable of causing such emotions in Frances’ breast was Frances. Her longings and her self-pity were forever fighting each other for the little tenderness that breast contained. It didn’t help that Mary blamed herself for the flaws in her daughter’s character. If she and Charles had not married...

Mary sighed. The years of financial problems and their periods of self-banishment from court were resented by Frances who had always been desperate to be the centre of attention. Mary knew the girl blamed her for all the things she felt she ought to have, but didn’t have, especially a permanent place at court.

It wounded Mary that Frances clearly cared little that Anne Boleyn ruled over her aunt and cousin, flaunting her scarlet behaviour by wearing scarlet gowns and Catherine’s jewels. Frances thought Anne Boleyn exciting. What cared she if her cousin, the king’s own daughter, was barely tolerated after taking her mother’s side? No, Frances would never share Mary’s feelings. She would have no qualms about curtseying to her Aunt Catherine’s usurper. Mary refused to grant Catherine’s rival such a triumph and if the only way she could bring it off was by keeping Frances in the country, so be it.

It was some days later. Mary was sewing in her solar when she heard a messenger arrive. He was brought straight to her and when Mary had read the letter he had brought, she was filled with joy that God seemed to have at last listened to the devout Catherine’s many prayers.

For the Bullen harlot was grievously sick. And though Mary begged God’s forgiveness for her uncharitable thoughts, she felt He would surely understand and sympathise with them for Anne Boleyn had ruined Catherine’s life and that of her daughter. She had also come between Mary and her own husband, causing more arguments and cross words than even that fraught time after their secret marriage. And now, she came between them in an even more damaging way, forcing them, by her very existence, to spend long periods apart, periods when bitterness festered and resentment grew. And then there was Frances, yet another problem to lay at Anne Boleyn’s door. Perhaps God would be kind and let the sweating sickness that afflicted the lady take her on to the next world. For certain it was that Anne Boleyn had caused grief enough in this one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mary’s hopes were dashed when she learned from letters from her husband and friends at court that not only had Anne Boleyn survived her illness, but that her brush with death had placed her even more firmly in Henry’s affections. She was now more arrogant and demanding than ever. And even though Henry had sent her from his side on the arrival of Cardinal Campeggio who was expected, with Wolsey, to pass judgement on Henry and Catherine’s marriage, it was clear this was simply so that her brother would not compromise himself in Campeggio’s eyes.

However, it seemed that Henry and his mistress were not to have things all their own way, for Cardinal Campeggio, who suffered badly from the gout, took to his bed as soon as he arrived. Mary’s correspondents hinted that this was caused as much by political expediency as by pain. Pope Clement, that eternal shilly-shallier, had clearly determined not to grant the divorce. He would not act against the wishes of Catherine’s nephew, the Emperor. And as Henry’s allies, one by one, fell victim to the Emperor Charles’s power, the Pope’s desire to delay the divorce grant increased.

Of course, the situation was far from pleasing to the Lady Anne. And as Charles, together with Anne Boleyn’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, had sided with the king and his lady, Anne would expect them to explain what to her must be maddening delays. Placating the lady would never have been an easy task.

Mary learned from several sources that her husband had been forced to soothe her and she burned with resentment for his sake. It seemed the world had gone mad when a chit of a girl could cause such trouble.

It wasn’t long before Mary learned by what means Charles had managed to placate his demanding mistress. He had turned Anne Boleyn’s wrath over the delays and pointed it in the direction of one they had both had long hated - Cardinal Wolsey. Foolishly, Charles had attacked the Cardinal in Council. But Charles was no match for the Cardinal in argument and had been reminded that it was only through Wolsey’s efforts that he had retained his head after his secret marriage. Mary could imagine how little such a humiliation would endear the Cardinal to her husband.

What sad times they lived through, Mary thought. But they were saddest of all for Catherine as, pushed by Anne’s spite, the frustrated Henry forced the queen away from Greenwich to Hampton Court and Anne moved into the rooms beside the king that had been Catherine’s.

Much as Mary agonised over her husband’s difficulties and her brother’s understandable desire for a male heir, she was glad, for Catherine’s sake, that the queen had had one satisfaction in all this. For although the Legatine Court, with Wolsey and Campeggio officiating to hear the divorce, had finally opened at Blackfriars, it had become increasingly bogged down in petty details, and at the end of the legal term, the case was recalled to be heard in Rome.

Henry, of course, was furious and looked round for a scapegoat. Pushed by Anne and Mary’s husband, he settled on Wolsey. He had failed the king over the divorce, failed as arbiter of Europe where even his vast plans for a peace conference had fallen into disarray. Worse, France, the Pope and the Emperor looked likely to come to terms - terms that excluded England.

All Henry’s hopes for the divorce would be over if the Pope and the Emperor were united. Wolsey’s failure to secure his master’s wishes meant that his downfall was only a matter of time. To Mary’s sadness, amongst the wolves who began to gather, eager to take a bite of Wolsey’s plump flesh, was the man who had more reason than most to be grateful to the Cardinal; her own husband, Charles. Not only had Wolsey interceded with Henry and gained for them her brother’s forgiveness, Mary now learned that, in the midst of all his troubles, he had managed to gain Papal confirmation that her and Charles’s marriage was legal. He had been a good friend to them in truth and Mary felt ashamed of his treatment at the hands of her brother and husband. Although she was relieved to receive confirmation of the legality of her marriage, apart from lifting one of her worries, it came too late to bring much joy. Of course, it was good that her children no longer risked the taint of bastardy and could now be betrothed without difficulty. But after all the suffering and arguments over the legality or otherwise of Henry and Catherine’s marriage, the confirmation that her own was valid seemed small beer indeed, made smaller by the fact that she saw but little of her husband in these troubled times. He was fast in Anne Boleyn’s clutches and seldom dared to leave the court in case someone poisoned her against him as he had poisoned her against Wolsey.

Alone in the country with her two remaining children, Mary wondered what would become of them all. Her and Charles’s marriage was not setting the country and Europe by the ear as was Henry’s. Set aside, their marriage would not attract the wrath of the Emperor. But Henry’s wish to set Catherine aside and marry Anne Boleyn would do this and more. And Charles was tangled in the midst of it.

Had it only been two years ago that he had shown her such tenderness at the death of their son? Alas, Mary reflected, such tenderness hadn’t lasted. He had been eager to return to court and gain Henry’s praise by tormenting poor Catherine. The unrelenting pressures had made him harsh and unfeeling and if Henry didn’t soon get his way, who knew on whom his anger might next descend?

Once again, Mary felt she could not remain blameless in all this. Her demand that Charles marry her had led them to this situation. The fear Charles had felt at that time had brought about in him a determination that he would never again fall foul of Henry’s desires. Whether this vow meant he had to be kind or cruel, just or unjust, he would follow wherever Henry led, glad to be able to do so. And to what had their great love brought them? Separation and estrangement. The divorce had driven a wedge between them and would continue to do so. Poor beleaguered Cardinal Wolsey had striven to get Papal recognition for a marriage that now hardly seemed worthy of the name. Mary was saddened by the realisation that their marriage could never return to its old affectionate footing. Too much had passed between them for that. And the more she looked back, the more Mary convinced herself that it needn’t have been that way and that Henry would have graciously agreed to their marriage once they had returned home and Charles’s desperate need to get back into Henry’s affections would never have happened.

But it was too late now for might-have-beens. Henry was determined on his divorce and Charles was determined to help him to get it, whatever the cost to Catherine, Henry or their own love and marriage.

Mary’s life, her visits to a court queened over by Anne Boleyn, a rare event, had become firmly rooted in the country. There was little at court for her now. Besides, she had no wish to witness her husband’s degradation, his ever-more shameful behaviour. The brother, the husband, she had once known and respected were both lost to her. Henry, the big brother she had adored as a child had been over-shadowed by the hydra-headed monster of his conscience. The matter of the divorce touched them all. Touched and left its mark.

Her little niece, Mary, her namesake, had been reduced to rebellious silence over the treatment of her mother. Now on the verge of womanhood, her life had been blighted and Mary’s heart ached for her. The bright, happy little girl her father had called his ‘pearl’, whom Mary remembered with affection, had gone and in her place was a sad-eyed young woman, neglected, ignored and old beyond her years. Bullied and humiliated, she had withdrawn into herself, beyond the harlot’s taunts. Most cruel of all, the poor child was not allowed to see her mother lest they encourage one another’s defiance.

The shame Mary felt at the behaviour of the men in her family was overtaken only by her hatred of the woman whose black-eyed witchery had so hypnotised her brother that he must draw Charles, too, under her spell. Even Frances had been suborned and was becoming more sullen by the day at her mother’s refusal to allow her to worship at the black altar of Anne Boleyn with the rest.

Mary was at a loss what to do with the girl, a difficulty not eased by the fact that they had never been close. Mary had tried to reason with her daughter, to make her understand that she could not, in honour, reside at court as she wished. But Frances refused to accept any point of view but her own. All she thought of was the unfair sacrifice she was called upon to make for honour’s sake and her resentment grew with each additional day’s sacrifice.

Frances had never been one to meet anyone halfway. She refused to remember the many loving acts of her Aunt Catherine. Instead, all she thought of was the pleasure Catherine’s stubbornness denied her. But for Queen Catherine, her reasoning ran, she would be at court, able to enjoy all the amusements.

Mary understood that it was hard for the girl living such a quiet life and she did her best to enliven it, giving banquets and balls for their neighbours, even though her health made such entertainments an ordeal. But Frances was determined to be miserable. Nothing for her would do but the splendours and extravagance of the court entertainments. Mary was forced into the unwilling and painful acceptance that she had born a daughter at once shallow, stubborn and selfish. Clearly, Frances longed to be gone from her home. Mary had looked to put off her eldest daughter’s marriage for a year or two yet as she was still young, but, in despair, Mary acknowledged that while she could find no answers to the girl’s waywardness, the strong husband she needed, might.

Increasingly unwell with the agonising pains in her side, Mary scarcely had the energy to cope with her wilful daughter. She decided to write to Charles and suggest they got the girl settled into marriage. Marriage and motherhood would surely steady her.