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

The Family at Westhorpe

HENRY CAME to the Suffolks’ London residence in Bath Place, and went at once to his sister’s bedchamber, where he found her lying back on her pillows, flushed and triumphant, looking as though the ordeal had meant little to her. Her blue eyes sparkled although there were lines of exhaustion about them and her golden hair fell in a tangle of curls about her shoulders.

Henry came to the bed and stood looking down at her.

“Well done, sister.”

“Oh, Henry, beloved brother, it adds to my joy that you should come to my bedside.”

“Certainly I came. You’ve acquitted yourself with honors. Suffolk’s a lucky man.”

She called to her woman to bring the baby to the King, and as Henry held the child in his arms his face darkened.

“He looks to be a bonny boy,” he said; and watching her brother, Mary read his thoughts. Why should others have bonny boys when he could not?

Poor Henry. Katharine had at last given birth to a healthy child, but it was unfortunate that it had to be a girl. Katharine adored the little Princess Mary who had recently come into the world and the King was fond of her too, yet he could not hide his chagrin that after all their efforts they had failed to get a boy.

“They tell me he has the look of a Tudor already,” Mary said. “Some say they see you in him.”

“Is that so?” Henry’s scowl was replaced by a smile as he peered into the baby’s face.

“In any case,” Mary went on, “we have decided to call him after his uncle. That is if you raise no objection, brother.”

“Ha!” cried the King. “Young Henry seems to have a fancy for his uncle. See! He is smiling at me.”

He would not relinquish the child to his nurse but walked up and down the chamber holding him. The look of sorrow had come back into his face. Lately his thoughts had been more and more occupied with the desire for a son.

In the hall of the mansion in Bath Place stood gentlemen holding lighted torches which set a soft glow on the faces of the illustrious personages gathered there for a great occasion.

At the font, which had been set up for the purpose of christening the son of the Dowager Queen of France and the Duke of Suffolk, stood the King with Wolsey and the King’s aunt, the Lady Catherine, Countess of Devon, daughter of Edward IV. These were the baby’s godparents.

Henry watched the procession through half closed eyes, telling himself that he rejoiced because his sister’s marriage was fruitful; but what would he not have given if that young male child were his son instead of his nephew?

“Why do I not get a son?” Henry asked himself peevishly as he watched the child being carried by Lady Anne Grey while Lady Elizabeth Grey bore the chrysom, preceded by the bearers of the basin and tapers; and for the moment his resentment of his fate was so overwhelming that instead of the red and white roses of his House which adorned the crimson of font and canopy, he saw the pale, apologetic face of his wife, Katharine, and his rage threatened to choke him. What was wrong with Kate that she could not get a healthy boy? Mary had not been married long before she had one. His sister Margaret had a healthy son. Why should he be victimized? There was nothing wrong with the Tudor stock. Where could three such healthy people as himself and his two sisters be found? No, if there was a flaw in his union with Katharine it did not come from the Tudor side.

His lips jutted out angrily, and several of those who watched read his thoughts.

Now the ceremony was being performed and the blue eyes of the baby were wide and wondering. He did not cry. Wise little fellow. All Tudor, thought Henry.

“I name this boy Henry,” said the King; but the fact that he gave the child his name did not ease his sorrow.

Mary, fully aware of her brother’s resentment, was suddenly fearful that he might dislike the boy because he could not get one of his own. But this could not be so. Henry would never hate a little child. He was as fond of children as she was.

While spice and wine were served she stood beside her brother and thanked him for his gifts to her child, which included a gold cup.

“He will treasure it always because of the donor,” she told him. “I shall bring up my son, Henry, to serve you well.”

Henry took her hand and pressed it.

“The child has received many beautiful gifts,” he said.

“But none to be compared with yours.”

“You are fortunate,” he burst out suddenly. “Your firstborn … a son!”

“You will be fortunate too, Henry.”

His mouth was grim. “I see little sign of that good fortune as yet. You have your son; Margaret has hers, and I … who need one more than either of you, am disappointed time after time.”

“But you have your lovely Mary.”

“A girl.”

“But the next will be a boy.”

His expression startled her, because it betrayed more than resentment. Was it cruelty?

In that moment Mary had a longing for the peace of Westhorpe. She wanted to be in the heart of the country with her husband, her stepdaughters and her own little son.

She thought: When a woman has much to love she has also much to lose.

She remembered how, when Charles took part in the jousts against Henry, she was always afraid that he might be going to win. Now there was another to fear for.

Yes, she was certainly longing for the quiet of the country.

Westhorpe, which was close to the town of Botesdale, was a commodious mansion and Mary had loved it from the moment she saw it.

Here she and Charles lived in retirement with their little son. It had not been difficult to slip away from Court because Henry was short of money, and Wolsey had decided to call in certain debts. Since the marriage of Mary and Charles they were two of the King’s biggest debtors and, explaining to Wolsey that if they were to meet their commitments they must economize without delay, they took the opportunity of slipping away to the country.

As Henry was making a tour of some of his towns he did not immediately miss them, so no obstacle was put in the way of their leaving. As soon as Mary entered Westhorpe she brought an atmosphere of gaiety with her, and Charles was surprised, for the mansion seemed a different place from the one he had known before.

He had been afraid that Mary would quickly tire of the quietness, but he had a great deal to learn about his wife. She had always known that she desired to live in peace with her husband and family, and wanted nothing to threaten that peace; while she was at Court—much as she loved Henry—she would always be afraid that her husband might in some way anger him. There were too many people at Court jealous of Charles, and bold as Mary was, she could be nervous where her husband was concerned. She wanted to keep him safe from harm, and where better could she do that than far away from the Court, in his country house in Suffolk.

She declared herself delighted with the house. As soon as they arrived she made the acquaintance of the resident servants as though she were a squire’s lady instead of a Queen; and they who had prepared to be overawed were immediately captivated by her free and easy manner. Mary and Charles had brought with them a very small party from Court consisting of two knights, one esquire, forty men and seven female servants—a small retinue for a Queen. But she had insisted on it and had estimated that the wages which would be paid out at Westhorpe were no more than three hundred and twenty-seven pounds a year.

“This,” she had said, “we can afford; and, Charles, I intend that we shall live within our means.”

It was a great delight to her to play the chatelaine; there was so much to learn, she explained to the governor of the household, and when one was brought up to be a Queen, one’s education was neglected in many other ways.

She insisted that her little son sleep in her chamber; and she herself often attended to him. She was delighted with the new life—so different from everything she had known before, so much more intimate, so much more domestic.

“I do not envy Kings and Queens,” she told Charles. “They see so little of their husbands and wives, they might as well not be married!”

Her contentment spread throughout the manor, and this was a very happy household.

But she was already planning for the future.

“Your daughters must come to Westhorpe, Charles, as we arranged,” she said. “Also the little one you rescued from the river. I hope young Henry will soon have a little brother or sister. I told you I want a large family.”

“Mary,” said Charles soberly, “you know Henry will soon be back at Greenwich.”

Her face clouded.

“You think he will command our return?”

“He said the Court was not the same when we were away.”

He saw the fear in her eyes, and he went on quickly: “At the moment you do not wish to leave Westhorpe, but when the novelty has gone you will grow a little tired of our home where nothing much happens.”

“Something happens all the time. I am happy here, and that is the best thing that could happen to anyone. I shall never grow tired of it. I don’t want to go to Court. I am afraid. …”

“Since when have you been afraid?”

She put her arms about him and held him close to her.

“Since I had so much to lose,” she said.

“Why should you lose that which you treasure?”

“Treasures can be easily lost in my brother’s Court, Charles. I want to stay here forever … because here I feel safe.”

He understood. But he did not believe she would be allowed to have her wish this time.

It was a happy day for Westhorpe when the little girls arrived. Mary and Charles watched them from the battlements—three somewhat bewildered children, the eldest not more than six years old.

Mary’s heart was immediately touched as she watched them dismount from their ponies, when the eldest took the two younger ones by the hand as though she would defend them from all the perils that might be waiting for them.

“Come,” cried Mary. “Let us go down to them.”

She ran down the staircases to the courtyard, for she had not yet grown accustomed to being able to act without ceremony, and still found it one of the most enjoyable advantages of her new existence.

She went to the little girls, and kneeling, embraced the three of them at once.

“My dear little daughters, welcome home!” she cried.

Anne, the eldest, who was the spokeswoman of the party, had been rehearsing what she would say when she was confronted by her stepmother who, she had had impressed upon her, was a queen.

She tried to kneel and glanced sternly at the others to remind them of their duty.

“Your Highness,” she began.

Mary laughed.

“Call me your mother not Your Highness,” she said. “I think it is difficult for a mother to be a Highness. Now which is Mary and which the little water nymph?”

The smaller child, who had already seen Charles and could not take her eyes from him, was pushed forward by Anne.

“She was nearly drowned,” said Mary.

“But my father saved her,” added Anne.

Mary lifted up the child and kissed her. “And how glad I am that he did, my little nymph.”

“Nymph is not her name,” Anne protested.

“But it shall be my name for her,” replied Mary, who was delighted with this child because of her obvious devotion to Charles.

“You do not look like a queen,” said Anne. “You have no crown.”

“I did wear one … once,” Mary told them.

“And you have lost it?”

Mary nodded and the faces of the young children puckered with sympathy.

“But I am not sorry,” Mary went on quickly. “It was very heavy, and very uncomfortable to wear, so methinks I am happier without it.”

The three little faces showed incredulity.

“It’s true,” said Mary. She turned to Charles and slipped her arm through his. “Is it not so?”

“I believe your mother to be speaking the truth,” he said.

“Is she indeed our mother?” asked Anne.

“I am indeed,” answered Mary.

“Mine too,” said the youngest child.

“Yours too, my little nymph. And now I want you to see your brother. He is young yet and may not appreciate so many new sisters, but he will in time.”

Thus Mary gathered her new family to Westhorpe and settled down to enjoy the golden days.

Before long distinguished visitors came to Westhorpe. The children, who were playing in the nurseries, were the first to see the approach of the party and ran down into the gardens to tell their parents.

Mary was in the enclosed rose garden gathering the blooms which she herself would arrange later; Charles sat on a wooden bench near the fish pond which was a feature of this garden, marveling at the enthusiasm with which his wife still performed all these simple tasks. He could not believe that she would continue to do so. He often felt that he wanted to live every minute of his new life to the full, because he was certain it must change. They would not be long left in peace.

Anne led the two little girls into the rose garden crying: “Dearest Father and Mother, there is a crowd of people riding on the road.”

The little one who had been given the name of the Water Nymph, usually shortened to Nymph, ran to Charles and was lifted up and placed on his shoulder.

“A party of riders,” said Mary placidly. “I wonder if they are coming to Westhorpe.”

“They look as if they are coming to Westhorpe,” said Anne.

“Then mayhap we had better go and see who our visitors are,” Charles said.

Mary held one of the roses to her nose. She had no wish for visitors. Visitors could mean the disruption of the peaceful routine, and this was the last thing she wanted.

“The scent of these roses is delicious.” She made them all smell in turn; and because the children were most contented when they were with Charles and Mary, they were as ready to forget about the visitors as she was.

But they could not ignore the sounds of excitement; and soon a servant, flushed of face and bright of eye, came to break the peace of the rose garden.

“My lord, my lady, the Queen’s party is here.”

“The Queen!” cried Mary. “And the King?”

The servant looked aghast, as though that would be too much to be borne. It was enough that the Queen alone was here.

Mary and Charles, the children following, made their way to the courtyard where, looking exhausted and weary with the long journey, was Katharine.

Mary embraced her and Charles knelt. Katharine was smiling. “I am so glad to be here,” she said. “The journey has been tedious.”

“And you are in need of refreshment and rest,” Mary said. “We are delighted that you should so honor us.”

With Charles on one side, Mary on the other, Katharine was conducted into the hall of Westhorpe.

“So this is where you are hiding yourself away,” said Katharine.

Then she saw the children who had run up, the Nymph clutching at Charles’s doublet, his daughters keeping behind their stepmother.

“Your Grace has seen my large family?”

“Your family! I had thought there was but the boy.”

“I always wanted a large family,” laughed Mary. “And you know my impatience. Well, I have four children already. Who could do better than that in such a short time?”

The children were presented to Katharine, who patted their heads tenderly.

She sighed and turning to Mary said: “I have just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham.”

Mary knew for what reason; Katharine was praying that she might bear the King a son.

When Katharine had rested in the apartments which had been made ready for her as soon as she entered the house, she wanted to see the nursery; and as Mary watched her bending over the cradle of her son, she felt a deep pity for her sister-in-law. Never, since her great happiness had come to her, had she felt as grateful as she did at that moment. How easy it was for the lives of royal people to go awry.

“Mine never shall,” she told herself fiercely.

Katharine, returning to Court, talked to Henry of the household at Westhorpe. Henry was amused; he laughed heartily.

“So she has become a simple country woman, has she? How long will she be contented with that life? Depend upon it ere long she will be requesting to come back to Court.”

Katharine was not so sure, but she rarely disagreed with the King’s opinion; and when Henry heard of the nurseries of Westhorpe containing three little girls and a bonny boy—Mary’s own son at that—he became glum.

He wanted to hear all about the boy, and Katharine was not sure which would have distressed him more, to have learned that his nephew was ailing or, the truth, that he was a healthy boy.

When Katharine told him: “Little Henry is growing so like you,” he was pleased but almost immediately disgruntled because he had not a boy to whom he could give his name.

“I feel so much much better since my pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham,” Katharine told him. “I am certain that she will soon answer my prayers.”

But of course she would, thought Henry. There was his good and pious wife. As for himself, did he not hear Mass regularly? Was he not as devout as God could wish?

He was suddenly good-humored. “We will have a merry masque,” he declared. “My sister Margaret will soon be with us. We must show her how we amuse ourselves here in England, for I believe the Scots to be a dour race. Now if we should have a tourney our champions must be there. Suffolk must come back to Court and Mary must greet her own sister.”

Katharine remembered, a little sadly, the country idyll she had disturbed, and imagined the messengers arriving there with the King’s orders.

Moreover she thought of Mary, the mother of a son, being at Court with Margaret who also had a boy. Henry would be delighted to have his sisters at his Court, but he was going to be very envious of them.