by Diane Haeger
“But if the king does cancel her betrothal to the Prince of Castile, as you believe he may do, what then? Can you just sit idly by and watch His Highness choose a new husband? Can a viscount not ask more rightfully for the hand of a princess than a man with no title at all?”
He sank back in his chair, studying her as a warm autumnal breeze blew in upon them through the window, fluttering the curtains. “Uncle was here?”
“He visits occasionally, yes. News that is of benefit to anyone in our family seems worthy to him for making the trip. So when you are Viscount Lisle can you not more rightfully broach the subject with the king? God knows, if there were ever anyone ambitious enough to do it, it is you.”
“Not when she can have a prince, Anne. No, I’m done with marriage for a while. This time I shall be wise. Perhaps by the time my little ward grows up I shall have repaired my reputation and be ready to marry again. But not before then.”
It was a declaration delivered so forcefully he nearly believed it himself.
Chapter Ten
Look with favor on a bold beginning.
—Virgil
December 31, 1512, Greenwich Palace “I am going to approve the petition, granting you the wardship to make you Viscount Lisle.” Henry smiled proudly as he sat in his private cabinet, at his leather-topped desk, the walls around him lined with prized maps that he had begun to collect. Beside him, Edward Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, lingered near the ornamental cage by the window where the king kept two nightingales.
“But most key to what I have arranged for us will happen this spring, when we attack France by ground. I want you with me, Charles, to fight beside me. I shall announce properly at the banquet this evening that, as marshal, you shall be the one to command all the English army.”
“After what happened at sea, I am not certain I deserve such an honor. I don’t suppose I will ever get over that,” he said haltingly. What he meant was that he was not certain he wished to get over it. Sometimes guilt was a good thing. It could strengthen a man. If it did not kill him first.
“Well, you had better try. That was not your fault. Howard was in charge and he let me down, not you. He has been right to stay at sea. You are my dearest friend, Charles. I trust you with my life and perhaps I should have trusted you instead of him with the admiral’s post. You have proven your loyalty to me again and again. Since you are the only one worthy of the honor, and the responsibility, you are to be appointed High Marshal as we go to war in spring. That is the end of it.”
Charles was stunned at Henry’s insistence, considering his own youth and inexperience. There was no greater honor, no bigger military responsibility than overseeing the entire English army. But he knew well and understood Henry’s passion for the chivalric code and the romance of war, which he had gained from his father. It was in part that legacy that was urging him on, pressing him to attack the French for land that had once belonged to the English.
“But the advancement to viscount. I don’t really know if—”
“It is a sound elevation, especially as you go out to command our army. You shall have an annuity of twenty pounds from it as well. I only regret I did not think of it first.” He shrugged.
The money would barely cover his clothing bill, and he still owed a small fortune not only to the previous king’s estate but to his uncle. “Very well, I do wish the wardship and title, Harry,” he said in an intentionally familiar tone. “What fool would not? I just do not wish the wife to go with it.”
“Is that the problem?” Henry threw back his head and laughed deeply, his eyes lighting. “Well, based on the age of Lady Grey, my friend, you have time enough to decide about that. Or is it that you have someone else in mind?”
The question surprised him, and for one mad moment, he actually considered answering truthfully. “There is a certain girl of the court. . . .”
“Well, then pursue her, man. Ho, by all means. You are no longer a married man. Of course you will need to seek my approval for a marriage of any sort, but you do have it on sound authority that the King of England has a soft spot in his heart for you.”
Henry wrapped his powerful arm across Brandon’s shoulder as they strode away from Buckingham, who he could tell had been listening, out of the chamber together and then down the length of the impressively portrait-lined hall. “Besides,” Henry remarked, “while the child has suited your purpose up until now, I actually have someone far more spectacular in mind for you myself than young Lady Grey.”
“Do you?”
“It would be a rather daring match—even a bit scandalous once I propose it—so we shall just wait and see how things progress?”
“Well, you certainly have my interest.”
“Ask me not to identify her now, but if all goes according to plan you will be more powerful and wealthy than Buckingham and Surrey together, once the match is made. Those two are thick as thieves about something lately, and I tell you, I am not amused by it,” said Henry with a sly smile.
Charles waited for her outside the chapel after the noon prayers, completely taken up by the unfathomable thought that Henry might actually intend Mary for him. He stood secreted behind a stone column, head pressed back, hands at his sides. There was so much against them that he needed to hear how she felt about them. He must know if it was anything close to his own affection for her. Only then would he know how to find the courage to talk to Henry. Mary came upon him in the same instant as Jane turned away to talk to Lady Guildford.
Mary was preciously alone. He seized the moment, gripping her arm and drawing her with him behind the column. Silently, he took her face into his hands and kissed her deeply.
When she looked up at him, he saw a devoted smile that gave him courage.
“I believe I am in love with you, and, wild as it seems, if you return my affection, there just may be a way for us to be together,” he said in a deep voice that was just above a whisper. “It is important to me that you know that.”
“I have been in love with you since I was a very little girl,” Mary said, her own whispered words breaking with pointed, youthful sincerity.
“There is everything against either of us feeling this way.”
“Particularly a king.”
The truth of it made him smile and Charles kissed her again, tenderly. They were close, wound in one another’s arms. “It is a good thing I am going away for a little while.”
“How can that ever be good?”
“We need time to consider everything.”
“I need consider nothing, Charles. I know where my heart lies—where it ever shall lie.”
He smiled at her naive devotion, feeling another even stronger rush of love. “You are still very young but you must trust me. There is a great deal more than two hearts to consider.”
“None of it matters.”
“All of it matters when you are the king’s sister.”
And with that, he kissed her quickly once again, then left. Mary closed her eyes, calming her breathing as she stood a minute longer behind the column.
Mary had never liked the Duke of Buckingham, so when he came upon her from behind a separate column she was not surprised to realize he had eavesdropped on their exchange of devotion. Buckingham was too ambitious, far beyond anyone else at court, she had always thought. Even beyond what drove Charles. He had married off his daughter to the Earl of Surrey simply because she would become a Howard, and it had helped his own standing with the king. He did everything with the same single-minded devotion.
“He will never be able to marry you, you know,” he said to her now.
Mary gave him a cursory glance. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“As one who has watched you grow up, I am concerned only for your welfare, my lady Mary. I was not the only one to see you steal away with Brandon as you just did. Would you think the king would not be concerned as well?”
“You know nothing of what is between my brother and I.
&n
bsp; I do not fear what the gossips may say to him against me,” she replied angrily.
“I think it only fair to warn you that this particular gossip has spread through court like wildfire. Brandon is to be made Viscount Lisle, and the only way to do that is to make her not just his ward but to actually become betrothed to Lady Elizabeth Grey, Viscountess Lisle. He has agreed to it, my lady, and your brother has granted it. He was informed of it this morning. As someone who feels the affection of a father for you, I felt you had a right to know what you may be getting into.”
Mary faltered and reached out to brace herself on the column. True to form, the duke seemed somehow to want to work this to his advantage, though Mary could not be certain how or why. One was never quite certain of anyone’s motives at court, since few were rarely all that they seemed.
“You are mistaken about Charles.”
“I heard Sir Thomas Brandon speaking with Wolsey about it myself. Planning, my lady.”
Mary sank against the column then. She felt an utter fool.
She had believed him. Loved him with her whole heart. I feel such a fool, chasing after him like a lovesick puppy.
Seeing the sickened expression and the way the color had drained from her face, Buckingham softened. “You are a girl in bloom of first love, and he is a grown man who should know better, my lady. No one could ever fault you for that,” he said, sounding more genuine than even he had expected to be.
Perhaps he is what they say, and not what I have let myself believe him to be. . . .
That harsh thought raced through Mary’s mind as, sitting beside Katherine with Jane Popincourt, Lady Surrey, Lady Monteagle and Lady Guildford, she watched her brother enter the banquet hall in all of the pomp and pageantry to which he had swiftly become accustomed. Henry looked fit and regal in a magnificent green velvet doublet with gold slashes, encrusted with jewels, ornamented by a sweeping gold cape. His muscular legs accentuated by tight green hose beneath his velvet breeches were fashionably padded with horsehair. On his head was a plumed, green velvet beret studded with a great square ruby. Everyone sank into deep curtsies and bows as he strode by with a confident smile.
The court had had little to celebrate since the death of Thomas Knyvet. The subsequent declaration by their friend Edward Howard, that he would not return from sea until Knyvet’s death was avenged, had only intensified the somber mood at court. Everyone wore black. Henry had ordered the temporary cessation of his beloved musical consorts, and even music at meals, out of respect for his friends. But that was all over now. It was New Year’s Eve, and the king meant to cast off the old for a celebration of the new.
Surprisingly, walking directly behind Henry, with his long, confident stride, Charles entered the hall. He was wearing a costume nearly identical to the king’s: green velvet, gold slashings, gold cape. Conceived by Henry, as only it could be, it was a grand statement of not only their brotherhood, but of Brandon’s ever-growing power and influence—something Henry clearly wanted everyone to know. As the king approached the queen and bowed ceremoniously to her, Mary saw that Charles had paused to speak to Lady Monteagle’s young, pretty daughter, Eleanor. They were laughing, and he was leaning in toward her. Was he even thinking of her?
Would he think of her later tonight? Tomorrow? Mary wondered as she watched them, and felt her stomach twist when he did not soon move on.
Hot spiced wine was being brought around in jeweled cups by an army of servants holding them on gleaming silver trays. To Mary, the scent of it suddenly was noxious. She could smell the cinnamon and sugar mingling with candle smoke and burning wood. She could hear the foolish girl giggling at something Charles said. Mary watched her reach out to touch his arm. Lord, why did she have to care so much what he did?
Henry, who stood a few feet away, lifted his cup in a toast and as he did the room fell silent. His voice was commanding in its rich baritone as it echoed through the vast hall. “For his service to me, I command that Charles Brandon is henceforth officially Master of the Horse, which also makes him my esquire, giving him complete control over all of the royal stables. Those of you who know the importance of my horses to me will understand the great significance of this reward to my dearest, most important friend.”
Wolsey lifted a jeweled hand to his chin. So I have Surrey, Buckingham and now Brandon’s ever-growing influence to balance, he said to himself, knowing that the gauntlet and race for Henry’s closest favor had effectively just been thrown down to them all. In the face of so multifaceted a challenge, the title of Royal Almoner did not anymore seem enough to sate his own ambition. Like every other courtier, Thomas Wolsey wanted more, and he meant to get it by being just a little bit wiser than the three competitors. Unlike Surrey and Buckingham, Wolsey believed that he would gain far more by subduing Charles Brandon through friendship than by trying to vanquish him, as the other two were doing. It was a calculated risk, but success took daring as well innovation.
Dancing began and Mary lost Charles amid the turning, bowing and swirling of velvet skirts and the glitter of gold and jewels. Knowing about the wardship had changed everything for her. How could a man like him—one who had known so many women, and used them all—truly care for her? He might covet the princess, but could a man like Charles Brandon ever truly love the girl? If she remained at court, Mary had no doubt what would happen between them.
She had seen too much of Jane’s own sad story to believe it would be any different for her. She would not be the first virgin he had bedded, or the first woman to whom he would become unfaithful. Even so, she still found herself searching for him through the throng of dancers, through the laughter and the music. She was made dizzy by it all as Wolsey leaned in to speak.
“It appears that Mistress Popincourt could certainly use an escape to the country,” he calmly observed of Mary’s friend, who was dancing woodenly with the Earl of Surrey’s elder son, Thomas. Her face was devoid of emotion or enjoyment as she did. “Perhaps you could as well. Clear your minds. Both of you.”
Until then, Mary had been so taken up by watching Charles that she had not even realized Wolsey was sitting beside her, or that the weight of his significant presence was pressing in on her. Mary looked at him then, the kind, full face—the fleshy, slightly veined cheeks and sharp black eyes—which had once seemed like a father’s to her and was just now slightly irritating. Mary looked at him fully. “Leave court?”
“Only for a little while. Leave the things at court that trouble you. Give yourself time to consider,” he amended.
She paused a moment. “You know, don’t you?”
“I have always known, child. And I am here for you anytime you need to speak about him to someone you can trust. Perhaps just have me listen. I am tolerably good at that, as well. There is a lovely house I have just purchased, called Hampton Court, in Herefordshire that needs checking in on. It is, my lady Mary, an earnest offer from a well-meaning friend.”
At least he had not said, like so many others, that he felt himself like a father to her. In spite of the fact that she felt closer to Thomas Wolsey than any other of the men at her brother’s court, she could not have tolerated the duplicity in that just now. The room was stifling and the dizziness it caused was making her ill. Charles was dancing with Lady Monteagle’s daughter, with her long, shimmering golden hair and clear sparkling skin. Was he trying to make her jealous?
He seemed to be ignoring her entirely now that he was a man soon betrothed to his ward. What did it mean? The Duke of Buckingham’s words, and now Wolsey’s as well, swam in what felt like the thickening clot of mud building in her head. Her heart and her fantasy were making everything more than it was. He was committed once again. She was betrothed. There was no future for them, only heartbreak if they were alone and she let him do what she knew he wanted to do. She had only to look upon Jane’s history to see that.
When Wolsey reached over to squeeze her hand in that familiar gesture of his, Mary closed her eyes. In response, Wolsey smiled to
himself but Mary did not see that.
Thomas Wolsey’s grand country estate could not be a more perfect destination. He had marked time for days, waiting for just the right moment to step in and offer it to her. It was like one of the king’s favorite dances—timing, with each step, was everything and Mary had needed to be at her most vulnerable. Brandon was close to the goal he sought and if Wolsey was to oversee things, he must intervene now. He genuinely liked Brandon. Always had. And, unlike his two opponents, Wolsey was not entirely certain that what was between Brandon and the king’s sister could, or would, be stopped simply by the two men wielding their combined power against it. On the contrary, Wolsey knew that by befriending the would-be lovers at a key moment, his loyalty to them above reproach, the three of them could become a triumvirate of power to which neither Buckingham or Surrey could ever come near.
The next morning, he waited near the entrance to Mary’s apartments. Like a moth to a flame, he knew Brandon would come as well, and he did. Wolsey closed his prayer book with a little snap and advanced, his red silk shift the only sound as he walked.
“She has gone to Herefordshire, my boy. It was for Jane Popincourt’s sake—and for hers as well.”
“Did she ask you to wait here and speak to me like this?”
“I care for the princess Mary as if she were my own daughter. I know her heart. She loves you and you are in love with her.”
“It is true.”
Wolsey pressed a deliberate hand onto Brandon’s shoulder. “Then let her go for now. No good can come of it for the moment. If she is meant to be yours one day, God will light a clear path and I shall help you find it. I know not why, but something tells me the marriage with the Prince of Castile will not happen. But for now, while the king is so set upon it, you press her into an impossible situation when she must do her duty to England.”
