The Nymph from Heaven, page 3
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
“Of course,” said the queen. “But I think it is time that you went with Margaret and Henry. I am weary.”
Mary kissed her mother and went with the other royal children to York Place to await news of the queen’s safe delivery.
# # #
The next day, no cannon boomed to announce the birth of a prince. The queen had been delivered of a princess, but both were ailing. King Henry hurried to York Place to be with his children and to await further news of the queen. A hasty christening, never a good sign, was arranged for the baby, Katherine, named after the queen’s own sister, and for Katharine, the Dowager Princess of Wales. While her family watched and waited, the queen’s condition worsened, and she passed away on the eleventh of February, the day of her thirty-eighth birthday. The little Princess Katherine survived her by only a few weeks. The court was once again plunged into deep mourning.
No one was more stunned by the queen’s death than the members of her family, but all London mourned the gracious lady. Torches lined the streets, tapers burned in all the churches, and the people wept openly. Finally, the eerily life-like effigy was ready and, clad in the queen’s own royal robes of state, sat atop her mourning cart as the funeral cortège made its doleful way from the Tower to her final resting place at Westminster Abbey. The king, too distraught to do otherwise, retired to the country to mourn his beloved queen in solitude.
Grandmother Beaufort, as usual, took up the reins of royal responsibility, part of which was continuing to prepare Margaret for her new role as Queen of Scotland. But she was made of sterner stuff than the gentle queen had been, and it was not an easy time.
It was originally agreed that Margaret would not set out for Scotland until a year after her betrothal, however, since that had taken place in January the year before, there was a tacit agreement that her departure would actually be delayed a few more months until the spring. Winter travel was never advisable, always hazardous and uncomfortable and, in some cases, such as in the far north, might prove impossible.
The queen’s death meant another official mourning and even more delay, so that it was early July before Margaret finally set out for Scotland. It was arranged that she would make the journey in slow, easy stages, being feted all along the way, but first she would stay for a while at Collyweston, Grandmother Beaufort’s estate in Northamptonshire, before beginning her journey in earnest.
At the last Margaret was absolutely anxious to be gone. Mary sensed this and tried to cling more than ever to Henry, but being the new Prince of Wales meant more responsibility for him, and Henry often had no time for her. She sometimes walked the gardens of whatever castle or palace they happened to be in during that time, a pale little ghost mourning her mother and worshipping Charles Brandon from afar.
Colleyweston, July 1503
One day in the summer of 1503, shortly before Margaret was due to begin the final stages of her progress northwards into Scotland, Mary was praying with Grandmother Beaufort at her prie dieu. She was finding it difficult to concentrate, and must have fidgeted more than usual, because she glanced over to see her grandmother’s disapproving eye appraising her. But when Lady Margaret spoke, her voice was soft. “What ails you, child?”
Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes. “I miss the queen, my mother,” she said in a whisper. “And I shall miss Margaret.”
Grandmother Beaufort raised herself up painfully from her knees and, taking Mary by the hand, led her to the window seat. Her gardens at Collyweston, of which she was very proud, were a riot of color, and the warm scent of gilly flowers rose up through the window. “I know you will,” she replied. “But what else is bothering you?”
Mary sighed. It seemed as if everyone could read her thoughts. “Margaret does not seem displeased to be going. She seems to want to go away and leave us.”
Lady Beaufort took a waxy-looking finger and placed it under Mary’s chin, raising Mary’s face to hers. “If that is so, child, then you ought to rejoice for her. Do not take it as a sign that Margaret does not love us. It is the fate of princesses to leave their homes. If one can go with a glad heart that is better in the long run.”
“But will she not be homesick? Will she not miss us?” Mary’s travels had been limited to the royal palaces and hunting lodges up and down the Thames around London; the trip to Collyweston had astounded her. She had no idea that the world was so big. And Margaret was going further still. The progress to Scotland would take many more days of traveling; it must be very far away.
“Margaret has a royal destiny, Mary, one that she has embraced with all her heart, and I am glad for her that this is so. If it were otherwise, she would be sunk in misery, and that is no way to go to one’s husband. Also,” Lady Beaufort hesitated, and then continued. “I believe that she misses your Lady Mother the Queen, just as you do. I think she is glad to be gone from all of the reminders.”
The tears that had been brimming Mary’s eyes spilled over. The child even cries beautifully, Lady Margaret remarked to herself. This golden child took after the Yorkist side; her Yorkist grandparents had been reckoned the most elegantly beautiful people of their generation. With her beauty and charm of manner, Mary would accomplish much if she could keep her temper in check. Oh, yes, Lady Margaret had noticed those flashing eyes, the sometimes acerbic remarks. What would become known as the Tudor temper was not really a Tudor trait at all; it was the legacy of hundreds of years of the famous Plantagenet family temper that had occasionally resulted in some of its more afflicted members chewing the tapestries or throwing themselves onto the floor and gnawing the dirty rushes when in a rage. This was conduct that princes and kings, a queen-regnant, perhaps, could indulge in with impunity; but it was not behavior becoming to a demure princess.
“Mary, listen to me,” said Lady Margaret. She took both of Mary’s hands in hers, and her black eyes bore into the child’s. “You are a child as yet, but not so young that you cannot be made to understand who you are, and what is expected of you. You are a royal princess, Mary. God has placed you in a position of great power and grave responsibility. It is a chance vouchsafed to few, my dear, and you must acknowledge, yea, you must embrace this, as both a God-given opportunity and a sacred duty. You may believe that the wealth you enjoy and the great privileges bestowed upon you are your right as the daughter of a king and queen. To a certain extent, that is true. I realize that you know no other life. But for your dear father, such was not always so. He grew up poor, on the run, always having to borrow, to beg the indulgence of others who would support his cause. He has known great privation. Those who would call him miser now, which is both unfair and untrue, do not understand what it is to be penniless. And your father was poor in the worst way; he had a position to maintain. But I digress, child, an evil habit that you will have to forgive an old woman.” Lady Margaret shifted on the velvet cushions, and raised a hand to smooth back a stray strand of Mary’s moonbeam hair.
“It is the fate of princesses, Mary, to leave their homes and go to foreign lands and unknown husbands. You ask why Margaret seems anxious to leave us. One reason is that Margaret craves power. She is queen of Scotland, but she goes to her new land as an ambassador of England. It is up to her to convince her husband, the king, to forge policies favorable to her homeland. She will become Scottish; her children, the heirs to the throne of Scotland, will be Scottish; but in her heart she will always be English, and it is her responsibility to ensure that what Scotland does favors England.”
“But to leave one’s home…to live amongst strangers…” Mary gulped. “I had hoped to marry…an English gentleman, and stay here with…everyone that I love.”
Lady Margaret sighed. “Would that it could be so, Mary, but it cannot. Royal children do not belong to their parents, you see. They do not even belong to themselves. They belong to their country. Your purpose on this earth, Mary, is to do your duty and serve your country. But I tell you this. It would be so even if you were the daughter of the meanest villein. Every man craves a son, Mary, but not all men get one. And even the lowest of the low want a son, or a son-in-law, to inherit their old donkey and plow when they die and leave this earth. Women, high and low, Mary, must do the bidding of their menfolk. First it is a father, or absent him, a brother; then it is a husband, and absent him, a son. Women do not choose their own way, Mary. Their way is chosen for them.”
“But…you chose your own way. You choose your way even now, do you not?”
Lady Margaret shifted once more on the velvet cushion. “I have been singularly fortunate in my later life, Mary. But it was not always so. I was married at twelve, was a mother to your dear father at thirteen, and a widow at fourteen. I was too young, and my womb was ruined. But I had no choice but to do as I was bidden...” She had a faraway look in her eyes and her voice trailed off. Suddenly she straightened her spine and focused her gaze back onto the enthralled young girl who was her granddaughter. “There is one ray of hope, though, Mary, and I offer it to you. Use it well. If once you marry for state reasons, you have the right to ask to choose your second husband yourself, if that opportunity affords itself. You may choose for love, or you may choose for money and position. If you are lucky, all three may present themselves to you in one opportunity.” She smiled. “I fear me that this is the only bit of hope I can offer you, and one that may not ever present itself to you, since…”
“Since what?” asked Mary.
“Since…” Lady Margaret had made one of her rare tactical errors. But, after all, the child would have to know sometime. “Your marriage has already been mooted at least twice, Mary.”
Mary’s eyes went wide. “It has?”
“Indeed, yes.” Lady Margaret assumed her authoritative air once again. “The Doge of Venice wanted you for his son when you were three. And that is late, Mary. Some royal princesses are betrothed in their very cradles. But your Lord Father felt that such an agreement was premature. And, indeed, it proved to be so. The Tudor rule was still young and unproven at that time. Even in the very year of your birth, Mary, Yorkist pretenders were still plaguing us. But things have quieted over the last few years. Your Lord Father has proved his abilities. The country prospers and is at peace. That is why the Catholic Kings, Isabella and Ferdinand, finally allowed Katharine to come and marry Arthur, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and continued on. “The King of Aragon and the Queen of Castile have another daughter, you know. Joanna.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “I have heard Katharine speak of her.”
“Joanna was married, the year after your birth, Mary, to Philip of Austria, son of Maximilian, the Holy Roman Emperor. By the time you were four, Mary, and that is not so very long ago, they had a son, Charles. Charles is heir not only to the Empire, but, through Joanna, his mother, to united Spain as well. You would agree, I am certain, that this is a much more glittering match than Venice. If you were to marry Charles you would be not just a queen, Mary. You would be an empress.”
Mary caught her breath. “And this has been agreed? That I am to marry this…Charles?” How unfortunate that he had the same name as her beloved. I will simply stop thinking of him as Charles, she vowed. From now on I will think of him as Brandon.
Lady Margaret shrugged. “No, nothing is agreed, and nothing is ever certain until it happens. But it is an example, Mary, of where your fate lies. In fact, King Louis XII of France has recently promised his little daughter Claude to Charles. Claude will inherit Brittany through her mother, the French Queen, Anne of Brittany. This makes her a more valuable match than you, Mary, as you have no such lands to offer. But mark my words, things will change again before anything definite happens. It is the way the world works, my dear.” She laughed her rare laugh. “I fear me, Mary, that we are all very much like the pieces on a chess board.”
And I am just a pawn, thought Mary. She sat with sagging shoulders. So it might already have been too late, but she had been saved by Claude with her glittering dowry of Brittany. Still, it seemed that she was doomed to exile in a foreign land, just like Margaret. If not today, then tomorrow mayhap. But unlike Margaret, Mary did not crave power. She wanted only to stay in England, with her brother, Henry, who, after all, would one day be king. But it seemed that this was not to be. And if they married her to one younger than herself, what hope had she of outliving him? “What is this Charles like?” she asked.
“I know not,” replied Lady Margaret. “I have never seen him.” It was an astute question, though. Although by all accounts his mother was a great beauty and his father was known as Philip the Handsome, rumor had it that shovel-jawed Charles had inherited the unfortunate Hapsburg facial structure. “But let us not concern ourselves with details now, Mary, since there are none of any account to moot. I just wished you to understand that it is a good thing that Margaret looks forward to her future in Scotland, and you should rejoice for her.”
“I do rejoice for her,” said Mary. “I shall go and tell her so.”
“Yes, child, that would be a sisterly thing to do. Once she is gone from here, it may be many years before you behold her face again.”
Mary shuddered, thinking that someday, such might apply to her.
Chapter 2
“Rejoice, England…thy flourishing red rose be so planted…in the highest Imperial gardens…” – Brescian Pietro Carmeliano
Richmond Palace, January 1506
The rain blew hard against the windows of Richmond Palace. A violent gust made Mary look up sharply; it sounded as if the rain had turned to sleet. She and Katharine were embroidering an altar cloth to pass the time. Katharine was adept at the intricate designs of the interior of the work, and Mary, who detested sewing of any sort, was stitching the border. It was rote work, and although she worked with the finest gold and silver thread, attaching tiny seed pearls to the midnight blue velvet, she was bored. If only something, anything, would happen, to break the monotony.
Mary was about to remark that the rain had indeed turned to sleet when she noticed that Katharine, as she was wont to do of late, was sitting and staring at nothing, hand in mid-air, poised to draw a stitch. Mary felt sorry for Katharine, because she suspected that she must be brooding upon her troubles once again. Katharine was so apt to brood. Mary felt that Katharine spent far too much time on her knees in front of her prie dieu, praying or mumbling the rosary. What Katharine needed was a diversion, a distraction, something to bring her out of herself.
Mary sighed. Such an occurrence was not likely in this weather! It was January and not a soul was astir. The entire court were at Windsor Castle. Being there would have been so much merrier. But Mary thought she knew why she had been left behind at Richmond with Katharine after the Christmas revels. It was possible that her father also realized that Katharine was apt to brood, so he had bid Mary stay with her, to provide her with some company nearer her own age. Mary was younger, it was true, being not quite eleven, and Katharine had just turned twenty. But Mary was a creature of the court, a royal princess, and was, if not serious in personality, at least very much aware of her position and the expectations associated with it. She made Katharine a good companion despite the difference in their ages. And perhaps the King hoped that some of Katharine’s seriousness would rub off onto her.
And so from time to time Mary’s little retinue would travel from wherever the court happened to be with Katharine’s dwindling household. The first time Mary spent a few months with Katharine was just after the Queen died, and Margaret had left for her new life in Scotland. She and Katharine had become good friends, and Mary had grown very fond of the tragic princess from Spain.
Suddenly Katharine dropped her sewing into her lap and said, “The light is failing. And it’s only just past Sext.”
Mary frowned. Katharine had an annoying habit of telling time by the religious hours of the day. “I shall ask Jane to fetch more candles,” she said. Jane was dozing in the window seat with Katharine’s lute on her lap.
Katharine sighed. “I pray you, do not,” she said, laying her end of the cloth aside and jamming the needle into the little horsehair cushion shaped and decorated to resemble a pomegranate, which was her device. “I am tired of sewing.” Mary knew this mood; it usually presaged Katharine’s slow, silent tears. Mary knew that at such times the best thing to do was to be still, be quiet, and just stay by her side. Katharine sat staring out at the rain, her hands folded in her lap.
Katharine’s troubles, Mary knew, were many and serious. It had begun with the sudden death of her husband, Arthur, almost four years ago. It was such a tragic story. Katharine had been brought from Spain to marry Mary’s older brother. Handsome, accomplished, gentle and beloved by all, Arthur had been the hope of the fledgling Tudor dynasty. And then, a mere five months after their marriage, Arthur had been struck down by that dreadful scourge, the sweating sickness. Katharine had been stricken as well, but being far more robust than Arthur, she had survived.
Regardless of Katharine’s broken heart, for she had truly come to love Arthur in their short time together, plans were mooted immediately to marry her to Prince Henry, who was to be the new the Prince of Wales as soon as it was established that Katharine was not carrying Arthur’s child. After all, Arthur may have been younger than Katharine, but they had been married for months, and naturally everyone assumed… Katharine had shocked the court by informing her formidable Spanish duenna, Dona Elvira, that she most certainly was not carrying Arthur’s child for the simple reason that the marriage had never been consummated. A bit of playacting on the morning after the nuptials had been enough to save Arthur’s pride and to fool their guards and attendants. But that this mummery was to lead to unforeseen consequences in the far future, Katharine had no way of knowing.
