by Diane Haeger
They then led dancing once the disguising was over.
Mary took the prominent place by her brother’s side as they began an intricate pavane, and then a lively branle, in which only a few of the most well placed joined. Katherine had become increasingly fearful that any sort of activity or court illness could harm her son, so she rarely attended any of the entertainments, preferring to remain with him in the nursery at Richmond. Here, the best dancers at court, brother and sister, were well matched, and Mary had no rival for attention as the crowd of elegantly dressed onlookers watched and applauded wildly after each dance.
In spite of the carefree air, the looming specter of war was lost on not a single member of King Henry’s court. After the humiliating defeat for which Ferdinand still blamed his inexperience, Henry was determined to be victorious on the battlefield against the French. He would, he declared, finish what he had begun. But for now, the king and his closest group of friends laughed and danced and sipped claret from tooled silver goblets in the warm afternoon sun.
“So, tell me, sister,” Henry began as they danced theatrically, both aware of the eyes upon them, both reveling in the attention, “how would you feel at the prospect of cancellation of your betrothal?”
Mary looked at her brother, and smiled for the benefit of the court. But privately, she said, “I had heard whispers you were contemplating such a thing, but I thought it only a bit of the idle speculation of which our court is so fond.”
Henry laughed and kicked with impressive height. The crowd applauded. His reply, however, was said with a note of frustration. “Maximilian is a stubborn prig in this. He believes me too young and untested, and he is trying to make me look the fool because of it. I may be young, but I mean to prove him wrong.”
“Have you another arrangement in mind?”
“There have been suggestions put forth, and if things do not shortly improve I will be forced to consider them more seriously.”
They turned again, her blue dress swirling along with the kaleidoscope of other colored skirts twirling around her.
Then they bowed to one another, as the other dancers did.
“So tell me, my wise young sister, with all the world at your feet, who might you advise me to consider?”
“You seek my opinion on such a matter?”
“I shall deny it boldly if called upon to declare it, but it is your opinion alone that means the world to me, as no one else’s at court could—not even Katherine’s.” He smiled. “But then you already knew that.”
The question put forth, her mind conjured only an image of Charles Brandon. It remained there, stubbornly bright.
Henry so favored his friend that he had recently bestowed upon him not only the vaunted title of Knight of the Garter, but he had made him a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, which left little doubt of his steadily growing influence. In addition, there were few appropriate, other unmarried suitors on the world stage from whom to choose at the moment.
She had once heard the old, widowed French king, Louis XII, proposed, but that seemed absurd for many reasons. For one thing, the war with France was imminent, which thank-fully rendered that match unlikely. As brother and sister laughed and danced, Mary’s mind dared to admit a small glimmer of a fantasy to dress up the vision before her: if she did marry Charles Brandon she could remain beside her brother at court as helpmate and companion. And had he not just said he trusted her like no other? Now that their father was dead and Henry was in control, could he possibly have thought better of losing her? At that moment, her life could not have felt more perfect. All of that whirled now in her head and she felt a happy laugh burst up from her heart as everyone watched them dance.
“Of course I am not well versed enough in court matters to advise the king,” she said with a broad smile, as if she had cleverly just figured something out, “but perhaps you would find favor in a selection that would keep me a bit closer to you than Castile.”
“Nothing would make me happier, my Mary.”
When the dance ended, he bowed to her, and she curtsied. He kissed one cheek, then the other. Mary could not help it, looking up into his eyes: she was overjoyed. Now if she could only convince Charles Brandon to think of her as more than a risk to be taken, her life would be absolute perfection.
As everyone changed partners, Thomas Knyvet, tall and smoothly handsome, dressed as he was in dove gray silk, bowed to her next. Mary had always liked Thomas. She knew he and Muriel were a match, not a marriage, and so she could forgive his attraction to someone beautiful like Jane. She only pitied the toll it was taking on her friend, whose heart was being worn away a little more each day that she maintained her status as secret sometimes mistress.
“Wolsey tells me you are to captain a ship against the French,” Mary said as they joined hands, then bowed.
“We sail at week’s end, my lady.”
“I wonder, in your absence, who you shall miss the more,” she asked archly, which made him laugh. Everyone at court was accustomed to wit, and Mary could spar with the best of them. “Be good to her, Thomas. She deserves better.”
She saw a small glimmer of a smile as his glance automatically cast about for Jane. They saw her at the same moment and Mary saw her return Thomas’s smile. Jane was sitting beside Lady Monteagle, with her slim, lined face and deep-set olive-colored eyes. Both women were on fringed stools beside one of the turned poles that held up the fluttering canopy.
“You have been a good friend to Jane,” Thomas Knyvet said sincerely.
“As she has been to me. You know I have counseled her to quit you.”
“As well you should.” He smiled evenly, not undone by her admission. “She deserves a husband of her own.”
“On that we agree, Thomas. And if you hurt her, I do swear I will never forgive you. Nor shall the king. Still, do take care of yourself out there, will you? You have more than most men to return to.”
Although spoken lightly, her words held an underlying sincerity few of their conversations ever had. She had known him for a long time and cared for both him and Jane. Edward Howard came upon them then, wearing a jovial smile himself and a rich doublet of blue velvet laced with silver thread.
Court companions since birth, Knyvet and Howard were in-separable. Howard was not as handsome as Knyvet or Brandon, being short and stout, but he was every bit as quick with a phrase and half again as clever—like money, wit was an essential commodity to thrive at Henry’s court.
“So I amend that to three by whom you shall be missed, and to whom you absolutely must return,” Mary said as Edward bowed to her.
“We captain companion ships for the king, my lady Mary.
I shall be out there right beside Thomas against the accursed French.”
“Perhaps you should just stay out at sea, Thomas,” Mary joked. “That would certainly solve the problem you have back here.”
“It would at that. I shall, as always, consider my lady Mary’s sound advice.”
She laughed. “At the very least, send a shot across to them for me, and for Mistress Popincourt as well, will you, Edward? Just to remind you both that we—and all of the complications of this happy court—shall be right here waiting for you when you return.”
“Brandon and I shall send one for you as well, if you like,” Henry Guildford happily offered as he came upon them in an easy stride, holding a silver goblet.
Mary felt the shock of sudden surprise. “Brandon is to go to sea as well?”
“Together, we are to captain His Highness’ newest vessel, manned by the most elite force. It is a high honor.”
He was right about that. The privilege Henry had bestowed upon them all was clear, but Charles Brandon felt it most particularly for the disadvantage with which he had begun life and how far he had risen at court through Henry’s grace and favor. Involuntarily, Mary found herself surveying the crowd, looking for him. Seeing her as she did, Guildford leaned forward, cupping a hand around his mouth in a gossipy, just slightly fem
inine manner.
“He has gone to Southwark, my lady Mary. Rumor has it, there is a woman he visits there, though no one at court knows quite who she is.”
Hearing it, and knowing Charles Brandon, the revelation did not surprise her. “Where would you hear such a thing?”
“You know his uncle, of course.”
Everyone at court knew Thomas Brandon, the ambitious braggart who had control of what Brandon fortune there was. “Yes, I know him,” she said coolly.
“At archery two days past, Sir Thomas Brandon could not help boasting that he has great things in store for the family through his nephew. Since Charles has used marriage to elevate himself before, we all assumed it has something to do with the mysterious woman in Southwark.”
Mary felt a breeze across her face, cooling her childish thoughts and fantasies. Charles had a destiny, and obligation.
So did she. Of course there would be another woman, and another and another—until Charles had the power he craved.
“Are you unwell, my lady? You’ve gone pale,” Knyvet asked, pulling her back to the moment.
“Someone fetch her a chair,” Guildford barked in a panic, and the vestiges of her fantasy snapped completely and were gone. She was actually glad now that he was going away, going to sea. It really was for the best.
“I am perfectly fine.” She swatted at them just as Henry always did his servants. “I just lost my balance for a moment, that is all.”
Muriel Knyvet had heard every word because no one had even looked or bothered to see that she was there. Not even her own husband. She had long suspected Jane Popincourt of corrupting Thomas. But having the proof of it had still been a death blow. Now she wanted to kill someone else.
She wanted to kill Jane . . . and Mary, for knowing about it and telling her nothing. Each unmistakable word was like a flame burning, consuming her heart, a heart that had only ever been given to Thomas. She had loved him all of her life.
Her soul now as well twisted, burned . . . turned to ashes.
Yes, him most especially. She wanted Thomas to die . . . to burn with her . . . to turn to the pile of ash he had left her in for the unpardonable sin of having fallen out of love with her. The pain was blinding.
Crying and only now realizing it, Muriel dashed at the tears on her face, her rust brown skirts trailing through the grass as she walked alone away from the tent—away from the laughter, the lies, the rivalries and the deceptions. Damn you, all of you, she thought darkly, knowing that the only one who would ever perish for this—the only one who already had—was herself. Hearing about her own husband as she had, Muriel cared nothing at all that she was pregnant.
Because it was Thomas’s child alive within her, a child she knew he did not want, and she would rather face death than live the rest of her life raising it now . . . now that he loved someone else.
Less than two months after his birth, the son and heir who had brought hope and freedom from the past to Henry VIII, died suddenly at Richmond Palace. At the candlelit midnight burial in Westminster Abbey, the king sat stone-faced beside his sobbing wife. He was bereft at the loss for all his son had meant, but Henry had learned well as a child to make no show of his grief, and this occasion would be no exception. As king, he must be stronger than that. Stronger than everyone.
Chapter Nine
Men flourish only for a moment.
—Homer
August 1512, the English Channel Standing commandingly on deck of the John Hop-ton, sea spray moistening his face, Charles grasped the wet railing as the sleek new four-masted warship he captained was heaved and pitched into another, and then another, blue-black wave. A flock of gulls flew overhead. In his captain’s coat made of green and white damask, he was drenched with saltwater, and his beard, which he had not bothered to trim, had grown long.
Beneath him in the hold and at their posts around him on deck were amassed the most elite of the king’s fighting men, proudly wearing the same Tudor colors as their captain.
Bearing gunpowder, wooden chests full of pikes, muskets, saltpeter, and provisions of beer, flour and salted beef, they had navigated through a choppy sea raging with storms, waiting to attack. Around him, the water, full of foam and waves, was teeming with other warships preparing to attack the steadily approaching French fleet. On one was his friend Thomas Knyvet. On another was Edward Howard, Surrey’s son, whom Henry had named Lord Admiral. Charles looked out at each of the ships, buffeted by the wind, both with masts and banners emblazoned with the king’s crest. He should have been comforted by the nearness of his two dearest friends as he prepared for what lay ahead. But Charles’s mind was full of another thing.
Mary believed he intended to marry again. Thomas Knyvet had told him of that conversation with Edward Howard the day before they set sail about a woman in Southwark.
Charles had done nothing to correct the impression he knew Mary had. He had been a fool, even for a moment, to let his mind and heart suggest to him there could be a future with the king’s sister. He knew his silence would put an end to those fantasies on his and Mary’s part. Ambition was one thing.
Absolute madness was quite another.
Suddenly, in what felt like a moment, everything shifted.
He had seen the French ships approaching for the better part of an hour. Knyvet’s ship, the Regent, was out in front, vulnerable against them. There was a shot then that ripped through the mist and sea air. A volley of them followed between the French and English ships as they weighed anchor next to one another. Charles felt something then. A premonition? It was an ominous sensation that forced words up from his solar plexus, an order shouted out through the wind.
“Full sail, steady on course!”
If Howard’s ship joined with Knyvet’s, they could more boldly attack the larger French vessel and be done with it.
The idea seized him with little time to see it through.
Another volley of shots rang out, then a sudden violent explosion on the French ship. There was a ripping burst of color, light and sound so powerful that it tore through his chest right to his heart with a force that sent Charles hurling onto his back. The spray-slick deck around him was peppered with debris, wood and fiery cinders, raining down like crimson snow. Charles realized the hold of the French ship must have been stuffed with gunpowder. The water and the waves were quickly littered, and the air was filled with the haunting, plaintive cries of men burning to death. In a moment that twisted before him with color and the acrid scent of burning wood and human flesh, Charles cried out as he watched in helpless agony as the fire that raged aboard the French ship jumped across to the Regent, caught hold and began to spread through it, ignited quickly by the English ship’s own store of ammunition and gunpowder. Edward Howard, Lord Admiral, stood at the bow of his own ship, which had come alongside Charles’s vessel.
Both men, captains, friends, stood mere feet away, helpless to go to the aid of the Regent or their friend Thomas Knyvet.
The cries went on, screams of terror and agony, breaking through pandemonium and blinding horror, as both Brandon and Howard shouted at their crews to dive into the wreckage-strewn water and search for survivors. Smoke from the burning overtook them completely as Brandon directed his own crew to help him aboard the Lord Admiral’s ship, anchored just next to his own. He wiped the tears away from his blackened face with the back of his hand and drew in a deep breath to try to steady himself as he walked toward Edward Howard, who stood frozen, staring at the still burning massive wreckage of two ships before them.
Charles approached him slowly as the admiral’s crew carefully pulled three badly burned men onto the deck. Watching with horror, Charles very cautiously put a hand onto Howard’s shoulder. But his old friend seemed not to feel it.
“It’s not your fault,” Charles murmured. “You could not have known.”
“I am Lord Admiral . . . I should have known.”
A thick gray smoke enveloped the ship completely now, hiding them from all but
each other, and the stench of burning flesh was so strong that Charles was forced to cover his mouth and nose. But short, stout Edward Howard stood completely unmoving as the call from a dozen voices for bandages and fresh water rose up over the continuing cries of agony. Even as Charles gave the order to draw up anchor, Edward Howard said nothing else other than the single phrase he had already uttered.
“God help me, I should have known. . . .”
News of the gruesome death of Thomas Knyvet, and the rest of the Regent crew, swept through court. The shock of it extinguished the optimism of the new reign. The romance of war was quickly replaced in the minds of sheltered courtiers with the gritty reality of battle. The ladies in Mary’s apartments were sympathetic to grief-stricken Jane, but there was little public comfort they could offer, since Muriel Knyvet was lady to the queen.
Thinner now than ever, pale and gaunt, Muriel wore widow’s black, and Jane avoided her. At night, Mary held Jane as she wept, Mary alone knowing the truth—that someone else’s husband truly had cared for Jane—and she felt the horror of the last words she had spoken to Knyvet herself.
Perhaps you should stay out at sea. . . .
“I wish I had died with him. . . .” Jane keenly wept, safe in Mary’s tight embrace that first night after hearing. “God take me . . . I feel as if I am already dead.”
They lay together deep beneath the down-filled blankets and enclosed inside the tapestry draperies of Mary’s bed, and Mary held her friend like a small child. Her own guilt was extreme, as if her words alone, those last few, had changed his fate. But that was foolish. She knew it. And in the moment, she felt a certain fading away of her youth and maturity begin to take its place. She had been so bound by the desire to grow up at court that, until now, Mary realized, she had embarrassingly done only the opposite, consumed as she had been by dresses, dances and flirtation and other trivial things.
