4
My name should be Her Royal Highness, Princess Mary Isabella Tudor, but I find myself relegated to the title of the Honorable Lady Mary Isabella Tudor. With the recent birth of my half-siblings, Princess Elizabeth and Prince William, my aspirations of reclaiming my rightful royal title have all but vanished. It seems that my father, once so stern and unyielding, has finally found contentment in the arrival of his long-awaited heir—the Prince of Wales. He is willing to overlook the transgressions of my past, attributing my errant behavior to the depths of my grief. After all, how could a girl raised within the gilded walls of the palace not feel the weight of such loss?
"Cousin Mary," Francis Bandon, a cousin through my aunt, the former queen Mary Rose Tudor of France, inquired, her voice laced with curiosity, "will you accept Uncle Henry’s offer as a means to bend the knee?"
With a heavy heart, I replied, "I shall. My lady mother has advised me to comply. We girls have been raised to honor the wishes of our lords and fathers. If my father is willing to forgive me, then I must acquiesce, regardless of the tumult within my own heart."
As I spoke, my eyes lowered to my needlework, where I was meticulously stitching together Tudor roses interwoven with majestic falcons—symbols of my new stepmother, Anne Tudor, née Boleyn. The act of sewing felt almost therapeutic in its repetition, yet it served as a poignant reminder of the shifts in my life. Surrounding me were my kinswomen, Francis and Eleanor, whose steadfast support would be my anchor. Alongside them, I would welcome the daughters of my mother’s ladies into my household, forming a small but resilient circle around me.
In truth, I knew my circumstances could be far more dire. Despite the chill of uncertainty that ran through me, I clung to the hope that my new alliance might open doors I once thought permanently closed. Perhaps this path could lead me back to the life I dreamed of as a child, a life that held the promise of royal splendor.