Buda, September 1527
The Dowager Queen of Hungary sits at her writing desk, gazing pensively into the distance. The shouts of Karoly and his companions drift up to her through the open window from where they are taking their daily riding lesson and she smiles to hear them.
Nearing his fifth birthday, Karoly is a delightful child, with his father’s chestnut hair and an impish smile that melts Maria’s heart. He can be a menace to his tutors, she knows, always climbing and jumping into things he isn’t supposed to, but she finds it hard to scold him, even when she probably should. She is just so relieved he is strong and healthy, with no sign of his father’s early frailty, which she heard more than a bit about during the long, hot, months of her pregnancy and confinement.
Of course, the King of Hungary needs a Queen to sit at his side, particularly with the Jagellion line still so fragile and resting only on his round young shoulders. It is this weighty matter which Maria has withdrawn to her solar to ponder.
The Council was pushing a French alliance to help counter the Ottoman threat in the east, but Mademoiselle Marie’s death at three months old put paid to that, especially when she was then followed in the cradle by a brother, Charles, rather than a sister. As things stand, therefore, the only realistic choices for Karoly’s bride are his four cousins: Elizabeth, Dorothea, Christina and Catalina.
At first glance, Dorothea seems the ideal choice, given she is two years older than Karoly and would therefore be ready and able to have children as soon as Karoly is old enough to wed.
There is, however, the unfortunate matter of her father having lost his crown four years ago and not yet having succeeded in regaining it. Hungary is still weak and divided, on the verge of losing yet more territory to the Ottomans. They can’t afford to get embroiled in a Danish succession war. Not now, and probably not for a while yet. So, given that the defence of Dorothea’s father and brother’s right to the Danish throne would almost certainly form part of any marriage alliance between their countries, Maria is going to have to refuse Dorothea, no matter how much Bella might beg her to reconsider. The same goes for Dorothea’s younger sister Christina.
Which leaves her just Elizabeth or Catalina.
She knows the Council would want her to choose Elizabeth. Some of them argue that Ferdinand is Karoly’s heir, not Lujza, as per the terms of the 1515 Congress of Vienna, which vested the Hungarian succession in the Imperial line should the Jagellion line die out. Her brother’s supporters argue that Lujza can’t inherit, being a girl, and that Ferdinand, as Karoly’s uncle twice over, is his nearest male relative. The same councillors also argue that if Ferdinand himself isn’t to take the Hungarian throne, then the least they can do is make his daughter Elizabeth Queen of her mother’s natal country.
Maria does see the logic in what they’re saying, but she’s having none of it. Her grandmother was a Queen Regnant, as was her mother before she lost her senses. Their blood runs in Lujza’s veins. Why shouldn’t she rule Bohemia and Hungary, if that’s what she’s called to do? If her daughter’s strong-willed behaviour in the nursery is anything to go by, she’ll be as strong a warrior Queen as her great-grandmother, and repel the Ottomans from Hungary’s borders, just as Isabella pushed the Moors out of Granada.
Thankfully, she has the perfect excuse to refuse any potential betrothal between Karoly and Elizabeth. Elizabeth is four years younger than Karoly and his double first cousin. The age gap alone would be bad enough, given how crucial it is that Karoly sire a son sooner rather than later, but they’ll never get the Papal dispensation for the match, not when the children are so closely related on both sides.
Catalina, on the other hand, has a French mother to balance out her Hapsburg blood, even if she is nearly five years younger than Karoly. And Charles will be delighted if she’s chosen as Karoly’s bride over her cousins. The promise of a crown for Catalina will no doubt galvanise him to help support Lujza’s right to be Karoly’s heiress, at least so long as Catalina and Karoly have no children. Maria knows her favourite brother well enough to be sure of
that, if nothing else.
Mind made up, Maria pulls a fresh sheet of parchment towards her and dips her quill.
“
Dearest brother,
I trust Margarita and little Catalina are well and that Margarita’s churching went off without a hitch…”
Greenwich, November 1527
“NO!” George screws up his face in fury and throws himself down on to his plump bottom, refusing to walk a step further, “WATER! WATER!”
George’s sudden stop drags Lady Clifford to an abrupt halt, his leading strings being attached to her jewelled belt. She groans inwardly and schools her face calm as she crouches down in front of him.
“Now, Your Highness. I told you before we came outside that you wouldn’t be able to play in the water today. It’s too cold. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”
Even as she says the words, however, she knows they are fruitless. George is too young for reason. All he can see is that she is stopping him from indulging his fascination with the various lakes, fountains and rivers that surround the gardens in which they take their daily walk.
“WATER! WATER!” He jumps to his feet, straining against his leading strings, little face red with anger.
“No, Your Highness!” Seeing no other choice, Lady Clifford sweeps George into her arms and begins to walk back to the palace, struggling to hold him as he kicks and screams to be put down, to be allowed to play in the water.
They are beginning to draw attention, guards and servants drawn by the commotion. Scandalised glances are thrown their way and whispers break out by the score, though no one dares intervene, for fear of overstepping the mark. Lady Clifford flushes scarlet. Why does everything she tries to do with George end in a battle of wills? Why can’t he ever just behave?
She longs to shake him, to slap some sense into him, but she can’t. Mary has made it more than clear that to raise a hand to George will mean the end of her tenure as his governess, and she can’t bear that humiliation, particularly not given she’s Mary’s sister, and should therefore enjoy the Queen’s unshakeable trust.
In the end, therefore, she does what she always does. She falls back on the only trick that ever works with George. Bribery.
Loosening her hold on George, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sugared plum, making sure George can see it.
She pretends to put it in her mouth and he roars in fury.
“MINE! PLUM MINE!”
He reaches to snatch it from her and she rears back to keep it out of his grasp.
“You can have it if you walk back to the nursery without any more fuss. Can you do that, Your Highness?
“Plum! Plum!” he squawks, and Lady Clifford nods.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a sugared plum. Do you want it?”
“Plum! PLUM!” he bellows, and she takes that as a yes.
“Back to the nursery then, please.”
She sets him on the ground and holds her breath. He pouts and looks longingly back towards the fountains, but he does start toddling towards the palace gate.
At the edge of the gardens, however, he promptly sits down again, refusing to budge.
“Plum,” he says imperiously, holding out a round little hand.
“No, Your Highness. That wasn’t what we agreed, remember? Up you get and let’s keep going,”
“Can’t say no. I Pwince. Can’t say no to Pwince,” George retaliates, “PLUM!”
Lady Clifford grimaces. She hates it when George pulls rank on her, because he’s right. She
can’t say no to the most important child in England. Only his parents can do that and neither of them are here. Besides, his mother never does. Even his father only does it on occasion.
Sighing, she places a sugared plum in his palm, “Very well, then. One. But you have to walk inside if you want another.”
Even as she says them, though, she knows the words are hollow. In the end, it takes three sugared plums and two cubes of marchpane to get George back to the nursery…where he promptly refuses to eat his supper or to get changed for bed.
Lady Clifford is heartily glad to hand him over to the rockers and night nurses once he is finally wearing his night shirt. She leaves him throwing a tantrum as young Dorothy Hastings pleads with him to say his prayers, breathing a huge sigh of relief as the door shuts behind her. Another day over.
The sad thing is, Lady Clifford realises as she goes to her room to call for supper, is that George hasn’t even been particularly wilful today. Not by his standards. Tomorrow could quite easily be worse.
