The King had the family remain at court for an extra thirteen days. It was during that time he married Jane Seymour. The woman took her place as his third wife and Queen. Everyone wished the couple well and the court put up a strong show of support. They all hope she will make His Majesty happy and give him the son he has always wanted.
All this did was make Mary ill at ease. Like her father will ever be truly happy because he isn't a happy person. He has poor moral character and is so unlike her Duke in every way that counts. He's a cheater. The mark of a cheater always demands the loyalty of others, all the while they're the ones being unfaithful. And that is who her father is. He demands his court, his subjects, and his family be loyal to him, while he strips away titles and does whatever he wants on a whim.
So no. If these people were to ask her opinion, which they never would, she'd tell them the woman will never truly make him happy. Only if she bears him a son will that appease him and make her worthy in his eyes. Theirs is not a true love match. It's not even a love match. It's an "I need a son" match. True love is not based on what your spouse can do for you, can give you, but rather it's the relationship itself— the give and take, the friendship, and the passion you share together. It's the knowledge that you'll never find another love, another person, like this ever again. It's once in a lifetime.
This ostentatious show of affection aggrieves her spirit. But she put on a happy face regardless and tried to stay calm. The babe she's carrying is worth more than all of this farcical revelry combined. It was during the ridiculous wedding feast that her husband asked her to dance. He hates dancing so this was a pleasant surprise.
Her plum-colored dress was making a statement all on its own. From the beading to the silk fabric, to the mesh overlay with the embroidered vines, flowers, and thorns. It's a masterpiece that she needs to remember to send her dressmaker a handsome thank you for. In fact, Charles commented "The thorny vines wrapping your arms are quite something to behold. I like it. Are you trying to tell me something?"
She laughed. "No, not you. It fits my mood, prickly. This whole thing makes me feel bristly and tense. It's one of the reasons I chose to wear it. This feast tonight sets my teeth on edge."
He knows this, as the whole thing makes him feel the same as well. "Sweetheart let's just hope he's finally happy." Then he murmured with a low voice, "Even though we know he won't be." It was then his rival decided to cut in. It made his jaw clench, along with his neck muscles. That damned Edward Seymour. All he can do is stand and watch, while he tried to make conversation with Tony.
As she danced, the Duke of Somerset stated "Isn't this a wonderful feast? It's truly one of the finest I've been to in a long time. I think we're in for a happier kingdom."
There's that word again— happy, happiness, and all its derivatives. It grates her nerves and stirs up her baby hormones. Why does everyone think her father will now be happy when his first two wives didn't make him so? Why this particular woman, who is entirely opposite of him in every way? If she looks hard enough, then she can see shades of her mother's personality. But unlike her mother, the first and true Queen, Jane Seymour is sickeningly sweet. And anyone knows too much sugar makes one ill and unwell.
By way of response, Mary smiled. Then she told him, "The only thing that will make a person truly happy is being content with who you are and what you have. Happiness is an inside job." That shut the man up for the remainder of the dance, for he knows the King is never content.
Once he handed her back to Charles, she stuck to her husband's side. As she took a goblet of purified water, she muttered to him "If I hear about my father's happiness anymore, I will scream."
Her dear friend Dot decided to stir the pot. "I hope your father will be well and truly happy." She raised her glass in a salute and noticed her friend's face.
Turning to Dot, Mary motioned to her eyes and mouth. "I'm wearing my unhappy face right now, just so you know." This made her friends chuckle.
The rest of the evening was spent talking with her companions and husband. When the King, and his new wife, decided to retire the Duchess's stomach turned sour. "I cannot think about what is happening behind closed doors. It will make me violently ill."
The Duke turned to her, "Sweetheart we can go to our rooms and get up to what your father is getting up to right now." His wink accentuated his statement.
Ready to leave this sham celebration, Mary grabbed his hand and pulled him to the door. "Alright. Let's go," she proclaimed. The two of them rushed out of the ballroom. The closer they got to their apartments, he stopped them and pulled her in for a kiss.
His kisses are like precious presents. It's full of all the things she loves from his affections: power, passion, hunger, gentility, devotion, and love. He gives everything freely and holds nothing back. His kisses lay him bare and tell her things otherwise left unsaid.
In fact, by the time she fell asleep, any thoughts of her father's happiness had been replaced by her own. Charles mentioned "Happiness looks gorgeous on you My Love. In fact, it's hard to ignore." They slept snuggled close in each other's arms.
The next day the King had called for a joust to celebrate the new marriage and, according to him, a new era in the kingdom. So here she is, in her husband's tent watching him put on his armor. She must admit "You look handsome in your gear."
As he was strapping a leather belt on, a smug look flitted over his face. "Do I now? What about my favor, My Lady? Do I get a new favor from you or do I have to carry this old thing around again?" He pulled out the grotesque grouse from his sleeve.
Rolling her eyes, she did indeed have something new for him. It's a sheer blue piece of fabric. She too wore a smug grin as she placed it in the palm of his hand. His fingers ran over it. "You give me this as a new favor?" She nodded. "Wicked woman," he chuckled. For that is a piece of one of the short little night things that she wears, for his eyes only. He took the fabric and kissed it. "I will carry it close to my—"
Her hand covered his mouth just knowing he was going to say something crass. Her lips replaced her hand. If his kisses are like presents, then hers are like fire. Blazing heat dwells there and it melts every part of him into an incoherent puddle. When the horn sounded, they pecked each other goodbye and promised to meet up after the jousting event.
Mary exited the tent and found Dot. The two of them stopped to get a turkey leg and a few sweets. The Duchess claimed, "The baby is hungry" even though she had just eaten a hearty lunch before coming to the field. Together they walked, along with the turkey leg and fried cake, to the royal stands. They sat with the new Queen, the new stepmother. Hopefully, the woman won't upset the baby and make Her Ladyship's hormones act up.
The minute the Duchess and Lady Dot stepped foot inside the royal box, Jane was all sweetness. "Your Highness I was so hoping you would join me here. I really want us to be good friends and get to know each other as family does. I sincerely mean that." She even lowered her eyes in difference.
Does Mary dare to say "Stepmommy!" No, she doesn't. "Majesty it is so good to be here." Not true. She can think of a million other places she'd rather be than at this joust, celebrating more of her father's supposed new found happiness. Gag!
Her new stepmother looked put upon. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and softly spoke "Jane. Please call me Jane. And may I call you Mary?"
How could she say no to that? Mary allowed her to and then the melee began. It's too brutal for her to watch, so she didn't. Opting to focus on her turkey leg, she ate it all up. Edward Seymour, who was sitting behind his sister, watched her with disgust. It's true the baby makes her table manners forgotten because she licked her fingers- all of them.
Very unseemly for a Princess although she hates using that title, so she hasn't. As far as she's concerned she's still a Duchess and will remain so until her father personally tells her otherwise. It may be a very long time for that to happen. As she's sure it's the last thing on his mind.
Jane leaned over and asked, "How far along are you this time?" She also handed Mary a napkin, for which the latter is thankful.
"Almost four months now. I'm not showing much yet, unlike when I was pregnant with the twins and already out to here at this time," she explained. When she finished wiping her hands off, she placed her hands out to the front of her belly. She did this to show the Queen how heavily pregnant she was last time.
The coquettish woman, told the Duchess "I hope when my time comes I could speak with you about pregnancy. I hope to give the King children."
Mary really doesn't want to think about any more children for her father. He doesn't care for the two he already has, what will he do with more? Instead, she allowed a few unfiltered words to slide out. "For your sake, I hope so." She saw the Queen's eyes grow large. Even though she hadn't meant to say that, it's good to remind the woman of the truth. It's only what she can give His Majesty that makes her important and if she fails to do, then she'll be cast aside.
As the melee continued, Jane let Her Highness know "I would like to also know the King's younger daughter, Elizabeth, too. I've heard you and the Duke have taken her in as a ward. I hope in time she can come to live with us at court."
This is when Mary's hormones decided to flair up. No. Her baby sister does not belong in court. She belongs in the country with them, where she can rise above the shame of her mother and the shame of being declared illegitimate. But she cannot voice this. If the Queen wishes it, then who is she to stop it. The Duchess did not say anything but only nodded. Her attention turned to the field. She needs a sweet cake to push down the frustration rising inside her.
Once the melee ended, the joust began. During the latter part of the melee, the Duke of Somerset went to change for the joust. The crowd gave loud applause when he took to the field. His sister, the new Queen, applauded loudly too. It doesn't matter though, because every time the Grand Duke is trumpeted the shouts can be heard clear to France. Same for the King.
The joust took forever, in Mary's opinion. It always does. But in the end, it came down to Charles, Anthony, the Earl of Matlock, and The King. Charles was picked to face His Majesty first. He gave a good show but ultimately lost. The Duchess knew her husband could have won, but to do so today would have not been in his best interest. She exited the stands and went to meet him at the tent again.
It was there, she greeted him with a kiss. When his armor came off he cooled off with a jug of water poured over his head. Mary handed him a towel to dry with, after which she took it upon herself to hand him his clothes. He fully dressed in his breeches and tunic, opting to keep the doublet off for now. The two of them sat at a small table where the squire brought them freshly baked bread and a spread of finger foods.
Seeing how his wife kept eyeing the fruit and cheese, he passed her a plate of it. "Is the baby hungry?" They both laughed. Just as she began to eat a piece of pear a great commotion could be heard outside.
Charles jumped up and opened the tent flap. Almost immediately the King's guards came and surrounded his tent. "What's going on?" he questioned. The head guard began whispering to him and Mary saw her husband's shoulders grow tight. His hands clenched and unclenched and the only words she could make out are "the children".
When he returned to the table, he began to explain. "Your father was thrown from his horse. The horse being heavily armored, somehow fell on top of him. He is unconscious and everyone is unsure if he has fatal wounds or not. In the meantime, since you're the heir apparent, Cromwell sent guards to protect you and by virtue me. I had the men go guard the children as well. In a little bit, the two of us will make our way to the palace and wait in our quarters."
Her heart beat faster. Her father is unconscious and she's the heir apparent. If he doesn't recover she could be... "Where is my father now?"
"He's on a stretcher being taken to his palace chambers," he stated. His hand ran down his face. The head guardsmen came to escort them safely to their apartments. When they stepped out of the tent, the number of guards at their disposal was staggering. Their own plus the Royal ones. They kept them enclosed all the way to the Royal residence and to their rooms, where more guards had been put in place.
Once the children were found to be OK, the two of them sat and waited. Sir Thomas Cromwell came to visit them. He was let in and began talking about the situation. "The King is still unconscious and speechless. His leg needed to be cauterized because a varicose ulcer burst on the left leg. Another ulcer has appeared on the right leg as well. He will be in serious pain when he wakes up. It is the doctor's hope he wakes up soon. Until then, you, Princess are the ruler of England."
Those words left her stunned speechless, like her father. She, who was once his bastard, is now the ruler of England. Not believing this, she asked "Wait. So I'm truly a Princess according to my father?"
Cromwell looked at her like she was mental. "Yes, Your Highness. You are well and truly a Princess, as well as the reigning monarch of England— until your father wakes. You are to be sequestered here until further notice. The guards are at your disposal. I will be with the King and will continue to monitor this situation."
When the man left, she began to pace. Her hands shook and every muscle in her body seemed to tighten. Too overwhelmed to think about her father, she thought of the situation she finds herself in. "I cannot be the ruler of England. I do not want to be. I just want to live my life peacefully in Wales, mothering our children."
Coming to stand in front of his wife, Charles lifted her chin. "Keep your head up Princess. Don't let your invisible crown fall." He kissed her and then held her close. "Mary I know you don't want this, but right now it's at your feet. Ever since you were born you were being prepared for this. You only have to be brave enough to follow through. Plus I'll be here with you."
And so they waited in their rooms. Dot and Tony came to visit, while Charles went to see about the King. He also wanted to get a feel of sentiment around the palace. The guards followed his every step. The feel of the castle is heightened and worry is apparent. It's sunny out but gloomy in. A far cry from happy.
The Grand Duke sat vigil while the new Queen went to rest. Her mind and body are tired. It was during this period that he was prepped, by Cromwell, for the outcome if His Majesty passed away. He doesn't want to think about this. Why just this morning he and Mary were discussing baby names and the twin's birthday celebration.
With his head in his hand, on the arm of the chair, Charles continued to sit vigil. It wasn't until later that evening that the King started to stir. A moan escaped his lips and his eyes slowly opened. The Duke jumped up and called for the doctor. Cromwell came rushing in with the man, as did Edward Seymour.
Some time passed, during which Charles and Edward did not speak and moved to stand outside the room. They kept to themselves. Cromwell stepped into the hall and motioned for the Grand Duke to follow. As he came near to the bedside, the King held out his hand to his oldest friend. His other hand, in a languid motion, waved to the Secretary of State.
The man began to talk. "His Majesty King Henry VIII of England hereby bestows to you, Charles Brandon Grand Duke of Wales and Suffolk, the title of Prince. In the event, or likelihood of His Majesty's passing, you would be able to rule with his heir apparent, Princess Mary, as Prince Consort. This is covering all the bases you see."
Now it was Charles's turn to be stunned stupid. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, so he closed it. He felt the King give his hand a squeeze of approval. His mind is blank and his mouth is dry and his heart... Good Lord. It's heavy in his chest. Is this a heart attack? One of those things old obese men have? But he's not obese, nor is he old.
All he remembers is Cromwell saying he'd be by later to give him the official proclamation. Charles bowed and left the room. He's not a prince. He's barely even a Duke. He's not here to replace or compete with anyone. He's just Charles Brandon son of William Brandon, the standard-bearer of the King. He has to catch his breath.
Out to the stables, he went. After saddling a horse, he rode. No particular place in mind. He just rode— wild and free. Never giving any thought to time or his family.