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

• Название: Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII
• Автор: Jean Plaidy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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It was a messenger from London and as she could see by his face that the news was not good, she sent the children back to their nurseries before she demanded to hear it.

The news was alarming. The armies had been disbanded; the Duke of Suffolk was at Calais, and among the dispatches which he had sent to the King was a letter which, he had instructed, was to be carried immediately to his wife.

“My dearest wife,” he had written:

This finds me in dire straits. Our position was untenable; the weather was such that to remain in camp would be disastrous. I asked the King’s permission to disband the army, but I had no reply to my request, and perforce was driven to act without that permission. I disbanded the army and started on my way home when a command to hold the army together and stay where I was reached me. It was, as you will understand, impossible for me to do this, and I greatly fear that I have incurred your royal brother’s displeasure by seeming to disobey his orders. You know full well what happened to Dorset. I now find myself in a similar case. Therefore I have gone to Calais because I feel that to return to England would be to place myself in jeopardy …

Mary let the letter fall from her hands.

She was remembering Dorset, returning to England after his campaign, a sick man who had been unable to walk ashore. She remembered her brother’s fury against him and how he had almost lost his life.

Now she feared that his hatred would be directed against Charles. Henry had changed since Dorset had failed abroad; he had become more aware of his power, and that awareness had awakened in him a latent cruelty. In the old days she had never been afraid of her brother; she was now … desperately afraid for Charles.

The little girls and their brother came running to her; they had escaped from their nursery, sensing that something important was about to happen. Little Eleanor came toddling in after them to catch her skirts.

She thrust the letter into the neck of her gown and picked up the baby, while the others made a circle about her.

It was Anne who spoke. “My father is coming back?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Mary firmly. “In time he will … but not yet.”

“When … when … ?” They were all shouting together and she tried to smile at them.

“As soon as possible,” she answered. Then: “First I must go to see your uncle.”

“Uncle King?” asked Henry.

“Yes,” Mary told him. “And when I come back I hope to bring you news of your father.”

“Don’t go away,” said little Frances, catching at her mother’s skirts.

“Never, fear, little one,” Mary reassured her. “I shall soon be back … with your father.”

Henry glowered at his sister.

“So you thought fit to come to see us.”

“I would, Henry, that you could come to see us now and then.”

“I have matters of state to attend to and those on whom I should rely do not always serve me well.”

“Never was a king blessed with more faithful servants. If they could command even the weather to work for him they would do so.”

“I thought as much. You have come to talk to me about that husband of yours.”

“Who is your great friend and servant, Henry.”

“It does not seem so, Madam.”

“That is because you are not being reasonable.”

His eyes narrowed; his scowl deepened. “I pray you do not bring your rustic manners to Court, sister.”

She laughed and, going to him, boldly put her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek.

“All your scowls and harsh words cannot make you other than my big brother whom I have adored since I was a baby.”

It was easy to soften him. She was his little sister again.

“I was ever over-indulgent to you.”

“How could you be otherwise toward one who had so great a regard for you?”

“Methinks you are about to ask some boon, sister.”

“And you, being the wisest man in Christendom, know what it is.”

“I like it not when my orders are disobeyed.”

“But Henry, your orders would have been obeyed had he received them.”

“He did not wait to receive them. He has made me look a fool in the eyes of Francis.”

“Oh no, Henry. You could never look a fool. Dear brother, the men would not stay together. The weather, the conditions, everything was too bad.”

“So he has been whining to you. And now cowers in Calais, afraid to come home until his wife has pleaded with me to forgive him. By God, sister, you should have married a man, not a poltroon.”

Mary’s face flushed scarlet and she looked remarkably like her brother in that moment. “I married the finest man in England …” She added slyly: “Except one.” But Henry did not see the irony.

“So he is now skulking in Calais, eh?”

“Awaiting your invitation to return.”

“A pretty state of affairs when my generals take it upon themselves to disband my armies.”

“Henry, you have fought in France. You know the difficulties. …”

His brow darkened; he was thinking of his exploits abroad when he had been fooled by wily Ferdinand and the Emperor Maximilian.

“So,” went on Mary quickly, “you will understand how Charles had to make this decision without your help. He made it too early, as we know; but he made it because he thought it the best way to serve you.”

“And what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me to write to him … to bring him home. You know how you enjoy jousting with him beyond all others.”

It was true. He did miss Suffolk.

“You ever knew how to cajole me, you witch,” he said.

She waited for no more; again her arms were about his neck and again she kissed him; and as she did so she wondered how much longer she would be able to wheedle what she wanted from this brother of hers.

Henry had lost some of his enthusiasm for the joust. He would often be shut away with his ministers; his bad temper was very easily aroused, and when he was in certain moods even his dogs would sense it and keep their distance. Wise courtiers did the same.

Mary and Charles remained in the country and were delighted that they were not summoned to Court. Mary decided that the change in Henry was due to the fact that he was growing older and had naturally lost his zest for boyish games.

One day there came a summons to Court. Henry wished to honor his young nephew and namesake by bestowing a title upon him, and he had chosen the Earldom of Lincoln.

Mary was uneasy when she heard this and called to Charles to walk with her alone in the gardens of Westhorpe that she might discuss this new development.

“He is nine years old,” said Charles, “and therefore it is time that some honor was his. We should rejoice that your brother remembers him.”

“I do not welcome Henry’s interest in the boy,” replied Mary. “He will want him to be brought up at Court and that means we shall lose him. Perhaps it was a mistake to call him Henry.”

“But, Mary, we should not be displeased because the King honors our son.”

“I am beginning to be fearful of Henry.”

“You fear too much for your children, my love.”

“I would that I could keep you all safe at Westhorpe. You see it is so easy to offend Henry now, and when he is offended one cannot be sure what he will do. He is brooding on some matter, I feel sure, and it has changed him.”

“Let him brood,” smiled Charles. “Now we should call the boy and prepare him for what is about to happen to him.”

Young Henry was delighted at the prospect of going to Court, and the girls were envious. When the party rode out of Westhorpe for London the boy was beside his father and they chattered gaily of what was in store for him. Mary, watching them, delighted in their health and spirits, yet her very pleasure in them frightened her.

Her fears were not dispersed when she reached Greenwich, for there she discovered that the honor bestowed on her little son was not the main reason for the great festivities which had been arranged.

Henry Brandon was only one of the boys to be honored on this occasion; a matter of much greater significance was being settled. Henry Fitzroy, the King’s son by Elizabeth Blount, was to be given the royal title of Duke of Richmond, and Mary understood too well what this meant.

The King, despairing of getting a legitimate son, had decided to acknowledge his illegitimate one. Did this mean that he was prepared to make Henry Fitzroy the heir to the crown?

There must be feasting, balls and masques to celebrate the elevation of this boy who, the King would have his people know, was very close to his heart.

This was understandable, thought Mary; but what seemed to her so grossly cruel was that Katharine should be commanded to attend these celebrations. What must she feel to see her husband’s bastard so honored, and herself, unable to give him a son, forced to honor him? Where was the sentimental Henry of her childhood? thought Mary. He had certainly changed.

Poor Katharine, what would her fate eventually be?

What, wondered Mary, might be the fate of any of us who cease to please him—as she has ceased to?

They were riding into the arena—two giants who were the tallest men at Court. Mary sat beneath the canopy on which were embroidered her own symbol, the marigold together with the golden lilies of France. Beside her was Katharine, on her canopy the emblem of the pomegranate. Poor sad Katharine, how ironic that her emblem should be the Arabic sign of fertility!

But Mary had no thought for her sad sister-in-law now, for Charles and Henry had been the champions and it was time for them to meet.

She knew her Charles. He loved to joust and show his skill. There was a temptation every time he faced an opponent to do his utmost to win. And he could win easily. She knew it and she trembled.

“How well matched they are,” said Katharine, forcing a smile to her pale lips. “There is no one else who can match the King.”

“And Charles must not either,” murmured Mary.

Katharine had glanced at her clenched hands and understood. In that moment there was a deep sympathy between them; they were two frightened women.

Suddenly there was a shout. Katharine and Mary simultaneously rose in their seats.

“The King has not lowered his visor …,” cried Katharine.

Mary stared in horror, for Charles was riding toward Henry, his lance in his hand pointing toward the King’s forehead; and Charles, whose headpiece prevented him from seeing how vulnerable was the King, was advancing at speed.

“Charles! Stop!” cried Mary.

The crowd of spectators were shouting but Charles thinking they were applauding the King and himself, did not understand the warning.

His lance struck Henry’s helmet, a matter of inches away from his exposed forehead; it was shattered and only then did Charles realize how near he had come to killing the King.

Katharine put an arm about Mary. “All is well,” she whispered. “The King is unharmed.”

Henry came into the banquet hall, his arm about Charles’s shoulder. The trumpets sounded; the company rose and cheered.

Henry was happy. This was a scene such as he loved: The drama which had a happy ending, with himself as the hero!

He took his place at the table and cried: “This fellow all but killed his King this afternoon. He tells me he will never joust against me again. Methinks he suffered from the affair more than I!”

How bland he was, how blue the little eyes, asparkle with good humor, but ready at any moment to send forth the fire of anger; the thin lips were smiling but everyone was beginning to learn that they could curl in sudden anger.

“Nay, my brother,” he said, smiling at Charles. “We know that, had your lance entered this head, you would have been the most unhappy man in England this day. We know our friends. And I say to you, I hold this not against my brother, for the fault was mine. So eager was I to ride against him that I forgot to lower my visor. I could not have his head for that, could I, my friends?”

There were cheers and laughter.

Charles was shaken; yet not more so than Mary.

The King’s eyes might glisten while the suckling pig was piped to the table, he might command that one of his own songs be sung, he might smile benignly at the company when they applauded his music; but there were three very uneasy people at the banquet that night, and they were his nearest—his wife, his sister and his brother-in-law.

The Last Farewell

GOSSIP WAS RIFE, not only at Court but throughout the country. Even in the village of Suffolk there was whispering of the King’s Secret Matter.

Those days seemed too short for Mary; she wanted to catch them and make them twice as long. She had lost some of her health recently and had discovered a tendency to catch cold, leaving her with an ague and a cough which would not go. Charles was anxious because of her health and to relieve his fears she pretended that she felt as well as ever.

She often wondered what was happening at Court. At least there were not the same demands for her and Charles’s attendance there. There was a new set about the King—bright young people, clever young people who devised plays and masques of much wit for the King’s amusement. The leaders of this set were, strangely enough, her one-time maid of honor, Anne Boleyn, Anne’s brother George, and Thomas Wyatt.

It was pleasant to be left in peace.

Mary felt more and more remote from the Court, but she knew now that Henry was trying to cast off Katharine, and there were rumors that he was so enamored of Anne Boleyn that he wished to make her his Queen.

Mary was angry; she had been so fond of Katharine, although often irritated by her mildness; she believed that if she went to Court she would be unable to avoid quarreling with her brother; and he was in no mood for opposition.

Had she felt well she might have gone to Court, because she did want to comfort Katharine and tell her that she would always support her against that upstart maid of honor.

Yet when she considered her growing family, when she thought of Charles, she knew that they were all safer at Westhorpe. She had her own secret to keep too; she wanted none of them to know that she suffered often from mysterious pains; that she was often breathless; she had warned her maids that they were not to mention that her kerchiefs were sometimes stained with blood.

One day Charles came to her in some dismay.

“A summons?” she asked fearfully.

He nodded gravely. “The Papal Legate Campeggio is in London and I am summoned to the Court.”

“So it has gone as far as that. My poor Katharine!”

Charles took her hands and was alarmed because they were trembling.

“Your brother has determined to be rid of her,” he said.

“I know. And marry that sly wench. Marry her, Charles. How can he so demean himself … his throne … his name … by marrying one so far beneath him!”

Charles laughed and gently touched her cheek. “These Tudors have a way of forgetting what they owe their rank when they take a fancy to some low man or woman.”