I'm going away for the weekend, so have this to tide you over!
Windsor, April 1525
The annual mass, presentation and renewing of homage of the Knights of the Garter is always a grand pageant, the height of pomp and circumstance. This has particularly been the case in recent years, for England’s patron saint has always been among the King’s favourite religious figures.
Today ought to be no exception, particularly since the King’s Uncle, Arthur Plantagenet, who has only recently been created Earl of Southampton in recognition of his royal parentage, is being presented as one of the new Knights, replacing the late Lord Dacre. [1]
Unfortunately for Arthur, and his companion Lord De Ros, who is also taking his vows as a Knight this morning, the minds of the King and all others in the chapel are elsewhere.
The news that the Queen’s pains have begun left Her Grace’s rooms at dawn and spread through the castle like wildfire. As such, everyone in the chapel is praying, not for the health of those taking their places in the Garter stalls for the first time, but for the safe delivery of a Prince of Wales.
Suddenly, just as Lord de Ros rises from swearing fealty to the King, the chapel doors crash open.
A messenger in the Talbot livery stands beneath the lintel, dark as a crow against the bright April sunshine.
But where crows are thought to be evil omens, this messenger, already highly anticipated, soon proves to be bearing glad tidings.
Hurrying to the King, the page whispers softly in his ear. The colossal smile that breaks out on His Grace’s face tells the Knights of the Garter all they need to know.
England has her Prince.
The baby’s wails ring through Mary’s lying-in chambers, high, long and loud. Propped on her copious pillows, Mary beams at the sound. She’s done it! She’s done what she promised and given England a bonny, lusty Prince.
Her critics won’t dare sneer at her now. Not in a month of Sundays. Now she’s given Henry the Prince she’s always promised him, the Prince he’s craved since he was seventeen, no one can ever doubt her place at his side again.
“My son! Give me my son!” she orders, holding out her arms imperiously.
The baby is placed in her hold and her arms curve gently round him in a way they never did around his older sister. For his part, the little Prince, perhaps sensing he is in his mother’s arms, quietens immediately, ceasing his bawling and beginning to survey his surroundings with wide, curious eyes.
Mary chuckles lowly and kisses his forehead.
“Hello, darling,” she murmurs, enraptured by his clear blue gaze. His downy hair is dark, she notes with delight. He’s going to be a Talbot in looks, for all he’s a Tudor Prince.
“George,” she announces, startling the flock of ladies tidying away the last of the soiled linens and gathering armfuls of the crisp white napkins the Prince is soon bound to need, “His name shall be George, since he came into this world on St George’s Day.”
The ladies look at each other, astonished. Has the Queen really just named the Prince without consulting the King? Surely even she wouldn’t be so presumptuous, not when she knows His Grace has been waiting over a decade for an heir.
What truly astonishes them, however, is Mary’s tone. It rings with pure, unbridled joy, something none of them have ever heard from the peevish young Queen.
“Well, I never,” Lady Wingfield mutters to her friend Elizabeth Carew, as they slip from the room in search of more blankets, “Her Grace
can smile after all!”
William Carey expects Henry to be furious when he finds out that the Queen has named their son without asking him first, but, to his surprise, Henry only laughs.
“George, eh? Naming him for her father, the vixen, when she knows full well I intended to name him after my grandfather. Aye, well, why not? It’s a good, strong, English name, and she has the right of it. The lad
has been born on St George’s Day. Very well, George, Duke of Cornwall it is. Run back to the Queen, Will, and tell her I agree to the name, but I expect my uncle Arthur, my aunt Catherine and King Francis to stand as godparents. Oh, and tell her I’ll come and see the lad shortly, just as soon as I’ve spoken to Norfolk and set things in motion for his Christening.”
“Yes, Sire,” William bows and dashes off again, leaving his monarch bellowing joyfully behind him as he directs the rising wave of merriment in honour of his new-born son.
The golden cradle carved with roses stands proudly in the window embrasure. Lined with lambswool, it is ready to accept its new occupant the moment His Highness is released into the charge of the nursery. Lady Bryan and Lady Salisbury are puffed with pride at being allowed to care for the Prince of Wales. Mary, Meg and Nora, who visited the Queen earlier, can talk of nothing but baby George. Even little Lillibet is picking up on the excitement, periodically squealing and clapping her hands as she toddles about.
Imagine their surprise, then, when the doors open, not to the Prince, but to a pair of burly yeomen, who stride into the room, bow crisply to Mary, Lillibet and Meg and pick up the cradle.
“What is the meaning of this! That cradle is awaiting His Highness the Duke of Cornwall!” Lady Salisbury gasps, colour flaring in her cheeks at the affront.
“Queen’s orders,” one of them says shortly, huffing out his breath as he hefts one end of the cradle on to his shoulders, “His Highness is to remain in her rooms until her confinement is over, and he’s to have a household of his own. She’s named Lady Clifford his governess.” [2]
Lady Bryan gasps, as does Lady Salisbury. They’re not to care for His Highness after all?
Horrified shock reverberates round the room, so thick you could cut it with a knife. What have they done to deserve this?
It is Lady Bryan who recovers first. She nods in acknowledgement and places a quelling hand on Princess Mary’s shoulder when she makes to protest this unfairness. She even nods to one of the other ladies to hold the nursery door for the yeomen as they leave, cradle on their shoulders. Lady Salisbury can do nothing but stand in horrified silence.
Her brother’s title given to the King’s French concubine. With an upgrade in rank, no less. And now she’s been shunted aside as governess to the Prince of Wales in favour of a Talbot.
A cold frisson of fear, unlike any she has felt in years, runs down her spine. Is it really true? Are the days of the Plantagenet supremacy over England truly dead and gone?
[1] Given Charles Brandon is still married to Elizabeth Grey here, Arthur couldn't have the Lisle title, so I decided Earl of Southampton would do for him instead, given he had a lot to do with the various Cinque Ports.
[2] Margaret Talbot, Mary's sister, who OTL seems to have died in 1515. I'm keeping her alive here, because I wanted a Talbot governess for the Prince of Wales, and I couldn't see Mary naming her sister Elizabeth to the position, not with the dynamic I've written between them.