The Nymph from Heaven, page 100
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
François knew how his sister felt; he felt the loss of their mother’s love and her wise counsel every day, it seemed.
“As do I,” he sighed. “But how fitting it was that she left us even as the fire-drake streaked across the heavens. Perhaps she is up there now, riding it and watching over us.” For it was true that as Louise sickened and died, a great comet had been visible in the sky. To those for whom the redoubtable French queen mother was a fixture in European politics, it had been a sign that a very great personage indeed was leaving the stage upon which they had all toiled for so many years in the name of peace and Christian unity.
“Your latest ploy is certainly worthy of her memory,” said Marguerite. “How clever of you to appear to support King Henry’s desire to marry Anne Boleyn, when doing so can only lead him to disaster! No child of their union will ever be acknowledged as legitimate if he marries her while the rightful queen still lives. Of what can he be thinking?”
François snorted inelegantly. “It is not only a matter of what Henry of England is thinking,” he said, although remembering Anne’s mysterious charms he had an excellent idea of it, “it is what he is thinking with.” As he said this, he grasped his codpiece.
Marguerite laughed. “Still, ’twas a masterful stroke for you agree to send Cardinal Granmont to plead the king of England’s divorce case to the pope. He was the very man who first questioned the Princess Mary’s legitimacy when you thought to marry her to the dauphin.”
François, who had begun strolling around the room, reached out a hand to the crystal fruit bowl on his sister’s sideboard. He grabbed a handful of green grapes and threw one up into the air and caught it in his mouth, a favorite pastime. “Yes it was, wasn’t it? What a fool Henry is! He thinks he is so clever. Why cannot he see that I seek but to do the same thing to him that I did to Mary all those years ago? I made certain that she married her common husband, thereby removing her as the most valuable prize on the European marriage market, and England’s trump card on the political scene. Henry was a romantic young man and failed to see the implications of it at the time. What I wonder at is that he still cannot see this very same thing today, in regard to himself. He is not an eligible bachelor, though he goes about blustering that he is. I agreed with him, offering to send a French cardinal to plead his case for divorce, and for this gesture he thinks I am his friend, when what I really seek is to encourage his split with Rome in order to lay open a disaffected England to French invasion.”
Marguerite rose and walked over to him. “Yes,” she said softly. “You are indeed my clever, clever, François.” She kissed him on the lips and refilled her wine glass from a carafe on the sideboard.
“Still, I find it strangely upsetting, though,” said François with a frown. He settled himself on the window seat and looked out over the vast expanse of garden, bleak now that all the leaves had fallen from the trees.
“What, my darling?”
“I believe, that is I feel, that my fate and the king of England’s are somehow inextricably bound. That if I do him some harm, harm will in turn come to me.”
“That is nonsense, my love,” Marguerite replied. “You are François; you are beloved of God and the French people. No harm will ever come to you. Even death will come to you gently.”
François turned to her, and she was moved to see tears upon his cheeks. “How do you know this?”
Marguerite shrugged. “I know not with any certainty. As with you, it is just something that I feel.”
François rose and held his hands out to her, which she grasped in her own. “My loving sister…” he whispered as they embraced. He loved Mary Tudor, would love her until the day of his death, but she had never understood him, never cared about him the way his mother and his sister cared. With Marguerite he could be completely himself, with no fears, no barriers. If only she were not his sister, what might not have been?
Ampthill Castle, Bedfordshire, February 1533
Katharine sighed wearily as she regarded the stern faces of the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk. She was surprised to find, despite their severe, unsympathetic demeanor, that she could even feel a little sorry for them; they seemed as weary of this charade as she was herself. She detected a bit of Henry’s wry humor in the fact that he had sent these two to tell her the news. The two men’s hatred of each other was well known, and she guessed that they had made sorry companions on the road from London to Bedfordshire. But it did beg the question as to why Henry seemed so bent on making everyone around him as miserable as possible. She believed that people who were unhappy derived some consolation from knowing that others were equally unhappy. But if Henry now finally possessed that which he had wanted for so long, what reason had he to be unhappy?
“The king, Madam,” said Norfolk pompously, “has sent us to inform you that you are to cease this ridiculous affectation of calling yourself queen of England. His Grace was quite willing to indulge your folly in the past, knowing you to be a simple and stubborn woman, and a foreigner. But now that there is a new queen, you shall cease forthwith claiming that title as your own.”
Really, she thought, but matching wits with Norfolk was a bore. The man himself was a bore. Did he think, did Henry think, that she had no sources of information about what went on at court simply because she was immured here at Ampthill? Her good friend Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador, managed to keep her well-informed of all the doings at court through an intricate web of intrigue involving both the castle servants and the local townspeople.
She knew, for instance, that Anne had become pregnant sometime during the trip to Calais. She knew that Henry had gone through a form of marriage ceremony with Anne in January. And yet the fact that Henry had moved her from unhealthy Buckden to Ampthill Castle spoke volumes to her. Such a concern for her health and comfort indicated to her that even though Henry now seemed irrevocably committed to Anne, she, Katharine, somehow had become more valuable to him. The reason, she believed, was because as long as she lived, there was a still a chance that Henry could repudiate Anne and deny her bastard; because even if the child that was due to be born in September turned out to be the longed-for prince, Henry still wanted an out.
“My Lords,” said Katharine, summoning all her Spanish dignity. “Whilst I live, England cannot have any queen other than myself. This the king knows well. You have my leave to go now.” She waved her hand dismissively and rose to leave the room.
The Duke of Suffolk strode two long steps to block her way and said, without preamble, “The pope has made Thomas Cranmer Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Madre de Dios!” she expostulated. Suddenly her legs went out from under her and she fell back inelegantly into her chair. She knew, again through the faithful Chapuys, that Henry had petitioned Pope Clement to ratify his nomination of Cranmer as archbishop of Canterbury. But even a fool could see that to sanction such a request would be the death knell for papal authority in England. For just a fleeting moment Katharine felt a vast irritation for Clement; could it be that the pope, Christ’s vicar on this earth, really was the bumbling fool that many claimed he was? How could God have placed such a man in charge of the entire Christian world? She quickly crossed herself and muttered a brief prayer at her blasphemy. If God had placed a fool on the papal throne, it was not for her to question His purpose.
And then suddenly she realized, in a flash of insight, why Clement had agreed to make Cranmer the archbishop of Canterbury. The pope was missing the puzzle piece of Anne’s pregnancy. That must be it. Anne’s condition was not yet common knowledge. The rumors were based upon some hysterical remarks Anne had made in the hearing of others to Thomas Wyatt about craving apples, or perhaps it was pears? …in January. Chapuys’ information was based upon more solid ground; he had bribed one of Anne’s washerwomen to inform him of the state of her personal linen. Subtle, and very effective. There was no doubt that Anne was with child. But Clement did not know that, and sought to appease Henry by granting him a boon, since he had refused that which Henry really wanted, a divorce.
“Jesu,” she whispered under her breath. Suddenly she remembered her brave words to Mary that God would not let Anne win. Perhaps she had been wrong. For now that Cranmer had gone from obscure cleric to the premiere prelate in England at the behest of the king, he was certain to annul her own marriage to Henry forthwith, and validate Henry’s sham marriage to Anne. It was a master stroke. But she must not let these two heartless men see her discomfiture.
“It matters not,” she said in her firm, clear voice. “Whilst I live, I am His Grace’s lawful queen. He may repudiate me to the world, but in the eyes of God who knows all, we are, and will remain until one of us dies, man and wife, and king and queen of this realm.”
“That is as may be, Your Highness,” retorted the Duke of Norfolk. Katharine winced at the lower title of “highness” instead of “Your Grace”, then instantly regretted the slip. “But if you remain contumacious the king will cease all support for you.”
“Indeed?” said Katharine, with raised brows. “The king of England would truly allow his brother’s widow to beg alms in the streets, then? So be it. I assure you that I shall not starve.”
Norfolk sputtered in anger at her words, while Suffolk, dunderhead that he was, simply looked so confused that Katharine almost laughed in his face. But her implication was clear to Norfolk; the pope may have failed her, but the people were still for her, and if she chose, she could, with the help of her nephew the emperor, raise the country against the king on her daughter’s behalf. The people had well and truly had enough of Nan Bullen, and were a hair’s breadth away from having more than enough of their tyrannical king.
For a few seconds, her eyes blazed, but then the fire in them died. It would mean war, death, destruction. No. She would bow to God’s will, God’s inscrutable plan. “Leave me,” she said wearily, and gladly, the two dukes turned on their heels and departed.
Suffolk Place, London, March 1533
“Are you not pleased?” asked Brandon. He had come to the conclusion long ago that women were strange creatures, unfathomable, but he thought that at least he understood his own wife. Perhaps it was not so.
“Pleased? Why should I be pleased to be given leave to bide in my own house?” asked Mary acidly. As she said this she reached for the wooden bottle of poppy syrup, uncorked it, and took a long draft. Brandon had long ago given up counseling her to practice moderation in its use; he knew that the pain gripped her now almost constantly.
Perhaps, he reasoned, a change of tactics would make Mary see sense before the king arrived. He looked around him at the beautiful room in which Mary sat. “The restoration seems to have gone marvelous well,” he said.
To this Mary did not reply. She knew that Brandon sought only to make peace between her and Henry, but she wondered if that were possible now. She thought not. She would not be in London at all if it were not for her daughter Frances’ wedding to Henry, Marquis of Dorset. The boy was a man now, with vast lands and a great title. He was to marry Frances before all the peers of the realm in an elaborate ceremony at Westminster Abbey. And she was truly glad for Frances, who seemed so happy. Would that Frances’ married life should be as idyllic as her own had been! Beyond wealth and power, to which her children had been born, there was little else a mother could ask for her child.
“The queen herself paid for the refurbishment,” added Brandon.
Mary and Brandon disagreed about few things, but which lady was currently the queen of England was one of them. Brandon, she knew, had no loyalty to Katharine, had never cared for her, and would support Henry’s desire in all that he did. “Anne, you mean? That strumpet is not the queen of England, and you regard her as such only because Henry says you must!”
“Mary, please,” said Brandon. “Henry will be here at any moment. You must…” Brandon was standing, facing the doorway to the vast solar at Suffolk Place; Mary had reclined on a settle that faced the back of the house, and that had a splendid view of the river.
“What is it?” she asked. When he did not reply, but just stood there, transfixed, staring past her, she rose and turned her head. What she saw made her blood run first cold, and then very, very hot. She narrowed her eyes. “Saint Michael and all His angels! I marvel much that you have the gall to face me!” she said, almost in a whisper. If only she had not taken such a deep draught of the poppy syrup! If only she had known, been prepared…
“Mary, please…” begged Brandon.
Anne waved an expansive hand, and smiled at Brandon. She was an excellent judge of men; she knew that Brandon admired her and found her attractive, but that he was on his wife’s leading strings. She regarded dispassionately Mary’s pale, drawn face, pinched with pain. Not for long! She thought. By the look of her, Mary Tudor would soon cease not only to be a thorn in her side, but an obstacle to Brandon’s lust for the Willoughby heiress. Oh, she owned that Mary was still beautiful in that ethereal way she had; but Anne could see that her mysterious illness, that which had defeated all the doctors and apothecaries, would soon defeat Mary herself.
“It is all right, My Lord,” said Anne, addressing Brandon with a smile in her husky, velvety voice. “I know full well Her Grace’s opinion of me, and why she holds it.” Anne glided into the room, bringing with her a tantalizing scent of lavender, laced with musk. She stood directly before Mary on the settle. “I hope you find Suffolk Place to your liking,” she said. “It was my pleasure to release it back to Your Graces, as I had no further use for it.” The implication was clear; as queen, Anne now had the run every royal palace in the land, in addition to the properties she held in her own right.
Anne had thought at one time to bestow Suffolk Place upon her cousin Margaret, Lady Lee, when that lady’s house had been burned in a riot because of Anne’s presence in it. But no. If she must now cultivate her new sister-in-law’s tolerance, if not her acceptance, then it was infinitely more politic to restore it to its former glory and give it back to its original owners. “Is Your Grace displeased with aught to do with the repairs?” she asked Mary pleasantly. Part of her seethed at having to placate the king’s spoiled younger sister. She knew that Mary had told Henry in no uncertain terms that she would not allow Anne to be present at her daughter’s wedding to the marquis. But she must, she simply must, be allowed to attend the upcoming ceremony. To be absent from such a public affair would send a signal throughout the realm, throughout Christendom, that she was not accepted as queen even in her own country, yea, not even by the king’s own family! It was simply not to be borne.And so she had come herself this day to reason with Mary.
Brandon, remembering his manners, said, “Your Grace, please, if you would be seated…”
Anne shot him a grateful glance at the use of her royal title and for his show of concern for her comfort. She decided to act as if all were well, as if this visit were simply that of one royal lady calling upon another. Mary glared at Anne, but made no reply. “And where is the bride this day?” she asked pleasantly. “I would like to express my…”
“You will not attend the wedding,” said Mary, without preamble. “It is unthinkable that you should do so. I will call the whole affair off before I…”
Brandon, a pained expression on his face, said, “Mary, please, I beg of you, do not…”
Still Anne retained her composure and ignoring Mary’s remark she said, as if nothing at all were amiss, “I held Frances at the baptismal font, if you will recall, as proxy for the queen and the princess.”
Mary’s eyes flashed. “Then you do recognize Katharine as queen of England,” said Mary scathingly. “If you do, then you must own that you cannot be queen yourself!”
Anne bit her lip at the slip. Katharine’s title had been officially changed to Princess Dowager, and the writ naming her so contained a variety of whereas’s and wherefore’s that plainly stated that that was all she had ever been since Arthur’s death.
Suddenly she brightened. “Her Highness was thought to be queen at that time,” she replied sweetly. “But it matters not. Surely you would not deny the woman who sponsored your child at the font the joy of attending that child’s wedding ceremony?”
“What a cold, vicious bitch you are,” said Mary. She heard Brandon’s sharp intake of breath, but continued on. “You have never given my daughter a single thought from that moment to this one! You will not attend her wedding, and that is my final word on the matter. You have my leave to go.”
Anne felt her temper rise at Mary’s words and felt the heat of her anger travel up from the pit of her stomach to her heart, felt the hot blood rush to her head, pound in her ears. “You are a one,” she said quietly, almost in a whisper, “to speak of being cold and vicious. You have done everything in your power to turn the king against me. Did you ever give a thought for his happiness, or for mine? You did not. You married your commoner, why deny your brother his?”
Brandon cringed at Anne’s words, but was struck too speechless to do aught but stare at both women, turning his head as each spoke as though he were watching a tennis match.
Mary sat up, the pain in her side at the very whitest heat of torment. “Get out of my sight,” she said. “Get out, and do not ever bring yourself into my presence again! Brandon!”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied. Brandon beckoned Anne, in whose eyes tears of frustration glistened like water on the boil. “If Your Grace would…” he extended a hand to her, to help her to rise. “I am afraid my wife is unwell,” he said lamely.
Anne shook off Brandon’s hand and turned once more to Mary. “You supercilious, spoiled royal bitch,” she hissed. “I am the queen of England! If I say that I will attend the wedding of the Marquis of Dorset, then attend I shall!” With that she walked from the room more calmly and with more dignity than Brandon felt that he would have been able to muster in the circumstances.
