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

be relied upon to act with dignity whenever the occasion demanded that she should.

The girl looked beautiful and it was certain that the Sieur de Bergues, who had come as proxy for the eight- year-old Prince, would go back and report what a charming creature she was. Not that the bridegroom would be very interested at this stage. How lucky Mary was! It would be years before Charles was old enough to claim her.

Mary smiled at Katharine. “Dear Charles!” she said. “He is so much younger than I am. I expect I shall have to take care of him.” She sighed. “He looks delicate. That’s a pity.”

“When you were younger you were delicate and you grew out of it, so perhaps he will.”

“Assuredly he will; and he’ll grow as tall as Henry.”

“Few men grow as tall.”

She looked wistful. “I know. Henry’s bride will be so lucky, won’t she? Imagine being Henry’s bride and Queen of England.”

Katharine, who never ceased to imagine such an eventuality, did not answer; but Mary leapt up and kissed her suddenly because she knew exactly what was going on in her sister-in-law’s mind. Mary had always kept her eyes and ears wide open for Court gossip, and she coerced and bullied her attendants into keeping her informed. Secretly she wished Katharine luck, for she was very fond of her, although she was often irritated by all the piety and somewhat melancholy outlook. If she would but laugh more and pray less, thought Mary, Henry would be more inclined to view her with favor. Although of course royal princes and princesses could not choose their spouses and it would not rest with Henry whether he married her, unless …

She stopped her thoughts running in that direction. Hers was an affectionate nature and her father had never been unkind to her; but he had never been effusively loving as she would have liked him to be; it was simply not in his nature to be so. Yet he had shown that he was not entirely able to resist her, and it was exhilarating to know that she alone could make his lips quirk in amusement, could bring a note of softness into his usually harsh voice. But his Court was so dull, and Henry was always saying how different it might be.

She thought of her sister Margaret who some six years before had taken part in a similar ceremony when the proxy of King James IV of Scotland had come to Richmond and had married her in his master’s name. She could scarcely remember Margaret now, except that she had quarreled often with Henry. They had missed her though, because she was like they were—full of vitality, eager to enjoy life.

Arthur had not been like that; he had been more like their parents. Poor Arthur—such a sickly boy, and she certainly could not remember what he looked like. If he had lived Henry would not have been Prince of Wales but a member of the Church. Imagining Henry as Archbishop of Canterbury made the laughter come bubbling up. So perhaps it was all for the best … for Henry was surely meant to be King.

“Are you ready?” asked Katharine.

“Yes.”

“Then let us go, for they will be waiting for you.”

Mary looked about the reception room, which had been her mother’s and which had been draped with hangings of cloth of gold for this occasion, thinking: When next I see this room I shall be betrothed. I shall have a new title—Princess of Castile—and that rather vacant-looking little boy will be almost my husband. Poor Charles, I shall have to take care of him, I can see.

Thinking of him thus she felt tender toward him and was not at all displeased that he was to be her husband.

Katharine took her hand and led her into the great hall, which was hung with silk and decorated with ornaments and gold and silver plate. She saw her father standing with the Sieur de Bergues and, beside him, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Henry was there too. He was excited because all such ceremonies delighted him; he loved grandeur and it was his continual complaint that there was too little of it at the English Court.

He gave his sister a smile as their eyes met; this she acknowledged briefly because she knew many eyes were upon her, among them her father’s.

How ill he looked! His skin was growing more yellow, his eyes more sunken; and Mary felt a pang of remorse because she had been looking forward to the time when the Court would be gay, knowing that it could mean only one thing.

She smiled at him tenderly and the King, watching his lovely daughter, was unable for a second or so to control his features.

Now she was standing before the Archbishop of Canterbury and he was addressing the assembly. The dull old man! She could not concentrate on what he was saying. She was thinking of a long ago day, before Margaret went to Scotland and they had all been in Richmond watching the barges coming from the Tower. She remembered hearing that her mother was dead. There had been a baby sister who had died too; they had called her Katharine. Life could be sad … for some people. She did not believe it ever could be for her, but that did not prevent her from being sorry for those who suffered.

“Repeat after me.” The Archbishop’s voice sounded stern. How did he guess she had not been attending?

“I, Mary, by you John, Lord of Bergues, commissary and procurator of the most high and puissant Prince Charles by Grace of God Prince of Spain, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy …”

She was smiling at the Sieur de Bergues, who was looking at her with the utmost seriousness.

“… take the said Charles to be my husband and spouse …”

It was the turn of the Sieur de Bergues, but she was wondering what disguises she and Henry would put on after the banquet. Would they dance together? She hoped so. No one could leap so high and so effortlessly as Henry.

The Sieur de Bergues had taken her hand and was pushing the bridal ring onto her finger; then he stooped and, putting his lips to hers, gave her the nuptial kiss.

It was really a very simple matter—giving a solemn promise to marry.

From the Palace