I've done a lot of writing this bank holiday, so I'm feeling generous. Have another chapter!
Knole, April 1533
“Will Carey was right, damn and blast it!” Henry growls, stalking round the council chamber, “I should never have trusted Francis. Almost six months I’ve been wed to Catherine and he has yet to cede either Boulogne or the Auvergne to me.”
“To be fair to King Francis, Sire, Queen Catherine has only just turned fourteen. His Grace of France may have been waiting to be sure Your Majesties had consummated the match before yielding Her Grace’s inheritance to you.”
Thomas More, as is his usual wont, sounds a note of caution. Cromwell, standing behind him, grimaces slightly as the King whirls on the older man. Cromwell admires his colleague, but he wishes he’d learn that the King can’t be treated as a stubborn schoolboy any longer. He never does, and then it’s always down to Cromwell to soothe the King’s temper.
Their ginger monarch’s eyes glitter dangerously as he snarls, “Nonsense, Thomas! In the eyes of Christendom, I could have consummated my match to Catherine the very night I wed her without a second’s pause for thought. Francis has kept her lands from me deliberately. Well, no more. We ride for Boulogne on the morrow!”
“On the morrow?” More gasps, before Cromwell can stop him, “Sire, that’s impossible!”
“Impossible?” The King glares at More, all too obviously grinding his teeth, “I’m the King of England! You, of all people, Thomas, ought to know better than to use the word must to a sovereign Prince! I’m Count of Boulogne by right. Those curs owe their allegiance to me, not Francis, and by God, I mean to remind them of it!”
“And so you should, Sire,” Cromwell interjects hurriedly, before More can make the situation even worse for them, “But Count by right or not, we simply cannot sail for France on a moment’s notice. We need time to muster the men. Besides, as Sir Thomas pointed out, Her Majesty is newly fourteen. Does Your Grace truly wish to abandon the Queen just as she’s ready to be a wife in truth?”
King Henry chews his cheek mulishly, then shakes his head, “I suppose not. But I won’t wait much longer. Send the messengers out, informing our soldiers and sailors that we’re to muster at Dover, ready to sail no later than Midsummer. And send the same message to Lord Southampton. I want the soldiers in the Pale put on a war footing immediately.”
“Very good, Sire,” Cromwell nods, scribbling down a few words on a scrap of parchment as he does so. More, too, acquiesces, knowing the two-month respite is as much as he is going to be able to coax from his pugnacious sovereign. Still, he can’t stop himself from venturing to ask another question.
“Do you intend to send an envoy to King Francis, Sire? Perhaps, with a few sweet words, some money and some luck, we can win Boulogne and the Auvergne away from France without having to resort to war. It’s got to be worth trying, has it not?”
Frustrated beyond measure at More’s constant pacifications, the King throws his head up, “God’s Blood, Thomas, if it means that much to you, you can go yourself! And take Lord Rochford with you. His daughter is one of King Francis’s little pets, after all. She ought to be able to use her influence to smooth your path, if only for her father’s sake. Her filial loyalties will demand no less.”
More bows his head, the dipping motion hiding the uncertainty in his eyes. He rather thinks Harry might be over-confident in his assessment of the Boleyn girl’s natal loyalties. After all, Anne Boleyn has hardly been in England since she was seven. She’s been a French Princess of the Blood for the past twelve years.
But he isn’t going to be the one to tell his master that. Not when he’s already skating on thin ice where Harry’s temper is concerned.
Instead, he simply mutters a polite, obedient reply about going to make preparations and backs out of the room, hearing Henry Norris suggest an archery contest with the Queen and her ladies that afternoon as he does so. Harry agrees eagerly, and More can’t help but sigh. If his old pupil were only as keen on statecraft as he is on sport, then England would be a lot better off.
On the other hand, the young Queen is apparently a keen archer. At least the sport gives the couple something to bond over. That’s no bad thing, especially given the difference in their ages.
That thought in mind, More stifles his disapproval of the levity and goes in search of Lord Rochford.
Amboise, May 1533
Marie knows Francis. Whatever the state of their marriage, she
knows him. You can’t be married to someone for eighteen years and
not know them, particularly not if you’re in the midst of raising seven children together.
So, when her husband storms into her solar, his face like thunder, and throws his hawking gloves down on to the nearest table, all she has to do is raise her eyebrows. Something is very clearly wrong. Something is wrong and he is itching to take his frustration out on her.
Sure enough, he barely pauses long enough to draw breath before snarling, “Your brother has some nerve!”
“What’s he done now?” Marie deliberately rolls her eyes, fighting down her natural inclination to defend Henry. Francis doesn’t talk to her anymore. Not unless it concerns the children. This is an unexpected glimpse into his thinking, and she’d be a fool to waste it, whatever the reason for his having chosen to give it to her.
“He’s sent More and Rochford to pester me about Boulogne and the Auvergne. He wants me to give them to him as Catherine’s dowry. As if I could! I’d be a laughing stock, not fit to be counted among the Kings of France!”
“You can hardly blame him for trying. The counties
are Catherine’s by right.”
Francis waves an impatient hand, “Yes, yes, but surely even your brother can’t be so stupid as to think I’d honour her claim to them? I can’t allow him to encroach so on France’s territorial integrity. Not as a fellow monarch. No King could.”
Marie shrugs, spreading her hand, “It seems obvious to me. If you’d really cared for France’s territorial integrity, there was an easy solution. You had the chance to betroth Catherine to Jean, and you didn’t take it. You chose Isabella of Poland for his bride instead. You can hardly complain that my brother has wed Catherine de Medici. Not when you didn’t even try to secure her for one of our sons.”
Francis purples, stung by the acid in Marie’s tone, “Jean needs a bride with Sforza blood to help him hold Milan. And the Estates will never allow him to hold French lands if he’s based in Milan. You know that!”
“There’s no more of a gap between Charly and Catherine than there is between François and Renee, and you were happy to go along with that match for the sake of Brittany. Catherine’s estates would have set our youngest son up for life.”
Francis growls under his breath at Marie’s words. He hates it when his wife is right.
“I might have known you’d defend your brother,” he spits, “You’ve always been an English Rose at heart, for all you pretended to be a lily when we were younger.”
“Francis, that’s not fair!” Marie cries indignantly, but her husband is too angry to listen to her plea. He whirls on his heel and strides from the room.
Marie watches him go, heart sinking into her slippers as a sickening realisation hits her. She knows Francis and she knows Henry. Neither of them is going to back down, Not so much as an inch.
Which means war over Catherine’s inheritance is inevitable.
Her husband and her brother are plunging headlong into battling each other and there is nothing she can do to stop it.
Nothing.
