Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

Thus it was that in the May of the year 1513 he decided to lead his own army against the French.

The great cortege was on its way to Dover. An army of fourteen thousand men had already crossed the Channel and were awaiting the arrival of the King; and now Henry was setting out on the first great adventure of his reign.

He was determined that this should be a glorious occasion. He rode at the head of the cavalcade, his coat of gold brocade, his breeches of cloth of gold, his hose scarlet, and about his neck, on a chain of gold, a huge gold whistle encrusted with gems of great value. On this he blew from time to time.

The Queen and her ladies accompanied the party to Dover; and among this party was the Princess Mary, uneasy because Charles was going to war; and, although she loved the dazzling ceremonies before the departure, she hated the thought of the two men she loved so dearly going into danger.

The night before they sailed the four of them were alone together. Henry and his wife, herself and Charles; and she was envious of her sister-in-law who, like herself, was apprehensive, yet at the same time deeply content, because Katharine was pregnant and Henry was very affectionate toward her and had greatly honored her by making her Regent in his absence.

Lucky Katharine! thought Mary, who need make no secret of her fear and love.

Mary threw herself on her knees before her brother that night. “Henry,” she said, “you must take care, and not go into danger.”

Henry laughed aloud. “My dear sister, we are going to war. Would you have me hide behind the lines?”

“Why must there be this war?” demanded Mary.

“Come, come, that’s women’s talk. There must always be wars. We have a country to subdue. I promise you this: when I am crowned, you shall come to see the deed done.”

Mary murmured, her voice shaking with emotion: “Take care of each other.”

Then she turned away and stood at the window, staring out to sea.

Henry was studying Charles shrewdly. “Well, my Lord Lisle,” he said, stressing the title to remind Charles and Mary how the former had come by it, “my sister is deeply concerned for us. Methinks she loves us well.”

Then he smiled fondly at his meek wife who gave him no cause for anxiety. She would take charge of the realm while he was away, and on his return she might be holding their son in her arms.

Henry was delighted with his campaign. He joined his armies at Therouanne where he found a timber-house with an iron chimney waiting to house him; and many tents were at his disposal, some of them as long as one hundred and twenty-five feet. It seemed possible to wage war in the utmost comfort, and when the Emperor Maximilian joined him, soberly clad in black frieze (for he was in mourning for his second wife), he came, he said, to serve under Henry as a common soldier. This delighted Henry and it did not strike him as strange that the seasoned old warrior should place himself in such a position. Inexperienced as he was, Henry believed himself to be godlike, as those surrounding him had been telling him he was, for as long as he could remember. So Maximilian, receiving a hundred thousand crowns in advance for the services of himself and his Lanzknechts, accepted pay (provided by Henry) like any soldier serving under his commander. Henry did not know yet that the Emperor wanted the capture of the twin towns, Therouanne and Tournay, to facilitate trade for the Netherlands, and that he was ready to play the humble subordinate that they might be won at Henry’s expense.

And when the towns were taken—an easy conquest, for the French put up little resistance—and Henry wanted to go in triumph to Paris, Maximilian persuaded him to go with him to Lille and the court of his daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, where he could make the acquaintance of the Emperor’s grandson, Charles, who was betrothed to his sister Mary.

Henry was disappointed, and grumbled to his friends—Charles, Compton, Thomas Boleyn.

“Why,” he growled, “I had thought to go on to Paris, but it seems the Emperor does not advise it.”

Compton suggested that the French might put up more resistance for Paris than they had for those two border towns, and they had to remember that the autumn was almost upon them, and that the Emperor had warned them of the discomfort of Flanders’s mud.

Charles was overcome with a desire to see the boy who was betrothed to Mary and was not eager to continue with the war because, unlike Henry, he was beginning to see that Maximilian was not the friend the King so artlessly believed him to be; and it seemed that those two wily adventurers, Maximilian and Ferdinand, were of a kind, and their plan was to use Henry’s wealth to get what they wanted.

So he joined his voice to Compton’s, and Henry was not loath to be persuaded.

“I hear,” said Henry, “that the Lady Margaret is comely and eager to entertain us.”

The matter was settled. They would abandon war for the time being and give themselves up to pleasure in the Court at Lille.

The company was in high spirits. News had come from England that the Scots had been defeated at Flodden by what was left at home of the English army, and that James IV of Scotland had been slain.

Henry was jubilant even though James had become his brother-in-law by marrying his sister, Margaret Tudor.

“Never did trust a Scotsman,” he had often commented; and he was not displeased to have his doubts of them confirmed. For as soon as he had left England they had started to march against England. Well, they had learned their lesson. Conquests abroad; conquests at home; what better time for revelry?

And Margaret of Savoy had determined that there should be revels.

Margaret, twice widowed, was still young; being devoted to her nephew, the fourteen-year-old Prince Charles, who had spent much of his childhood with her, she was eager to learn something of the boy’s bride-to-be; and in any case it was always a pleasure to have an excuse for revelry.

When her father with his guests rode to the Palace she was waiting to greet them, her somewhat plump figure attired in regal velvet, her smile kindly; and with her was her nephew and the Emperor’s grandson, Prince Charles.

The boy was embraced with affection by his grandfather, then presented to Henry. Charles Brandon, standing behind his master, wondered if Henry was thinking the same as he was: Poor, brilliant, lovely Mary, to be given to such a weakling!