by Diane Haeger
“Your Majesty’s kindness is an honor to me.”
“Write to Wolsey, then,” he said, in what sounded almost like a command.
The next silence extended out for what felt like an eternity to someone with everything to lose—one who had come to manhood and power led by blind ambition and prevarication, one who had just taken what felt like the greatest gamble of his life in his honesty now. He hated being at this foreign sovereign’s mercy but there was no choice.
“I find that I like you, Brandon,” Francois magnani-mously declared. “I will do all that I can for the sake of that rare thing that is between you and the dowager queen, as that which is so like what I possess with my own queen, my Claude.”
Across the room, Lorraine put a finger over his lips.
Hearing those false words, it was then, from his place near the door, that the duc de Lorraine knew that the King of France had something very different in mind than a genuine desire to help Charles Brandon and Mary find a way to be together.
After Suffolk had thanked him with irritating profusion and had gone from the chamber, the duc de Longueville and Claude de Lorraine advanced in a blur of silver thread and silver chest chains, from the place where they had stood together nearly unnoticed, beside the door.
“Do you believe from what you heard that, with my tacit approval offered up, Brandon shall now find the courage to ask for her hand?”
“It is my understanding, Your Majesty, that the dowager queen has already asked him. My spies tell me that her ultimatum was delivered rather boldly this morning and with a rain of tears so abundant that she could be heard down the length of the corridor.”
“Ah, women and their tears. They do know how to use them.” Francois’ smile broadened. His teeth flashed. “Feisty English rose . . . what a dreadful waste she shall be on a scoun-drel like Suffolk, who could not begin to know how to nurture her as I could.”
“Your Majesty has offered the bait with perfection,” flattered the duc de Lorraine. “Now we must wait to see if he has more ardor or good sense.” He was smiling with complicity.
“I’m not certain I understand Your Majesty’s decision,”
Longueville dared to say.
“Well, obviously, she is not going to agree to marry Lorraine here,” Francois declared with a flash of irritation. “And she is apparently not going to become my mistress—not with a man who looks like Suffolk so close at her heel. Nor do I want that sly fox in England to win this by marrying off so beautiful a sister to the emperor’s grandson, after all these years.”
“It does make France far too vulnerable for anyone’s liking.”
“And so Your Majesty has an alternate plan?” asked Longueville.
“Always, Louis. A prudent king must always have that.
After all, is it not you who always says power is like a game of chess and one must always consider not only the move at hand but the next move, and the next?”
“No, sire. That was Lorraine,” replied the man whose own heart had remained in England.
Mary waited all afternoon, full of faith, hoping that Charles would find her and tell her there was nothing so much in all the world he wanted as to marry her now when, at last, they were both free to do so. As she sat beside the queen watching a masque performance in the garden, he did not come. Nor did she see him at the concert that followed. Perhaps he did not believe her when she’d said, with all the conviction in her heart, that she would without hesitation escape to a convent rather than submit to another man out of duty and not love.
The truth was, Mary had never meant anything so much in all her life. Everything they had endured, everything she had become, had brought them both down to this single, defining moment.
The queen listened intently to the music and the Italian singer standing before them, but Mary would have given anything in the world to jump up and run very far away right now. Patience had never been a great virtue of hers, and it seemed less so now. Marriage had been a great deal to ask of any man. She knew that. Yet there it was. His choice.
When Claude glanced over at her, Mary forced herself to smile and nod but she had not heard a single note sung right in front of her.
Charles sank to his knees onto the claret velvet–covered prie-dieu and lowered his head. He was in the small chapel at the Hotel de Cluny. Mary was upstairs, and what he did next would affect not only his own life, but perhaps history. She might be meant to marry another king . . . beget a great dy-nasty . . . he could be taking a destiny from her far greater than a common life with him. . . . Charles missed Anne so keenly just then, the trusted counsel of a sister, her honesty and humor. At this moment, he even missed Henry, whose raw clarity in things never wavered. If he could see the king’s face, as he always had—read his expression—he would know far better what to do.
As the French king advised, he had written to Wolsey and explained the situation, but of course the letter could not possibly arrive in London in time. The sound of Mary’s weeping still echoed through his mind, haunting him with thoughts of all he stood to lose. If I should wait . . . and lose her love because of it . . . if she should be married off to another because I paused for too long . . . He closed his eyes. Heavenly Father, I am at a crossroads. I know not what to do. . . . She is my love, my heart . . . but he is my king. . . . I cannot think how I am to honor one and betray the other.
When he went to her chamber a quarter of an hour later, he knew what scrutiny he would face from the French ladies there. There would be no turning back from the gossip it would cause. Whatever they decided to do, soon the world would know their secret and the cocoon of secrecy in which they had always lived would be gone forever. But he realized, only by seeing her one more time would he know the right path to take. He owed both of them that. When he could put it off no longer, he rose, made the sign of the cross and began the long walk to where Mary, and destiny, waited.
Chapter Nineteen
Destiny waits alike for the free man as well as for him enslaved by another’s might.
—Aeschylus
March 1515, Paris
“I tell Your Grace the truth, she has already gone.”
Charles pressed back the panic and pushed his way past Madame d’Aumont and into Mary’s French apartments. His movements were rushed and a little frightening to the ladies who sat playing a card game of imperial. “Surely a queen does not simply disappear!”
“That one certainly has,” she countered ruefully. “Her Grace has done as she wished.”
In all of her life, there had only been one night that Mary had ever done precisely as she wished, Charles thought, and he had been there. But he did not say that as he moved from room to room, opening the heavy carved and painted doors with one powerful thrust after another. She could not have gone through with it—escaped to a French convent. It was not meant to end like this between them, unresolved, unanswered. The impulsive side of her that had so drawn him four years earlier, now made him angry. But just as swiftly the anger changed, flipped to regret. She could not do this.
As he moved in heavy-legged strides back toward the door, a young woman with smooth blond hair and remarkably wide blue eyes stepped before him. Surprised by her boldness, he stopped and looked at her.
“Perhaps if Your Grace took a moment for reflection, you would find the peace you seek in the private chapel below,” she offered with a kind smile and in a very low voice meant for only Charles to hear.
“I was only just there, and I was alone.”
“Perhaps Your Grace should consider looking again,”
Diane de Poitiers suggested calmly. Not thinking, only feeling, Charles took the curved stone stairs two at a time, his heart thundering through his chest. He found Mary a moment later, alone on her knees on the very same wooden prie-dieu before the altar at the front of the chapel where he had knelt. Mary’s head was lowered against her steepled hands, and he could hear her whispered prayers as he came up behind her. He could see that she was dresse
d for travel, with a white satin jacket lined with white marten fur over her white mourning dress. Her hat was black felt. He knew only then, in that moment as he watched her, that he had never needed Henry or Anne—their approval or their reproach. He would promise her anything, give her anything, so that she would not leave. His answer came as clearly as a broad summer sky as he gazed up at an ancient gold-leaf panel of the Annunciation behind the altar. It felt to Charles as if God himself had sanctioned his decision.
When he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, Mary did not jump. Nor did she seem surprised that he had come. She merely made the sign of the cross in a firm triangle from her forehead and then across her chest, stood and turned to face him. Her expression alone was the thing that surprised him.
He had already seen that she had changed here in France.
But now those changes were marked. There was nothing of the child left on her face, in her bearing or in the tone of her voice. There was nothing uncertain left about her either.
“My horse waits in the courtyard. A single moment more and I would have been gone.”
“Then thanks to God for my impeccable sense of timing,” he countered, but she did not even smile. “Forgive me for not returning sooner, but I know what I want now.”
“I have known it all along.”
“I do not deserve your devotion.”
“That’s a pity,” she stubbornly countered. “Because I most definitely deserve yours.”
He took her into his arms then, not caring at all who might see. He pressed a kiss onto her forehead, each of her cheeks, and then onto her lips. “You are my life, Mary. All of it.”
It felt as if he were being swept up by a swiftly moving tide, carried along toward something very dangerous. But Charles Brandon no longer wished to free himself. He would live or die, and at peace, by whatever happened next.
The wedding ceremony was performed that same evening in absolute secrecy, in the same little stone chapel at the Hotel de Cluny where each of them had prayed about the other.
Flames flickered atop dozens of long white tapers and set the nave aglow, along with the faces of their witnesses. The king, queen, Louise de Savoy, the duc of Longueville and Claude de Lorraine, as well as Diane de Poitiers and her husband, all sat silently bathed in warm amber light. No one English was present besides the bride and groom. Francois had insisted because he felt that until Henry could be informed, the risk was too great. When Charles suggested a delay to pursue Henry’s permission, Claude de Lorraine had countered that, since His French Majesty’s graciousness had been offered, that should well be enough. It seemed too great a risk then to insult their host. They knelt together at the altar, all decorated now in white, the frontal embroidered with a Tudor rose. Their hands linked under a silk bridal canopy, prayers and blessings were spoken by Cardinal de Tournon. After a Mass was said, at last, Mary and Charles exchanged vows.
Then finally, the wedding ring was blessed. And in deep, reverent French, Charles was instructed by the cardinal.
“Place it now upon her thumb, as you speak the words, In the name of the Father. Then move it upon her second finger and say, In the name of the Son. Upon her third finger as you say, And of the Holy Ghost . . .”
Charles’s eyes glowed with love and admiration for her and Mary was awed by that as he trembled just slightly, pressing the ring fully onto her finger. She leaned her head over onto his shoulder then as the cardinal pronounced that they were mariés. When he kissed her, she made certain not to close her eyes just in case when she opened them, she would find that tonight had all been nothing more than an exquisite, fleeting dream.
As they walked together back down the aisle toward the chapel doors, Charles gripped her hand and whispered to her, “Would you really have joined a convent?”
“Thank God, we shall never need to find out,” Mary replied, happier at that moment than she had ever been in her life.
Wolsey had not wanted to tell him, yet there was no one else brave enough. As always, he had simply needed to plunge into the sea of Henry’s fury and try his best to swim through it. It was how he had survived. How he had just last month fulfilled a lifelong dream, having been made cardinal. At Windsor Castle, he walked with Henry through the dormant privy garden, doing his best to keep up with a king who now stalked down the brick path, his face mottled red, not noticing the cold or the damp of the howling winter wind.
“How dare he? Brandon is a traitor to me!”
“Your Highness knows your sister. Stubborn to the core when it is something she desires.”
“After all these years, he owed me his loyalty! He gave me his word, for all that was apparently ever worth!”
Wolsey must pace himself, he knew that well enough.
Timing and a calm response were critical, not only for Charles and Mary’s sake, but for his own. “Love is a difficult thing to contain, sire. It makes one do impulsive things.”
“Love?!” Henry barked on a deep and icy chuckle. “The only thing Charles Brandon has ever loved is himself! If he were in England right now, his head would be on the block before he could even think about consummating this insult of a marriage!”
“Our Mary has written to you of the circumstances as well. Perhaps if you read her words, the two of you—”
“The devil I will! My sister is every bit as guilty of deceit in this as Brandon! Can she say anything to alter the reality of that?”
“Not alter, but perhaps explain.”
He stopped, pivoted back, his expression softened. “Tell me, Wolsey, was I not good to them both?”
“Your Highness’s goodness was beyond compare.”
“Charles was like my own brother, and I always treated him as such.”
“You have shown the greatest brotherhood to both of them,” Wolsey believably flattered.
Wolsey drew in a breath, glanced up at the bare, spiny oak ahead of them, prepared to exhibit his most apostolic posture: hands steepled, head slightly lowered reflectively.
“And yet, it does seem that perhaps, because of the familiarity with which the three of you have grown to adulthood, this trust was the consequence rather than an insult to you.”
“Whose side are you on?” Henry angrily asked in a voice that was becoming deeper and more booming every day.
“Your Highness’s of course.” He wisely bowed.
Wolsey saw that his familiar expression and tone were something of a balm, and beneath it, Henry softened. “She was my favorite in all the world. She knew that, and she used it against me to get her way.”
“She wants your love, Henry. They both do. They want to come home. They want to serve you here.”
“Never! It is too late for that now. They shall remain in France and see how tolerant and loving my good French brother will be to them over time.”
“You wish them to remain forever in France?”
“What other use is she to me now? No, she will go straight to the gallows here! As will he!”
Wolsey knew that Henry did not mean that, but he must continue to move with caution. Norfolk was just waiting for an opening to supplant him in the king’s mind and heart, as he had worked against Brandon and Buckingham.
The wind picked up then and blew the rich marten fur at both their necks. Wolsey felt himself shiver against the sudden chill but did not dare to break his gaze from the king’s.
“Her Majesty’s friendship is more dear to you than any other. I have heard you say so myself. That shall not have changed between you.”
“And the loyalty in that friendship, Wolsey? How could I ever forgive her for abandoning that?”
Wolsey could not answer now. The wound was too new, too raw. But in time, Henry would remember that there was no one in the world like his Mary. How he would help the king realize that, Cardinal Wolsey yet had no earthly idea.
That, perhaps, might best be put before God.
Finally—yes, finally—after seven years of disappointment, Katherine had given the King o
f England a living child, who had remained so for more than a scant few days like the others. The fact that the baby girl had survived a month already seemed something of a miracle to be celebrated. Just before the death of Louis XII, Henry had named her Mary, after his sister. That choice seemed a bitter pill now when Henry felt so betrayed, he thought, as he gazed down at the little cradle, lined with the smoothest white silk and linen. Her sweet little head was peeking out over a mound of bedding and the intricate lace coverlet sent from the queen’s father for his first grandchild. The queen was too old now for him to expect miracles, Henry realized, but a living child meant there was still a small ray of hope that she might yet be able to give him a son and heir after all. As they stood together before the tiny bed in the royal nursery, Henry put an arm gently over the shoulder of her stout body.
“Are you pleased with her, Hal?” Katherine tentatively asked, her English still thick with her Spanish roots in spite of her many years in England.
“I shall be more pleased when you give me a son.”
She tensed ever so slightly beneath his arm in response. It was a nuance, yet he felt it—and he also felt the guilt. He should not have said what he felt quite so directly, knowing how hard she had tried these past long years to do her duty—and what it meant to her that she had been unable to. The fact that Bessie Blount had given him the son he craved had been an excruciating indignity for Katherine—yet one she suffered silently. He no longer loved her, yet still she was his queen.
The emotion did compete with his affection for Bessie’s son, a beautiful boy, bastard or not, whom Henry had immediately christened Henry Fitzroy. He had also bestowed upon the infant the vaunted title Duke of Richmond, according him his own household and staff. By virtue of his birth, the world now knew that the problem of conception lay with Katherine of Aragon alone. The fact, along with his frustration, made it difficult for those barbs not to slip across his tongue.
