The Nymph from Heaven, page 101
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
Mary glared at Anne’s retreating back until she was out of earshot and then she turned to Brandon. “And what was that about?” asked Mary. “Did Henry think to win my approval by sending his whore to reason with me? If so, then he is a fool!”
“Mary…”
“And what was that, addressing that common harlot as “Your Grace” and offering her your hand? Do you think to ingratiate yourself with her? I know what you are about, Sir! You seek her support to marry that conniving little piece who has flounced herself before you in my own home these many years! Go ahead! Deny it! Deny that before I am cold in the ground, you will be plighting your troth to Lady Catherine! Do you think me blind, or stupid?”
“Mary…” said Brandon pleadingly. Never before had she said such things to him. He knew that it was the pain, and that damnable poppy syrup talking, but still…
“See! You do not hasten to deny it. It is true! I know it is true!” she sobbed.
Even to comfort her fears he would not lie to her, so there was nothing he could say.
# # #
“Mary, please,” said Henry. “If you never do anything for me again, please, for all the love that has ever been between us, please do this one thing.”
Mary winced as she lay back on the settle, seeking a position where the pain would not be so great. Was she never to have any peace? The poppy syrup had quickly overcome her after the upset of Anne’s visit, and she had fallen into a drugged sleep. Now here was Henry, seeking to drag her back up into consciousness, to deliver her once more into the fangs of the pain that raged within her.
Still, she tried to muster a smile. “I wish, Brother, that I had a groat for every time you have said that to me over the years. I would be a rich woman. But you will not have to worry much longer about my recalcitrance. I fear me that I shall not be making old bones.” Mary was too preoccupied to notice the fleeting pain that showed in her brother’s eyes at her words.
“Nonsense,” he said bluffly. “You have had bad spells before and have come back to health. And so you will this time.”
“Henry, you cannot command God, as much as you would like to.”
He considered her words. Her statement was simple, but true. He could defy God and all His angels with his earthly powers. He could take the English church from the grip of Rome, do as he pleased within his own realm. But he could command neither life nor death. He sighed.
“Mary, Anne is with child.”
“Jesu!” she cried, startled out the foggy miasma of misery into which she had settled in the short time that Henry had taken to considered her remark. “This is certain?”
“Beyond any doubt,” he said.
Mary, round-eyed in shock asked, “What will you do?”
Henry seemed confused for a moment. “What is there left to be done? We are married and Anne is queen. Her coronation is fixed for the first day of June. We will announce the happy news to the people concomitant with that event. And until the babe comes, there must be naught to upset her.”
“And you have come here to ask that I accept her presence at Frances’ wedding upon that cause?” Mary shook her head. “I am sorry. I have said that Anne may not attend the wedding and I have not changed my mind. Rather the opposite, I am afraid, after her unannounced visit and her unseemly outburst! God’s teeth, Henry, what have you been thinking all these years? She is a common wench incapable of displaying even a glimpse of the demeanor proper to a queen. After all, any woman may simper and posture when she is being pampered and admired! It is in times of adversity that true royal bearing is put to the test. And if her behavior earlier today is any indication…”
Suddenly Henry stood up and dashed his cap to the floor. “Nevertheless, Anne is queen and carries the heir to the throne of England in her belly! And you, madam, will accord her the respect she deserves!”
Mary shrugged. She was too inured to her brother’s rages to let them bother her anymore. Through a fog of raging pain and poppy syrup she replied, “I have changed my mind.”
Just as suddenly as he had lost his temper, Henry was on his knees before the settle, gripping her hands in both of his own and saying, “Oh, Sister, I knew you would see reason! Mary, I have waited so long for this. Finally, a son, an heir to England, is within the realm of possibility after so many years. You will not regret your decision. I will…”
“You misunderstand me,” said Mary, withdrawing her hand. “I have decided that Frances will be married here at Suffolk Place, instead of at the abbey. It will be a private ceremony, strictly a family affair. Frances and the Marquis may then attend the wedding banquet as planned, which I will probably not be able to attend in any case, due to the state of my health. I was quite dreading the ordeal of the abbey anyway. This is better for all. It will save Anne’s face and yours, and will spare me the grief of missing my own daughter’s wedding.”
For a moment Henry could not believe his ears. And then the damn burst. “Why, you ungrateful, spoiled, vindictive bitch! Think you that I will allow that which you suggest? I am still the king of England and you will do as I say! Frances shall marry Dorset in the abbey before all the peers of the realm and you shall attend both the wedding mass and the banquet, if I must have you carried there on the very settle on which you recline at this moment! Do you hear me? I will not be gainsaid! I will not!”
Brandon, who had been pacing nervously outside the closed doors of the solar, breached royal etiquette and entered the room unbidden at the sound of Henry’s raised voice.
Henry swung around and bellowed, “God’s blood, Brandon, she’s your wife, talk some sense into her!”
Brandon approached the settle, knelt before her and said, “Mary, please…”
Through mists of pain, through clenched teeth, Mary replied, “Brandon, if you say that to me just once more today I shall dash my head against the wall until my brains spill. Even had I wanted to attend the ceremony in the abbey tomorrow I would not be able to do so now. Between the three of you, Anne, Brother, Husband, you have made me more ill than I thought I could ever be. I marvel much that at least the two of you care so little for my well-being. The wedding mass will take place here in the garden at Suffolk Place and that is my final word on the matter. Now send my daughter and the marquis to me so that I may explain the change of plans to them. And I pray you, do not disturb me again until the morrow!”
Henry gaped at his sister in wide-eyed wonder. That she should dare to speak to him, to command him, in such a manner…! And then, inexplicably, his anger faded. Perhaps she was right. All knew how ill she was; if the plans for the wedding had to be changed to allow for that, no one would question it. Anne had done a yeoman’s job planning the elaborate wedding banquet, with an eye, he knew, to showing off the queen’s jewels that she had not been able to display in France. With the change in plans, it would not be too suspicious if she were to be occupied at Whitehall overseeing the last-minute preparations for the banquet if the wedding did not take place in the abbey as planned, but was reduced to a strictly family affair at Suffolk Place due to the indisposition of the bride’s mother.
“All right, Mary,” Henry said wearily. “You may have your own way. God knows, you always have.” And with that he retrieved his now trampled bonnet and left.
Westhorpe, Suffolk, England, June 1533
Brandon tapped lightly upon the great oak door. A maidservant opened it a crack and peered out.
“Is Her Grace awake?” he asked.
“Yes, My Lord,” replied the girl with a slight dip at the knees.
“And how faring?”
The girl, without replying, opened the door to let him pass. Mary lay on the bed, her fair skin paler than any earthly skin ought to be. Her golden hair had been plaited and the thick rope of it laid down her side. Its end had fallen down over the side of the bed, brushing the floor. At thirty-eight, Mary was still as lovely as the day they had married. Brandon put that thought quickly aside; the pain it brought him was too great to be borne.
His gaze wandered about the room. All of their children were there. His two daughters by Anne Browne; Anne, Lady Powis and Mary, Lady Monteagle, as dear to Mary as they were to him; the children of their bodies, Frances, so newly made Lady Dorset; Eleanor, soon to be, God willing, Lady Clifford, and Henry, the heir to the dukedom of Suffolk and, unless Anne produced the longed-for prince later in the year, the heir to the throne of England; and Catherine, their ward, Lady Willoughby in her own right, the fiancé of their son. They all raised mournful eyes to him, but said nothing. From Lady Catherine’s icy blue gaze he looked quickly away. He sat in the chair next to the bed, vacated by Frances at his entry, and lifted his wife’s hand into his own.
Mary’s eyes opened. She smiled languidly and a faint blush momentarily filled her cheeks, making her seem like her old self again just for an instant. His heart smote him as the light caught the glistening of the oils still left on her skin from the extreme unction she had received just prior to his arrival. Thank God he had arrived in time! “Brandon,” she whispered. “Is it really you? I hoped and prayed that you would come.”
“Dearest,” he said, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. “How are you feeling this day? Better, I trust.”
Mary smiled her radiant smile, and was again momentarily transformed. “Yes,” she said. “Better, now that you are here.” And then the flush receded and she turned pale and wan once again.
“Soon you will be up and about,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll go to court and you’ll dance to the astonishment of all, just as you used.”
A shadow crossed Mary’s face at his words. “Nay,” she said. “Not to court, I fear. Too many things have changed.”
It was true; with Katharine now firmly repudiated and Anne Boleyn crowned Queen of England in her stead, things could never be the same again for Mary.
“But your lord brother demands it,” said Brandon. “He has commanded you to get well and come to him. He has sent Dr. Butts with me to ensure your return to good health.” Mary’s dull eyes brightened at this; God forgive him the lie. He shifted in his seat and laid his other hand upon hers, clasping it firmly between both of his own.
Dr. Butts had shared his theory with Brandon as they rode together from London to Suffolk, about how the mind can make one as ill as could evil humors in the body. There were those who were saying that Mary’s illness was the result of a broken heart, so sad was she that her brother had married and crowned Anne Boleyn queen. But he, who knew her so well, knew better. If Mary’s heart were broken, it was he himself who had broken it.
But what was he to do? He was a man, after all, with a man’s desires. Lady Catherine had long ago made it plain to him that she would not have his son, but himself. And, to his great shame, he found that he was nothing loath. He loved Mary, but he loved Catherine, too. There was no denying it. And a man with only one son and so much to leave behind must needs have a care for the future. He knew, and Mary knew, that he would marry Lady Catherine when she was gone, and beget more sons.
Brandon peered closely at Mary. She was so thin and pale! He wondered if she would ever again rise from her bed. His heart grieved him at the thought, just as it did at the thought that Henry might truly believe that Mary had shammed illness to avoid attending Anne’s coronation. Henry desperately needed support, and if he could not get it from his own sister… So Brandon had been tasked with somehow, some way, convincing Mary to accept the situation at last. The heir to England would soon be born; Mary must attend the infant’s christening.
“Mayhap she will listen to you, Brandon,” Henry had said with a cynical grin, clapping his good friend on the back. “God knows, she never heeds a word I say!” But in his heart of hearts, Brandon knew two things for certain; that Mary was indeed sick unto death and that she would never attend the royal court again. It was such a shame. Henry loved Mary so; hers was the only truly disinterested love Henry had ever known. But through Anne, Henry and Mary were lost to each other forever. Brandon loved Henry almost as much as he loved Mary; perhaps even now there was some way to reconcile the two people he loved most in the world. But looking at Mary, seeing her so weak and spent, he knew now, he must accept, that there was no time left for that.
“And how was the coronation?” Mary asked, with a trace of bitterness in her voice. Henry had not tried again after that awful day at Suffolk Place to change her mind. Frances had taken her wedding vows and become Lady Dorset under an arbor of early pink roses in the riverside garden at Suffolk Place, and then had gone happily off to celebrate her nuptials at Whitehall. But Henry had exacted a cruel revenge for this concession. When it came time for the long trip back to Suffolk, Henry had insisted that he could trust only Brandon with the complicated arrangements for Anne’s coronation, and had bid him remain behind in London when Mary left for home. Did not Henry realize that by this action, he might prevent Brandon from being at his wife’s bedside when she died? For Mary was certain now that death was very near. Henry, in his anger, had robbed her of months of Brandon’s company and the comfort that would have given her. Did her own brother hate her so much? What kind of creature had he become?
“The coronation went well enough,” Brandon replied. He knew that he was no Wolsey, he who had been a genius at organizing such affairs. But Brandon was a soldier at heart and had managed the coronation, with all its concomitant activities and ceremonies, as if it had been a battle plan. On May thirtieth, a flotilla of royal barges, ships and boats had assembled at Tower wharf for the short journey to Greenwich, where Anne awaited them to escort her in state back to the Tower. One of the boats even had a red dragon that belched flames into the water, to the wonderment of all. Musicians played, colorful pennons and banners blew against a blue May sky.
“There was a most unpleasant incident, though,” he said.
“Oh?” asked Mary languidly.
“Yes. Anne, it seems, in preparation for the coronation, seized Katharine’s barge and had her coat of arms burnt from it, replacing it with her own device of the crowned white falcon surrounded by red and white roses. Henry was nonplussed at that, though I am at a loss to understand why. At this juncture, of what use is a barge to Katharine, from whom everything else has been taken? But he raged and railed at Anne that Katharine was still a royal princess of Spain and Dowager Princess of Wales and his beloved brother’s widow, and that Anne had no right to take her barge.”
Mary shrugged. It was far too late for Henry to feel protective of Katharine after all he had done to her. But still… “So he has not completely lost his mind, then. That is good.”
“It is passing strange, if you ask me,” he said. “It is almost as if Henry, now that he has attained his heart’s desire, no longer cares for any of it.”
Mary forced a smile. It was a rare man who got more enjoyment from the fulfillment than from the longing for it. But a man such as Brandon was could never understand such a concept. “So Anne is queen at last. At least she has had her coronation. She will never truly be queen as far as I am concerned.”
Brandon recalled the elaborate procession to Westminster Abbey, wherein Anne was preceded by all the peers of England, diverse nobles, ambassadors and religious men. She had been dressed in the purest white brocade trimmed with the whitest ermine, swathed in pearls, and she rode in a white satin litter draped and hung with yards and yards of cloth of silver. She had glowed so brightly in the sun that it had hurt to look at her. And then, inside the dark, imposing abbey, with her long brown hair falling below her waist, she had endured the lengthy ritual of anointing. Mary had not been there; she could not understand. It was impossible to watch a person go through that awesome ritual without being affected by it. In theory, Anne was now a semi-divine being. But even that, and the fact that she carried within her the hope of England, had not induced the people to cheer for her on that brilliant June day. But in spite of that, all she need do was to safely deliver a prince to Henry in September and her position, regardless of Henry’s or the people’s personal feelings for her, would be assured.
And just what were Henry’s feelings? He knew not for certain, but one would have had to have been stone deaf and blind not to see that things between the king and his new queen were not as they should be.
“He took you away from me,” Mary said. “On purpose. I shall not soon forgive him for that.”
Brandon heaved a heavy sigh. “Do not think too harshly of him, Mary. King he may be, but he is still just a man.”
“Yes,” whispered Mary. “He is just a man.” As was Brandon. An image of Lady Catherine Willoughby shot through her mind, just as an intense pain, more intense than any she had yet endured, gripped her with merciless claws. I will not have my last thought be of her! thought Mary. Desperately, she struggled to rid herself of the image of Brandon and Catherine naked together in a bed. Her bed.
Just then Mary drew a ragged breath and her hand went limp in his. Brandon stared at her in shocked disbelief for a moment and then he let out an inhuman moan.
The nymph from heaven had departed whence she had come.
Epilogue
Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, England, 1784
“Will, me boy, we’re ruined,” said the old woman. “Done for, we is!” She ran a distracted hand through her hair, which fell in greasy gray locks all about her face. The jar where she kept their few coins was empty except for a farthing. “I ’aven’t even enough to buy a ha’p’orth of Geneva!” The last words came out on a sob.
“Summat’ll come up, Mum, you’ll see,” said Will. “I’ve a job today. Just try to ’old out until later, old girl.” That his mother was a hopeless sot, he knew. She lived off gin, that scourge of their century. She would drink before she would eat. Perhaps the alcohol actually acted as a preservative to some? It was an interesting theory, and one he would tuck away for further thought.
