Chapter Text
King Henry the Eighth dies as howls echo in the winds at the hour of the wolf, and all at once, the world shifts its ever–precarious course.
Henry Seymour, second brother to Queen Jane of blessed memory, does not mind in the least. Ambition does not flow in his veins as freely as it does in Edward’s or Thomas’s, and he has no wish to jockey for power in the vacuum left by the king’s passing. No, a peaceful life in the countryside, managing the estates so graciously given him in exchange for his little sister’s maidenhead, that was enough for him.
Lord, but he does pity Jane’s boy. King now, at the tender age of nine. Henry scribbles a verse in his book of hours, praying for his nephew to be granted wisdom and divine guidance. He will need it, once the buzzards at court start to circle him, watching and waiting for a sign of weakness.
Lady Mary Tudor, Princess Mary of England still in her heart of hearts, is singing the matins with her household when the messengers came to Hunsdon. They tell her nothing, only that she must needs ride and leave her ladies behind. For a moment, she feels a flash of fear. It is treason, yes, but talk of the king not being long for the world has been swirling around for some time.
So was this it?, Mary thinks as the king’s men all but drag her to a waiting carriage and throw her inside. Was she to finally be conducted to the Tower, from there to lose her head on the block as so many dear friends had done, all so Edward’s path to the throne remains smooth?
The carriage pulls to a stop at Enfield instead, where both of her younger siblings are already waiting, and when the Earl of Hertford kneels before Edward and announces the king’s death, Mary’s fear turns into relief. She is ashamed of the thought, but in truth, Mary has long been an orphan, ever since the day the monster who called himself her father forbade her from seeing or even writing to her sainted mother in her deathbed. The king’s death only serves to set her free from a tyrant whose shadow loomed large over her her entire life.
Henry has already refused Edward’s invitation to come sit in their nephew’s regency council and balance out Thomas’s unsavoury reputation, but he cannot deny the king’s request to attend his coronation. He may be Jane’s sweet boy, but a Tudor their nephew still is, and to displease a Tudor is to court disaster.
King Edward anoints him a Knight of the Bath as part of the coronation ceremony, a knight who has done nothing for his liege other than be his uncle. It is a foolish notion, though he would not say it aloud. In autumn, Hampshire gives him a seat in Parliament. If the people only knew he did not have the king’s ear, then they would not pin all their hopes on him. Still, it is not an unwelcome change to his routine.
Her father’s death had made her a wealthy woman. Three thousand pounds in money, plate, and jewels, as well as vast estates in the East and the North. She could well afford to leave the Queen’s household and live as a femme sole, as her father’s grandmother had done. Mary did not know it at the time, but she could not have left Katherine’s household soon enough. Oh, the things she has heard! King Henry has not been dead for half a year, and already his widow has scandalously rekindled her flirtation with the Lord Seymour. Mayhaps, she should have taken her sister with her as she left Chelsea.
Still, Mary cannot afford to be complacent in this newfound freedom. Though Nan Stanhope writes to assure and advise her to pay the council no mind, Mary remains ill at ease with the concessions given her as her brother’s heir, especially in comparison to the paltry sums received by her sister. It is as if they are bribing her, though for what, Mary does not know. It is not as if she will challenge her brother’s right to the throne, no matter that there are some who say he has no right at all, conceived as he was while their father was not in communion with the Holy Church. Neither will Mary challenge the new faith, even as her household clings to the old. So long as the apple cart is not upset, she will remain as she was through her father’s reign, silent and unobstructive to ease the fears of men, however much she takes no pleasure from it.
There is a feast at court, to celebrate their victory over Scotland. Truly, Henry does not see it as one, not when the little Queen of Scots has been ferried away to safety in France in the dead of the night, but their young king does not seem to know that detail just yet.
His brother Edward, Duke of Somerset now by the king’s grace, is not arrived yet, choosing to stay up at Scotland to try and fix the diplomatic mess that the Rough Wooing had left in its wake. Henry doesn’t blame him. The king might yet be young, but in him there already lies the beginnings of a temper as tempestuous as his father’s, and all it takes is but one whisper from an overzealous courtier to remove Edward as Lord Protector.
Thomas, their other idiot brother and now Lord Seymour of Sudeley, on the hand, seems to have made it his life’s purpose to be as difficult as possible. Not only has he been carrying on with the Queen Katherine, but rumour has it that he is also making advances on the Lady Elizabeth, and it seems neither child–woman nor stepmother is immune to his brother’s roguish charms.
As a mere knight, Henry himself is not seated at the high table, though not so far enough that he can’t hear the conversations between his little family. Right now, King Edward is still pointedly arguing with Thomas about the supposed merits of wedding Mary Stewart.
“And if anybody should be getting married, it’s my sisters,” King Edward says, and for a heartbeat, Henry thinks the little king has heard the whispers about Thomas and the Lady Elizabeth. “Mary’s far too bold, she needs a strong hand to bring her round to the true faith.”
“Good luck to the man up to that task,” his brother scoffs, a playful smile dancing across his face.
King Edward stares at Thomas, sizing him up. “Are you not?” he asks.
“No, Your Grace. Sadly, I already have eyes for another,” replies Thomas, staring thoughtfully at his goblet before turning his head to the direction of the Queen Dowager.
It is as he looks up again that he spots Henry, and though Henry tries to duck and remain below notice, it is too late. “But you have another uncle, do you not, Your Majesty?” Thomas suggests. “Henry, come over here!” he hollers loud enough for the entire court to hear, beckoning for Henry to approach the high table.
“Your Grace?” Henry says smoothly, kneeling and bowing before their nephew with a composure their mother would have approved of. “Is something the matter?”
“It seems that the King requires your services on a most delicate issue, brother,” Thomas declares, the gleeful mischief that has caused so much trouble in their boyhood evident in his tone. “Do you not, Your Majesty?”
“Of course,” the boy king says, nodding as he hesitantly licks at his lips, the same way Jane once did, before he speaks once again. “Uncle, are you not a loyal servant to the Crown?”
“I am, Your Grace,” Henry replies, not daring to rise from his position.
“And are you not a staunch follower of the true, Protestant faith?” King Edward asks again, and the prayer beads, Jane’s rosary, feels a heavy burden in Henry’s pocket as he replies.
“There is no truer religion in the land than the one you adhere to, Your Majesty.”
“So, it is settled. My uncle, Sir Henry Seymour, shall be named Earl St. Maur from this day forward,” King Edward announces, standing up as he raises his goblet, while the court loudly cheers and does the same. “Rise, uncle. How would you like a bride to go with your estates, my lord?”
Henry forces himself to smile, standing up tall and proud despite the humiliation about to be visited him. “I will wed whomever Your Majesty bids me to,” he says.
“My lord St. Maur, we give you the hand of our sister, the Lady Mary,” the king solemnly says, and Henry can feel the gaze of the entire court trained at his back as a hush falls over the room. “We task you to bring her to the true faith and cast away her Papism, for we have no greater desire than to see the soul of our well–beloved sister be saved from the fires of hell. Can we trust you on this undertaking?”
“I am ready as ever to fulfil my king’s wishes,” Henry says, falling to his knees once again.
And just like that, bland old Henry Seymour was assured of lands and a most dangerous wife.
“I will not wed him,” Mary declares, casting the letter into the fire.
“Your Grace, it is the King’s wishes,” the messenger protests, his head still bowed that Mary cannot see his expression.
“With the Lord Protector’s words written all over it?” Mary counters with an icy glare. “Tell His Majesty… Tell His Majesty I will need time to think it over. I wish to be alone, my ladies,” she says, and as her attendants bob into a curtsey, she thinks aloud, “You may stay and accompany me, Mistress Clarenceux.”
“Princess?” Susan asks once little Jane Dormer has closed the doors to the audience chambre, and Mary’s heart sings at the use of her true title, now only used by her closest confidants and within closed quarters.
Mary tears her gaze away from the fireplace, where the wax on the king’s seal steadily melts into a puddle, and crosses the room to sit on the table where a chessboard is set up. “Will you oblige me a round, Sue?”
“Certainly, Your Highness,” Susan replies, sitting across from Mary with a smile.
“What do you think of this… match that my brother is proposing?” asks Mary, moving a pawn forwards.
Susan shifts her sleeve so as not to disturb the pieces on the board as she makes her own move. “I think it an honourable one, Princess. The new lord St. Maur has no scandal attached to his name, no?”
“But his brother does,” Mary grumbles. “Wedding Queen Katherine without permission. I marvel at how he managed to escape with his head still on his shoulders.”
“His Majesty seems to be indulgent when it comes to family,” Susan hums, advancing her bishop against Mary’s knight.
“I am his family, too, am I not?” snaps Mary, her temper unrelenting despite Susan’s withering stare. “And yet he forces me into marriage with this… this upjumped knight! Me, who was once betrothed to the most powerful men in Christendom. All to satisfy a man’s ambition!”
“My lord St. Maur does not seem the ambitious type, Princess,” Susan blandly points out, clicking her tongue once she realises she’d inadvertently given Mary an opening.
“No, but both his brothers are, and they’ve convinced Edward to betroth me in the name of making me embrace Protestantism,” says Mary, gladly taking the opening. “I say let them try. Queen to king, Sue.”
Susan smiles back, raising both of her hands in defeat. “You’ve won, Princess. I expected no less.”
They are permitted to have a courtship, at least, however much superfluous it is when neither party had a say in the matter.
Henry does not know what to make of his betrothed, this fallen princess as much the spitting image of Queen Katherine — whom he will still refer to as such despite the Oath — as she is of her mercurial father. From the reports that have reached him, Lady Mary paints the picture of a perfect English rose. Handsome, charitable, and pious to a fault, they say that she has the warmth and an easy charm about her that inspires loyalty from those lucky enough to be taken into her household.
Now, though, Henry suspects that something got lost in the cipher translations.
He gets his first glimpse of his betrothed as the portcullis of Framlingham is raised, glittering in her finery and flanked closely by her ladies and the household staff. While he’d brought along a retinue fit for his new standing — an earl, God help him, but he’d never dreamt to be one — Henry still cannot help but feel conscious of the difference in rank between them.
He jumps off his horse, sweeping a grand bow before this daughter and sister of kings, and wonders how Thomas could pull off his charms so flawlessly.
“Welcome to Framlingham Castle, my lord,” Lady Mary greets with a shallow curtsey.
“Thank you for hosting us, my lady,” Henry replies out of rote, standing upright as he puts on his cap again and forces himself to smile.
“You may have the east wing to yourself, my lord,” says Lady Mary, still wearing her mask of impassivity. “We shall see you at dinner.”
Henry nods in acknowledgement, and as the winds howl over the hill fortress, he wonders if this ancient fortress would be as cold and unwelcoming to him as its mistress has.
Dinner is a quiet affair. All of Mary’s household is sizing up the interloper in their midst, ready to pounce should he do something untoward, despite Mary’s insistence that she knows how to defend herself. And how not, when Mary has been manoeuvring her way through worse courtiers for a better part of the decade?
“Tell me, my lord St. Maur,” Mary says, breaking the silence, as she cuts up a bite from the venison. “How was my brother, the King, when you last saw him?”
“He is well, my lady,” Lord Henry replies, taking another sip from his goblet. Nervousness, or a proclivity for wine? “The king means to throw another feast soon to celebrate my brother’s marriage to the Queen widow.”
Mary’s knife slips from her grasp, clattering against her plate. “I was not informed they have been wed,” she says, doing nothing to hide her shock or disgust. “The mourning period is not yet over, did my brother give them permission in private?”
“I… cannot speculate, madam,” he says, and that hesitation is all Mary needs to know that her stepmother has eloped.
“My sister Elizabeth? Is she still our lady mother’s ward?” Mary asks again, spitting out the word mother as surely as the woman must have done to the memory of her recently departed husband.
“She is, madam, and she remains well also. I do not think Queen Katherine would neglect any of her charges,” says Lord Henry with a nod and a bland smile.
“It is not the Queen whose duties to her charges I worry about,” she replies sharply. It is your brother, she does not say. “Though Elizabeth should be allowed to have her own household soon. I was already administering to Ludlow at her age.”
The sooner, the better, too, so her poor sister should not fall prey to another Seymour.
Lord Henry clears his throat, wiping his mouth on his napkin, as he offers Mary a placating smile. “And you have done a splendid job of it, my lady, if your household’s loyalty is evidence enough,” he says. “Your late mother often used to read reports of your accomplishments aloud to her staff.”
“My moth—” Mary stumbles on her words. “What do you know of my mother, sir?”
“I was her carver like yon man Jerningham, until your father broke up her household,” Lord Henry replies, his expression softening. “She would have been proud of the woman you have become, Lady Mary.”
Mary smiles back at him then, a genuine one this time. “Thank you, my lord St. Maur,” she whispers softly back, feeling Susan’s eyes trained on the back of her head. She’ll need to scold her chief lady for it later.
Henry arrives at Wulfhall to a row.
It is not unusual, to hear his brothers have shouting matches when both are in residence. Edward must have heard about Thomas’s elopement by now, which must be the cause of this new argument. Henry can’t even blame him for losing his temper, it was foolish of Thomas to attempt it were the king anyone but their sweet nephew.
What is surprising in this instance, is the fact that Henry himself was summoned by their eldest brother as well.
“Brother?” Henry says, standing by the door of Edward’s study. From the corner of the room, he can see Thomas sitting on the oak table’s edge, wearing an insufferable smirk as he waves his hand.
“Stop gawking, and close the door behind you,” Edward responds, irate, as Henry does as he’s told. “I thought you the sensible one, Harry.”
Henry swallows thickly. So, it is childhood nicknames with Edward today, then. “Is this about the betrothal, Ned?”
“Yes,” their eldest brother snaps. “What’s got into you? Both of you? None of us were made to marry princesses. Or queens, Tom.”
“It was not my choice,” Henry protests, near at the same time as Thomas says “So this is how you’ll congratulate me for my marriage, then?”
“You went behind the King’s back, Tom,” says Henry, turning swiftly to glare at their youngest brother. “Was this the reason you offered me up to marry the princess all along? Because you already went and married the queen?”
Edward’s eyes narrow into slits. “Is this true, Thomas?” he asks. “You put the King up to Henry’s marriage?”
“As if you wouldn’t have seized the opportunity were you in my position,” Thomas sneers wolfishly. “As if you wouldn’t have relished the thought of our family in control of the realm, you with the king, I with the queen, and our brother with the heir.”
Edward sighs as he turns his back on the both of them, staring out into the window, his face unbetraying of the thoughts that lie beneath. “It’s a dangerous game you play, Thomas,” their brother says softly.
“This game’s been dangerous since the day our sister caught the King’s eye and we put her up against the Boleyn woman, brother,” Thomas spits back, mockingly bowing to their brother before he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Don’t tell me you are set on marrying him just because he was in your mother’s service,” Susan asks as she tugs on the laces of Mary’s gown a little tighter, emphasising the swell of her bosom.
Mary hums, smoothing out the front of her forepart. “It is precisely because of that that I am accepting his suit, dear Sue,” she whispers, motioning for Frideswide to come forward with the foresleeves.
“But why him, ma’am?” Frances Jerningham asks, taking charge of the right sleeve as Frideswide attaches the left. “Surely there will be others of far higher standing.”
“No foreign prince will dare risk offending the Crown by asking for my hand before the King has sired his own heirs,” Mary says plainly. It is the cold truth of the matter, and it does not serve her well to hope otherwise.
“And the Privy Council will make Her Highness a worse match should she refuse this one, make no mistake,” Frideswide adds, as she finishes tying up the sleeve with a practiced flourish.
“At least this one’s a Catholic,” Jane Russell points out, attaching Mary’s French hood. “If he was truthful in saying he was in Queen Katherine’s service.”
“I am touched that you care so much for my wellbeing, dear ladies,” Mary says, admiring her ladies’ handiwork from the mirror that Jane Dormer’s holding up. “But there is no need for you to worry on my behalf. I have written to Nan, and she has vouched for him. If there ever was a Seymour with less ambition, it is my lord St. Maur.”
“Well,” says Catalina, clapping as she ushers everyone out of room for the mass. “Then let’s hope my lady Somerset’s gossip is as good as it always is.”
The King gives them exactly a month to tie the matrimonial knot, lest he march both of them up to the altar at swordpoint. It’s not nearly enough time in Henry’s opinion, to woo a princess grown distrustful of men and marriages and soothe her fears of both.
Still, he tries, making the journey from Hampshire to Beaulieu where the Lady Mary relocated her household in anticipation of their nuptials, sending out the betrothal gifts in advance. They continue the same arrangement as they had in Framlingham; two different households in two distant wings of the property. If Henry did not know any better, he would think the lady was trying her hardest to avoid seeing him for as long as possible.
It’s a lovely spring morning when Henry finally catches sight of his betrothed in the estate’s orchards, laughing with her ladies as they nibble on dainty little pastries under a canopy. She and her companions do not seem to have noticed his approach, until he doffs his cap and greets them.
“Good morrow, Your Grace, my ladies.”
Lady Mary’s expression sours for a moment, before she smooths it over with a polite smile. “Good morrow, my lord,” she says. “I trust that you are enjoying your tour of my gardens.”
“I am, my lady, now that I have seen its rarest bloom,” Henry replies in a flush of uncharacteristic boldness.
She nods in acknowledgement, as the youngest of her ladies titters at Henry’s words. “Would you like to go hunting today, my lord?” Lady Mary asks.
“Certainly, my lady,” replies Henry, the sudden question taking him aback. “What do you suggest?”
“Well, I was going to say deer,” Lady Mary says nonchalantly as she stands up and approaches him, her attendants smoothing out her train in her wake. “But Master Browne has informed me a wolf was spotted in the woods last night,” she adds, baring all her teeth as she smiles.
Henry gulps, the symbolism not lost on him, before forcing himself to smile back. “A most excellent idea, my lady,” he replies with a curt nod. “I’ve heard they haven’t been seen this far south in a long time. If you will permit me to get my own party ready, then I will meet your household at the gates.”
“Then do, my lord,” she says, waving him off. “Though I must warn you not to keep me waiting.”
Lady Mary awaits him by the portcullis, riding astride a splendid white destrier whose mane she is brushing with a gloved hand, her rich damask gown from this morning exchanged for a split–skirt cambric riding habit.
It does not miss Henry’s notice that they are alone.
“My lady,” he says, urging his own Bucephalus on. “I was under the impression that we would be joined by your household.”
Lady Mary smiles as she pats her horse’s neck, not deigning to look at Henry. “Oh, I’ve dismissed them,” she replies. “They trust that I am safer in my own woods than I would ever be in mine brother’s court,” Lady Mary adds, as she suddenly urges her horse into a canter.
“My lady, you must wait!” Henry yells, nudging his palfrey to gallop after her.
His pleas fall on deaf ears, as the Lady Mary simply rides faster, her peals of delighted laughter making Henry smile as well.
He catches up with the lady in a nearby glen, and disembarks from poor Bucephalus to let him drink from the stream.
“That was dangerous, my lady,” Henry says as he scratches the back of his palfrey’s ear. “He could have thrown you and broke your neck.”
Lady Mary scowls as she herself gets down from her own horse, smoothing down the folds on her cape, a bow and a quiver full of arrows slung over her shoulder. “I have known these woods since I was a child,” she says. “Do not fret, my lord, I am too excellent a horsewoman to fall. And besides, I would not dare inconvenience the Lord Protector by having him need to arrange you a different marriage.”
“It is not for fear of a broken betrothal I worry, madam,” Henry says with a sigh. “It is because you are the King’s heir. It is the realm’s wish that you remain hale and hearty.”
“Precisely,” the Lady Mary snaps with a flaring temper Henry was all too familiar with from his royal masters. “So then why, pray tell, am I being betrothed to a knight’s second son?”
Henry’s posture stiffens, his back straightening as if he were recoiling from a slap. “Have a care, Lady Mary,” he says. Unambitious though he may be, he was still not without pride for the ancient Seymour name. “You may be the King’s sister, but I am still the King’s uncle.”
Lady Mary’s face colours, though she does not back down. “At last, the truth,” she announces with a flourish. “So tell me, my lord St. Maur, how much did you relish the thought of finally bridling me?”
“I have already told you time and time again, madam,” says Henry, exhaling through pursed lips in an attempt to keep his temper cool. “I am not the ambitious sort, nor did I have as much choice in this match as you did.”
Lady Mary stares him down, circling him like a prey animal. “And yet, it suits you quite well, does it not? To have the entire royal family under the Seymours’ thumb?”
“I thought you a sensible woman, my lady,” is Henry’s passive response. “Evidently, I was wrong in my estimations,” he says, petting Bucephalus’ neck before jumping back onto the saddle.
Lady Mary’s jaw hangs open, blinking as she stares in surprise at Henry. “My lord—”
“I suggest you reconcile yourself to this marriage as I have, Lady Mary. And soon, too, lest they find some fault and you find yourself quickly despatched to the Tower,” says Henry.
The threat may be unwarranted, but find its mark it did, as the lady pales and leans against her destrier to keep upright. She must needs learn to guard her tongue under this shaky regency.
“Goodbye, madam,” Henry bids her, tipping the brim of his cap in the lady’s direction, but before he could urge Bucephalus on, a sudden chill passes through Henry.
The forest is still, too still, as if something had sent all the creatures scurrying away into hiding. The leaves, too, have paused in their gentle rustling. Nature had never struck fear into Henry before, raised as he was in the outskirts of the great woods of Savernake. This, though, felt different.
He turns to look at the Lady Mary, who seems to have sensed the shift in their environment as well. “My lady—”
Before he could finish his thought, however, a great groan echoes through the woods, and Henry’s eyes widen as he sees what is about to approach.
A massive white hart is headed towards them, towards him, its thundering hooves heralding its approach, the tall and sharp antlers pointed forward with the intent to impale. Henry is no coward by any measure, but he feels as though frozen as Bucephalus rears up in terror, and it is all he could do to grasp the reins and not get thrown off when the sharp twang of an arrow whistles through the air.
Henry barely has time to react when the beast falls to the forest floor with a loud thud, an arrow impaling its temple and sticking out through the other side.
At the same time, Lady Mary sucks in an audible breath, her eyes wide as she shakily lowers her bow. “Are you well, my lord?” she asks, her voice high and reedy.
“Yes,” Henry responds, clearing his throat as he attempts to regulate his own breathing, soothingly rubbing his hand against his steed’s neck. “Erm…”
The lady curtly nods, before approaching the stag and kneeling before it, as if assessing its massive girth. Blood is already pooling beneath the wound on its head, the tongue lazily lolling out as the vacant eyes stare judgingly at Henry.
“It ought to be enough to feed the household until the next week, don’t you think so?” Lady Mary asks, as if the creature had not nearly gored them both just a moment ago.
Henry blinks, breaking eye contact with the stag, shrugging his shoulders to rid them of tension. “I suppose so, madam,” he says with a frown. Then, with an attempt at humour, he asks, “Though how are we going to get it back to the keep?”
“Why, drag it back with our horses, of course,” says Lady Mary nonchalantly.
Henry simply stares at her.
The month passes by far too quickly for Mary’s liking. She should not be so anxious, she is one–and–thirty; most women have already been wedded and bedded at her age, some of them more than once.
And yet, that is precisely why Mary is afraid. What if she is already far too old to bear a child? Her courses were never regular, after all. What if she is too much like her mother in that regard?
Oh, mamá .
Mary puts her lips to her mother’s crucifix hanging off her neck. What she wouldn’t give to have her here. Eleven years gone, and yet, the wound is still too deep to heal. Mother should be here, giving her womanly advice for the marriage bed. Mary has no one to do that for her. Even Lady Salisbury has been so cruelly ripped away from her, and her ladies that are now are too young to advise her, save for dear Sue and her sharp tongue, but Mary knows that marriage has not been consummated either.
At least her kingly brother has spared no expense, no doubt trying to compensate for the Queen Dowager’s secret marriage by making Mary’s into as extravagant a spectacle as the treasury might allow. Mary admires the gown laid out for her, rich ivory samite and cloth of silver, the long bell sleeves embroidered with flowers of gold thread and seed pearls that catch the sunlight and glitter so. Most surprising of all, given his ascetic court that has begun to shun superfluous adornments, Edward had sent her a brooch for her bodice as well, a Tudor rose made out of gold, set with rubies for Lancaster red and diamonds for York white. She would not have thought to wed in a royal bride’s attire, given her legal bastard status, but Mary is still Edward’s heir, and her indulgent brother would not have permitted anything less.
A rooster crows in the distance, and Mary blinks, taking in a sharp breath. It is time to get ready.