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

Guildford’s suggestion that she stay in bed for a while, and flung off the bedcovers. She wanted to enjoy all the hours of her unlooked-for bonus. Dressed, she hurried down to the hall to find out what was happening. The sight of her brother gave her answer. From his pursed lips and heavy pacing, the view from the keep had failed to please.
    ‘Cheer up, Henry,’ she called as she approached. ‘Are you not glad to keep me with you for one more day? Will you not miss your sister as much as your sister shall miss her big, handsome brother?’
    Henry turned at her words. ‘I might say the same at seeing you up so early. Are you so eager then to leave us all?’
    ‘You know the answer to that, Henry. I have no desire to sail to France. I would remain here, with you and Catherine.’
    ‘You know that is impossible, sweetheart. You must go to your husband. He is anxious there should be no delay. He feels he has been a widower too long, I think.’
    Mary could only wish Louis found more joy in his solitary state. As she was the one expected to fill the breach, she had no desire to fill him with memories of the pleasures to be found in the marriage bed. Her joy at the reprieve the weather had provided had gone and she crept away to find some of the solitude that Louis was so keen to spurn.
    The storm raged on, and Henry raged with it. It seemed the fates now wished to keep Mary in England, for the bad weather continued, day after day, making departure impossible, till, finally, Henry’s limited patience snapped. He set watchers to signal any lull in the storm so she could depart.
     
     
    Loud voices dragged Mary from sleep to a room still night-dark. After a moment spent wondering where she was and what was happening, she remembered. Immediately wide awake, heart thudding, she realised what all the noise portended.
    The door to her chamber was thrust open and Lady Guildford hurried in, her hand cupped protectively round a wildly flickering candle-flame. She was followed by Mary’s Maids rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
    ‘Come, your Grace,’ said Lady Guildford. ‘The king has decreed the weather is favourable. He has ordered our immediate departure. You must get dressed at once.’
    Mary protested. ‘But it is the middle of the night.’
    ‘It’s nearly dawn,’ Lady Guildford corrected. ‘And your brother’s patience is at an end. We must go now. There’s been a lull in the storm and he says we must make haste and get away before it passes over.’
    Mary had not anticipated being harried from the country like an importunate guest who had tarried too long. And what if the lull was a brief one only? She could drown, her ladies and Mother Guildford with her. An imp of humour told her that at least the embrace of Neptune, the Roman god of the sea, would save her from that of Louis. But that would mean she would never enjoy those of her love. And if she had little else to look forward to, she still had hope that sometime, somehow, she and Charles would be together.
    But there was no time for brooding. No time even for a long round of goodbyes. Mary scarce had time to dress before she was bundled down to the ships like a fugitive from justice, hair half-brushed, head-dress awry, the shock all the greater because with the delay she had half managed to convince herself that the day of departure would be continually put off until Henry relented or Louis, the husband everyone told her was so sickly, died.
    The wind still howled, despite the lull that Henry’s determined optimism had claimed. The rain poured down in torrents. The dirty sea looked as if it had a grudge against her; its huge waves rocked the fourteen anchored ships of the flotilla that would take her and her attendants to France.
    Mary shivered. Could Henry really mean to make her set sail in such weather? It seemed he did, for he strode about the quayside, issuing orders left and right. Mary picked out the tiny figure of Catherine with its precious burden