by Jean Plaidy
“Often.”
“And would you marry again?”
“I married twice and I was singularly unlucky. Such misfortunes make a woman think a great deal before taking the step again.”
“Perhaps it should make her very hopeful. No one continues in such ill luck.”
He took her hand then and drew off one of her rings.
“See,” he said, “it fits my finger.”
She laughed and then said: “You must give it back to me.”
He did so at once and he thought: That is her answer. She enjoys playing this game of flirtation but she is not seriously contemplating marriage with me.
His manner was a little aloof and noticing this, she said: “My lord Lisle, I could not allow you to have a ring which many people would recognize as mine…not yet.”
He looked at her quickly: “Then I may hope?”
“It is never harmful to hope,” she answered. “For even if one’s desires are not realized one has had the pleasure of imagining that they will be.”
“It is not easy to live on imaginings.”
“In some matters patience is a necessity.”
He was very hopeful that night.
Henry wanted to know how his courtship was progressing and when he told him everything, he was delighted. “When we return to England,” he said, “which we must do ere long, I shall bestow a title on you; then you can return to the Low Countries and continue with your courtship of the lady in a manner commensurate with your rank.”
“Your Grace is good to me.”
“When you share the Regency of the Netherlands, my friend, I shall look to you to be good to me.”
When next Charles was with Margaret he talked of his marriage to Anne Browne and his two little daughters.
“I should like to see them,” Margaret told him. “I greatly desire children of my own.”
“I would I might send my eldest daughter to be brought up in your excellent Court.”
“I pray you send her, for I should have great pleasure in receiving her.”
He told her then about the child whom he had rescued from the river, and she said: “Poor mite. Send her to me with your daughter. I promise you that I shall myself make certain that they are brought up in a fitting manner. You see, soon I shall be losing Charles and I shall miss him greatly.”
It was a bond between them. While she had his daughter and his protégée at her Court she would not forget him, Charles was sure.
Henry was making preparations to return to England. He had completed a treaty, before leaving Lille, in which it was arranged that the following May he should bring his sister Mary to Calais where they would be met by the Emperor, Margaret and Prince Charles; then the nuptials should be solemnized, because the boy was fourteen and the Princess would be eighteen, and there was no need to delay longer. The Emperor was eager for heirs, and an early marriage should solve this problem.
Margaret asked then that, if the King should fail to have heirs, the crown of England should go to Mary.
Henry scarcely considered this. Not have heirs! Of course he would have heirs. Katharine was pregnant now. Simply because they had lost their first, that was no reason to suppose they would not have a large and healthy family.
One of his favorite reveries was to see himself, a little older than he was now, but as strong and vigorous, with his children round him—pink-cheeked boys bursting with vitality, excelling in all sports, idolizing their father; beautiful girl children, looking rather like Mary, twining their arms about his neck. Of course there would be children.
But he had no objection to agreeing to this condition. Moreover, in view of what was happening in Scotland, he had no intention of letting the throne pass to his sister Margaret and her son—whose father was that enemy who had attacked England while he, Henry, was in France, stabbing him in the back. Glory to God, the fellow had received the reward of such treachery on Flodden Field!
And so they returned to England.
The people had assembled to cheer their King who came as a conqueror. It was true he had only those two towns of which to boast but he planned to return the following year, and then it would be on to Paris.
Beside the King rode the Duc de Longueville, a very high ranking French nobleman of royal blood, whom he had taken prisoner at the Battle of the Spurs. The crowds stared at this disdainful and elegant personage, whom the King insisted on treating almost as an equal. Henry had become very fond of Longueville, largely because he believed that such a high nobleman, being his prisoner, added greatly to his prestige.
There must be balls and banquets to celebrate the return, but in spite of the splendor it was not a happy homecoming.
Katharine, who as Regent had used all her energies in organizing the defeat of the invading Scots, had exhausted herself in the process and consequently had had a miscarriage. This threw the King into a mood of deep depression, particularly when he remembered Margaret’s request that, should he die without heirs of his body, the crown should be settled on Mary; moreover Katharine had Flodden Field to offer him while he could only boast of Thérouanne and Tournay, and reluctantly he faced the fact that the greater glory had been won unostentatiously at home.
Then there was Mary to be faced. The truth could not be kept from her. Charles was present when the King told her that she must be ready to leave for Calais the following May.
She looked from her brother to the man she loved with stony reproach; her lips quivered, her eyes blazed; then she turned and, forgetting the respect due to the King, walked hurriedly from his presence.
Henry—and Charles—would have been less alarmed had she shouted her protest at them.
The situation needed careful handling, thought the King. Mary was sullen; she never ceased to reproach him. There were occasions when she refused to continue with preparations for her marriage.
It is Brandon, of a certainty, Henry told himself. She still hopes for Brandon. If he were out of the way she would be more inclined to reason.
He sent for Charles.
“My friend,” he said, “I propose sending you as my ambassador to the Netherlands. You should make your preparations without delay.”
Charles bowed. Now that he was back, now that he had seen her again, he had no wish to go. He felt himself being caught up in her wild hopes. He dared not be alone with her. She would be arrogant in her desire; and how could he be sure that he could persuade her that they could so easily destroy themselves?
In her opinion, all should be tossed away for the sake of love; but that was because she was an inexperienced girl. She had been pampered all her life; she did not believe that the world would ever cease to cosset her. Brandon was older; he had seen beyond the glittering Court; he remembered men who had been sent to the Tower for smaller offenses, and only walked out to the block.
It would be well if he escaped before he were drawn into that conflagration about which she did not seem to understand they were dancing like two moths round a candle flame.
“And, Charles,” went on Henry, “you shall go in such a manner as will add to your dignity. Lord Lisle will be no more. Elizabeth Grey is not for you. I fancy Margaret will smile more kindly on the Duke of Suffolk.”
Here was honor indeed; but his first thought was: If the Duke of Suffolk can aspire to the hand of an Archduchess, why not to that of a princess?
But he saw the purpose in his King’s eyes and made ready to leave for the Netherlands.
The French Proposal
BEFORE THE PRINCESS MARY were laid out the treasures which had been brought for her inspection. There were rich fabrics, velvets and cloth of gold, and miniver and martin with which to fur her garments; there were necklaces, coronals and girdles all sparkling with priceless gems.
She stared at them stonily.
Lady Guildford held up a chain of gold set with rubies. “But look at this, my lady. Try it on. Is it not exquisite?”
Mary turned her head away.
“Pl
ease allow me, my lady. There! Oh, but it is so becoming and you have always loved such beautiful ornaments!”
Mary snatched the trinket from her neck and threw it onto her bed, where Lady Guildford had set out the other treasures.
“Do not bother me,” said Mary.
“But the King has asked to be told your opinion of these gifts.”
“Gifts!” cried Mary. “They are not gifts, for gifts are given freely. These are bribes.”
Lady Guildford trembled, because the King had come into the room smiling, certain of the pleasure the jewels must give his sister.
“Ha!” he cried. “So there is my little sister. Decking herself out with jewels, eh? And how does she like them?”
Mary turned her face to him and he was startled by her pallor. Her blue eyes seemed enormous. Could it be that she had lost flesh and that was why she looked so?
“She likes them not,” snapped Mary.
Henry’s face crumpled in disappointment, and Lady Guildford held her breath in dismay. He would be angry, and like everyone else at Court, she dreaded the King’s outbursts of anger. But because this was his sister whom he loved so deeply he was only filled with sorrow.
“And I had taken such care in choosing what I thought would please you.”
She turned to him and threw her arms about his neck. “You know well how to please me. You do not have to buy costly jewels. All you have to do is stop this marriage.”
“Sister…little Mary…you do not understand what you ask.”
“Do I not? It is I who have to make this marriage, is it not? I assure you I understand more than any.”
He stroked her hair and Lady Guildford was amazed because she was sure that was a glint of tears she saw in his eyes. He forgave his sister her boldness; he suffered with her; it must be true that Henry loved nobody—not even his wife—as he loved his beautiful sister.
“Mary,” he said gently, “if we broke off this marriage it would mean our friendship with the Emperor was broken. He is our ally against the French. If I wrote to him and said there shall be no marriage because my sister has no stomach for it, there might even be war between our countries.”
“Oh Henry, Henry, help me.”
He held her against him. “Why, little one, if I could, I would, but even you must fulfill your destiny. We cannot choose whom we would marry. We marry for state reasons, and alas this is your fate. Do not be downhearted, little one. Why, you will charm your husband and all his Court as you charm us here. I doubt not that in a few months, when you are as loved and honored over there as you are here, you will laugh at this foolish child you once were. And you will not be far off. You shall visit us and we shall visit you. And, dearest, when you come to our Court we will have such a masque, such a banquet, as I never gave for any other….”
She jerked herself from his embrace, her eyes dark with passion.
“Masques! Banquets!” she cried. “Is that all the balm you have to offer for a broken heart!”
Then she ran from the apartment, leaving him standing there, bewildered—but miraculously not angry, only sad because he could see no way of helping her.
There was a further check to his plans. Charles Brandon, now the Duke of Suffolk, was ready to set out for the Netherlands where he would fill the post of Henry’s ambassador. And once he is out of England I shall feel easier in my mind, thought Henry, for it is because she sees him constantly at Court that she has become so intractable.
Before the newly created Duke set out, however, a courier arrived with a letter from Margaret to Henry.
She was deeply embarrassed. A rumor had reached her father that she proposed marrying Charles Brandon, and the Emperor was extremely angry. She therefore thought it advisable that before he set out for the Netherlands, Brandon should marry Elizabeth Grey to whom she knew he was affianced. This she believed was the only way in which her father could be appeased.
Henry stared moodily before him. Clearly Margaret regretted that piece of romantic folly, and when Brandon was no longer at her side she realized that marriage with him would be incongruous. She was telling him and Charles that that little episode was over.
He sent for Charles and showed him the letter, and the manner in which his friend received the news was in itself disconcerting, because it seemed to Henry that the fellow was relieved.
“What of marrying Elizabeth Grey?” he asked.
“She is but nine years old, Your Grace; a little young for marriage.”
Henry grunted.
“Then,” he said, “you must perforce leave for the Netherlands without delay.” He brightened a little. “It may be that when Margaret has you at her side once more she will be ready to snap her fingers at the Emperor.”
Charles bowed his head. He did not want the King to read his thoughts.
Henry said: “Then begone, Charles. Leave at once. There is no time to say your farewells to…anyone. I expect you to have left by tomorrow.”
So Charles left for Flanders, and the Princess Mary was more and more melancholy as the days passed.
The Duc de Longueville, guest, rather than prisoner, at the Court of England, found means of writing to his master Louis XII.
He did not regret his capture, he wrote, because it was so amusing and interesting to watch the young King of England in his Court. At the moment there was a great bustle of preparation for the Princess Mary’s marriage to young Prince Charles. The Princess was not eager; in fact, he heard on good authority that she was imploring her brother to stop the match. Not that her pleas were of much avail, although Henry was made very anxious by the importunings of his sister.
“He loves this girl,” wrote the Duke, “as, to my mind, he loves no other; and it does not surprise me. If my gracious liege could see her, he would understand. For she is of a truth the loveliest creature in the Court. Her hair, which is the color of gold, is abundant and falls in thick shining curls to her waist; she has a healthy complexion like her brother’s, and her eyes are large and blue—though at this moment somewhat melancholy. She is well formed and graceful, high spirited by nature, though downcast at the prospect of her marriage, seeming a little younger than her eighteen years. A delightful girl.”
Henry liked to ride out to the chase, the French Duke beside him, for the man was an elegant and witty companion and Henry enjoyed his company; in addition it was so delightful to contemplate that he had taken the Duke prisoner in battle.
Once as they rode back to Greenwich after a pleasurable but exhausting day, Longueville said to Henry: “Your Grace, do you trust the Emperor?”
“Trust him!” cried Henry. “Indeed I trust him. We fought together in Flanders and he served under my command.”
“A strange gesture from his Imperial Highness.”
“Oh, he is a simple man. He told me that he was old and I was young; and that it was a mistake for youth to serve age. It should be the other way about.”
“And he was paid highly for those sentiments, I’ll swear.”
“I paid him as I would pay any generals serving under me.”
“And won for him the two towns he wanted?”
Henry flushed scarlet. “You forget, sir, that you are my prisoner.”
“I forget it not,” answered Longueville, “although the gracious manner in which you have always treated me might make me do so.”
“I forget not your rank.”
“Then, Your Highness will perhaps listen to my opinions, for I was a confidant of the King of France, my master, and I could be of use to you.”
“How so?”
“Your Highness discovered the perfidy of Ferdinand of Aragon.”
“That is so.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that the Emperor and Ferdinand are now making a treaty with my King, while professing friendship with you?”
“I perceive,” retorted Henry, “that you believe yourself to be the ambassador of the King of France. I must perforce remind you that you occupy no such post. You
are the prisoner of the King of England.”
Longueville bowed his head, but a sly smile played about his mouth. He knew that he made Henry very uneasy.
As he was given the freedom of the Palace, Longueville did not find it difficult to speak a few words to the Princess Mary, and one day he presented himself at her apartments to ask for an audience.
Lady Guildford was inclined to forbid it, but Mary heard the Frenchman talking to her lady-mistress and idly asked what he wanted.
He begged to be allowed to speak to her, and Mary told him he might. Lady Guildford hovered in the background while he did so.
“My lady,” said Longueville, “I have news which I think you should know. As you will guess, I receive letters from France and I know what plots are afoot. Prince Charles, who is betrothed to you, is now being offered a French Princess, and his grandfather, Ferdinand, has actually declared that if he does not take her and abandon you, he will leave his Spanish dominions to Charles’s younger brother, Prince Ferdinand.”
Her eyes widened and lost a little of their melancholy.
“Is this so?” she said thoughtfully.
“I thought you would wish to know, for you are too proud a lady to think of marriage where you are not wanted.”
“My lord Duke,” answered Mary, “I thank you, and I beg of you, keep me informed, for you are right when you say I have no wish for such a marriage.”
He left her, satisfied; and when he had gone she ran to Lady Guildford and began to shake the startled woman.
“Did you hear that?” she demanded. “Charles is being offered to a French Princess, and his grandfather Ferdinand wants him to abandon me. This is a happy day.”
“You must not excite yourself.”
“Not excite myself! Are you mad? Of course I shall excite myself. This is the best news I have heard since they betrothed me to that idiot. I’ll not marry a boy who does not want me.” She was laughing hysterically. Then she stopped and said: “Poor French Princess!”
Henry tried to shut his ears to the rumors. It was too humiliating. He had been duped by Ferdinand; could it be that he had met the same fate at the hands of the Emperor?
