1st of May, 1526.
Richmond Palace, England. 1st of May, 1526.
The sun shone brightly and the fresh air that swirled in helped Mary Tudor breathe more easily on that stressful and confusing day. She was surrounded by her father’s court, all the lords and ladies from England coming to see her off.
It was a lot of pressure. She took a deep breath, trying very hard not to cry, especially in front of her family. Although her father had remained in Normandy since the end of the war, and would be accompanying her from Rouen to the border with Brittany, Cousin Isabella and her little brothers were present. Even baby Edward, who couldn’t walk or talk or stand or do anything beyond babbling in his nurse’s arms.
They were there. To see her off. Forever. Mary bit her inner cheek as the tears sprouted in her eyes. She was a princess, the Duchess of Brittany and Madame la Dauphine. A Tudor. She couldn’t cry.
“My dearest daughter,” said Queen Isabella, coming close to Mary to take her hands. She was wearing a golden gown, with a simple coronet on her hair, as she had not yet been crowned. Mary thought she looked like the most beautiful woman in the world, a statue made of gold and precious jewels. “You who have brought so much joy and pride to England will now do the same for France and Brittany.”
Mary nodded and took a deep breath, squeezing her cousin’s hands. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, having already practised her words the night before. “Your kind words are a balm to my heart.”
She felt grown-up, in that position, with her white and green dress and adult jewellery adorning her neck.
“I have a gift for you,” said Queen Isabella in the throne room, with a small smile. “I know you have your new friends and Lady Parr to help abate your homesickness, but I wish for you to have something from your dearest mother and my beloved aunt and predecessor, Queen Catherine, as well.”
Queen Isabella gestured for a valet to bring forward a small wooden box, elegant and lacquered, as if the contents were incredibly valuable. Mary held her breath, biting her lower lip nervously, and the valet made her a bow at the same time that he opened the box.
Inside, there was a simple wooden cross with a ruby shining exactly where their Lord’s heart once beat. Mary might have been offended, or even disappointed, if she did not recognize the crucifix. Once, it had been one of her mother's most prized possessions and Mary always heard her speak fondly of it, as well as hold it close to her heart whenever they attended Mass together.
“It once belonged to our shared grandmother, Queen Isabella,” said her cousin, “But she saw fit to bestow it on your mother when she left Castile for England. Now, I continue the cycle by standing in your mother’s place and giving it to you.” Queen Isabella smiled, her eyes glinting. “One day, when your eldest daughter leaves France for her own marriage, you can give it to her.”
Mary picked up the cross from the box and held it close to her lips, placing a soft kiss against the ruby. She was unable to hold onto her tears and they slid down her cheeks, entering her mouth in salty trails. At that moment, she felt as close to her mother as she had never been before.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, still crying.
Isabella cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead gently. Mary felt someone pull her skirts and she moved away from her cousin, looking down to see her little brother tugging at her dress.
John had grown much since he left for Wales. He was much taller, with straight red hair, but still retained the bright blue eyes and round chubby cheeks from his infancy. “Is Mary sad?” he asked, gently. At three, he could speak much more clearly than he could only a year before. It was Lady Willoughby’s care, as well as being constantly surrounded by other children who weren’t moved by his age or his status to bother to translate what he said. It forced him to be more diligent, or that’s what Lady Willoughby said when Mary asked her about it
Mary heard Isabella chuckle as she kneeled before her brother, blue meeting blue as she looked him in the eye. John was pouting, twisting his hands in his skirts, and she tried to smile as he cleaned her cheeks.
“Just a little,” she admitted. “But I’m also very happy.”
“John wants a hug,” he said, stretching his arms out. Mary smiled and pulled him tightly to her, holding him as close as possible. John kissed her cheek and her face, nuzzling her face as he did so.
“I love you very much,” said Mary when they leaned back, holding him by the shoulders, “And you must promise me never to forget me and to never let baby Edward forget me either.”
“I pwomise!” said John with a strong voice, tapping his feet against the floor. “But I see you at Christmas, so John won’t forget.”
“No, John,” said Mary, tearing up. “I won’t see you at Christmas, or maybe ever again.” He pouted, tears sprouting at the corner of his eyes. “I will think of you every day. And I shall write to you every week, so Lady Willoughby will read them to you until you are old enough and know your letters so you can read for yourself.” She smiled, pinching his cheek. “And I should hope by then you’ll be writing to me as well, and telling me of England and all your joys and sorrows. You will grow into a fine man, John, and I will be so proud to hear of your progress from Nantes.”
“Mary, don’t go!” he cried out, wrapping his arms around her legs.
“I’m sorry, darling, but I have to.” She pressed a kiss to the auburn crown of his head. “But you must be very brave. Can you be brave for me?”
He stepped back and rubbed his eyes, nodding. “I can, Sister Mary.”
With a smile, Mary kissed his face again and straightened up. She made a curtsy to her cousin, before kissing her as well as kissing Edward’s impossibly round cheek. Her littlest brother giggled and tried to grab the black fabric of her hood. Mary swallowed her tears before stepping away, ready to leave England forever.
--
Isabella watched her daughter leave with a calm expression, observing the way Lady Parr chaperoned the princess and her young ladies away from the throne room, ready to lead them to the other side of the English Channel.
She didn’t like it. Mary was too young, still in need of a guiding motherly hand, and who would know what the French could do with her? Isabella knew it was important for her to know her future husband well, but certainly, they could’ve waited for both children to grow before this happened. Could they have not?
It was clear to her that Mary was heartbroken about leaving. Surely, if her father had been present, she might have cried less, as she often felt the need to keep up the façade near King Henry, but Isabella’s husband hadn’t been in England for nearly two years. If Margarida was right, and she was often right when it came to matters such as this, gossip said King Henry remained in Normandy because a lover of his had fallen with child and he wanted to see the baby born before he brought mother and child to England.
Isabella moved her shoulders around awkwardly. She wasn’t happy with Henry’s dalliances, but she’d been taught to ignore them. Queen Catherine had ignored most of his affairs, and it seemed to please the King when she acted like her aunt, so Isabella was determined not to let it bother her. She had a court to mind, two sons to raise. One French mistress was nothing to her.
When Mary and her companions disappeared from view, Isabella left the dais she was in, her ladies straightening up to follow her. She gestured for Eleanor to come closer and her Portuguese friend did so with a smile.
“What was it that you wanted to talk to me, Leo?” she asked in Portuguese.
“With Lady Parr leaving for Nantes, there is an opening in your household,” Eleanor started, “And Sir John Seymour asked me if you would be willing to accept his eldest daughter, Jane, as one of your ladies.”
“Jane Seymour?” Isabella asked. Eleanor nodded. “Tell Sir John to send her to me this week and I shall inspect her.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Eleanor.
