Swirling around them in the warm and welcoming chamber, as they stood together before a grand fire blazing away in the hearth, was the familiar woody mix of musk, leather and sweat, but as they embraced Mary sensed something more.
She smelled age, she thought, and futility. Both had their own particular aroma on her father now and it caused her fear to fade. They had not been close, but the king seemed to want a connection with her now. The very day she and Henry arrived at Westminster Palace he had summoned her alone to his bedchamber, to sit with him in two leather chairs, studded with hammered nails, beside the massive tester bed, his heraldic emblem sewn with gold thread into the silk behind him. The grand, slightly austere chamber was warmed by a wood fire and two charcoal braziers, which drew the worst of the chill from the air. The table beside him was littered with books, including one special volume, Froissart’s Chronicles, that had always been spoken of as his favorite. It detailed great battles in which the kings of France were vanquished by the kings of England. Beside it was a small miniature of the queen, set in silver, and a dagger he always kept with him, once used at the Battle of Bosworth Field, where so many dear to him had died. On the walls around them were mural paintings of Old Testament battle scenes he loved to study.
Beneath that sat a large round ship’s chest covered with strips of iron and black leather. It was a room full of meaning, Mary knew. A room full of things that defined him.
She remembered that he spent much of his time here now, remembering his glory days, when he was wild and strong—a warrior in the field, not a king on a throne. Mary glanced around now at the remnants of his life and was filled with sadness for him. The fear was all but gone.
She sat now playing with the king’s fuzzy little monkey, Solomon. She had always loved the pet and forgotten how much. The little nut brown creature would sit on her lap and eat chunks of dried fruit from her fingers, then nestle into her arms like a baby. His fur was soft, his eyes wide, and she was the only one, her father said, he had never bitten. He was dressed up like a court page, poor little thing, in a blue and gold velvet doublet and tiny little puffed trunk hose. Mary stroked his ear as her father sipped a silver goblet of wine and laid his head back against the chair that sat facing her own.
“So then, my Mary, tell me, are you pleased to be making such an important match for us all?” he asked her in that husky voice that had once only sounded of authority and power, but now revealed a steadily worsening illness.
“If Your Majesty is pleased, then I am also.”
“A proper response to your sovereign: learned and delivered tolerably well,” he declared, then looked directly at her, his heavily lidded eyes leveled in a challenge. “Now, child, this second time, speak not to your king but to your father.”
“I know him not well enough to be pleased,” she answered honestly as a log tumbled from the fire grate and the sparks and flames flared, lighting the coat of arms in the colored windowpanes beside it.
“But you have seen his portrait, and you have read his letters?”
That much was true. Henry had brought with him to Eltham two letters nearly eight-year-old Prince of Castile had written to her—doubtless with help—talking of his life, his interests and his pleasure at the news that they were one day to be married. By his portrait and his words, he seemed a bland child, his life as circumscribed as hers was here in England. Mary’s first response had been pity. A warm sort of understanding that had begun to feel like acceptance had followed. There was certainly no eagerness to tie herself forever to this boy-prince she had never even seen, in the way Arthur had done with Katherine, and Margaret had done with James.
But she knew she could not alter her father’s will.
“I shall grow accustomed to the arrangement,” she replied as dutifully as her Tudor lineage had trained her, while the little monkey on his jewel-studded chain nipped for attention at her sleeve.
“You know, Mary, I did not marry your mother for love either,” he confided, on a heavy sigh. “Yet I grew to love her so deeply and profoundly that there is not a single day or night that goes by—nor shall there ever be—that I shall not miss her sweet laughter, her wise counsel or her nearness to me as I fall asleep. It comes to me and forever shall with a painful longing that cuts into my very soul. And I shall have that hollow place in my heart each and every night for as many days remaining that I draw breath.”
Looking at her father, seeing the profound sadness she had never seen fully before in his ruddy, wizened face, and how it had aged him, Mary felt the prick of tears at the back of her eyes. She stroked the monkey more attentively to try to distract her own sadness at the loss of that same woman, and to help her to stay strong enough not to cry before the king.
One did not do that. She had learned it well enough the day of her brother’s funeral.
“I miss her as well.”
“Your marriage will be a brilliant one, and you can be as happy in it as you decide to be,” he declared, his own blue eyes glistening brightly with tears he would not cry, for he was stronger than she would ever be. “She favored this alliance for you, you know. We spoke of it many times.”
Shadows from the firelight danced on their faces, not alike yet similar in their stony gaze and the ability to set their jaw in determination. “Does anyone like us ever marry for love?”
Her father lifted his head from the back of the chair and studied her for a moment before a weak smile broke across his face. “Ah, so very much your mother’s daughter, aren’t you? Stubborn and so very idealistic. She would have dearly loved to know you when you are older. She wagered that you would be quite a firebrand.”
“Is Katherine not firebrand enough for Henry?”
Her father smiled patiently at her. “Perceptive and beautiful—just as your mother was.”
“Is that why you have canceled their marriage?”
“I am not a foolish man. I have not dragged my heels in this without reason. I have always known Henry was different. Stronger. Your brother must make a strong match, Mary.
The consequences of the wrong queen for someone extraordinary like Henry would plague him—and this country—for a very long time to come. No matter what he thinks he feels for her, Katherine is not the one to rule England for a lifetime with him.”
Although Eltham was a royal palace, framed by the lush greenery of a forest, life there could not compare to the vibrant existence at court. At Richmond, where the king and the Prince of Wales were both installed, there was a powerful energy and an excitement Mary could actually feel. Days were vibrant and alive. In a continual hum of activity, servants moved about carrying silver trays, polishing the carved arms on chairs, and the long walls of paneling that led to the vast warren of halls and receiving rooms, or dusting picture frames and preparing for yet another massive evening banquet. Clerics strolled the corridors, speaking in low tones with one another about the latest intellectual debate. Collections of lords and ladies moved about in velvet, fur and jewels that rivaled anything she had ever worn, the ornate hems of their gowns clinging to gleaming intricate parquet floors.
Though she was a king’s daughter, her mother had always economized with her. As she was the elder daughter, Margaret’s wardrobe and jewels had always been seen to first, as had Arthur’s wardrobe above Henry’s. She was a fourth child and a daughter at that, not particularly important. She was surrounded by the very best of everything now. The foremost intellectuals in England moved around her daily. Erasmus, visiting court from Rotterdam, walked past her that first afternoon as she returned from prayer. He was speaking with his good friend Sir Thomas More. In their black velvet robes and flat velvet berets, they spoke of Sir John Cheke’s recent treatise on the education of male youth. She later passed the Spanish ambassador, Fuensalida, heatedly conversing with the Duke of Buckingham. In an open doorway, after they had passed, she paused to watch her father’s favorite court painter, a stout elderly Italian named Volpe, finishing a portrait of Henry.
> She lingered for a moment, happy to be back in the company of her brother. She watched him standing in the center of the room beside a chair covered with velvet, his hand casually positioned on the chair back. Next to the artist Katherine stood, completely transfixed, observing his skilled hand dabbing paint onto a brush and then onto the half-finished portrait. Her back was to the door and she did not see Mary.
Katherine did not see anything but Henry.
She is in love with him, Mary thought with surprise, everything important revealed then in her eyes. What great misfortune it would be to have come to care for someone whose whole heart was beyond one’s ability to attain. Henry was wild and handsome, with England at his feet—and he knew it. Katherine was a widow some six years his senior who was offering herself up without a chase.
He saw Mary standing there then, and he smiled broadly.
The painter muttered something in Italian and turned away in a little huff of irritation at the sudden distraction.
“Mary,” he exclaimed, his voice rich with happiness.
“Katherine, look who is here.”
Katherine turned around then and smiled sweetly at Mary. Her face had changed, maturing into something lovely, Mary thought, just as he had said—smooth olive skin and prominent black eyes that bore long lashes. Now at the age of twenty-one, her lips were full and her nose was just long enough to suit her.
She opened her arms to Mary and smiled warmly as they embraced. “It has been a long time,” she said in an English that was still charmingly accented with her native Spanish.
Mary would have liked to practice her Spanish with Katherine, but Mary knew that the king frowned upon that. She had been made an English bride to Arthur, he stubbornly declared, and she would remain an English princess.
“Ah, but it is good to see you.”
“I have missed you,” Mary countered with utter sincerity.
“Much has happened while you were at Eltham.”
“I have heard that,” she replied, smiling just a bit more broadly. Katherine glanced over at Henry then with what Mary clearly saw was open adoration. Her instinct had been correct. Mary’s heart warmed to Katherine then, as did her sense of pity for what would become of her friend now that the king had called off the marriage. “We have much to catch up on.”
“Shall we walk?”
“As long as we leave Henry behind,” Mary chuckled, linking her arm with Katherine’s and moving out into the long gallery lined with Tudor portraits framed in ebony and accented in scrollwork silver. “I need to hear everything. And I have a feeling you will not speak a word of truth if my brother is around.”
Mary had been given a new gown upon her return to court, an exquisite thing sewn of rich brown velvet with a low, square neckline and miniver sleeves. Ropes of gold chain and pearls hung from her neck, and a gold pendant was suspended there as she dressed for her first royal banquet. At her waist she wore one of her mother’s jeweled girdles, and from it a gold filigreed pomander hung. She glanced down to see her grandmother’s diamond surrounded by pearls glittering brightly on her first finger. She felt every bit a royal daughter on the very cusp of womanhood.
Jane and Lady Guildford marveled as well at the apartments allotted to them. They were large and very grand, with three tall leaded windows with camfered molding and hung smartly with blue sarcenet curtains held up on iron poles and rings. The chamber was appointed richly as well, with sturdy carved and crisply upholstered chairs, inlaid tables and chests, and warmed by Turkish carpets. The whitewashed walls were smooth and fresh, and decorated with Flemish tapestries and artwork from Italy.
Jane helped Mary dress early that evening, and they chattered happily, as Jane was to be her companion for the banquet. The messenger who had come from the king said he did not wish Mary to be alone for the evening. He did not think it safe for her to attend unaccompanied where anything could, and frequently did, happen. To Mary, the prospect of attention from handsome, licentious courtiers was frightening and exciting all at once.
The grand banquet that night was attended by nearly four hundred guests. Ten courses were served on gleaming gilt platters piled with wild boar, loin of veal and delicate lark’s tongue. The tables upon which they were placed were covered with crisp white damask, strewn with flowers and herbs and topped with cups, goblets, ewers and finger bowls.
And at the center of the king’s table sat a roasted peacock, its plumes artistically re-attached in an impressive display. The king’s coat of arms in the colored windowpanes glittered down onto the candlelit tables, and from the gallery above, a consort of musicians serenaded the guests. Ladies of the court sat around Mary, arrayed in tight-bodiced gowns of crimson velvet, emerald satin and cloth of gold, all with chains and pearls at their waists and throats.
Mary danced and danced, and she reveled in the gazes and whispers of several of the young and very handsome men of her father’s court. Most of them were sons of dukes and lords, all privileged, all desirous of her attention. After a time, she was called upon to take the lute to entertain the company. It was Mary’s best instrument and she was pleased to have so grand and important an audience after playing only for the servants at Eltham. Having all eyes on her was like a potent drug that made her heart race.
As she began to play “My Own Soul,” she glanced over at the king sitting in his grand throne at the head of the room, hands curled over the chair arms, his head against the leather back. He was nodding off as she played. She was hurt at first.
Insulted as well. But then she saw the old man before her, not a king, but a father, who had lived a long and complicated life, who was frail now . . . with a small measure of time left that was slipping swiftly away.
A feeling of sadness struck her, potently mixing with the elation she had felt only moments before. The king would die one day and then there would only be Henry left. He would be the new energy and the power for England. Henry was even taller now, handsome and commanding—a striking presence. Where their father was stoop-shouldered and gaunt-faced, haunted by time, her brother bore himself already as a king, one with more than a passing interest in a particular girl.
She watched Katherine and her brother huddled together deep in conversation as all the music, servants and the other courtiers swirled around them. They seemed cocooned in a little world of their own. Mary had watched him with several girls as he entered adolescence, but she had never seen him this way. Katherine smiled at him and he blushed. She averted her eyes. They looked at one another. Giggled. Mary thought it like a romantic little dance. Henry was clearly taken with their brother’s widow, and it was far beyond what he had revealed to her on the barge up from Eltham. To care for someone in that way seemed a fantasy to her.
With the years since Arthur’s death, Katherine’s clothes had become increasingly threadbare and tight-fitting, as her body changed but her circumstances did not—an unsettling result of the dispute between Spain and England over her dowry, which Henry VII stubbornly refused to return. While the two sovereigns haggled over the details of her first marriage contract, which did call for her substantial dowry to be sent back to Spain with her, she had to rely on the Spanish ambassador to buy her what she needed, only the most basic of necessities, for he had to pay for them himself. What money poor Katherine was allotted was required to pay the retinue that had remained with her in England. Principal among them was Katherine’s stout duenna, Dona Elvira, who seemed never to be far from Katherine’s side, along with her husband, Don Pedro Manrique. There was also Maria de Salinas and the small, sharp-eyed Spanish ambassador, Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida. In addition, the two monarchs haggled over the inheritance that she was to receive, a steady income, as the Dowager Princess of Wales. While they argued, Katherine remained a virtual hostage, having no idea whether her future lay in England or Spain. But by the expression in Henry’s eyes, Mary knew what it was her brother wished.
Mary realized then why he had wanted her there, why he had ridden all
the way to Eltham to make certain she would join him. He wanted to tell her he had fallen in love with Katherine. She sank back in her chair, unable to take her eyes from the two of them. She was not so young that she did not realize the ramifications for a girl who had already given her whole heart to him, but then had her betrothal forever terminated.
“Do they not make a handsome pair?”
The voice belonged to Charles Brandon, who was suddenly sitting beside her, taking up the chair of a dinner guest who had gone to dance a lively saltarello. Charles held a silver wine goblet in hand and bore an easygoing smile as he surveyed her. She turned with a small start and looked at him.
He had changed since she had seen him last Christmas, Mary thought. He was even more magnificently handsome now, if that were possible, dressed in a blue velvet doublet and sleeves slashed with gold cloth. But she believed him to be such a horrid womanizer and flirt that she could never admit her attraction to him, even to herself. Just that morning she’d learned that, less than a year into his marriage to Margaret Mortimer, Charles was looking for a way to have it invalidated. Consanguity was the term for having a common ancestry with one another, and Charles was going to prove it between himself and his wife. Distastefully, Mary noted that he was not likely to return Margaret’s houses or her land along with her freedom. Apparently he planned to marry his wife’s niece, Anne Browne, who was also the mother of his child.
As Mary looked at him now, she saw that his hair was a shade darker than Henry’s, more auburn now than red. He still wore it long over his ears, and he had a mustache now and neatly trimmed beard. It all made his eyes even more prominent than before.
It also made him look older, certainly more dangerous.
At just twelve to his twenty-three years, she was too young, and he was certainly too dangerous for her even to have had the thought. She knew that Charles was married and that he was now a man not only with a past, but with a child, by a woman who was not his wife. Even though Mary had long known the details, his actions were still unseemly, no matter how ambitious he was, or how incredibly handsome.