Chapter 37
Marie had been at Beaulieu a full six weeks before she heard anything from her husband, and even then, it was nothing more than a terse, clipped note, worlds away from the effusive love letters he had written her in the early days of their marriage, when he had gone to war for the sake of her hand and her honour.
Wife,
My ministers tell me that, for the sake of decorum, you must appear at my side during the upcoming festive season, or else too many questions will be asked. You will find me at Bridewell and I expect you back at Court within the week."
Upon receiving the message, Marie's heart sank. She sighed and then went to find Maria and Lionel. She hated being the bearer of bad news, yet somehow, she was going to have to inform her children that, not only had Papa not seen fit to invite them to Court for the Christmas season, but Mama wouldn't be able to celebrate it with them either.
George had pages posted at every window of the Palace, watching for Marie's train. The moment he was told there were signs of her approach, he flung a thick cloak around his shoulders and hurried out into the courtyard to meet her.
The cobbled expanse was suspiciously empty as she descended from her horse. In fact, considering her rank, she and George were shamefully alone as they crossed the yard.
That didn't, however, stop Marie from lowering her voice as she asked, "How is it? How is he?"
"Bad," George replied, copying her, "He fawns over Honour. He calls her his own little piece of Irish luck; says she's been sent by God to warm his heart during this cold winter season. He even claims she must have been kissed by the Holy Spirit's tongues of fire because of her red hair."
He was open about how things stood, despite who he was talking to. Marie had been his sister for far longer than she had been his Queen. He knew she'd never forgive him if he tried to sugar-coat the truth now.
"There's more," he warned her, as he spun her around and led her, not to her own rooms, but to the rooms of their uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. "He's been treating with the Portuguese Ambassador. He's trying to betroth Lionel to their youngest Princess, Beatrice."
"Without consulting me?"
George nodded, "He claims that a simple country girl like you can know nothing of political alliances, so he alone has the right to decide on your children's futures. To be honest, I think you have the Portuguese to thank for your return to Court. They insist on speaking to the woman who has tried to orchestrate the newfound friendship between our countries."
Marie gulped, momentarily biting the inside of her cheek to try to hide her mental turmoil as George swept her into the Norfolk rooms and seated her in the place of honour at the head of the table, "What do I do?"
She murmured the words as if to herself, but it was her uncle who answered.
"You provide him with exactly what he's been missing since Katherine of Aragon died. A partner who can support him in everything he does. He claims you don't know politics. Learn. If he wants to go to war, you stitch his banners, canvass his troops, muster foreign support if necessary. Show him he needs a woman at his side, not a silver-tongued child."
"Prove yourself another Isabella of Castile if need be. But don't ever forget that he is your sovereign lord. When he tires of that simpering chit of his, as he's bound to someday, don't rail against him. Welcome him back with open arms. Remember, the fruits he will find in the girls here at Court will only be all the sweeter if they seem to be forbidden," their mother warned.
Their uncle nodded, "Whether he likes it or not, he'll have to seek your bed eventually for duty's sake, don't make the experience any more unpleasant than it has to be by railing at him like a jealous fishwife. Shut your eyes and endure, as your betters have done before you. As Katherine did before you."
Marie nodded silently, but George could read the insecurity in her body, so he leaned over to put a hand on her arm, "It's not all bad news," he said bracingly. You've given him a son. He's been waiting over a decade for a son. He's not going to forget that in a hurry. Nor are the common people. You've got them on your side, Marie. You've made this country safe, that's no small thing. And you've got powerful friends. Me, Kathy, the Howards, the Percys, the Willoughbys, most likely the Portuguese as well. I wouldn't despair just yet."
"You're right, of course you're right," Marie assured him, but her words rang hollow, as well they might. Every person in the room knew that, if she couldn't win the King back to her, then there were bleak days ahead for her.
Bleak days that only got bleaker when the King found out about Anne and Harry Percy.
They were sitting on the dais together, dining in public, as the season required of them, when Marie decided to chance telling him. She hoped that, in public, he might spare her the lash of his temper, if only for appearances' sake. Unfortunately, she was wrong.
They were halfway through the meat course when Henry suddenly barked, "I've arranged to have Lionel betrothed to the Princess Beatrice of Portugal. She's his age and comes from fertile enough stock. She ought to make him a good match."
Having delivered this announcement with the force of a cannon, Henry took a gulp of wine, the rings on his fingers flashing in the candlelight as he raised his hand.
Had George not forewarned her, Marie would have handled the news far worse than she did. As it was, however, although the stewed venison lost its flavour, she merely put down her fork and summoned a smile.
"I'm glad to see you nurturing our new alliance with Portugal, Sire."
"Are you? Wouldn't you rather Lionel married a French Princess? After all, you always thought yourself a Frenchwoman, didn't you, Marie?" he challenged through gritted teeth, masked behind a solicitous smile for the benefit of the watching public.
Marie felt her heart sink as she realised that he was in the kind of irritable mood that finds fault with everything; that searches for a reason for an argument.
Nonetheless, she refused to rise to his bait. Even if he was too soured by grief to care what image he gave to the public, she was a Boleyn, a Howard and a Queen of England to boot. She, at least, had been raised to have more dignity than that.
"It is true I have many fond memories of my years in France, Sire," she responded calmly, "But if you think I ever considered myself a Frenchwoman, then you are mistaken. It was my sister who thought that. I always knew my first loyalty rightfully belonged to the King my father served, the King who sent me to France to serve his sister, the most glorious King in Christendom. The King who has now become my husband. I also know that England needs as many alliances as possible. Our daughter is to become a French Duchess. That is enough. By all means, let us balance our ties with the French with Portuguese ones. Let our future daughter – your heir's future bride - be the Princess Beatrice of Portugal."
Henry only grunted at her words, but he did appear pacified by them, enough to let her rest her hand over his, anyway.
"Perhaps we should have a double celebration, then," she murmured, "Lionel's betrothal to the Princess of Portugal and my sister's marriage to young Lord Percy."
"What? I thought we were going to marry them on her sixteenth birthday?"
"We were, but now things have changed. She'll have to marry him sooner than March."
Suspicion flared in Henry's cobalt eyes, "Why?"
"Well.., Marie hesitated, then gathered her courage and blurted, "She and Lord Percy have already made their betrothal unbreakable. My sister's almost four months gone with child."
"Anne! With child! And I wasn't told!"
"It hardly seemed the sort of news one could put in a letter, Sire," Marie defended weakly, wishing wholeheartedly that she had put it in a letter after all, rather than deal with his direct wrath. He whipped his head round to her, pounding the table.
"You knew!" he accused, "You knew what they were up to and yet you didn't stop them!"
"My Lord, I knew naught more than you until Anne confided to me that she was two months gone with child!" Marie exclaimed. Henry, however, was too deep into his fury to pay any attention to her.
"If you hadn't given me a son, Madam, I'd wonder whether you deserved that crown of yours after all! If you can't even control your own younger sister, how in God's name do you expect to rule a country?!" he roared before thrusting his chair back with such force he gouged marks in the floor and striding to the door.
At the threshold, he turned. "Marry them if you must. But don't expect me to welcome them at Court."
Then he stalked out, leaving Marie stranded on the dais.
Henry reached his rooms and snarled, "Fetch me Lady Honour."
A page bowed and scuttled from the room. Minutes later, Honour stood before him.
"You wanted to see me, Sire," she breathed, sweeping to the floor in a deep, submissive curtsy.
Henry smiled at the sight of her. Here, at least, was one girl who knew how to please him.
"You'd never disobey me, would you, Honour? Never resist me? You'd do whatever I asked of you?" he asked urgently, punctuating his words with harsh, furious kisses.
"Of course not, Sire," she panted, "I'm a Fitzgerald, born of Thomas. Da knew that loyalty to the Tudors – the fairest blooming dynasty in all of Europe – had to be as integral a part of us as our own breathing. Were I to disobey Your Majesty, well, I would doubtless die of shame upon the instant that I realised what had happened."
"Good," Henry gasped, "Stay that way, my little emerald, stay that way."
Without warning, he snatched her up and flung her on the nearest couch, wrenching her dove-grey skirts up so hard that they tore.
"Majesty!" Honour gasped, realising with horror what was about to happen. She made to struggle, but Henry pinned her down with one arm, fumbling with his codpiece and britches with the other.
"You swore not two seconds ago that you'd never dare gainsay me," he warned, "Don't go back on that now."
He climbed up above her, ignoring the way her mouth was torn open in a silent scream, ignoring her shock, even her muffled yelp of pain as he plunged into her and drew her first, maiden blood. He was unaware of anything but his desires and his animal need to satisfy them.
Anne and Harry were married as quickly as possible in a small, inconspicuous ceremony that was far removed from the lavish one Marie had been hoping to give them. But to Anne, it didn't matter. She might have been wearing an old crimson satin gown cut down from her sister's wardrobe rather than shining new cloth of silver, there might only have been half a dozen guests rather than hundreds, but she was marrying the man she loved, the father of her child. That was what mattered.
As such, her eyes were shining as they met her older sister's during their last, hurried, embrace.
"Thank you so much. For being here, for letting me marry him, for..." Anne broke off as her emotions threatened to choke her. Marie hugged her hard, pressing a ruby and opal choker into her hand.
"It's all I could come up with on such short notice. I'm sorry it's not more, but go. Go, little sister. Take care of each other and go. I'll write when it's safe for you to come back to Court."
"When your fool of a husband has come to his senses, you mean," Anne retorted, drawing a stifled chuckle from Marie before Harry bent to kiss his new sister's hand.
"Madam, thank you for entrusting me with this precious jewel. I swear I will treasure her all the days of my life."
"See that you do, Lord Percy. See that you do. But for now, Godspeed. You have a destination in mind?"
"Yes, but we'll not burden you with that knowledge, in case the King decides to pursue us after all. God be with Your Majesty."
"And also with you, Lord and Lady Percy," Marie nodded, kissing them both one last time, for once grateful for the formality that made it so necessary, yet so much easier, for her to keep her emotions in check. She stood in the palace doorway, watching as Harry helped Anne on to her horse and mounted up himself. She feared for the life of Anne's unborn child at the thought of the hard ride they had ahead of them, but said nothing, unwilling to burden the young couple any further. And then it was too late. They trotted away, leaving her torn between relief that they, at least, were away from the poisonous snake-pit that the English Court had become and wishing she could keep her little sister with her, both to amuse her and be honest with her in a way that no one else save George would be, and also so that she could mollycoddle Anne through her first pregnancy the way she deserved. Marie just hoped that, wherever Anne and Harry ended up, someone would take pity on Anne, if she didn't lose the child before then.
Swiping her moistening eyes on the back of her hand, Marie turned back into the palace, determined not to give her ill-wishers any more reason to speak against her.
"So, Henry walks out on her at dinner, refuses to consult her about Lionel's betrothal, spends all his time with the Irish chit and banishes her sister from Court. Does this mean Marie Boleyn's hold on the King is slipping at last?" Mary Brandon mused, as she played with her husband's hair.
He shrugged, "Possibly. But you know what Henry's like. The slightest thing could still drive him back into her arms. And I must say, she's behaving well. Taking his philandering with dignity. Not letting him appear to get to her in public. In some ways, she reminds me of Katherine, and I never thought I'd say that."
"No. But then, I never thought I'd say the way my brother treated her was despicable, but it is. She deserves better than to be shunted aside at the first hurdle they come across."
"You've changed your tune," Charles remarked, raising an eyebrow, "Two and a half years ago, you were throwing everything you could lay your hands on at me for helping him marry the girl. You swore you'd never respect her as your Queen."
"Yes, well, she's done her duty, hasn't she? Twice over, in fact. It's not her fault little John died. Has Henry even been told that the boy was smothered by that old harlot of his? Besides, I respect her for having reunited little Maria with her father. Not every woman would love another woman's child as much as she clearly does Maria."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to support her. I'm not going to openly intercede unless she asks me, but I will show her we're still friends like we used to be. She'll take me up on it. She has to; she needs all the support she can get at the moment."
"You're not going to give your brother a piece of your mind just yet then?"
"With his unpredictability? I should think not! I'd find myself in the Tower next to Bessie Blount! No, Charles, this requires careful handling. Careful handling and Marie's full and knowing support."
Mary sighed, then gave a slight tug on her husband's hair as she rose, "Come to bed. I want to enjoy the fact that you at least know how to pretend fidelity whilst I'm here at Court."
She strode into their bedroom and Charles, smiling wryly at her perception, followed suit.
The doors of Francis's Presence Chamber at Amboise crashed open and a young couple, muffled to their ears against the cold, but nonetheless caked in mud, evaded the guards and flung themselves at the feet of the King and the Duchess of Alençon.
Francis started and started to sign to have them taken away, but the young girl began to speak before he could.
"Votre Majesté, I beg you, grant us sanctuary here in France. I married the young man Your Grace sees here behind me without royal permission and now we have been forced to flee the English tyrant for fear of our very lives. I came here to you because I remembered that, in the happy days of my youth at Your Grace's Court, as a favourite of our own dear Duchess, you were the only King strong enough to stand against the dangerous King Henry. I also know that a true gentleman such as yourself would never refuse aid to a young couple in such distress, especially if the woman is with child, as I am."
Here, the young woman flung wide the folds of her travelling cloak to prove her words with the broadness of her stomacher. Francis paused, raising an eyebrow in puzzlement.
"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I do not..."
"François!" Marguerite chided, leaping to her feet, "Can you not tell by her voice alone? It is our own Petite Boleynette, Anna!"
"Percy now, Madame," Anne corrected, rising and shaking out her trademark raven curls before taking Harry's hand and presenting him to her former mistress, "This is my husband, Sir Henry Percy."
Marguerite shook her head impatiently, "Percy, Boleyn, it matters not. You are still ma petite Anna, as you always were. You are still safe here. Is she not, brother?"
This last, she directed over her shoulder at Francis, who still sat on his throne as though stunned. Extricating herself from Marguerite, Anne made a deep curtsy to him, worry sparking for the first time in her dark Boleyn eyes.
Bonsoir, Votre Majesté."
As he still remained unmoving, she ventured, "Was I right to come here? I only thought..."
"Mais non!" Francis cut her off, "Of course you were right to come here. You are right. Unlike my brother the King of England, I was raised a gentleman. I would never turn away a woman in your condition if she asked for my assistance, least of all one I knew and loved so well. Marguerite is right, Cherie. You and your husband are safe here. Once you are fed and bathed and rested, I shall send some midwives to you. My wife's own midwives."
"Sire! You are too generous!" Anne gasped, but Francis waved her off.
"De rien. You deserve naught less, Anna. Be welcome back in France." Coming to embrace her, he whispered, so that only she might hear, "It is good to have you home, ma fille."