Princess Mary, a rebellious, golden child of the Tudor family, at the age of eighteen is forced into an arranged marriage with King Louis of France - an aggressively jealous main in his late fifties.
When troubles arise, Mary is cornered and throu...
Clickity, click, clack - my heels echoed in the House of Tudor as I arrive at my brother's chambers. We are women of England, we have no say in matters of estate, marriage or love. Yes, marriage and love are very different things to Queens. Our duties include bearing sons, silencing our tongues and remaining faithful - even when our King is not. Especially then. Every wild, toxic, creative and beautiful thought that enters our feeble minds are squashed like vermin against the rigid, taciturn floor.
If this was the life and demands of a Queen, then I was not suited to be one. I could not remain trapped within my own mind and married off to a merely suitable alliance. I could not handle the belittlement. But I had no choice, for my brother is the most powerful man in England, he is King Henry VIII.
He will dictate where and whom I shall serve, especially when it benefits his interest. Being only eighteen years of age, the imprisonment of our England fortress will both protect and limit my existence. I try and set my erratic thoughts aside as I position myself before my brother Henry's dorm; a hefty sigh releases me.
"Princess Mary, My Lord" quivered the silver coated guard.
"Enter my sweet sister." The King summoned; his roar triumphing over any canon I've ever heard.
I creep within the intimidating mahogany doors, my azure silk gown gliding behind me. Cracks crawl amongst its withered frame as it desperately conceals King Henry VIII's daily rages. Being the King of England is no easy task. Although, being the sister of the most powerful man in England is a far greater, arduous chore. I still had to obey the duty of England, with less respect and choice.
"Hello, Mary," he sighs as he fumbles over his map and diminutive marble statues.
Before I can respond he swiftly overpowers me, "You should be getting ready for your coronation. You're finally of age, growing older, yet still so oblivious to the surrounding dangers of the outside world. You'll be leaving for France tomorrow, you are their new Queen." He alleged, "Mary Tudor, my sister, the Queen of France."
I discarded his pride and continued, "I have concerns about my suitor. As you know, I have been betrothed to two men before Louis XII. Are you certain in your choice? I know not much can be done now if you do reconsider as we have been wed, but we have not yet been bedded, so maybe -"
His glare shot through me like an arrow in full speed. "Mary, Mary, Mary. It is good you are fair in your looks as the most beautiful princess in Europe, as your mind is weak and unable to lead. Charles of Castile and the Holy Roman Emperor were puny alliances and unloyal. Thus these weddings did not take place."
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"But My King, brother" I attempted, "King Louis is more than thirty years my senior. How could England expect any heirs from such an old man?"
"The peace treaty remains!" He yelled. My eyes began to flood with pure hatred and resentment. After calming himself he continued, "You have been wedded yet not bedded I hear. This shall change by the end of the week. You must consummate your vows and begin giving France heirs. It looks as though the French King doesn't have much time before he meets the face of God."
Without another word, I scurried out of the room. Tears flooded my cheeks, I could not lay with a man whom I barely know, a man I do not love. Queens and Kings must always put their country first and I dearly love England and care for the protection France can offer... but I cannot ignore my utter hurt.
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I cannot disobey the King. Being in the King's favour expands prospects, so I will remain a chess piece, a wife for an alliance, a feeble host with a silenced tongue.
Oh, how I wish to fall into the arms of a broad-shouldered YOUNG man, with cheeks that blush cerise and eyes that scream innocence.
On that note, my dreams crumbled right before me like a week old croissant.
