XXXVI: July 1520
Henry woke Brandon with a hand on his shoulder, grateful that he and Mary still didn’t share a bed, on Doctor Linacre’s orders in view of the difficult time Mary had had birthing little Nell. True, Nell was nine months old now, but Mary had apparently declared that four pregnancies in as many years was enough for now and temporarily banished Charles from her bed. Normally, Henry was irritated to see his sister being indulged in denying her husband his conjugal rights, but tonight, he was grateful for it.
“Charles. With me. Now. Wake Anthony and come with me,” he breathed.
Charles stirred groggily, “Your Majesty…What?”
“No questions. Just come.”
Henry turned and hurried out of the room, hearing with slight relief the sound of Charles cursing and swinging himself out of bed.
Within the next quarter of an hour, the three men were saddled up and trotting through the woods to the chapel in the grounds. To the others’ surprise, Henry drew rein and dismounted. As Charles and Anthony did the same, exchanging bemused looks, three shapes moved in the shadows, stepping forward and boldly flinging back their hoods, revealing themselves to be Lady Marie and her two closest confidantes at the English Court, Lady Sarah and Mistress Joanna.
“Sire,” the three whispered, curtsying. Henry strode across to Marie immediately, pulling her up before she sank too low, kissing her fiercely.
“Marie, my love. You have the priest?”
“Aye, Sire, my father’s chaplain, Matthew Parker. He is trustworthy and, to tell you the truth, there’s not a man in England I’d rather be married by.”
“He won’t tell your father?”
“Not until the deed is done, which is the important part.”
“Good. Then come.”
Henry took Marie on his arm and swept into the chapel with her, leaving the others to follow. Charles took Lady Sarah on his arm and escorted her in, his mind reeling from what he had just heard. Henry wasn’t really going to marry the Boleyn girl, was he?
Apparently he was. Before their witnesses’ astonished eyes, Henry and Lady Marie exchanged first rings – silver ones set with emeralds and diamonds – then vows and finally a kiss to seal the union.
Their lips met, long and hungry. When they finally broke apart, Henry kept one of his hands on Marie’s cheek and found her waist with the other as he spun her to face their witnesses.
“I give you Queen Mary of England,” he whispered, his voice echoing in the dimly lit chapel. The four in the witnesses’ pews automatically sank into obeisance, their minds still struggling to process what had just occurred in front of their very eyes.
Henry ushered Marie to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Go back to bed, the lot of you. Get back to bed and say nothing of what you have seen tonight until I say you can.”
Turning to Marie as they reached the door of the chapel, he paused for a moment to take in what she was wearing; how she had attired herself for this, the most important event of her life. The sight of her took his breath away.
Her amber-coloured gown was of velvet, to ward off the night-time chill, and simply cut, but it had a low enough neckline to offer a tempting glimpse of her breasts as he pulled her closer. Her hair, often hailed as her crowning glory, fell in a shimmering curtain past her waist and her only adornment, a simple double band of amber and crystal at her temple, glittered in the light of the full moon.
God, she was beautiful. In that moment, Henry had never been so grateful that she had refused to become his mistress the way Bessie had done. It had been worth the wait to be able to possess her both utterly and legally.
“I can’t wait to have you,” he murmured huskily as he boosted her into the saddle.
The last person to see the King and his new Queen that night was the Boleyn chaplain, Matthew Parker, who, upon leaving the chapel by the side door, caught sight of their silhouettes as they galloped off into the dark of the night.
King Francis had agreed to the marriage of his sister Marguerite to King Henry, once the former’s mourning period was fully over. What’s more, he’d promised to cede, not only the Pale of Calais – long fought over by the French and the English – but also the County of Anjou to Wolsey’s master as his sister’s dowry. All he asked in return was a free trading charter for all ships under French protection, a promise that King Henry would support him militarily in any future Italian and/or Navarrese campaigns he might choose to undertake, and that his sister be granted the revenues from three towns of middling size for her own use to ensure that she would continue to be a woman of means even if King Henry were to predecease her. Wolsey could not have dreamed of better terms. It was high time he closed the negotiations, persuaded King Henry to ratify the treaty and brought his deputation home.
If he was lucky, England would have a new Queen before the year was out.
“Charles. With me. Now. Wake Anthony and come with me,” he breathed.
Charles stirred groggily, “Your Majesty…What?”
“No questions. Just come.”
Henry turned and hurried out of the room, hearing with slight relief the sound of Charles cursing and swinging himself out of bed.
Within the next quarter of an hour, the three men were saddled up and trotting through the woods to the chapel in the grounds. To the others’ surprise, Henry drew rein and dismounted. As Charles and Anthony did the same, exchanging bemused looks, three shapes moved in the shadows, stepping forward and boldly flinging back their hoods, revealing themselves to be Lady Marie and her two closest confidantes at the English Court, Lady Sarah and Mistress Joanna.
“Sire,” the three whispered, curtsying. Henry strode across to Marie immediately, pulling her up before she sank too low, kissing her fiercely.
“Marie, my love. You have the priest?”
“Aye, Sire, my father’s chaplain, Matthew Parker. He is trustworthy and, to tell you the truth, there’s not a man in England I’d rather be married by.”
“He won’t tell your father?”
“Not until the deed is done, which is the important part.”
“Good. Then come.”
Henry took Marie on his arm and swept into the chapel with her, leaving the others to follow. Charles took Lady Sarah on his arm and escorted her in, his mind reeling from what he had just heard. Henry wasn’t really going to marry the Boleyn girl, was he?
Apparently he was. Before their witnesses’ astonished eyes, Henry and Lady Marie exchanged first rings – silver ones set with emeralds and diamonds – then vows and finally a kiss to seal the union.
Their lips met, long and hungry. When they finally broke apart, Henry kept one of his hands on Marie’s cheek and found her waist with the other as he spun her to face their witnesses.
“I give you Queen Mary of England,” he whispered, his voice echoing in the dimly lit chapel. The four in the witnesses’ pews automatically sank into obeisance, their minds still struggling to process what had just occurred in front of their very eyes.
Henry ushered Marie to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Go back to bed, the lot of you. Get back to bed and say nothing of what you have seen tonight until I say you can.”
Turning to Marie as they reached the door of the chapel, he paused for a moment to take in what she was wearing; how she had attired herself for this, the most important event of her life. The sight of her took his breath away.
Her amber-coloured gown was of velvet, to ward off the night-time chill, and simply cut, but it had a low enough neckline to offer a tempting glimpse of her breasts as he pulled her closer. Her hair, often hailed as her crowning glory, fell in a shimmering curtain past her waist and her only adornment, a simple double band of amber and crystal at her temple, glittered in the light of the full moon.
God, she was beautiful. In that moment, Henry had never been so grateful that she had refused to become his mistress the way Bessie had done. It had been worth the wait to be able to possess her both utterly and legally.
“I can’t wait to have you,” he murmured huskily as he boosted her into the saddle.
The last person to see the King and his new Queen that night was the Boleyn chaplain, Matthew Parker, who, upon leaving the chapel by the side door, caught sight of their silhouettes as they galloped off into the dark of the night.
*** *** ***
Back in London, Cardinal Wolsey had sat up half the night, reading dispatches and making notes as to how he wanted to respond to them, as well as answering long-standing petitions. He was dog-tired, but as he switched his attention to the latest packet of papers from France, the contents made it all worthwhile.
King Francis had agreed to the marriage of his sister Marguerite to King Henry, once the former’s mourning period was fully over. What’s more, he’d promised to cede, not only the Pale of Calais – long fought over by the French and the English – but also the County of Anjou to Wolsey’s master as his sister’s dowry. All he asked in return was a free trading charter for all ships under French protection, a promise that King Henry would support him militarily in any future Italian and/or Navarrese campaigns he might choose to undertake, and that his sister be granted the revenues from three towns of middling size for her own use to ensure that she would continue to be a woman of means even if King Henry were to predecease her. Wolsey could not have dreamed of better terms. It was high time he closed the negotiations, persuaded King Henry to ratify the treaty and brought his deputation home.
If he was lucky, England would have a new Queen before the year was out.
