York, October 1514 (Continued)
At last they arrived at Bishopthorpe. They were greeted just inside the door by Wolsey, who had made sure to arrive ahead of his guests; Catalina was unsure what to make of the man, but Henry certainly liked him and so she was willing to give him a chance.
“Your Grace,” Catalina said, bowing, “I thank you for your hospitality in hosting these celebrations of the peace between England and Scotland.”
“It is my great pleasure, Your Highness,” Wolsey replied, smiling at Catalina, “For it was the King’s wish, and the King’s wish is my pleasure.”
Catalina nodded hesitantly, “Of course, Your Grace.”
Then she and her party were ushered inside to the Great Hall. The Scottish party had already arrived; on a dais, Queen Margaret sat in a chair under a canopy of cloth of gold embroidered with the thistle of Scotland and the Stewart coat of arms, Duke Alexander squalling in her arms. Next to her were two other chairs, under another cloth of gold canopy which was embroidered with the royal arms of England and a Tudor rose.
Catalina turned to her daughter, who stood next to her, “Now remember, Mary, you are going to sit in the chair while your betrothal gift from the Scottish king is presented to you.” Mary said nothing but nodded in understanding, so the two proceeded to the dais. Once Mary and Catalina were seated, the festivities began.
“My lady,” Paniter declared, stepping forward, “It is my honor to present to you with this gift, courtesy of my lord master, King James IV,” Paniter gestured off to the side and a groom entered the hall leading a pure white pony, “This fine horse was bred especially for my lady’s pleasure on the Shetland Isles in the north of our fair kingdom.”
Mary glanced up at her mother, excitement shining in her eyes, “Mama, he is so beautiful...may I go pet him?”
“Of course,” Catalina said, smiling warmly, “Go and greet your steed!”
Mary sprang up from her chair and ran forward, throwing her arms around the pony’s neck and stroking his main.
“His name is El Cid,” Mary declared, “For the great knight!”
“A fine name, my lady,” Paniter said, motioning for the groom from earlier to step forward again, this time carrying a saddle of supple brown leather embossed with gold, red, and green, “And a horse requires a saddle, so my lord thought it appropriate to commission this fine saddle for you as well.”
Mary still engrossed in petting El Cid, Catalina smiled at Paniter, “We thank you, Your Excellency, for these most generous gifts. I am sure Lady Mary will have many hours of enjoyment from them.”
“It was my honor and privilege, Your Grace,” Paniter said, bowing before stepping back.
With the King of Scots’s gift presented, Mary was finally torn away from El Cid, who was led off to the stables, so that the further celebrations could begin.
“I am glad to see that my godson is growing so well,” Catalina said quietly to Queen Margaret as the performers for the first masque began to enter, “He is truly a beautiful little boy.”
Margaret beamed, “He is! James is absolutely besotted with him - truly, I never knew that a man could be so enamoured of a child. The other week, I came across him laying on the floor in Alexander’s nursery playing with him!”
Catalina forced her lips into a smile, “Indeed. Your brother adores his daughters as well and is a most attentive father.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Margaret said with a nod, “I must admit, I admire you for your fortitude in facing all of this.”
“Of course,” Catalina replied, struggling to keep herself from grimacing at the thought of Henry’s alliance with France, “It has not been easy to see my husband abandon my father.”
Margaret gave Catalina a sympathetic look, “I know the feeling well myself. The court in Scotland is crawling with partisans of the French. It never gets easier, watching your husband listen to those who wish harm on the country of your birth. At the very least, you may trust that your Mary will always have my love and support, once she comes to Scotland.”
Catalina could have wept for relief, “Thank you, dear sister.” She and Margaret exchanged a knowing smile and turned their attention to the masque.
Château de Blois, November 1514
Mary sighed as she rested her head against her husband’s chest. The ragged state of his breathing after their intercourse both relieved and alarmed her. Louis was a kind man, a good man. And Mary certainly enjoyed being a queen. But still, it would be a lie to say that Mary did not fantasize about being able to remarry to a younger, more vigorous man.
“What are you thinking about,
ma belle Anglaise?” Louis asked in between shaky breaths.
Mary smiled hesitantly, “Just how delightful it is to be in your arms, Your Majesty.”
“Ah,” Louis chuckled, “You amuse me so, Marie. But still, you need not flatter me. I know what I am, and I know what you are.”
“I know what
you are as well,” Mary said insistently, propping herself up to look at Louis, “You are a gracious, generous husband and king.”
Louis gave her a look somewhere between hurt and amusement, “Do not mock me,
madame. Please, I know you are thinking of something. Why will you not tell me?”
Mary sighed heavily and sat up, racking her brain for something to say, “Fine, my lord. I will tell you. I was thinking that I am so lucky to have a husband who permits me to retain my own attendants. When my brother’s wife came from Spain, much of her household was sent away.”
“You enjoy having your English ladies to wait upon you?” Louis said, raising an eyebrow, “I have had many complaints about them. Particularly Madame Guildford.”
“Mother Guildford?” Mary asked in surprise, “Your courtiers disapprove of her?”
Louis nodded, “They say it is inappropriate for her to behave as she does, being an Englishwoman in the French queen’s household. And I must say, I am not averse to their arguments.”
“So what, you would have me dismiss her? Send her back to England?” Mary frowned, “She has been with me since I was a child!”
“But you were an English princess then,” Louis said flatly, “Now you are a French queen. If you would not dismiss her yourself, then I shall dismiss her.
Mary scowled, “So that is it, then? Your words are empty? You tell me that I am a star plucked from the Heavens and set upon Earth, that you will give me anything my heart desires, that you would rather be struck down than see me unhappy...and yet you would do this to me?”
Louis just sighed, “Marie, please, surely you are not so naïve as to not see why your English ladies, particularly Madame Guildford, cannot remain here. As I said,
ma belle, you are Queen of France now. It is best that you be served by French women.”
Mary said nothing in response. Louis was not like her brother, who would’ve bent already to her will. He was older, a widower, more hardened by time and experience. As much as it disappointed her, it was plain that there would be no changing his mind on this matter. Mother Guildford would have to go.
“May I at least have some say in her replacement?” Mary said quietly after a moment, “And perhaps order some new gowns? And brooches?”
Louis gave her a brilliant smile, and for a split second Mary found herself wishing desperately that he were a younger man, “Of course,
ma belle. Anything that your heart desires.”
Windsor, December 1514
Henry lifted the bow, steadied his aim, and drew his elbow back. With a
whoosh, his arrow was loosed and whizzed its way to the target, hitting just outside of the center.
“A brilliant shot, Your Majesty,” Henry Courtenay, earl of Devon, Henry’s younger cousin and frequent companion, declared, “I dare say that I will be hard pressed to match it.”
“Do your worst,” Henry said with a wicked grin.
Courtenay smirked, “Are you sure, my lord? We wouldn’t want a repeat of last week’s tennis ma-”
Courtenay’s joshing of his king was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a herald in the Queen’s livery. Both Henry and his cousin grew stony faced as the man knelt, for there was no doubt in either of their minds that the man brought news that the Queen had finally given birth.
“Your Majesty,” the herald began, “I must inform you that Her Grace the Queen has been delivered of a healthy baby girl.”
Henry gulped, “Thank you, good man. Please, return to Her Grace and let her know that I will be to see her soon.”
The herald nodded in understanding and left. Henry turned to Courtenay and groaned.
“Another daughter! God’s teeth, what have I done to deserve this!” he scowled.
Courtenay sighed, “Your Majesty, I know things may seem bleak at the moment, but I would not worry over it. You and Her Grace are both young and healthy enough for further children. You may have four daughters now, but I guarantee that Her Grace will yet be able to give you a son.”
Henry huffed, “For England’s sake, I hope that you are right.”
“I am,” Courtenay said breezily, “You know our mutual grandsire King Edward, though he had seven daughters, still had three sons. And had not the vile King Richard been around, our uncles would have grown to manhood. What is to say that you and Queen Katherine may not be the same?”
“I suppose,” Henry ventured, “But still, do you not think that we ought to have a son by now?”
Courtenay took a deep breath before answering, “Of course, Your Majesty. But it seems that God has willed it otherwise. That does not mean that you and Her Grace will not have a son some time in the future.”
Henry made a noise of distaste, “You have not much to say on this subject, do you? Well, I suppose there is not much more
to be said. It is another daughter this time, but a son will surely follow.”
