by Jean Plaidy
And once the first step was taken, others followed and thus the King of England was finding the life of a soldier a highly interesting and exhilarating one.
With each new love affair he thought less kindly of Katharine. She was his wife; she was the daughter of a King; but, by God, he thought, she knows less of the arts of loving than the veriest tavern wench.
Brandon was his closest companion, and Brandon's reputation, he had always known, was a none too savory one.
He watched Brandon with the women and followed his example even while he shook his head over the man and was shocked by his conduct.
I am King, he excused himself. The woman will remember all her life, what she and I have shared. It was but a kindness on my part. But Brandon!
Always Henry saw his own acts shrouded in mystic glory. What he did was right because he was the King; it was entirely different if another did the same thing.
He was a little worried about Brandon because his sister Mary was so fond of the fellow, and he was afraid that one day she would be so foolish as to ask to be allowed to marry him. What would she say if she could see that bloodless boy to whom she was betrothed—and side by side with handsome, wicked Brandon!
Brandon was now even daring to carry on a flirtation with the Duchess Margaret; and such was the fascination of the man that Margaret seemed nothing loath.
He had watched the exchange of glances, the hands that touched and lingered.
By God, he thought, that fellow Brandon now has his eyes on the Emperor's daughter.
He thought about the matter until some hot-eyed wench sought him out in the dance and, when they had danced awhile, found a quiet room in which to explore other pleasures.
Each new experience was a revelation.
What did we know—Katharine and I—of making love? he asked himself. Was our ignorance the reason for our lack of children?
It behooved him to learn all he could.
There must be children, so what he did was really for England.
CHARLES BRANDON was hopeful. Was it possible that he could marry Margaret of Savoy? The prospects were glittering. He could look into a future which might even lead to the Imperial crown, for this crown was never passed to a hereditary heir. The Empire was composed of vassal states and Emperors were elected from a few chosen candidates.
The Emperor's grandson was a feeble boy who, Brandon was sure, would never win the approval of the electors. But Margaret was powerful and rich. Votes were won through bribery and the husband of Margaret would stand a very fair chance.
It was a dizzy prospect, and he brought out all his charm to dazzle the woman. He did not even have to make a great effort for she was attractive and he could feel real affection for her. Poor woman, she had been unfortunate first to have her betrothal to the Dauphin ruthlessly terminated by an ambitious King of France; then her marriage to the heir of Spain was short-lived, her child, which came after her husband's death, still-born; then had followed the marriage with the Duke of Savoy who had soon left her a widow.
Surely she was in need of such solace as one of the most glittering personalities of the English Court—or any Court for that matter—could give her.
Brandon had for some time been thinking a great deal of another Princess who he was sure would be delighted to be his wife. This was none other than the King's own sister, young Mary. Mary was a girl of great determination and too young to hide her feelings; Brandon had been drawn to her, not only because of her youthful charms and the great glory which would surely come to the King's brother-in-law, but because there was an element of danger in the relationship, and he was always attracted by danger.
But Mary was betrothed to the pale-eyed anemic Charles, and she would never be allowed to choose her husband; but Margaret of Savoy was a widow, and a woman who would make her own decisions.
That was why he was growing more and more excited and blessing the fate which had brought him to Lille at this time.
He was elated because he believed that the King was not ill-disposed to a marriage between himself and Margaret. Henry knew how his sister felt towards him, and Henry was fond of young Mary. He would hate to deny her what she asked, so it would be helpful to have Brandon out of her path, to let Mary see she had better be contented with her fate, because Brandon, married to the Duchess Margaret, could certainly not be the husband of the Princess of England.
So Brandon made up his mind that he would take an opportunity of asking Margaret to be his wife.
When they walked in the gardens, Margaret allowed herself to be led aside by Brandon, and, as soon as they were out of earshot of their companions, Brandon said to her familiarly: “You spoil that nephew of yours.”
Margaret's eyes dwelt fondly on young Charles who was standing awkwardly with his grandfather and Henry, listening earnestly to the conversation.
“He is very dear to me,” she answered. “I had no children of my own so it is natural that I should care for my brother's son.”
“It is sad that you never had children of your own. But you are young yet. Might that not be remedied?”
Margaret saw where the conversation was leading and caught her breath in amazement. Would this arrogant man really ask the daughter of Maximilian to marry him as unceremoniously as he might—and she was sure did— invite some peasant or serving woman to become his mistress?
She was amazed and fascinated at the project; but she sought to ward it off.
“You have not a high opinion of my young nephew,” she said. “I see that your King has not either. You do not know my Charles; he is no fool.”
“I am sure that any child who had the good fortune to be under your care would learn something to his advantage.”
“Do not be deceived by his quiet manners. There is little he misses. He may seem slow of speech, but that is because he never makes an utterance unless he has clearly worked out what he is going to say. Perhaps it would be well if others followed his example.”
“Then there would never be time to say all that has to be said in the world.”
“Perhaps it would not be such a tragedy if much of it was left unsaid. Charles' family has been very tragic. As you know his father died when he was so young, and his mother…”
Charles Brandon nodded. Who had not heard of the mad Queen of Spain who had so mourned her unfaithful husband that she had taken his corpse with her wherever she went until she had been made more or less a prisoner in the castle of Tordesillas where she still remained.
But Brandon did not wish to talk of dull Charles, his philandering father or his mad mother.
He took Margaret's hand in his. Reckless in love had always been his motto, and he was considered a connoisseur.
“Margaret,” he began, “you are too fair to remain unmarried.”
“Ah, but I have been so unfortunate in that state.”
“It does not mean you always will be.”
“I have had such experiences that I prefer not to risk more.”
“Then someone must try to make you change your mind.”
“Who should that be?”
“Who but myself?” he whispered.
She withdrew her hand. She was too strongly aware of the potent masculinity of the man for comfort.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Why not? You are a widow who can choose your husband.”
She looked at him. He was indeed a handsome man; he had the experience of life which was so missing in his young King.
Margaret asked herself: Could I be happy again with him?
He saw her hesitation and, taking a ring from his finger, slipped it on hers.
She stared at it with astonishment.
They were then joined by Henry, Maximilian and young Charles, and as the young boy stared at the ring on his aunt's hand there was no expression in his pallid eyes, but Margaret, who knew him so much better than everyone else, was aware that he understood the meaning of that little scene which he had witnessed from afar�
�understood and disapproved.
BY THE BEGINNING of October Henry, tired of play, now hoped to win fresh laurels; but the rainy season had started and when he sought out Maximilian and demanded to know when they would be ready to start on the march to Paris, the Emperor shook his head sagely.
“Your Grace does not know our Flanders mud. It would be impossible to plan an offensive when we have that to contend with.”
“When then?” Henry wanted to know.
“Next spring… next summer.”
“And what of all the troops and equipment I have here?”
“That good fellow Wolsey will take charge of all that. You can rely on him to get them safely back to England for you.”
Henry hesitated. He remembered the disaster which Dorset had suffered when he had stayed a winter in Spain.
He saw now that this was the only course for him to take. He was disappointed, for he had hoped to return to England, conqueror of France. All he had to show was the capture of two French towns and certain prisoners, whom he had sent home to Katharine, and who were causing her some anxiety because she had to feed them and treat them as the noblemen they were, because as the war with Scotland had proved costly and the war with France even more so, there was little to spare for the needs of noble prisoners.
Katharine had the victory of Flodden Field to set side by side with the conquest of Thérouanne and Tournai, and Henry felt piqued because he had to admit that she had scored the greater victory.
He felt angry towards her, particularly as he had now heard of the loss of the child. “Lost, that your kingdom might be held, Henry.” Grudgingly he agreed that all she had done had been necessary. But, he had said to himself, it seemed that God's hand was against them; and since he had known many other women in France his satisfaction with Katharine had diminished.
Oh, it was time he went home; and he could go as a conqueror. The people of England would be eager to welcome him back.
He sent for Brandon.
“How goes the courtship?” he asked slyly.
Brandon shook his head. “I need time.”
“And that is something you cannot have. We are returning to England.”
Brandon was downcast. “Have no fear,” said Henry, “we shall return and then ere long I doubt not you'll have swept the Duchess Margaret into marriage.”
“She has returned my ring and asked for the one I took from her,” said Brandon.
“Is that so? The lady is coy.”
“One day she seems willing enough, and the next she holds back. She talks of previous marriages and says that she is afraid she is doomed to be unfortunate in that state. Then she talks of her duty to her nephew. 'Tis true that young fellow looks as though he needs a keeper.”
Henry laughed. “I rejoice every time I look at him,” he said. “Max can't last forever. Nor can Ferdinand… and then … it will not be difficult to dupe that little fellow, what think you? And who will take over from old Louis … for he too must be near his death-bed? Francis of Angoulême.” Henry's eyes narrowed. “I hear he is a young braggart … but that he excels in pastimes.”
“A pale shadow of Your Grace.”
Henry's mouth was prim suddenly. “That fellow is a lecher. His affairs with women are already talked of… and he little more than a boy! Brandon, have you thought that one day, and that day not far distant, there will be three men standing astride Europe…three great rivals… the heads of the three great powers? There will be Francis, myself and that young idiot Charles.” Henry laughed. “Why, when I think of those two … and myself…I have great reason for rejoicing. God will not favor a lecher, will He, against a virtuous man? And what hope has young Charles, whose mother is mad and who seems to have been born with half his wits? Oh, Brandon, I see glorious days ahead of me and I thank God for this sojourn in Europe where my eyes have been opened to all that, with His help, may come to me.”
“Your Grace stands on the threshold of a brilliant future.”
Henry put his arm about Brandon's shoulder. “In which my friends shall join,” he said. “Why, Charles, I might even win for you the hand of Margaret, eh, in spite of the fact that she returns your ring and demands hers back; in spite of the snivelling little nephew who doubtless cries to his aunt that her duty lies with him.”
The two men smiled, drawn together by a joint ambition.
Henry was placated. He sent for Wolsey and told him to make arrangements to return to England.
KATHARINE WAS deep in preparations for the return of the King.
Surely, she thought, he cannot but be pleased with me. It is true I have lost the child but, much as he longs for an heir, he must be satisfied with what I have done.
She had Margaret, widow of dead James IV, remain Regent of Scotland; after all, was she not the King's sister? It would have been too costly to have taken possession of the Scottish crown. She trusted Henry would approve of what she had done.
She had recovered from the last miscarriage, and felt well in body if a little uneasy in mind.
Maria de Salinas, now married to Lord Willoughby, was not at this time separated from her, and she talked to her about the masque she was planning to celebrate the King's return.
“It must be colorful,” said Katharine. “You know how the King loves color. Let there be dancing, and we will have the King's own music played. That will delight him.”
While they sat thus Maria ventured: “Your Grace, Francesca de Carceres, realizing that there is no hope of regaining her place in your household, now has hopes of joining that of the Duchess of Savoy. She believes that if Your Grace would speak a word of recommendation to the Duchess on her behalf she would have her place.”
Katharine was thoughtful. It would be pleasant to be rid of Francesca's disturbing proximity. While she was in England she would continue to haunt the antechambers, hoping for an interview with the Queen. Any mention of the woman brought back unpleasant memories… either of the old days when she had suffered such humiliation, or of that other unfortunate affair of Buckingham's sister.
Francesca was an intriguer. Was it fair to send her to the Court of the Duchess with a recommendation?
It was not just, she was sure of it.
No, much as she longed to be rid of Francesca she was not going to send her with a recommendation to someone else.
“No,” said Katharine, “she is too perilous a woman. I shall not give her the recommendation she requires. There is only one thing to be done for Francesca; that is that she should be sent back to her own country. When Thomas Wolsey returns I will put this matter before him, and I doubt not he will find some means of having her sent back to Spain.”
“It is where she longed to go in the past,” said Maria. “Poor Francesca! I remember how she used to sigh for Spain! And now … when she does not want to return, she will go back.”
“My dear Maria, she is an adventuress. She wanted to go to Spain because she thought it had more to offer her than England. Remember how she wanted to come to England, when I left Spain, because she thought England would have greater opportunities for her. Such as Francesca deserve their fate. Waste no sorrow on her. You have achieved happiness, my dear Maria, with your Willoughby, because you did not seek to ride over others to reach it. So be happy.”
“I shall be so,” said Maria, “as long as I know that Your Grace is too.”
The two women smiled at each other then. Their gaiety was a little forced. Each was thinking of the King—on whom Katharine's happiness depended. What would happen on his return?
HENRY CAME riding to Richmond.
As soon as he had disembarked, he had called for a horse, declaring that he was not going to wait for a ceremonial cavalcade.
“This is a happy moment,” he cried. “Once more I set foot on English soil. But I cannot be completely happy until I am with my wife. So a horse… and to Richmond where I know she eagerly awaits me.”
He had been unfaithful a score of times in Flanders but that made him
feel more kindly towards Katharine. Those affairs had meant nothing to him, he assured himself. They were not to be given a moment's thought. It was Katharine, his Queen, whom he loved. There was no other woman who was of any importance to him.
Such peccadilloes were to be set at naught, merely to be mentioned at confession and dismissed with a Hail Mary and a Paternoster.
Katharine heard the commotion below.
“The King is here.”
“But so soon!” Her hands were trembling, as she put them to her headdress. Her knees felt as though they were giving way beneath her.
“Oh, Maria, how do I look?”
“Beautiful, Your Grace.”
“Ah…you say that!”
“In my eyes Your Grace is beautiful.”
“That is because you love me, Maria.”
And how shall I look to him? she wondered. Will he, like Maria, look at me with the eyes of love?
She went down to greet him. He had leaped from his steaming horse. How dramatic he was in all he did.
His face was as smooth as a boy's, flushed with exercise, his blue eyes beaming with good will. Thank God for that.
“Kate! Why Kate, have you forgotten who I am?”
She heard his laughter at the incongruity of such a suggestion, saw the glittering arms held out. No ceremonial occasion this. Now he was the good husband, returning home, longing for a sight of his wife.
He had swung her up in his arms before those who had come riding ahead of the cavalcade, before those who had hastened from the Palace to greet him.
Two audible kisses. “By God, it does my heart good to see you!”
“Henry…oh my Henry… but you look so wonderful!”
“A successful campaign, Kate. I do not return with my tail between my legs like some licked cur, eh! I come as conqueror. By my faith, Kate, this time next year you'll be with me in Paris.”
“The news was so good.”
“Ay, the best.”
He had his arm round her. “Come,” he said, “let's get within walls. Let's drink to conquest, Kate. And later you and I will talk together… alone, eh…of all that has been happening there and here.”
