The Passionate Tudor, page 1
By Alison Weir
Fiction
Six Tudor Queens
Katharine Parr, The Sixth Wife
Katheryn Howard, The Scandalous Queen
Anna of Kleve, The Princess in the Portrait
Jane Seymour, The Haunted Queen
Anne Boleyn, A King’s Obsession
Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen
The King’s Pleasure
The Last White Rose
The Marriage Game
A Dangerous Inheritance
Captive Queen
The Lady Elizabeth
Innocent Traitor
Nonfiction
England’s Medieval Queens
Queens of the Crusades
Queens of the Conquest
The Lost Tudor Princess: The Life of Lady Margaret Douglas
Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and Her World
Mary Boleyn: The Mistress of Kings
The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn
Mistress of the Monarchy: The Life of Katherine Swynford, Duchess of Lancaster
Queen Isabella: Treachery, Adultery, and Murder in Medieval England
Mary Queen of Scots and the Murder of Lord Darnley
Henry VIII: The King and His Court
Eleanor of Aquitaine: A Life
The Life of Elizabeth I
The Children of Henry VIII
The Wars of the Roses
The Princes in the Tower
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
The Passionate Tudor is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Alison Weir
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Ballantine is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in hardcover in the United Kingdom as Mary I: Queen of Sorrows by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, a Hachette Company, London.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Weir, Alison, author.
Title: The passionate Tudor: a novel of Queen Mary I / Alison Weir.
Description: First edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, 2024. | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2024004962 (print) | LCCN 2024004963 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593355107 (hardcover; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593355114 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Mary, Queen, consort of Louis XII, King of France, 1496-1533—Fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6123.E36 P37 2024 (print) | LCC PR6123.E36 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23/eng/20240202
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024004962
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024004963
Ebook ISBN 9780593355114
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Victoria Allen
Cover photograph: Malgorzata Maj/Arcangel
ep_prh_6.3_147032511_c0_r0
Contents
Dedication
The Spanish and English Royal Houses, 1525–1527
Part One: The King’s Daughter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Two: The King’s Sister
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Three: Mary the Queen
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Author’s Note
Dramatis Personae
About the Author
_147032511_
This book is dedicated to my fellow historians,
Sarah Gristwood, Julian Humphrys, Michael Jones, and Nicola Tallis
And in memory of Derek Malcolm
As to the Princess my daughter, she is the King’s true child, and as God has given her unto us, so I will render her again to the King as his daughter, to do with her as shall stand for his pleasure. Neither for my daughter nor any worldly adversity, nor the King’s displeasure that might ensue, will I yield in this cause to put my soul in danger.
—Katherine of Aragon
Chapter 1
1525
Mary’s earliest memory was of a glittering ceremony at her father’s court when she must have been very tiny. She could recall nearly tripping over her silk skirts, grasping her mother’s hand as they greeted some very important strangers. She had been aware that it was her special day and that she was the center of everyone’s attention. She could remember the whole court bowing to her as she toddled past, and later the roar of that great golden giant, the King her father, as he threw back his head and laughed heartily, brushing back a tear, at something she had said.
“You asked the French ambassador if he was the Dauphin. ‘If you are,’ you said, ‘I want to kiss you,’ ” her sainted mother told her, one February afternoon seven years later, still smiling at the reminiscence. Mary loved to see her mother smile. It brought a radiance to her face, made her almost beautiful, although she was very old and often looked tired and sad.
Mary knelt upon the cushioned window seat beside her and peered through the diamond panes of the casement at the palace gardens below, where she could see the Queen’s maids playing tag, cheered on by some young, gaudily dressed gentlemen.
“Is it true that I was going to marry the Dauphin?”
Mother smiled. “Yes. You were set to be queen of France, but God had a greater destiny in store for you.”
“Yes—I am going to be the Holy Roman Empress—and queen of Spain, as well as queen of England!” Mary fingered the gold brooch on her velvet bodice that bore the legend “The Emperor,” which she wore always to honor her betrothed. “When will I go to Spain?”
“Not for a long time yet, I hope,” Mother said, picking up her embroidery. “When you are old enough to be married.”
“Lady Salisbury says that girls can be married at twelve,” Mary persisted. “I’m nine now.”
“I was fifteen when I came to England to be married to your uncle, Prince Arthur,” Mother said. “Twelve is too young. And you are small for your age. You still have a lot of growing up to do.”
Mary heard the relief in her voice and suspected that her mother was dreading their parting as much as she was. While part of her relished the prospect of her glorious future, she hated the thought of leaving England, her parents, and everything she loved and knew, because it would be forever, unless she was very, very lucky. Look at Mother: she had never been back to her native Spain in nearly twenty-five years. Already Mary could imagine the despair of homesickness…
“When he was here, the Emperor Charles asked your father if you might go to Spain immediately,” Mother told her. Mary drew in her breath sharply. “He said you should be educated as befitted a future empress and queen of Spain. But your father said that if Charles searched all Christendom for a lady mistress to bring you up after the manner of Spain, then he could not find one more perfect than myself, for I have such an affection for Charles that I would bring you up to his satisfaction. And Charles, bless him, had to agree. I was so relieved, because I felt you were not strong enough to risk a sea voyage or acclimatize yourself to the air of another country. I was remembering my own terrible voyage to England and how ill I was for six years after my arrival. And I was a lot older than you.”
She smiled at Mary and stroked her hair. “When the time comes, we will make sure that you sail to Spain at the most clement time of year. You will love Spain, Daughter. I had th e happiest childhood there. After my parents drove out the Moors and reclaimed the land for Christ, my sisters and I grew up in the great palace of the Alhambra at Granada. It is a beautiful place with fair courtyards and fountains. This future is what I want for you; I have always prayed that you should find happiness in the land of my birth. Never forget that you are half Spanish!”
“Never!” Mary declared, and begged the Queen to recount the oft-told tale of the deeds of her noble grandparents, the renowned Spanish sovereigns Ferdinand and Isabella.
“Isabella was a great queen, as you will be one day,” Queen Katherine said. “You will rule England, with Charles beside you, and Spain and the Empire too.”
Mary found it impossible to imagine the extent of the vast territories over which her future husband held dominion. Spain, the Low Countries, Germany, Austria, parts of Italy…He was the mightiest prince in the world.
She had met him once, three years ago, when he had come to England for their betrothal. She had been six then, and greatly in awe of the tall, grave-faced young man with the ugly jaw—a jaw so misshapen that he could not fully close his mouth. Yet he had been courteous to her and taken such a kindly interest in her childish concerns that she had felt overwhelmed with gratitude to the King her father for making such a great marriage for her. She had not quite understood then what it would mean for her. Yet she had been aware, young as she was, that her mother was overjoyed that there was to be no French match for her daughter; France was the ancient enemy of Spain, and Mother’s hatred of the French was no secret. Her joy had known no bounds when she saw her beloved child affianced to her nephew, her sister’s son.
And there, Mary knew, lay a tale, one Mother was reluctant to recount. She had spoken just once of her sister, Queen Juana, and then only to say that the poor woman was ill and confined to a convent.
It was Reginald Pole, the son of Mary’s beloved governess, Lady Salisbury, who had enlightened her. Reginald was a clever young man who seemed to know everything—and so he should, for the King had paid for him to have a very expensive education—and Mary adored him, hanging on his every word; it had ever been so, for as long as she could remember; he was like a big brother to her. One day recently, after her lessons had ended, he had pulled up a chair to her desk and they had spoken of Christopher Columbus, who had discovered the New World under the patronage of Ferdinand and Isabella, and then the talk had led to more recent history. Reginald had explained that Queen Juana ought to be ruling Spain, but could not because of her madness.
“Madness?” Mary had echoed, horrified.
Reginald seemed reluctant to elaborate. “I fear I have said more than was proper to you, my lady Princess. I thought you knew the truth.”
“I know some of it,” she told him, aware that she would have to confess the lie later.
“Then you will know that she was confined in a convent and that her son Charles rules in her stead.”
“But what did she do? How did people know she was mad?”
“By her behavior. Her husband died. He was known as Philip the Handsome, and she loved him to idolatry. His death unhinged her. She would not give up his body for burial, not for months. They had to prize her away.”
Mary shuddered.
“Queen Isabella’s mother was mad, too,” Reginald said.
“No, she wasn’t!” she protested, bewildered. There was an awkward pause.
“They’re all mad in the Spanish royal family,” he grinned, with that twinkle in his eye that showed he was teasing her. “Take care, my lady Princess, that you don’t fall victim to the curse, too!”
Mary had thrown a cushion at him for that, and chased him around the schoolroom until her tutor, Dr. Fetherston, had come and shooed him away, scolding him for encouraging indecorous behavior in his precious charge.
* * *
—
“It will be time for your music lesson soon,” Mother said, pushing a loose tress of red hair back under Mary’s velvet hood. “When you have practiced, you must play for me. I love to hear you play.”
“Will my lord father be there?” Mary asked, sliding off the window seat. More than anything, she craved his approval.
“I hope he will visit us this afternoon before Vespers,” Mother said, sounding wistful. Father did not come as often as he once did. He was so busy, weighted with the burdens of state. It was fortunate that he had Mary’s godfather, the mighty Cardinal Wolsey, to help him. But if Father was an often absent figure, Mother was always there, a constant loving presence in Mary’s life. That was why it was hard to imagine a future without her.
Mary slid off the window seat, curtseyed, and danced off to her music lesson. She spent an hour practicing on the virginals, then sped back to the Queen’s apartments to play the song she had learned.
“Walk!” Mother admonished gently. “Ladies do not run.”
Mary curtseyed and set up her virginals on the table. She was just about to begin when the door opened and the King was announced. And there he was, her great and glorious father, larger than life and glittering with jewels. He pulled her up from her curtsey and spun her around. “And how is my little princess today?”
“Happier for seeing you, Sir!” she cried, kissing him heartily. How handsome he was, how dashing! Where Mother was all gentleness and comfort, he represented pleasure and excitement. He was one of the most powerful princes in the world, and everyone jumped at his command. Never had there been a king so popular, so loved.
He set her down and bent to kiss Mother. Then they sat together as Mary performed for them, both beaming with pride and applauding her when the last note had died away. She smiled at them, secure in the warmth of their love. She had never been in any doubt that they doted upon her. Others looked after her daily needs, as was proper for a princess—her first lady governess had been Lady Calthorpe, and then there was Lady Bryan, who had been replaced by dear Lady Salisbury—but her parents were at the center of her world. Father had always delighted in showing her off to visiting dignitaries, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her around, bursting with pride. Mother told her how she used to jump forward in her nurse’s lap when she caught sight of him. As soon as she had learned the basic courtesies, she had been allowed to take part in court festivities and pageants. At four, she had been deputed to receive foreign envoys and play the virginals for them.
“Dance for us, child,” Father bade her now, and she rose and executed a perfect pavane as Mother strummed a lute, smiling.
“Excellent!” he pronounced. “You twirl so prettily that no woman could do better, eh, Kate?” Mary thrilled to his praise.
* * *
—
The next day, she looked for him, but he did not come. Nor did he come on any other day that week. Mary sensed that Mother was as disappointed as she was, but Mother would never criticize Father or complain about him, so strong was her love for him. Instead, she took evident pleasure in Mary’s company, and in prayer. Her strong faith was the guiding light and principle in her life, and she spent hours on her knees in her chapel. She had instilled in Mary a devout love for God and a deep-seated piety. Mary loved the rituals of faith, the rich hues of the stained-glass windows, the statues of the saints glittering with gems, the serene face of the stone Virgin in the chapel as She cradled Her Child, and the jewel-encrusted crucifix that stood on the altar. She loved the mystery of it all, held her breath when the Host was elevated and miraculously became the actual Body of Our Lord, received it with awed reverence. She was rarely happier than when sharing these precious hours of devotions with her beloved mother—unless it was when Father joined them, and the choir of the Chapel Royal sang for them with voices that seemed more divine than human.
