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

Danger at the King’s Court

THE YEARS WERE PASSING and the love between Mary and her husband was strengthened. She had always believed that theirs would be an ideal marriage; he had been too cynical to accept this view, but she had weaned him from his cynicism, and he substituted her creed for his.

He had begun by being mildly astonished; and now he had accepted his happiness as a natural state.

She was different from other women; she was unique. It was in her capacity for happiness and her genius for choosing those gifts from life which could give her true contentment.

Little Eleanor had been born. Another daughter. But it seemed that Mary had wanted a daughter. And as she said to Charles once, the fact that from time to time they must show themselves at Court only increased their appreciation of a quiet life in the country.

Rarely had Lords of the Manor been loved as they were loved. It was a strange situation, Charles often said: A Queen who longed to be a simple country lady; a Duke and Duchess who sought to retire from Court instead of making their way there.

He had watched her when Charles of Castile had come to England. Perhaps that was one of her most enjoyable visits to Court. Then she had seemed like the young Mary who had loved to dance and flaunt her charm. Charles of Castile had been betrothed to her and had sought another match; and how she delighted in letting him know what he had missed! She had set out to charm him and she had succeeded. Poor Charles of Castile had watched her open-mouthed, had sought every opportunity to be at her side, and was clearly furious with those who had advised him against marrying her.

Henry was amused at his sister. He laughed with his friends to see the poor young Prince of Castile fascinated by the girl who had once not seemed a good enough match for him.

“By God,” said Henry, “where Mary is, there is good sport. She should be at Court more often.”

Later they accompanied Henry to France for his extravagant meeting with François; and François, while his eyes followed the radiant woman who had taken the place of the beautiful girl he had known, was as regretful as Prince Charles.

It was as the King said—where Mary was there was amusement.

“You should be more often at Court,” he constantly repeated.

“Your Highness,” was Charles’s answer, “since I married your sister I have become a poor man. I cannot afford to live at Court, and my wife and I must needs retire to the country from time to time when we can live most cheaply.”

Henry scowled at his brother-in-law. If he thought he was going to be excused his debts he was mistaken.

But later he conferred with Wolsey, and one day summoned Mary and Charles to his presence; and as he greeted them his blue eyes were shining with pleasure.

“It grieves me to see you two so poor that you must needs leave us from time to time,” he said. “But do not think I shall excuse you your debts. I have been lenient with you, and it is not meet and fitting that my subjects should disobey me and be forgiven.”

Mary smiled at her brother. “Nay, Henry, we do not ask to be forgiven our debts. We are content to pay our debts.”

“Then you admit they are your debts.”

Mary smiled demurely. “I forced Charles to marry me, and you thought we acted without consideration of our duty to you. You therefore imposed fines upon us which have made us poor. You were kind to us, brother. You might have sent us to the Tower. So we do not complain although we do at times have to retire to the country.”

“I miss you when you are away,” said Henry. “But I’ll not let you off your debts for all that.”

“Most right and proper,” Mary agreed.

He dismissed them soon afterward, and as they were leaving he thrust some documents into Charles’s hand.

“Look at these and let me have your opinion,” he said.

Charles, surprised, bowed his head and Henry waved them away. When they were in their apartments Charles unrolled the documents while Mary watched him.

“What is this?” asked Mary.

Charles stared at the papers. “Buckingham had estates in Suffolk,” he murmured.

“Buckingham!” Mary’s face was set in lines of horror. She was thinking of the Duke of Buckingham whose claim to be as royal as the King had angered Henry. Poor Buckingham, one of the leading noblemen in the country, had been unlucky enough or unwise enough, to offend Wolsey. The result was that he had been sent to the Tower to be tried by his peers who dared do nothing but obey the King, and the proud Duke had been taken out to Tower Hill where his head was severed from his body.

Mary shivered when she thought of Buckingham, because his death was symbolic. In commanding it Henry had shown himself in truth to be a King whom his subjects must fear.

“Yes,” Charles was saying, “your brother gives to us estates in Suffolk which belonged to Buckingham. You understand?”

Mary nodded. “We were too poor to stay at Court, and it is his wish that we should be there more often. We can no longer speak of our poverty, Charles.”

She laughed suddenly, but it was not her old happy laugh. There was a hint of bitterness in it.

“So now we are rich, when we would rather be poor.”

She threw her arms about him and held him tightly to her. She was fanciful that day; she could imagine that the axe which killed Buckingham threw a shadow over Charles’s head.

For, she told herself, any who live near the King must live in that shadow.

Peace had fled from Westhorpe as Mary had known it would when Henry presented them with the Suffolk manors. There was no longer the excuse of poverty. It was no use for two people in such prominent a position to plead the need for retirement. Henry wanted them near him, and near him they must be.

It was always sad to leave the children, and one of Mary’s nightmares was that she was riding away from Westhorpe to London, looking back, waving farewell to the children who watched them, their faces puckered, holding back the tears which would be shed when their parents were out of sight.

To love was the greatest adventure life had to offer; but to love was to suffer.

At this time her anxiety was great, because England was at war with France and Henry had decided that the skill and experience of the Duke of Suffolk could be used to England’s advantage. Henry had no wish to lead his men to France so he would honor his friend Suffolk by allowing him to go in his place.

Mary remembered now that moment when Henry had made his wishes clear, how he had beamed on them both—his dear sister and his great friend whom he loved to honor.

They were expected to hear this news and fall on their knees and thank him for it. How little he understood! How impossible it was to explain! Mary had tried to.

“Henry,” she had said, “I am a woman who likes to keep her husband with her.”

Henry had smiled at her fondly. “I know you well,” he told her. “You made up your mind to have Suffolk and none other would do. And you continue in love with him, which pleases me. Having great respect for the married state, I like not unfaithful wives and husbands. And because I have your interests at heart I am giving this man of yours an opportunity to win great honors. Let him make conquests for me in France and you will see how I am ready to reward him.”

Impossible to say they did not want great honors, but only to be together. That would offend Henry, because when he gave he liked the utmost appreciation; and it was growing more and more dangerous to offend Henry.

So Charles had gone overseas, and so disconsolate had Mary become that she, being ill and longing for the quiet of the country and the children’s company, had at length gained Henry’s permission to leave Court.

But even at Westhorpe her anxiety did not fade. Each day she was at the turret watching for a messenger from London for she had given instructions that as soon as there was news it should be brought to her.

The children were continually asking when their father would be with them, and it had been sad explaining to them that he was in a strange country fighting the King’s war.

“Soon he will come,” she promised them; and often they would run to her and say: “Will he come today?”

News came that he and his men had captured several castles, and that the King was delighted with his progress; but there had been no news for some time and winter was approaching.

One misty day while she was with the children she heard sounds of arrival and she could not suppress the elation which came to her because she was constantly hoping that one day Charles would ride unexpectedly to Westhorpe, although this was what he would call her wild optimism, since it was scarcely likely that if the army had returned to England she would not have had some news of this before Charles had time to reach her.

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.