Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Read Online Free PDF

through his and drew him away from his boisterous courtiers to a relatively quiet corner of the hall. He didn’t resist.
    ‘Henry,’ she began.
    ‘Sweetheart?’ he prompted.
    ‘Henry.’ She stopped again.
    He tilted his handsome head on one side and looked enquiringly down at her. ‘Come, Mary, ‘tis not like you to act the coy maid. Ask what you will and if I can grant it I will. You know well I would be happy to please you. Apart, that is, from—’
    He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Mary knew what he meant — apart from the French marriage. She cleared her throat and tried again. Her words fell over one another in her nervous rush. ‘You won’t forget your promise, Henry, will you?’
    Henry raised an eyebrow and demanded loftily, ‘Think you I am in the habit of forgetting my promises? I am the king .You have my word. Did you doubt it?’
    Although Mary was quick to deny it, she had doubted. Much as she loved Harry the brother, Henry the king was a different matter. The needs of policy came before affection for his little sister. If she were left a widow in France, he wouldn’t hesitate, if policy demanded it, to push her into another loveless state marriage. Still, she reminded herself, she had extracted a repeat of the promise, and she must needs be content with that. Now she smiled up at Henry, again entwined her arm through his, and said, ‘Come, Henry, let us into supper.’
    They walked through the body of the hall and up to the dais. Henry signaled to the minstrels to play and a sweet, haunting tune filled the hall, accompanied by words telling of the sorrows of lost love. Its poignancy was particularly apt and Mary’s eyes stung with tears. Henry must have noticed, for he immediately banged a huge fist on the table, making everyone jump. The musicians stopped with a discordant jangle.
    ‘Must we have that tormenting dirge?’ Henry demanded. ‘Play something merry, for the love of God. This is a happy occasion, not a time for tears and lamentations.’
    After a hasty conversation, a far more lively air sprang up. Satisfied, Henry settled back in his chair and reached for one of the many well-laden platters that formed the first course.
    The cooks had done well in the limited time, but then, with the nomadic nature of the court as it moved from palace to castle and back to palace again, they had plenty of practise. Henry, ever one to enjoy his food, began to fill his vast appetite with relish. But he still had time to notice that Catherine was toying with her food and he chided her. ‘Come, sweeting, you’re setting Mary a bad example. She’ll need all her strength for the journey tomorrow. Eat up, both of you, eat up.’
    Catherine did her best, though Mary knew her sister-in-law’s morning sickness made mealtimes a battle to be endured. Mary, too, began to eat, though her stomach, too, was in a state of rebellion.
    But Henry was pleased to see them eat. ‘That’s better. I like to see hearty appetites about me. Hearty appetites breed hearty sons, my dear.’ Henry glanced at Catherine who lowered her eyes at his reproach.
    At last the meal, with its endless courses, was over. And Catherine and Mary, having eaten sufficient to satisfy the king’s demands, received no further chastisements. The trestles were cleared for dancing. The sky had darkened considerably during the meal. The candles had all been lit. They guttered in the draught of the increasingly stormy evening, their flickering gave a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t, quality to those congregated there, lighting up a face, then shadowing it as the candle flame favoured another. Mary closed her eyes in an attempt to capture the picture in her memory for the uncertain future that awaited her on the morrow.
    ‘Your Grace?’
    Mary’s eyes flew open and she found the Duc de Longueville kneeling at her side, still playing proxy husband. He bowed. ‘You look sad, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘New brides are often filled with