Over the course of the next few days, words of life were spoken into her spirit. Those words served to bring healing and health, better than any medicinal herb or ointment ever could. Naturally, Charles led the way.
It started with him telling her "She's a liar. You're not nothing, you're something. Something extraordinary. All your hardships are preparing you for a great future. I don't know what that is, but I know it's beautiful because you're beautiful in every way."
He raked his hand through his straggly hair, his anger simmering underneath. Then he commented "Also you are not ugly. The only thing ugly about you is the time you were left in Ludlow. That ugly period of your life is going to be the most powerful part of your life's story. Because you turn your pain into power."
And he's right. Once you're Ludlowed you can't fall any lower. There's only one way to go and that's up. What defines a person is how well they rise after a fall. So that's what she did, rose up.
It started with her rising up to pray and that, too, gave her strength. Then she got dressed to go on a walk because she hasn't left their chambers in days. Charles assured her he was taking the walk too. "Even if your father calls for me, he will have to drag me from your side himself."
As she dressed, Charles noticed the bruises forming from the fall. "Are you sure you're alright? You're bruised and I don't want you hurting."
She looked at the same bruises he did and explained "This is not a bruise. This is a lesson. It reminded me that I only have control over myself and how I choose to behave as a person. As for others, I cannot count on them to respect my feelings, or myself, even if I respect theirs. These attacks were sent to discourage me and make me feel inferior like I'm nothing— a nobody."
A few tears fell from her lashes. "But that's not true. Even if I'm not a Princess of England, I'm still an Infanta in Spain. That's only because of my mother. I don't care about being a princess anymore, because I'm also a Duchess. And I really don't care about being a Duchess because I'm a wife. And I don't care about being a wife because when you strip it all away I'm just yours. That's the best title of all, yours. I'm only me— a hard worker with a creative mind, compassion for others, rubbish poetry, ostentatious shears, a bunch of beautiful dresses, and an enormous craft stash."
Charles chimed in with "And an exquisite body that your husband adores." He heard her huff. So, he took her waist and held her to him. "Say it. Say you have a beautiful body." She murmured it low. "No. I want you to love your body. It's a work of art. One day you're going to love it like I do."
A snort left her mouth. "I will never love it like you do. But I will get better at being kinder to it with my speech. Is that agreeable husband?" She held his gaze.
"I suppose. It's better than nothing," he kissed her. They dressed and went out for their walk.
Mary recuperated and was ready to face the public again on the day of the tournaments. While she confined herself to their apartments, she had tea with Lady Hargrove, Lady Shively, and Lady Tipton. They were full of lively conversation. The four of them got on well. She also met two of her husband's friends— Anthony Knivert and William Compton. She vaguely remembers them from childhood but enjoyed seeing a different side of Charles.
The three of them laughed and shared stories of youth. She listened with eager ears, to learn more about Her Duke. At one point his arms pulled to make her perch on her favorite spot, his lap. A small gasp left her mouth. It's improper to sit a man's lap in polite company, even if it is her husband.
She wiggled to try to get up, but he didn't care. His fingers held on tighter and whispered in a naughty tone "If you keep on with that, you will have to live with the consequences and sit here until they leave."
Oh lord! If she thought sitting in his lap indecent around company, then the consequences he speaks of is worse. So she stopped wiggling immediately. Though there was a flush to her face not put there by cosmetics.
From her viewpoint, in his lap, she noticed Sir Anthony's eyes wandering to Dot. Every now and then he would search for her. Interesting. This calls for further investigation later.
For the tournaments, she wore her favorite gown. The fun one, made of grey with gold embellishments. As Joan helped dress her, Dot who had been sipping tea, entreated her to "Enter the archery competition."
With a deadpanned expression, Mary looked at her and asked "Do I look like I want to be a frolicker today?"
Joan snickered while Dot chose to look unamused. "No. Good lord, you're not a frolicker even on most days. That would just be unladylike for you to frolic, but you do you have fun. And I know for fact your archery skills could rival any man's."
Then Dot said something that made her keen to partake in the archery contest. "Your Lord Husband is known for his prowess at sports. Don't you want to show him you're good too?"
She could show him she's good at sports like he is. Perhaps he would find favor in that. But "I'm still banged up from my fall. I don't know."
Then Joan told her "Just think about it, My Lady. When you get to the tournament grounds, see if it's something you think you could manage. Don't count it out yet."
True. She nodded and Joan wove a braid as a crown in her hair. It's pretty and she feels pretty, despite the few bruises. Luckily the sleeves of the dress cover it.
Before she left the room, Dot pushed her blonde hair over her shoulder and questioned "Did you remember to get your favor?"
"I gave it to her already," Joan stated. She had given Her Grace a lovely blue silk ribbon.
But Mary, feeling a bit mischievous herself, had put the ribbon back in the ribbon box. Instead, she selected something that made her laugh. Dot saw it. "Are you serious? You're giving him that as your favor?" She nodded. "Oh my lord. That is just sad." Dot gave her a face that spoke of the ridiculousness of it.
Having secured the favor, the Duchess of Suffolk and Lady Dot were escorted to the tournament grounds by her husband's guards. At the tourney grounds, all sorts of merrymaking could be found. Everything from a maypole to "Turkey legs. I really want a turkey leg," she admitted to her companion.
They agreed to get one, after the tournaments. From afar, Mary noticed the archery sign-up. She contemplated it but wanted to see Charles more. The guards led her to his tent. Truthfully she has never paid attention to these tournaments before.
In her childhood, she found them boring. She would rather be off reading somewhere or making crowns out of flowers. Then when she was old enough to understand the significance, of the knight receiving the favor of his lady love, she was sent away.
Even now, married to the fittest man in the kingdom, her insecurities about her looks plague her. It's the same as it was with her father. She understands she's not ugly and is attractive, but moving it from her mind to her heart will take time. That's another thing being Ludlowed did to her, made her think it was her appearance that sent her away.
When she reached the Duke's tent, she entered. Seeing him shirtless has a way of sneaking up on her. It makes her pulse race with flutterings in her stomach.
He saw her enter and his breath caught. Every dress she's worn this week has been more attractive than the one before. Today she looks dazzling and not because of those sparkly things on her gown. In a daze, he went to greet her. A series of kisses were placed on her hands, and his arms went around her slender waist. "Hi," he said shyly.
She greeted him in the same shy way. They rested their foreheads together in a moment of peace and tenderness. He broke the moment by leading her to a sit on the cot, while he finished dressing in his chain mail and armor. He forgoed the squire dressing him. Why have his squire do so, when he's dressed himself on the battlefield many times?
Once everything was in place, he caught her eyes. Going to her, he knelt on bended knee. "May I have the honor of your favor My Darling?" It's weird because he's received many favors over the years, but none as meaningful as this one. This one is from his lady love.
Her fingers reached up to her sleeve and pulled out a piece of cloth. She handed it to him and waited.
He knew something was afoot when he saw the bemused expression on her face. It reminds him of her father when he's being full of shenanigans and up to no good. Taking the cloth in hand he turned it where he can see it. The minute he recognized it, a smirk appeared on his face.
Meeting her eyes, he wondered "Surely you jest?"
"No. I do not. I made it special for you," she explained. Her face, in contrast to his, looks completely serious.
His smirk grew larger. "You did not. You made this thing before you married me. Only you, Mary Brandon, would give me the embroidered cloth of the grotesque grouse as a favor." She made to take it back, but he kept it away from her with hands high above her head. "No. You cannot have it back. It's horrible and preposterous, but I love it. And I will wear it with pride underneath my armor, which I'm thankful for. Because at least no one can see the shame I bear of my wife's embroidery skills."
She gave him a dirty look. However, he put the look to rest with a kiss. A soft, sweet, much too short one. With a gentle smile, she declared "If you win one of the tournaments, give the flower crown to The Whore. It will keep the peace. Besides I'm not in need of flower crowns. I have you and that's all I need. Plus if I really want a crown of flowers you can make me one at the crown-making table."
A laugh left his mouth. "Wife, you do not want me to make you a flower crown. My flower crown-making skills are of the same caliber as your embroidery ones," he proclaimed.
Turning his words back on him, she asked "Oh so you're saying I have to suffer my husband's floral skills?" He didn't say anything, just sent her a playful expression. "In that case, you can buy me one."
He kissed her again, in the same manner as before, then led them both outside. Where they walked around taking in the sights. When they neared the archery sign-up booth, they both noticed a lot of women had signed their names to compete.
Remembering something, Charles wondered "My Lady, why don't you sign up? I saw you practicing some at home. You're quite satisfactory."
Still not convinced she should enter the contest, she had a wondering too. "You think I should? You don't think it's too improper for a Duchess?" She played with a ring on her finger, twisting it around. She does this when she's nervous.
Continuing to encourage her, he stated "Yes, I think you should. You have a great chance of winning." So with his encouragement, as well as that of her two ladies, Mary penned her name to the competition parchment.
Holding his hand, as they walked, she wants to know "What parts of the tournament are you entering?"
He shared with her his plans for the tournament. "The melee and the joust. I'm not really interested in the popularity contest. I've grown out of that. Besides the only woman, I care to be popular with is you."
Just as a lady selling flowers walked by, his hand raised and slid over her hair. The flower lady stopped and held her basket out to the devoted duke. "A flower for your sweetheart," she specified. Charles told her he doesn't have any money on him at the moment. But the lady didn't mind, nor did she care to accept any money from him. He thanked her and chose one.
In her basket are many romantic flowers: roses, peonies, lilies, carnations, and daisies. He knows his wife likes roses, but she loves "A peony. I'll take one of those dark pink ones." The lady gave him one of the best ones and he presented it to Mary. With a sweet smile, only for her, he said "For you My Darling."
Bringing it up to her nose, she inhaled its sweet scent. Peonies are her favorite flower, especially pink ones. He has obviously paid attention and knows her well. Plus they both know the language of flowers. The peony means a happy relationship and good fortune. It's their wish for their marriage, and so far it's come true.
The content couple continued wandering the grounds, laughing and talking and just being together. There's a beauty in that, being together. Just being with the one you love is truly one of life's blessings. It doesn't matter what you do together, as long it's done together it brings happiness and delight. That is a great gain indeed.
Before time to start the melee, Charles walked his wife over to the viewing box. She had decided to sit with the lower ladies of the court. Having to sit with The Evil One, would be too much on her already frail nerves.
Pushing her hair behind her ear, he pointed out "I have to go, but when I'm finished come to find me in the tent." With a kiss to the cheek, he strode off.
Dot, Lady Hargrove, and Lady Shively sat by her. Looking around she did not see her other new companion. "Where's Lady Tipton today?"
Lady Hargrove, who wore a dress of green and her brown hair in a low bun, explained "She was feeling ill, so she stayed back in her rooms."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. I hope she gets better soon," Mary declared. She needs to remember to send her some sachets of echinacea tea. It's one of the best things when feeling sick.
The ladies talked and talked until the bugle sounded. Then the pageantry of the tournament began. Each knight or lord participating showed off their colors by displaying their sigil, coat of arms, and flags. It's truly eye-catching to behold, especially as some of the more puffed-up egos were extravagant and showy in their displays.
As the lower gentry showed first, Ladies Hargrove and Shively cheered for their husbands. Mary and Dot clapped for them too. Then a fascinating thing happened. Sir Knivert took the field with his flags and sigils. Dot cheered and clapped loudly.
She never does that, ever. Something is definitely brewing with those two. Mary smiled at Dot, who smiled back giving nothing away. Her friend is as locked as a vault when she wants to be. It superbly frustrates her so.
As for her own husband, Mary had to wait a long time more. Since Charles is one of the top sportsmen in the tourney and one of the top lords, he will be introduced in the last set. She rolled her eyes at Lord Rochford, The Evil One's brother. She coughed at the heir of Somerset, Edward Seymour. She laughed at the Duke of Devonshire, Lance Cavendish.
"He's such an idiot," Dot whispered. Mary had to agree. The fool of a duke's cape blew over his head during the trot. He spent many minutes trying to get it fixed.
Then finally, the Duke of Suffolk had his turn. His display was more subdued, although still grand with the flags and sigils. Mary cheered with great enthusiasm. When Charles trotted his horse to her section, he caught her eyes and raised his eyebrows. She bowed to him in showy affection.
The melee started and the Duchess of Suffolk hated it, every minute of it. It's too violent and vulgar for her sensibilities. Why grown men would want to beat the other senseless is beyond her. Now she remembers why she liked reading during these things. But she stayed put and clapped for Charles's sake until she had to use the privy.
On her way back from it, she heard whimpering coming from a tent. It was loud enough to distract her. Thinking someone was in pain or hurt, she edged her way to the noise. Not wanting to think her rude, her hand only gave her enough room to peek in. What she saw left her furious and disgusted. For there is her father, the King of England having relations with some... some... ill-bred hussy.
She could not believe her eyes. The desire to wash them out is heavy inside her. It's disturbing but not surprising. He did this behind her mother's back and now he's doing the same thing to his new queen. Which really makes her laugh. The Whore is being one-upped by a whore. It's an act of just revenge.
Returning to the stands, she took her spot by her companions and awaited the joust. Dot eyed her with curiosity. "Why do you look as though you've been frolicking?"
Frolicking, please. "Because I know things and that's all I'm going to say. Now I need to pay attention. Charles will want to tell me everything and I need to know his positions." She turned her eyes from Dot to the field.
A snort of laughter came from her friend. "I think you already know all of his positions."
The only thing she could do was shake her head and try not to blush. Sometimes Dot is so unladylike. She tried to pay attention, she really did. The brutality makes her cringe. Plus any wrong move and Charles could be injured. When the event was over, the squire sent for her. She knows he has time between events to rest up.
Entering the tent, her husband was in the process of removing his armor. Once it was fully off he doused himself with a bucket of water, as he is "As sweaty as pig My Love." She laughed at his words. Although come to think of it, she knows a true swine who was getting sweaty too. A shudder ran through her and she wants to vomit her breakfast up.
While they waited for the joust, they talked about the weaponry demonstration at the craft fair. Charles told her "I think I'll ask William and Anthony to come to demonstrate. The children will enjoy that."
She thought that's fine, "But what about you? I think the children would rather see their Duke demonstrate." So he explained that all three of them plus other well-trained men of the Duchy will all be a part of it. They stayed there, in the tent, laughing and talking until the joust.
When it was time, tension rose in the air. Nervous excitement filled the Duchess's body. Both her husband and father were competing. While she's disgusted and done with her father, she doesn't want him to get hurt. That would be terrible.
Man after man became eliminated until it was down to the final five. Sir Robert Magdon (the green knight), Sir William Compton, the Duke of Suffolk, and His Majesty. Sir Robert and William fought it out first. It was hard-fought, but William ended up beating The Green Knight.
That meant Charles and his friend would have to joust. Both are more evenly matched in their skill set. She watched her husband, and William, rush forward with the lance. It's harrowing to see and she had to turn her head several times.
William got a horrible jab on Charles, which almost knocked him off the horse. However, her husband stayed put and returned with an even harder thrust to William. That one did knock him off and Charles won. Even though he won, she clapped loudly for William too. He jousted bravely.
The final match was between her husband and her father. And of course, her father announces, "I fight for the Queen of England, my bride." Now she really wants to barf up the breakfast.
The funny thing about Charles is he is so fit and so skilled and so good a sportsman that he could easily best The King. She knows this full well. However, he "allowed" her father to compete. This meant the match itself went long. And when it was finally over her father had won. Unsurprising and yet disappointing all at the same time.
So much so, that Mary asked "Why did you let him win?"
Charles, who was changing into normal clothes and catching his breath, responded "Because if I didn't then I would have to put up with his pouting and temper. And I care for neither." When he was completely changed, she made him sit down. Then put cold rags on his neck, shoulders, and head.
He loves her care of him. For someone who's never really had this, it's refreshing. It's good to be loved and even better to be loved by the one you love. Once he felt cool enough, he stood and reminded her "You have your own competition to win."
Truthfully, she's not looking forward to it. She hates needless perspiration and in her pretty gown too. But she took his extended hand and followed him to the archery match.
"Your Grace! Your Grace! You must get in position. The contest will be starting soon," a heavyset lady in blue directed.
Raising an eyebrow, Charles led her to the bow and arrows, and the target she is to use. Except peering down at the bow, she realized it's her own yew bow. Rounding to him, she questioned, "Why is it here?"
With a twinkle in his eye, he smiled a huge grin. "I had it brought with us. I was going to do everything in my power to encourage your entry." Then he picked up the quiver. "I will be assisting you, My Lady. I will be your squire." He bowed to kiss her hand.
"Charles, really?" she asked. Although it sounded half questioning, half are you serious. When he raised his eyebrow she became amused. Giving him a stern look and pointing an arrow at him, she warned "Do not distract me with your silliness, Sir."
He let her know really quickly, "I'm never silly. A little wicked and naughty, but never silly." Giving her a bracer to protect her lovely hand, he helped put it on and then put contest-approved stabilizers on her bow. Now she's ready.
Once the competition began, the ladies took their marks. Each one fired at the same time. Mary's fluid release landed her nine points, super close to the bullseye. On her twentieth arrow release, it began a string of bullseyes in a row. One after the other hit the middle and it was spectacular. Uproarious applause and cheer sounded.
But she didn't care about that, she wants to win. The final arrow hit a nine bringing her score to a total of two hundred eighty-two. Unbelievable! With that score, she did indeed win.
Little did she know, "I challenge you to a shoot-off." Her husband said that loud and clear in front of everyone. Then he teased. "If you're game, that is."
If she's game? And he had the nerve to wink at her. "It depends My Lord. What are we playing for and don't say for fun," she replied. By that time everyone gathered to take part in The Duke and Duchess's frivolity. And by everyone, this included The King and Queen.
The same mischievous twinkle alighted on his face. "If you win, I will write you a rubbish poem every week for the rest of the year." His face looked smug, too smug.
"Fine. And you have to read one as well," she told him. He agreed. But she just has to know "What if you win?"
His grin grew three times the size of his ego. "That's the best part. If I win—" He leaned to ear and whispered something so scandalous and naughty it doesn't bear repeating.
Suddenly it became so hot, her face felt burnt. Again turning his words on him, she declared "Surely you jest!"
Boring his eyes into her own, he admitted "Dearest Wife, would I joke about that?"
No. He would not, that's what makes it all the more heated. With a dry mouth and a gulp, she readied her quiver. Although a different kind of quiver ran through her at the thought of him.
Once the targets were set, their personal game began. All the men cheered for The Duke, while the ladies did the same for her. She has to admit, she really wants to beat him.
To be honest, Charles didn't think this would be easy, but he also didn't think it would be difficult either. His little wife is a better marksman than some of his own men. Which makes him breathe a little easier knowing she isn't totally defenseless.
However, by set number two, he began to get annoyed. He wants to prove his manliness to her. It's like a rite of passage dating back to the cavemen. The man shows off for the woman he loves. It's a delicate dance, so when the woman is beating the man well... Perhaps he has some Tudor in him? His temper is rising and he wants to throw the stupid bow on the ground.
From her point of view, The Duke is losing. Although not by much. When the final set was readied, she had a choice to make. Either continue on and win their contest, thereby making him look bad. Or she could throw it and lose, thereby making him the winner. As Lady Flora says she is not in a bad position.
Arrow after arrow flew in the air. Some were bullseye, some were nines, but all were good for both of them. When it was over the winner "Is His Grace, The Duke of Suffolk." The crowd went wild. The King cheered right along with them and clapped his friend on the back.
Charles's hands found their home on his wife's shoulders. As he massaged them he spoke in an excited voice, "I won."
"You did, but you don't have to look so puffed up about it," she stated. A small moan may have left her mouth. Her neck and shoulders ache.
Continuing to massage, he pointed out "Why do I feel like you let me win? I challenge you to a rematch at home."
Now she groaned. "Oh Charles, you won. That's it. Although if you want to play for fun sometime I won't disapprove."
Then he turned her around, looked straight in her eyes, and kissed her. In front of God, the nobility, half the kingdom, and her father— the king. Not caring one bit, he even bent her back in a show of affection and love. He wants everyone to know he loves his wife.
She was overcome with emotion herself. Yes, she may have purposely overshot a few arrows. Yes, she may have purposely lost the competition. But at the end of the day, she did the one thing she came to this sham coronation to do. And that is to protect her king and make him look good, even if it means losing at archery and having to wear very naughty, indecent nightgowns for a whole year (among other things).