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

She had sat with her sister and sister-in-law—both rather sad women at that time: Margaret because, having lost her first husband, the King of Scotland, she had recklessly married the handsome young Angus and was beginning to find him unsatisfactory. Katharine because, on account of her inability to bear a male child, she had begun to glimpse the cruelty of her husband. Only Mary was content with her state. Yet she must be fearful too, for Henry was changing, and no one was completely safe at his Court.

How delighted she was when she was able to return to Westhorpe; but it was not long before the summons to Court was repeated because Henry enjoyed the company of his youngest sister and her husband more than that of any others, and was not pleased that they should wish to live in retirement. Back to Court they went, and back again. Mary was in London at the time of the Evil May Day when she with Katharine and Margaret, who was preparing to return to Scotland, pleaded for those unhappy apprentices and secured their pardon. But the episode was an ugly one and gave her a further glimpse of the manner in which her brother’s anger could be aroused.

She was more urgently reminded that she, who had so much to love, had a great deal to lose, and she longed for the peaceful security of Westhorpe.

Henry was loth to let her go, but this time she had a good reason.

She told him about it as they walked in the gardens of Greenwich and he reproached her for wishing to leave him and his Court.

“I have indulged you much,” grumbled Henry. “You disobeyed me when you took Brandon to your bed. It was scarce decent. I might have had you both in the Tower. But I forgave you.”

“Like the beloved brother you have always been.”

“So beloved that you constantly wish to leave us.”

“Not constantly, only now, because Henry, I am in a certain state of health. …”

“What! You are with child?”

“Yes, Henry, and I believe I should live quietly in the country while awaiting its birth.”

Henry turned to look at her, his lip jutting out. “You already have a healthy boy.”

“And you have a bonny girl.”

“I want boys.”

“They’ll come.”

“They’re being uncommonly shy about making their appearance.”

“You are too impatient, Henry.”

“Impatient! I am the most patient of men. You have a boy and another coming, like as not. Margaret has a boy and a girl. And I … the King … who must give my kingdom an heir … am frustrated. Why do you think it is so?”

“Because, brother, you are impatient. Kate will bear you many fine boys, I am sure.”

“I would to God that I were. Sometimes I think there’s a blight on my union with Katharine, Mary.”

“Nay, Henry. But you understand that I must leave the Court. I want the fresh air of the country and the quiet life at Westhorpe. In the circumstances you will let me go.”

Henry lifted his shoulders. “I like it not when you leave us. But I would not have your health suffer.”

Mary lost no time in leaving Court lest he should change his mind.

Mary did not stay at Westhorpe but took up her residence in another of her husband’s country mansions—Bishops Hatfield—while she awaited the birth of her second child; and here little Frances was born.

Looking down at the little one, Mary rejoiced that she was a girl.

“The child one has, always seems exactly what one wanted,” she told Charles. “That is the miracle of childbirth.”

“I know at least one child who disappointed her parents at birth,” Charles reminded her.

“My niece Mary. But Henry has an obsession for boys. Perhaps I should have said it is the miracle of contentment.”

“Strange,” said Charles; “you are his sister and in some ways not unlike him, in others so different.”

“Perhaps I was luckier than Henry. I knew what I wanted and I did not ask for what was impossible. I wanted you, Charles, and any child of yours would please me. Henry wanted sons—and that is for Providence to decide. You see I was wise in my desires.”

“We could so easily have lost this life together,” Charles told her, “and methinks Henry, in his desire for sons, was more reasonable.”

She laughed. “You’d forgotten I always get what I want.”

“And Henry?”

“I pray he will too.” She was sober suddenly. “For if he does not,” she added, “he will be very angry, and I believe, Charles, that when Henry is angry he can be very cruel.”

The christening ceremony of little Frances Brandon was less grand than that of her brother, Henry, although tapestries were hung in the church of Bishops Hatfield for the occasion, and the chancel was decorated with cloth of gold. Henry the King was not represented but Katharine had sent two ladies to represent her and the young Princess Mary. One of these was Anne Boleyn who had been Mary’s maid of honor when she was Queen of France.

Mary was pleased to see the girl again. She had always been interested in Anne. Such a composed little creature she had been and always so elegant. She was growing up to be a very distinguished young lady who had profited from her stay in France and wore clothes which must have been self-designed as they were so original; and she contrived to make the other royal representative, Lady Elizabeth Grey, look most insignificant.

But Mary’s thoughts that day were all for her daughter. It would be wonderful to have another child in the nursery. Perhaps their next would be a boy. Even if it were a girl she would not mind. She adored her little Frances already, being certain that she could detect in her—as she certainly could in little Henry—some resemblance to Charles.

How good the child was during the trying ceremony.

She lay blandly staring up at the canopy of crimson satin on which roses and fleurs-de-lis had been embroidered.

Dear innocent little baby, thought her mother. One day you will have to go to Court because, after all, my precious one, you are the niece of the King.

Christening was a time for good wishes.

May she find happiness in her husband as I have found it in mine, prayed Mary.

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.