Section XLVII - May 1523
Right, I am reliably informed that Tudorfan has gone into hiding, so here is this week's chapter 
The Tudor Rose is everywhere. It is snapping above people’s heads on the rich royal blue banners that the standard bearers are carrying so carefully. It is stitched on to the doublets of all the liveried guards that are lining the route between the Tower and Westminster Abbey, serving as both protection and a guard of honour for their young Queen. And while it is too early for roses, poppies and comfrey carpet the streets in shades of red and white, thrown there by the armful by the crowds that are thronging the route.
Princess Mary heads the procession, her golden curls woven with strings of aquamarines and sapphires and streaming over her shoulders, gleaming in the sunlight. So bright is her hair, in fact, that it is almost as though the blistering hot orb overhead has reached down and spread its gentle touch over Mary’s head.
Given that she wears an ermine-trimmed cloak of cloth-of-silver over her cerulean silk gown, the seven-year-old must be sweltering, but she gives no sign of it, only draws herself up as the groom beside her guides her dapple-grey palfrey to a halt by the steps of Westminster Abbey. She pauses, seeming to count under her breath, and then, just as people begin to wonder at her hesitation, turns to wave at the crowd, inciting them to even greater heights of raucous delight.
She times it perfectly. She raises her hand at exactly the same moment that her new stepmother’s litter pulls into the square before the Abbey, escorted by the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, the latter of whom is also Earl Marshal and will be leading her down the great nave of the Abbey.
Mary arrives to a roar of public approval, one so vast that even she, who is so easily dissatisfied, cannot help but blush and smile as she waves to the crowd.
The young Princess leans up from her pony to kiss her stepmother, first on the hand and then on the cheek, and as she does so, a breeze unfurls the new Queen’s personal banner so that the trio of golden stars surrounding a crown seem to hang in the sky as though pinned there.
Lifted down from her pony, Princess Mary sinks into a curtsy so deep her bent head almost brushes the ground in front of her, before taking the Marquess of Dorset’s hand and letting him escort her into the Abbey.
And then it is the young Queen’s turn. She alights from the litter, feeling the weight of her cloth of silver robes and train settle on her shoulders as she does so.
She pauses as the Countess of Worcester takes up her train, and a smug smile spreads across her lips. She places her hand on her amber-encrusted stomacher, as though she is confiding a great secret to those around her.
The common people may not have the money of the nobles, but that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Far from it. A great roar of approval soars to the heavens as Mary falls into step behind the Duke of Norfolk and her cousin Lord Derby, who is carrying the sword.
They process down the gigantic nave, Mary feeling the wave of triumph crest higher and higher within her with every step she takes.
Elizabeth, Lady Dacre, watches her younger sister rise from the coronation chair and place one hand on the Bible as the Archbishop of Canterbury begins to administer the oath. She can’t help but gulp silently. Mary has never been one for any major sort of commitment. Who knows if she’ll be able to uphold the promises she’s about to make?
“Madam, are you, by the grace of God, willing to take the oath?”
Mary, however, seems to have no such doubts. Her voice soars out around the Abbey with all the strength the occasion demands.
“I am willing, My Lord of Canterbury.”
“Will Your Grace solemnly promise and swear to aid the King in governing the people of England, France and Ireland according to their respective laws and customs?”
“I do so swear.”
“Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all His Grace’s judgements?”
“I will.”
Will you to the utmost of your power, help your husband to maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? Will you preserve unto the Bishops and Clergy of England, and to the Churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?”
“All this I promise to do.”
The vows over, the Archbishop nods to Mary to take her seat once more.
Once seated, Mary is handed the sceptre and the orb. As she takes them into her hands, the Archbishop takes St Edward’s crown from the Dean of Westminster and holds it high.
“With this, St Edward’s Crown, I crown you Queen Mary of England, France and Ireland. Honour and glory be unto Your Grace. May you go forth and bear sons and daughters of the King’s blood. Long Live Queen Mary!”
“Long Live Queen Mary!” Elizabeth joins her voice to the swell of noise that rises around her and shakes the rafters.
As she does so, she sees Mary rise to her feet and nod in response to the acclamations, colour high in her cheeks. They might not be close, but Elizabeth still knows her sister well enough to know what she must be thinking at that very moment, “The King’s ring on my finger, his son in my belly and a crown upon my head. The future is bright indeed.”
Mary might be celebrating her triumph, and most of England with her, but there are two ladies who are not finding the coronation banquet to be marvellous.
Joyce Leigh, stepdaughter to Lord Edmund Howard and Katherine Conyers, daughter of William, Baron Conyers, know they should be honoured to be serving the new Queen – during her coronation banquet no less! Far grander young ladies would give their eyeteeth to be in their positions.
But, crouching beneath the trestles, hidden by the lavish drapes, for hours on end, is no fun at all.
They’re both used to kneeling at chapel, but squatting like this is another kettle of fish entirely. And speaking of fish, they’ve only just reached the fish course. There are at least another two courses, plus subtleties to go…and then there will be all the entertainments afterwards.
Haunches already on fire, it is enough to make them want to groan aloud and hope the music and general gaiety will mask their moaning.
In fact, Katherine is just about to do exactly that, when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Queen shift irritably in her seat.
Quickly, she positions herself beneath the discreet opening the King has had carved into his love’s throne, chamber pot in hand. Joyce, alerted by her movements, sweeps the Queen’s grand skirts of emerald damask out of the way, lifting them carefully on to her arm.
Not a moment too soon. Even as they finish bracing themselves, hot golden urine spurts through the aperture above them, hitting the pewter jug Katherine is holding with considerable force.
Katherine grimaces involuntarily, but holds the receptacle steady, closing her eyes and imagining the sudden weight is nothing more than her hawk landing on her glove after a successful hunt.
As quickly as it has come, the stream ceases and Katherine removes the vessel, slipping it out behind the table for a passing servant boy to collect and empty.
Only then does she dare catch Joyce’s eye. The older girl makes a moue of sympathy and leans forward, putting her mouth to Katherine’s ear to ensure no one else can hear her words.
“Let’s hope Her Grace is carrying a Prince. It might make all this pain and humiliation worth it.”
London, May 1523
The Tudor Rose is everywhere. It is snapping above people’s heads on the rich royal blue banners that the standard bearers are carrying so carefully. It is stitched on to the doublets of all the liveried guards that are lining the route between the Tower and Westminster Abbey, serving as both protection and a guard of honour for their young Queen. And while it is too early for roses, poppies and comfrey carpet the streets in shades of red and white, thrown there by the armful by the crowds that are thronging the route.
Princess Mary heads the procession, her golden curls woven with strings of aquamarines and sapphires and streaming over her shoulders, gleaming in the sunlight. So bright is her hair, in fact, that it is almost as though the blistering hot orb overhead has reached down and spread its gentle touch over Mary’s head.
Given that she wears an ermine-trimmed cloak of cloth-of-silver over her cerulean silk gown, the seven-year-old must be sweltering, but she gives no sign of it, only draws herself up as the groom beside her guides her dapple-grey palfrey to a halt by the steps of Westminster Abbey. She pauses, seeming to count under her breath, and then, just as people begin to wonder at her hesitation, turns to wave at the crowd, inciting them to even greater heights of raucous delight.
She times it perfectly. She raises her hand at exactly the same moment that her new stepmother’s litter pulls into the square before the Abbey, escorted by the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, the latter of whom is also Earl Marshal and will be leading her down the great nave of the Abbey.
Mary arrives to a roar of public approval, one so vast that even she, who is so easily dissatisfied, cannot help but blush and smile as she waves to the crowd.
The young Princess leans up from her pony to kiss her stepmother, first on the hand and then on the cheek, and as she does so, a breeze unfurls the new Queen’s personal banner so that the trio of golden stars surrounding a crown seem to hang in the sky as though pinned there.
Lifted down from her pony, Princess Mary sinks into a curtsy so deep her bent head almost brushes the ground in front of her, before taking the Marquess of Dorset’s hand and letting him escort her into the Abbey.
And then it is the young Queen’s turn. She alights from the litter, feeling the weight of her cloth of silver robes and train settle on her shoulders as she does so.
She pauses as the Countess of Worcester takes up her train, and a smug smile spreads across her lips. She places her hand on her amber-encrusted stomacher, as though she is confiding a great secret to those around her.
The common people may not have the money of the nobles, but that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Far from it. A great roar of approval soars to the heavens as Mary falls into step behind the Duke of Norfolk and her cousin Lord Derby, who is carrying the sword.
They process down the gigantic nave, Mary feeling the wave of triumph crest higher and higher within her with every step she takes.
Elizabeth, Lady Dacre, watches her younger sister rise from the coronation chair and place one hand on the Bible as the Archbishop of Canterbury begins to administer the oath. She can’t help but gulp silently. Mary has never been one for any major sort of commitment. Who knows if she’ll be able to uphold the promises she’s about to make?
“Madam, are you, by the grace of God, willing to take the oath?”
Mary, however, seems to have no such doubts. Her voice soars out around the Abbey with all the strength the occasion demands.
“I am willing, My Lord of Canterbury.”
“Will Your Grace solemnly promise and swear to aid the King in governing the people of England, France and Ireland according to their respective laws and customs?”
“I do so swear.”
“Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all His Grace’s judgements?”
“I will.”
Will you to the utmost of your power, help your husband to maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? Will you preserve unto the Bishops and Clergy of England, and to the Churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?”
“All this I promise to do.”
The vows over, the Archbishop nods to Mary to take her seat once more.
Once seated, Mary is handed the sceptre and the orb. As she takes them into her hands, the Archbishop takes St Edward’s crown from the Dean of Westminster and holds it high.
“With this, St Edward’s Crown, I crown you Queen Mary of England, France and Ireland. Honour and glory be unto Your Grace. May you go forth and bear sons and daughters of the King’s blood. Long Live Queen Mary!”
“Long Live Queen Mary!” Elizabeth joins her voice to the swell of noise that rises around her and shakes the rafters.
As she does so, she sees Mary rise to her feet and nod in response to the acclamations, colour high in her cheeks. They might not be close, but Elizabeth still knows her sister well enough to know what she must be thinking at that very moment, “The King’s ring on my finger, his son in my belly and a crown upon my head. The future is bright indeed.”
Mary might be celebrating her triumph, and most of England with her, but there are two ladies who are not finding the coronation banquet to be marvellous.
Joyce Leigh, stepdaughter to Lord Edmund Howard and Katherine Conyers, daughter of William, Baron Conyers, know they should be honoured to be serving the new Queen – during her coronation banquet no less! Far grander young ladies would give their eyeteeth to be in their positions.
But, crouching beneath the trestles, hidden by the lavish drapes, for hours on end, is no fun at all.
They’re both used to kneeling at chapel, but squatting like this is another kettle of fish entirely. And speaking of fish, they’ve only just reached the fish course. There are at least another two courses, plus subtleties to go…and then there will be all the entertainments afterwards.
Haunches already on fire, it is enough to make them want to groan aloud and hope the music and general gaiety will mask their moaning.
In fact, Katherine is just about to do exactly that, when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Queen shift irritably in her seat.
Quickly, she positions herself beneath the discreet opening the King has had carved into his love’s throne, chamber pot in hand. Joyce, alerted by her movements, sweeps the Queen’s grand skirts of emerald damask out of the way, lifting them carefully on to her arm.
Not a moment too soon. Even as they finish bracing themselves, hot golden urine spurts through the aperture above them, hitting the pewter jug Katherine is holding with considerable force.
Katherine grimaces involuntarily, but holds the receptacle steady, closing her eyes and imagining the sudden weight is nothing more than her hawk landing on her glove after a successful hunt.
As quickly as it has come, the stream ceases and Katherine removes the vessel, slipping it out behind the table for a passing servant boy to collect and empty.
Only then does she dare catch Joyce’s eye. The older girl makes a moue of sympathy and leans forward, putting her mouth to Katherine’s ear to ensure no one else can hear her words.
“Let’s hope Her Grace is carrying a Prince. It might make all this pain and humiliation worth it.”
