The days following the death of the Queen and the future heir of England were tough. It was the hardest on the King and those closest to the Her Majesty. London mourned the loss, but the two losses had not been felt in the kingdom as a whole. For most people, the loss was not that significant. Work still had to be done in the fields with harvest time here. There are taxes to be paid and wages that must be earned. The King turns over wives like most men turn over cups of strong drink.
Everyone knows that Lady Jane Seymour was Queen for one purpose only. Her single goal was to produce an heir. She did her duty, and she died bringing it to pass. That was her burden to bear. Then the heir was born and died. Everything is different and yet the same. Life goes on.
In an odd occurrence, Mary was chosen to be the chief mourner at the funeral. She had no idea why, as she and the Queen weren't particularly close— friendly but not one to whom she'd tell her deepest secrets. On the other hand, Charles could be found in the King's rooms trying to get His Majesty out of the pit of despair. Then Mary's other duty kicked in, that of a wife. When her husband made his return from a long day of comforting the King, she reassured him.
Unlike her beloved mother's, the funeral was an actual Queen's funeral. The King had this woman buried in St. George's Chapel at Windsor Castle. Along with Mary, a procession of twenty-nine mourners followed behind her. One for every year of Jane's life. She thought it a bit much and a little too over the top. But she knew enough to keep these thoughts to herself.
It stung a bit to know this woman had the honor of being buried as a Queen when her mother had been a true Queen and a Royal of Spain. One would think that would demand the same dignity and respect, but no. Instead, she was buried at Peterborough Cathedral with the King not even in attendance. Pure vulgar disrespect, that's what that is. A glare at the King may have escaped her eyes.
After the funeral, the Prince and Princess were resting in their rooms. Something the great Italian artisan Leonardo DaVinci once said took root in her mind. She shared it with Charles. "As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so does a life well used bring happy death. He said that, and I think I agree in this case. Hers is not a happy death because my father does not have a happy life."
Then she thought out loud. "I wonder, does His Majesty mourn the loss of the Queen, or does he mourn the fact he's in the same sorry state he's been in all along? The babe died, and his wife died. It is no different than all the losses my mother carried. He put her aside in favor of The Whore. Then he killed The Whore in favor of The Meek One. Now, this wife died birthing his heir, who also passed away. One would think he would learn from past behaviors." Her fingers carded through her husband's hair as his head was in her lap.
Taking his wife's hand, he cautioned her. "Careful, My Love, that has a bite of bitterness to it. But I understand what you mean. However, he's in a horrible place. His head is not in the right frame of mind. It's truly a mess. Although I think he oddly loved Jane Seymour. And, of course, he's grieving over the loss of the heir. He was dealt a double blow. I haven't said much to him besides mainly sitting vigil and listening to him talk and mourn."
She then asked, "I wonder how long he'll grieve before taking another wife? He has to have that magical heir, you know. I'm not good enough, but maybe my sister is. Especially since now, he's taken a shine to Elizabeth these past few days. And all because Dear Wonderful Jane doted on her. It's the least he can do, or so says Lady Rutland." Her eyes gazed into the fireplace, deep into her moods.
Bolting upright, Charles turned his head to look at her. He carefully took in the sight of her. She's hiding her feelings, and he knows there's anger there. A whole lot of anger that's gone sour. "I know you've grown into yourself these past three years, but you're still holding on to discontent with your father. It manifests at different times. Darling, don't let it poison you. Today you've chosen to let bitterness live. You need to get it all out in the open. Put all your cards on the table."
Shaking her head, Mary's mouth also formed a scowl. "No. I don't want to talk about it." She continued to stare off into the fireplace.
Running his hand over his face, he fast became disappointed in her. "Sometimes, you act just like him. So damn stubborn and petulant."
Her hands picked at the sparkles on the black dress. If he wants petulant, she'll give him petulant. The mood about her became as black as the mourning clothes she wore. Upon standing, her eyes welled up with unshed tears. In a fit of frustration, Her Highness barreled out of the room. Tearing off through the stupid palace, she ran and ran and ran outdoors.
It was a cold run through the gardens and down the long grassy knoll. She just kept on running and didn't stop until reaching the architectural Temple of Flora, built in a similar style to Rome's. She sat down unladylike there with her back to one of the white columns. Her knees drew up to her chest, and then she cried.
Dazed for a moment as to what just happened, the Prince got up and traced his wife's steps. Just as he advanced on the doors to the garden, Cromwell caught him. Apparently, he is needed with the King again. So this time, he comes armed with some things that need to be said to his friend. He damn well hopes his friend will listen.
When he reached Henry's room, it appeared dark and gloomy as usual these days. The King is seated in a chair at the table with his nightclothes and robe still on. His hair is mussed up and on his face is an unkingly five o'clock shadow. A goblet of wine was placed in front of him. "Charles, come have a seat." He beckoned him near.
Sitting in a chair beside His Majesty, he let the King speak. "Why, Charles? Why can I not have a real son? Why is my wife dead? Am I cursed? Is the Lord cursing me? Tell me the truth. You're the only one who will do so. Don't hold anything back."
Oh, God! Of all the questions Henry could have asked, he chose to ask those of him. So the Prince countered with a question of his own. "Do you want me to tell the truth, or are you just asking it to be polite?"
Pointing his finger, Henry declared, "I want the truth. That's why I asked you, not Cromwell, not Edward Seymour, not someone else. I asked you, my best friend, brother, and son-in-law."
With his arms crossed, reclining in the chair, His Highness questioned this. "And who do I address the truth to? The King, my father-in-law, or my friend?" Once His Majesty said his friend and father-in-law, Charles was ready. "Well, let's start with the obvious. You've suffered a great loss. You never think that the last time is truly the last time you see someone. You think there will be more time. You think you have forever, but you really don't. So don't spend all your time in this room wondering what might have been or what you could have done differently. Nothing will ever change what happened or bring back the dead. So just let it be, breathe, release it, and allow yourself to be happy again. It's all you can do unless you choose to do the opposite."
He saw his friend tear up at those words. The King pulled out a handkerchief and told him to continue. "No one is given unlimited chances to have the things we want, not even a king. Nothing is worse than not appreciating what you already have. Now you asked for the truth, so here it is."
Leaning forward, he locked eyes with his friend. The same eyes that hold the King's daughter captive. "You have two heirs already. You have a young daughter and an older one, my wife. Please take me out of the picture for right now. This is about you and them, not me. I realize you want a boy so he can carry on your last name. Every man wants that, and it's a normal instinctual reaction. But you haven't been given that. Instead, you've been given two girls, two girls who are alive and well. One of whom had two sons, your grandsons. That's your legacy."
He stood up and put his hands on the back of his chair. "We all die, Henry. The goal isn't to live forever. No. The goal is to create something that will. Mary, Elizabeth, and their children will live on because of you. It's not always about a name, but that's what you want—the Tudor name. Your name and memory will always live on through your girls. How is Mary addressed when she enters a room? Tell me."
Henry blew his nose and responded as if it were a ridiculous question. "Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales and Suffolk, Mary Brandon née Tudor."
Pointing his finger at his friend, Charles blurted out, "Exactly! Née Tudor, because who am I? What good is the Brandon name? But née Tudor lives on, and that's because of you. Can I be blunt with you, my friend?"
Raising his royal head and looking at his friend, Henry motioned with his hand. "Do go on. Don't stop now just because I lost my wife and son. You're telling me the truth and giving me lots to think about."
Sitting back down, he prepared himself for the Tudor temper that might appear. "Do you not care about Mary? Does she mean nothing to you? Because if you love her at all, you need to let her know. You're in danger of losing her affection forever." He saw his father-in-law's eyes narrow at him in the same manner, his daughter's do.
Even so, he trudged ahead. "I need you to understand her perspective. If you love her, then please listen. You put aside her mother, a mother she loved very much. In the process, you banished her to Ludlow. She couldn't see you or her mother, parents whom she loved. You left her there during her very formative years. Her funds were also cut. She had to resew hems on dresses because her income was so basic. What there was of it was needed for food. Did you know she had to sell some treasured jewelry to pay her ladies? Well, she did. On top of that, she humbled herself and wrote to her cousin the Emperor for money."
This time when he looked, his friend's face had softened. "When I married Mary, she didn't trust me, and she for sure did not trust your intentions. After all of those things I mentioned, you declared her a bastard. How do you think she felt about herself? I'll tell you, like horse shit. I spent the first year of our marriage gaining her trust and love. It wasn't easy, but it was worth it. And I'd do it all over again. You only get one chance in life to love someone incredible, and she's it for me."
Shaking his head, Charles wound his words down. "You've spent half of Mary's life letting her know she's not worthy of anything. Her two sons are worthy. Now her baby sister is worthy, but not her. Still, she waits and hopes for just an ounce of affection from you. That's all she wants. But you're in danger of losing that entirely. Just today, before I came to visit, she said that very thing. She said I'm not good enough for him."
Wiping his eyes with the handkerchief, Henry told him, "Must you tell me the truth? Can't you let the blow fall by degrees, Man? Please rip the rest of my heart out." He blew his nose again. "Well, it's clear I'm not the father of the year. Clearly, I've made a lot of mistakes. I can admit it. But no one understands what it's like to be King. No one knows the pressure to have a son. There has never been a Queen to rule in a country like ours. However, I concede it happens in other nations. And I'm not stupid. There's a reason I have Mary back in the line of succession."
He stood up and went to retrieve a leather folder. Bringing it back to the table, he laid it out and open. "These are the succession documents. I name Mary as my heir if I fail to produce a son, which I have so far. I'm not unfeeling towards my daughter, either of them, including Henry Fitzroy. I love my children. I do. I just don't know how to be a father. I'm not like you. I don't have kids bowing at my feet. I know that that is an understatement, but you understand what I mean. I want the best for them, and I never knew how badly my choices hurt my child."
After pushing the folder to his friend, he took a sip of the wine. "I need to speak with Mary. I need to make this right. But I'm just so damn tired right now." He rubbed his temples. "Have her come visit me tomorrow. We'll even dine together as a family tomorrow night. Right now, I require a rest." He eyed the wine but instead turned and hugged his friend. They clapped each other on the back. "This is why I asked you to tell me the truth. Often I hate when you do so, but you tell me nonetheless. Thank you." He then turned to enter his bed-chamber.
Once the door closed, Charles breathed out relief. Now he just has to find his wife. Leaving the King's rooms, he went back to his own. Mary isn't back yet. Returning to retracing her steps, he went out the way he intended the first time, to the gardens. He asked one of the guards if there had been any sight of her. "No, Your Highness. The Princess hasn't returned to the palace. She tore off through the gardens. That way yonder." He pointed.
That was the direction the Prince took. He, too, wandered fast through the gardens. Upon reaching the grassy knoll, he thought about which direction to go. So he tried to guess. If he wanted to be alone, really alone, where would he go? Thinking it through to the entire conclusion, he stalked to where he thought she might be. The whole way, he prayed she was there.
Having grown tired of leaning against the stone column, Mary had moved to sit against the temple's stone walls. She's been resting here for hours, perhaps? It doesn't matter. The whole time she's been here has been full of tears. Every time she thinks she's got her emotions under control, something comes to her mind and sets them off again. Currently, she's taking deep breaths and letting it go. Except it's hard to let things go that don't want to be gone.
Her head fell to her knees again as a few more tears dropped. At that moment, a handkerchief was passed to her. Without thinking, she took it and wiped her eyes. Wait! Holding her head up, she turned and saw familiar blue ones looking back at her. This made her cry a bit harder.
Not even waiting, she was pulled into his lap, where strong arms wrapped around her tiny frame. His presence, love, care, and words soothed her wounded spirit. Then he invited her, once more, to open and unpack the damaged suitcase of her soul. Except for this time, he told her where to go to put the contents back to the right. Hopefully, it can be patched up more robust than before.
In one breath, she demanded to know, "You told my father about how he's hurt me? Why?" Why would he do such a thing? She can't believe her husband told him that, especially during his grief. But she has to admit, "You are so strong and brave. I'm grateful you're in my life. I'm sorry I acted petulantly and ran out on our conversation. Please forgive me." A few tears caught in her lashes, refusing to fall.
His thumbs wiped under her red, weary eyes and stroked her jaw. "I forgive you, but next time don't hide away your feelings for others' comfort. No matter how much you push it down, it will always come back up, sometimes more forcefully. The harm done to you by your father is a troubling hardship to get over. It doesn't take a day or a month to recover from those kinds of lacerations that you endured. It takes years, and yes, I'm speaking to myself as well because of my wounds from the rebellion."
She stated, "But we have each other."
With a nod, he agreed. "We do. The two of us have to rely on and trust each other with the dark wounds of the heart. Can you do that for me, Mary? Because I need you to, even when it's inconvenient." His eyes all but begged her.
Laying her face into his neck, she said, "Yes." For him, she'll try anything, even eating mutton which she loathes as much as he hates dancing.
He then let her know that her father wished to speak with her the next day. "Why," she breathed out. Why does the grieving widow want to talk with her? What could he possibly have to say that he hasn't already let her know by his actions? For she knows actions speak louder than words.
Charles stated, playing with her fingers, "I honestly don't know. But I do believe he wants to make things right with you. So at least hear him out and then cry, scream, wail to me." He kissed her fingers as she promised she would do so.
Although all during dinner, after dinner, through the card game, and the night, her stomach turned into a giant knot. Her mind worried over the upcoming conversation. And so the following day, she wore another black silk dress with a sheer lace overlay. A diamond-embellished belt went around her waist. Another pearl headpiece was placed in her hair, piled up on the top of her head. After breakfast, a page boy came to fetch her for her father.
Charles walked with her to the King's chambers in a show of support. When they got there, he took her trembling hands in his. "Be strong and speak from your heart. You're braver than you think. I love you, and I'll be waiting out here for you." He kissed her before sending her off into the lion's den.
She nodded, and the guards let her enter. She found the grieving man sitting in a chair at a side table by the window in the room. He motioned for her to come over, and she dipped into a curtsy. His hand held up. "Stop. Don't curtsy to me. Right now, I'm nothing but your father. The King is not here. I've asked you to speak with me today. There are many things the two of us need to say to each other. But first, how are you, truly?"
Her eyes beheld him, her father, the King of England. And since it's just her father present, she confessed, "Well, as you can see, I have survived all these years without you." Those are the words that led to a compelling conversation. One that has been long overdue.