The Secret Bride

by Diane Haeger

  Mary and Charles sat together on a stone bench beneath a wooden pergola surrounded by new spring vines. His arm was around her, and she sank against him as if he could shelter her not just from the cool breeze, but from everything else that was harsh in the world.

  “It is what we had hoped for,” Charles said cautiously of the letter, which he had only just received. “A way home again.”

  “But a punishment as well, when he promised me himself that I could marry who I wished,” Mary stubbornly countered.

  Charles smiled and ran a hand down along the line of her jaw, seeing for the first time since they had come to France the little girl in her he had long known. “Now, now, my heart.

  He deserves some way to save face, and a bit of our humbling ourselves before him. He is the king, after all.”

  “He is also my brother, and he gave me his word.”

  “He did not mean that we could take that to the extreme.”

  He kissed her cheek tenderly, still charmed by her irascible nature, then he pressed his mouth onto hers. “Come now, let’s give him what he asks for, be glad we still have our heads . . . and let us go home, hmm?” He smiled that charming Brandon smile. “After all, you go as my wife, and he does not ask for that to change, which is something . . . would you not agree?”

  Ten days later, Mary stood on the dock before the Mary Rose, which had been sent from England for their return, a damp mist swirling around them, and her dress fluttering in the breeze up off the briny water. She held tightly to Claude, who had become a dear friend. The young French queen had never blamed Mary for her own husband’s attraction to her, and every day she had spent in France she had only ever treated her with kindness. Francois’ mother, who stood beside her daughter-in-law in the courtyard of Fontainebleau, liked Mary less. Yet she still managed a chilled, slight smile of farewell as Mary moved to stand before her.

  “You have made it memorable,” Mary said to her so sincerely that the innuendo was lost on all but the cunning Louise de Savoy.

  “As you have for France, ma chère. Trust that no one here shall soon forget you and the drama in which you have embroiled us all.”

  Mary was glad to have Charles’s tall, reassuring presence beside her, and his powerful hand at the small of her back, pressing her then toward the duc de Longueville, whom she stood before next. She waited as Charles embraced him first, then she took up his offered hand. Into it he pressed a small slip of paper, then closed her fingers around it.

  “See it to Mistress Popincourt for me, will you?”

  Mary smiled at him. “I will, Louis,” she said with a gentle complicity. “And I shall remind her that France is lovely this time of year. She will have forgotten that.”

  They then said farewell to Diane de Poitiers and her husband, Louis de Brézé, Mary embracing Diane tenderly and with great affection as she had Claude. “Thank you,” Mary said, remembering her role in their union. “For everything.”

  “I envy you a true romantic love, Mary. It is between you very like the one in my favorite poem, Le Roman de la Rose. ”

  “I know it well.”

  “Hold on to that with all of your heart,” Diane said.

  Their eyes met. There was far more in them than even what her words had implied. Mary glanced at de Brézé, older, tired, someone who did not seem a romantic match for his dy-namic, much younger wife, and she wondered what might be in store for her one day.

  “I shall remember that,” Mary said, meaning it with all her heart. “And I promise, I shall ever remember you.”

  The Mary Rose docked at Dover seven months after the king’s ship had first taken Mary to France to become a queen. She was returning to England a duchess. She stood now on the ship’s deck filled with dread for how desperately she had at first wanted to return home. The details had been worked out through emissaries at last and yet still, she must face Henry. His eyes, she knew, would hold his disappointment in her most brightly.

  As she walked a step ahead of Charles down the gangway, Mary saw her brother standing there, surrounded by a huge retinue of courtiers, jewels glistening in the afternoon sunlight off the water. Her brother, the King of England, had come to Dover, yet he was not about to make this easy on her, Mary thought with a smile. No slipping back into England quietly. Ah, but then this was her Harry, and she could expect no less. She had missed him so dearly—the camaraderie, and even the battling, more than she thought. Pressing back a nervous tremor she refused to let her brother see, Mary lifted her chin, taking comfort and gaining strength from Charles’s hand in support at the small of her back. She let her mouth tighten and she gripped the railing, as the wind and sea spray tossed her unbound hair.

  “Ready?” Charles whispered as they made a tentative path down the long, narrow gangway.

  “Ready as I shall ever be.”

  Mary knew that, no matter what he said now, her brother had indulged her romantic heart as well as her deception.

  Before him she made a grand, dramatic curtsy. Charles bowed along with her. There was only silence for a long time, and the sound of the gulls. She steeled herself, prepared now to pay any price her brother had in mind for his forgiveness.

  Still, it was good—so good—to be home.

  When she rose up, it was unmistakable. Henry VIII, King of England, did not embrace her, or swing her around as once he would have. Nor did he laugh and welcome her.

  But he did have tears shining brightly in his glittering green eyes. “Only for you, my Mary . . . I swear it, only you,” was all he said.

  Epilogue

  Time eases all things.

  —Sophocles

  July 1529, Westhorpe

  “Papa! Papa! You are home!”

  The young girl’s giggle was infectious as she raced to be first down to the barge at dockside of their little tributary, amid the long grass and rushes that bent in the warm summer breeze. Mary and her two older children, Henry and Frances, both began to laugh as ten-year-old Eleanor stumbled toward her father, who had been away from them for a full month. She flew into his arms and nearly toppled him.

  Charles had been visiting the king and his new mistress, Anne Boleyn. They had been at Hampton Court, once the jewel in Cardinal Wolsey’s vast and magnificent crown, but given to the king and Katherine in a desperate bid to keep His Highness’s favor. It had done little, and in the end, the forces that had been working against him for all of those years succeeded, and the man who had been a fatherly influence to both Henry and Mary was replaced by Thomas Cromwell, a ruthless man far more clever at telling Henry VIII what he wished to hear.

  Eleanor had been ill when he left and not fit to travel, so Mary had remained at their ivy-covered brick country estate, where sheep dotted the fields. Charles had not wanted to leave his wife, but attending the king, and reminding him ever of their friendship, was essential.

  “Tell me about court, Papa! Do tell me everything!”

  Eleanor begged, now fully back to health, rosy-cheeked, chattering, and sounding like her mother as a child. “Tell me about that Boleyn girl and Uncle Harry. Is she as beautiful as they say she is?”

  Yes, so like me, Mary thought with a contented smile as she watched them. Of her three children, it was Eleanor who possessed not only the clever tongue but the courage with which to use it. They moved down the embankment and Charles came up to his wife then, embracing her heartily beneath the warming midday sun. He kissed her cheek, then smiled.

  “Yes, my heart, do tell us. Is my brother’s mistress more lovely than when she waited on me, drew my bath and slipped the warming pan between my sheets?” Mary teased.

  He tipped his head back and laughed, then kissed her again. “Not anywhere near so lovely as your mother, Eleanor,” he replied. He kissed his daughter’s forehead and drew his wife closer. “I’ve missed you desperately,” he whispered into Mary’s hair.

  She smiled up at him. “That was my sincere hope.”

  Charles turned and embraced his other w
aiting daughter, then his son—their first child, a boy named Henry, after the king. Thirteen now and tall like his father, Hal, as they called him, would break as many hearts as his father at court when it was time to install him in a position there. For that, Mary could wait, living happily here in their safe little haven.

  “How was she really, Father?” Hal leaned over to ask with a devilish smirk.

  “Devastatingly beautiful and horribly obnoxious. I only know what I hear, since the king no longer confides in me as he once did. But they also say he means to marry her no matter what response comes from Rome about a divorce from Aunt Katherine.”

  Dear Kate, Mary thought, hearing that. All she had ever done was accept her fate twice, as she herself had only ever had the fortitude to do once. Katherine had tried her best to be a good wife to two brothers. Mary was glad she had not gone to court this time—glad she had not seen that little vixen, with her raven hair and glittering black eyes, sitting haughtily in the queen’s chair beside Henry. One day soon she would need to go, as Charles had. She must protect not only her own place in England, but that of their three children. They were worth everything to her and for that she would even pay court to a whore who sought to replace the queen.

  “I actually felt a little sorry for him,” Charles said. “He is not the same Harry we knew growing up. The Boleyn whore has changed him and, in my view, not for the better.”

  “At least your sister is well.”

  “Anne and Gawain Carew will be married in the autumn. He has loved her forever and finally, after all of these years, managed to convince her of that.”

  As they walked slowly back up the grassy incline to the Suffolk estate on the hill, Charles wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist, as she did around his. Their pace was easy as they watched their children running happily up ahead. Joy, Mary thought. Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured. . . . She had always liked that passage from Homer. It really did define this part of her life. The very best part.

  “I received a letter from Jane last week,” Mary said as they walked through the garden, white iris and rosemary flanking their path.

  “Is she still happy in France?”

  “Happy that Louis is there, with her.”

  “They always did belong together,” Charles remarked with a smile as he reached over to kiss her cheek again. “As do two other people I know rather well.”

  When Mary looked up at him, she saw the sun highlighting his face, lined now, distinguished by years, battles, struggles, losses and victories. But it still was the most magnificent face she had ever seen. Being his wife was worth everything.

  Images of court life, the frenetic pace—the balls, masques and endless banquets—moved through her mind then, with her husband so newly returned from there. Jewels. Gowns.

  Gossip. Opulence. . . . And she wondered if there had ever been another woman in history so happy not to be a part of that— not to be a queen.

  Author’s Note

  As with each novel I write, while this is a work of fiction, great care was taken to recount the historical events as they occurred. Naturally various subplots and the motivations of some of the secondary characters, where necessary, were fictionally enhanced, such as the details of the romances of Jane Popincourt, about whom history has told us precious little. While her affair in England with the duc de Longueville was documented and commented upon by Louis XII as the novel purports, and both figures did actually return to France to spend their remaining days, the details of precisely what happened have been lost to time. Also, while Gawain Carew did marry Charles Brandon’s sister, Anne, the marriage occurred much later. Letters in the novel, with the exception of the private missive from Margaret of Austria to Charles Brandon, are real.

  Regarding dates, since scholars differ between 1495 and 1496 as the year of Mary Tudor’s birth, for the purposes of this work I have accepted 1495. Similarly, Anne Boleyn’s birth is disputed ranging from 1501 to 1507. I have accepted the earlier date, making her thirteen at the time Mary Tudor became Queen of France, as it seems implausible to me that Anne would have been utilized in the French household in 1514 at the age of seven. And, finally, the actual year of birth of Henry VIII’s daughter Mary was 1516.

  The long and extraordinary love story between Mary Tudor and Charles Brandon, and all that they endured to be together, is true. Mary died in June 1533 at the age of thirty-eight after an illness, having borne three children: Henry, Frances and Eleanor. At the time of her death Mary Tudor was still happily married to the one great love of her life.

  Charles Brandon married for a fourth and final time in 1534.

  He died twelve years after Mary, in 1545.

  READERS GUIDE

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  READERS GUIDE QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. What do you think of the relationship between Henry VIII and his sister Mary? History tells us they were close as brother and sister, and yet do you think their sibling relationship was as open and loving as one might be today? How do you think it might have been different because they were royals? How does the death of Arthur impact Mary specifically? How do you think her relationship with Henry changed through the years?

  2. What specific role in Mary Tudor’s life, beyond mere companion, does Jane play? How might the relationship between two young girls like that, one from royalty, the other from a humble background, be different or the same in today’s world?

  3. In what ways do Mary’s strict mother and grandmother influence, both positively and negatively, Mary’s life and her decisions as she matures? How does it differ from the role Lady Guildford plays concurrently in her life?

  In chapter 2, Lady Guildford is referred to as “tenderhearted.” Is it more than that which makes her indispensable to Mary? Do you think Mary had any true confidantes or friends in her life?

  4. What are the things, both positive and negative, about Charles Brandon that first capture a young Mary’s attention when there are so many other handsome courtiers always around her brother? At what point does Mary begin to see more in him than just the roguish flirt that others see? Is she wise to see those things in him?

  5. Charles Brandon is portrayed as single-mindedly ambitious. All his actions and decisions seem designed to further his personal position and power at court. Do you think that makes him an unsympathetic person? Or do you think it means he was smart and practical?

  6. Do you believe that Charles’s feelings for Mary were pure from the beginning or do you feel that they were based more on her beauty, or perhaps her status as sister to Henry VIII?

  7. Mary determines to take some control of her future by extracting a promise from Henry without telling him her plans. Discuss whether you found her plan to have been admirable in its personal strength or underhanded, considering her position at court and her duty to England.

  8. Discuss Wolsey’s influence over Henry, Mary and Charles Brandon. To whom do you believe he felt true allegiance, if anyone? Why?

  9. Henry VIII had a famous temper. Where do you imagine that it would have come from? How and why was Mary never a victim of that, yet his wives were?

  10. Prior to reading The Secret Bride, what if anything did you know about Mary Tudor? What about her surprised you? Knowing what you know of the fate of her brother’s wives, did you expect her life with Charles Brandon to end happily as it did?

  Photo by Brystan Studios

  About the Author

  Diane Haeger is the author of several novels of historical and women’s fiction. She has a degree in English literature and an advanced degree in clinical psychology, which she credits with helping her bring to life complicated characters and their relationships. She lives in Newport Beach with her husband and children.