AN: Since I got the next chapter drafted out quicker than I thought I would, I'm feeling generous. Here, in slightly belated honour of Guy Fawkes Night, is the next chapter of Beatrix.
Chapter 14
Cardinal Wolsey didn't often ride a horse. He preferred to be carried in a litter, with the curtains drawn back so that everyone could see him. However, litters were painfully slow and this treaty couldn't wait. Because of that, he forced himself to overcome his scruples and ride out from London to join the Court at Tutbury.
Only to find that the King would have nothing to do with the matter at all.
"You dare go behind my back! You dare gamble away my hand in marriage as though I am no more than a pawn in chess and not a person with desires and feelings of my own?! You dare! Well, let me tell you, Your Eminence, that I will stand for this arrogance not a second longer! You will write to your envoys in Paris telling them that I refuse to ratify this treaty and suggesting one where my daughter Mary is wed to King Francis's second son, the Duke of Orleans instead. And then you will relinquish your London estates to the Crown and retire to your estates in York. Count yourself I'm no harsher. Go!"
"But Your Majesty… Can't you even consider…"
"No, fool! I'm already married!"
Wolsey couldn't hide his shock. "Married?! To whom?"
"The Lady Marie Rochford."
"Lady Marie?! Your Majesty, I beg you, please reconsider! This union is most foolish!"
"I married once to please my country and got nothing but grief for my pains. Now I marry to please myself. The Lady Marie will be the finest Queen England has known since Philippa of Hainault, I'm sure of it. I will hear nothing against her, do you hear? Now go! Get out of my sight! Count yourself lucky I'm no harsher and go!"
Faced with the King's fury, Wolsey had no choice but to bow out of the room and do as he was told.
Wolsey's conversation with the King might have come to naught as far as Wolsey was concerned, but it did have one far-reaching consequence. Eager to avoid any more unwelcome discussions about his marriage prospects, Henry had Archbishop Warham proclaim his marriage to the Earl of Ormonde's daughter, Lady Marie Rochford, throughout the land. In early August, he also had her processed before the Court as their new Queen Mary at Pontefract Castle in Yorkshire.
"You'll be crowned as soon as we get back to London this September," he whispered to her, watching with delight as, clothed in a newly sumptuous gown of cloth of silver trimmed with purple velvet ribbon, she accepted the homage being paid to her by the nobles as though she'd been doing it all her life.
"Yes," Henry thought, "I made the right choice in Marie. She might be young, but she's taken to this life like a duck to water. Looking at her, you'd never guess that her father was any less than a Duke. France turned her into a young woman fit to be Queen."
"Why?" Marie's murmured question brought him out of his musings. He started and looked across at her.
"What's that, darling?"
"Why do I have to wait until we get to London? Can't I be crowned in York or Newcastle instead of London?"
"But it's tradition that all England's Queens are crowned from the Tower. Why don't you want to wait? Are you that eager to be crowned?" A note of something unpleasant crept into Henry's voice. Why did Marie want to be crowned so quickly? Had she only married him for the power of the Crown, despite her protestations to the contrary? But no. She couldn't have done. She was too sweet a girl for that.
As though she could read his flicker of misgivings, Marie reached across and took his hand, "Of course I'm not. I'll do whatever you think best in the end. But I just meant…Katherine was so loved up here. She's still so grieved, even almost two years later. Wouldn't it be really something to give the Northerners a day of Royal joy to celebrate, so that they could make a fresh start? Come to terms with what has happened more completely than they already have?"
She turned her big blue-grey eyes on him and Henry felt his heart melt. Despite himself, he could see the sense in what she said. Yet, how could he deny her the traditionally lavish coronation that all the Queens before her had had? That his first – that Katherine had had? It was the least he could do for her. After the hurried secrecy of their wedding, a lavish coronation was the least he could do for her.
He hesitated and while he was hesitating, the herald banged his staff on the floor, "The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk!"
Every eye in the room – Henry and Marie's included – flicked to the doors. There, resplendent in matching outfits of navy blue satin, stood Charles Brandon and his wife Mary, Henry's sister.
They advanced towards the dais and everyone held their breath. It was common knowledge that the Duchess of Suffolk had loved Katherine of Aragon passionately; had hated Bessie Blount just as fiercely as she had loved the late Queen. And this was her own former Lady in Waiting. How on Earth would she react?
Those who thought she might fly into a rage – and there were more than a few, it had to be said – had underestimated the strength of Mary Brandon's regal poise and self-control.
Keeping her face poker-straight, she dropped into a rigid curtsy beside her bowing husband, "Your Majesty. My Lady Queen."
"Mary, sister," Henry answered, rising to kiss her, relieved she hadn't kicked up a fuss, "It pleases us to see you join us this evening. You and Charles must dine with us at the top table."
"If it pleases you, Sire," Mary replied coolly, hesitating for the merest fraction of a second – so briefly that it was hard to know if she really had hesitated at all. She took her assigned place beside the Queen and signed for a tumbler of wine.
As she drank it, the watching crowd couldn't help murmuring in amazement at how calmly she was behaving. Had she truly accepted her brother's choice of wife? It seemed impossible. If there was one thing Mary Brandon nee Tudor was keen on, it was status. Love or not, many believed she'd never have married her current husband at all, had he not been a Duke. Yet, here she was, treating a mere Earl's daughter as though she had every right to be Queen. What had happened? Had she lost her senses? Or had she merely accepted what she knew she could not change?
Privately, Mary had done neither. In fact, even mere minutes before she had been due to make her appearance for dinner, she had been railing against her husband the Duke of Suffolk.
"This is all your fault!" she screeched, flinging a glass of wine at him.
"My fault?! How is it my fault?!" he exclaimed, jumping aside out of the way.
"You took him whoring!" A silver goblet made its way towards his head.
"You let him fall for Bessie Blount!" An expensive bronze paperweight shaped like a stag.
"You threw Marie at him! She went into his arms on your orders," Charles reminded her, chancing a step forward, then falling back as all three of a venomous glare, a dangerous snarl of fury and a heavy candelabra – candles and all – flew towards him.
"Only because of Bessie! And anyway, he wasn't meant to marry her! If you hadn't witnessed the wedding, he couldn't have done! It wouldn't have been legal!"
A leather-bound Bible spun through the air. He ducked, then, as she searched the room for something else to hurl at him, dashed forward and grabbed hold of her, shaking her by the shoulders.
"Enough!" He roared. "Enough! You're making a fool of yourself!"
"And you three are making a fool out of the whole of England!"
"No, we're making her King happy, which is more than you seem to be able to appreciate or want to do!"
Mary suddenly froze in his arms, as though her furious energy had been sucked out of her by his words.
"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you, Charles! You know I care for my brother more than anything."
"Really?" Charles scoffed. When she didn't answer, he sighed, loosening his grip on her, though he still didn't let her go completely. "Then you will forget about this French marriage and you will go out there and bend the knee to young Lady Marie as though nothing gives you greater pleasure. Do I make myself clear?"
"But…"
"Do I make myself clear? Do you understand, Mary, that if you don't do it, I'll make you rue the day you were born?"
With a final shake, he released her and, ten minutes later, they were walking into the Great Hall.
Mary Brandon wasn't the only one furious at the news of King Henry's new Queen, however. when King Francis found out, he too gave the unfortunate men standing before him a tongue-lashing they would never forget.
"What is this?! I offer my 'brother' the finest terms I can think of – better terms than even my own Council thought wise – I offer him Calais and Anjou and yet now I find that he never wanted this marriage in the first place. That he has jilted my sister for a commoner for no better reason than lust! Now I realise that he may not be as persuasive towards unwilling ladies as I am, but still. He should have forgotten her. Yet he does not. And then he has the gall – the Gall – to suggest that my son marry his daughter instead of him marrying my sister! To demand that I settle Anjou on her as part of her jointure! Anjou! The town – nay, the county – that he would have had anyway, had he married my sister. No, my Lords, I will never accept this! I will never accept Marie Rochford as Queen of England, nor will I accept this proposed treaty! Ever!"
"My Lord," The Earl of Derby began. Francis cut him off with a withering look.
"Save your breath. I don't want to hear another word."
"But…Majeste…"
"Silence Boleyn! How dare you show your face in here? It is your daughter Henry has jilted my sister for! Mon Dieu, when I think of how you must have been laughing behind my back all through these negotiations, it makes me ill! You can go back to England and tell your master than I will never accept either his choice of Queen or his treaty. Indeed, you can tell him that, unless he puts Lady Marie aside and accepts his betrothal to my sister before the month is out, it will be war! War! War!"
King Francis was puce with rage. The English Ambassadors had no choice but to bow their way out of the room. As they left, they heard King Francis bellow after them, "And never let me see or hear of your being here again, Lord Ormonde!"
Anne was sitting at Marguerite's feet, playing her lute for her, as she so often did. The older woman had her hands resting on Anne's head, teasing the ebony curls between her tapered fingers. The moment was peaceful, one more suited to a mother and daughter than a Duchess and her maid. Yet no one thought anything of it. La Petite Boleynette was, and always had been, Madame Marguerite's favourite, her little pet. If Madame Marguerite wanted to treat her like a daughter, then the rest of the Court would simply look the other way. That was how things were done with the King of France's sister.
The moment was rudely shattered, however, when the doors crashed open and King Francis stormed in.
"Out! All of you!"
No one wanted to defy that order by delaying. Without even a glance at their mistress, Marguerite's ladies leapt to their feet and scuttled out of the room.
Except Anne. Used to being the only one Marguerite allowed to attend her in the King's presence – indeed, used to being one of the King's favourites as well as one of his sister's, she got only slowly to her feet, unsure if she should obey his order or hover in case either he or his sister needed anything.
King Francis noticed her hesitation and looked at her coldly, "You too, Mademoiselle," he barked.
Starting, Anne snatched up her lute and scurried from the room, desperate to hide the tears that pricked at her eyes as the King of France spoke to her so sharply. She pulled the door to behind her, but, at the last second, curiosity overtook her and she left it just a fraction ajar. She leaned in just in time to hear Madame Marguerite defending her to her brother.
"Francois, you shouldn't have been so harsh on her. Anna is little more than a child. She only wanted to stay and attend us as she should."
"She might be a child, but she's an English child. You do realise she's the younger sister of the girl Henri jilted you for?"
"Bien sur, but..."
"There's an end to it then. You can't treat her the way you used to. She's not a motherless little girl anymore, she's a political pawn. Who knows who she serves now?"
"Francois, surely you can't mean...My Anna? Never? She'd never betray me like that!"
"Her Father's a snake, Marguerite, as hungry for power as a Falcon is for prey. I wouldn't put it past him to think it useful to have his daughter in such a privileged position of trust in your household."
Anne didn't wait to hear any more. Her heart felt as though it had been torn in two, even though, rationally, she knew King Francis was over-exaggerating in his anger. She was loyal to Madame Marguerite and hr knew it. To hear him suggesting anything else cut her to the quick. Picking up her skirts, she ran for the privacy of her room, half-blind with tears.
As she went, she cursed God and all the Saints in Heaven for making her an Englishwoman and not French by blood. If she'd been French by blood, none of this would ever have happened!
The news that the Earls of Derby and Ormonde had been thrown out of King Francis's Audience Chamber like a pair of mangy strays spread through the Palace of Fontainebleu like wildfire. Before long, even the Earl of Ormonde's younger daughter, Lady Anne, whom he had tried to shield from it, was discussing it in hushed, worried whispers, with her new confidant, Lord Percy, the most junior member of the embassy and heir to the Earldom of Northumberland.
"Where does this leave me, Harry?" she sighed, taking off her hood and running her fingers through her hair distractedly, "I look upon Duchess Marguerite as the mother I've never known, but now I'm sister to England's new Queen; to the woman she's been jilted for. Can I still be her bold little Boleynette, or am I her enemy now? King Francis certainly seemed to think so, judging by the way he ordered me out of her rooms the other day."
"Why are you asking me?" Harry Percy leaned back against the fountain they were standing by, fanned his hands and gave a light half-shrug, "You're the one who knows Marguerite best. You tell me. Do you think it'll matter to her?"
"Maybe not to her, but to King Francis…"
"Look, did you actually know anything, anything at all, of King Henry's plans to marry your sister?"
"Apart from the fact that my father had been made Earl of Ormonde? No, I knew he'd been created an Earl and Marie did hint that it wasn't for his diplomatic services, but I never dreamed it would be for this; never dreamed that my sister…"
"Then you go to Marguerite and assure of your undying loyalty, both to her and to King Francis. You tell her that you didn't know anything about how far King Henry's intentions went with regards to your sister and that, while you owe your sister a debt of love, as long as you're in France, she, Marguerite, is your mistress and your Queen, not Marie. See what she says."
"Do you think it'll work?"
"A slightly edited version of the truth is the best chance you've got. If you can persuade Marguerite that, despite your blood, your first loyalty is to her, then you might get out of this unscathed." As he spoke, Harry took Anne's hood from between her white fingers and set it back on her head, "Go and find her," he murmured.
"I will," Anne nodded, before impulsively stretching up on tiptoe to brush her rounded, rosebud lips against his cheek, "Thank you," she breathed.
Before Harry could respond, she had turned and run inside to find Duchess Marguerite, who was, as it happened, playing cards in her salon with her brother King Francis.
"Madame, Votre Majeste," Anne approached their window table and curtsied. "Might I speak with you?"
Her pretty French was soft, soft enough for only their ears to hear. Marguerite glanced up.
"Of course, my Boleynette," she replied, "Tell us what is troubling you."
"How do you know -" Anne blurted, before she could stop herself. Marguerite raised an eyebrow.
"You've barely spoken to me in days, Cherie. Naturellement, something had to be wrong. What is it?"
"I – I – I just wanted to say – my sister might be Queen of England now, but I care for Your Grace as a daughter cares for her mother. And for you, Your Majesty, I care as though I were your niece as well as your loyal subject. I swear on the Holy Bible that I had not the slightest inkling of King Henry's intentions to marry my sister. Had I done so, I would have told you, for as long as I am a member of your Court, I consider my first loyalty to be to you and yours, no matter who my parents may be or what blood runs in my veins."
Anne had stumbled over her words at first, but gradually, they came faster and faster, until at last, they were tumbling over one another in a great, desperate rush. Flushing scarlet, she fell to the ground in another curtsy, mumbling, "I beg Your Graces, forgive me. Forgive me and believe me when I say, had I had any power over my family's actions, I would not have seen Duchess Marguerite humiliated for the world."
Brother and sister exchanged amused glances over her subservient dark head. Francis took his sister's hand and caressed it briefly, before peering down at little Anne.
"Do you love me, Anna?"
"Oh, yes, Your Majesty! With all my heart."
"And my sister?"
"As fiercely as though she were my own mother."
"Then, my little Boleynette, that is enough for me. Rise. Since you cannot help your sister's actions, there is nothing to forgive."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty!" Anne gabbled, seizing the King's hand and covering it in kisses.
Marguerite laughed at the young girl's effusiveness and helped her up from her knees, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
"Run and fetch your lute, ma petite. Sing us that Welsh ballad you sing so well."
"Yes, Madame," Anne nodded obediently, then hurried off to fetch her lute, relieved that the Valois siblings, at least, did not hold her English heritage against her.