by Jean Plaidy
Charles Brandon was the man she had chosen for her husband. She cared nothing for ceremonies which joined her to a boy whom she had never seen.
“I must marry Charles,” she told herself. And she added: “I will.”
The Rise of Charles
CHARLES BRANDON was well aware of the effect he was having on the Princess Mary. He was amused and flattered, for she was a charming creature and he—who prided himself on his knowledge in such matters—would have been ready to wager that not only would she in a very short time become one of the most beautiful young women at the Court, but also one of the most passionate.
It was a pleasant situation, therefore, to be the object of the child’s adoration.
Had she been anyone else he would have been impatient to exploit his advantage; but the King’s sister must be treated with caution; for the King’s sake, or perhaps more truthfully for his own.
He knew Henry well, as they had been together for years; there was a certain primness in Henry’s character which could make a man’s dalliance with his sister a dangerous occupation. Henry was as sensation-loving as his friends; he was not averse to a flirtation here and there; indeed he was just discovering the full delights of the flesh and, if Brandon was not mistaken, would gradually become a more and more eager participant in what they had to offer. But he had quickly discovered that, in dealing with the King, an element of caution must always be employed; and knowing Henry’s great regard for young Mary, it was obvious that he, Brandon, must enter with the utmost caution any situation involving her.
It was a pity. He was thinking of her constantly; and strangely enough he was becoming critical of his mistresses. They were not fresh and young enough. Naturally. How could they hope to compete with a virgin whom he knew to be but fourteen years old? He was as certain of the first fact as of the second. And there she was, as deeply enamored of him as any woman had ever been; and he must remain aloof, constantly reminding himself who she was.
A fascinating situation, yet one he must resist.
If she were not affianced to young Charles, would it be possible…?
Oh no, he was allowing the King’s friendship toward him to put preposterous ideas into his head. He had been very fortunate; it was up to him to see that he remained so.
So during the weeks which followed that moment of revelation Charles Brandon often thought back over the past and saw how luck had brought him to his present position and that he must not run any risk of jeopardizing his good fortune.
Yet what harm was there in seeking the company of this charming girl? A touch of the hand, an eloquent look, could mean so much; and even a cynical adventurer could not but be moved by the love of a young girl.
In her impetuous fashion Mary was falling deeply in love with Charles Brandon; and he, in his way (though it was not artless as hers was, for it was not without calculation and reservation) was following her lead.
Charles could remember the day he first came to Court. He had been very young indeed, but not so young that he could not understand what a great honor was being bestowed upon him. His mother had often told him the story of Bosworth Field.
“Your father,” she had said, “was standard-bearer to Henry of Richmond, and had been a faithful follower of his, sharing his exile in Brittany.”
It was a wonderful story, young Charles had always thought, and he could never hear it too often. As his mother told it he could clearly see Henry Tudor embarking at Harfleur and arriving at Milford Haven with only two thousand men.
“But my father was one of them,” Charles always said at this point.
“But when he landed, Welshmen rallied to his banner, for he was a Welshman himself.”
“But it was my father who was his standard-bearer,” young Charles would cry. “Tell how he rode into battle holding the standard high.”
And she would tell him how Richard III had challenged him to combat and how the brave standard-bearer had fallen at the hand of that King.
“So we shall always be for the Tudor,” Charles had announced. “Because it was the usurper Richard who killed my father.”
And when Henry, Earl of Richmond, became Henry VII of England he did not forget the brave standard-bearer’s family.
There are certain occasions which stand out in a lifetime and will never be forgotten. For Charles, the first of these was that day when the messenger came from the King.
“You have a son,” ran the King’s message. “If you care to send him to Court a place shall be found for him.”
What rejoicing there had been when that message came!
“This is the great opportunity,” he was told; “it is for you to see what can be made of it.”
In his own home he was an important personage; he was possessed of exceptionally good looks; he had strong limbs and already was tall for his age. His nurses and servants had said of him: “There goes one who knows what he wants from life and how to get it.”
He had been taught jousting and fencing and had excelled at these sports; it had been the same with wrestling and pole-jumping. There seemed to be none who could equal him. True, Latin, Greek, and literature were not much to his taste; he was the reluctant scholar, grudging every moment that was not spent out of doors.
He could remember clearly the night before he had left for the Court, how he had knelt with his mother and their confessor and had prayed for his future. They had asked that he should be courageous and humble, that he should always serve God and the King. His thoughts had wandered because he was picturing what the King would say when he came face to face with Charles Brandon.
He had been a little hurt when, arriving at Court, he had not seen the King for weeks, and then only glimpsed him; it seemed at that time an astonishing thing that Charles Brandon should be at Court and the King appear neither to know nor care.
But soon he was given his place in the household of the young Duke of York, and it was not long before he made his presence known there. He was glad that he had been assigned to the household of the younger brother, although it would have been a greater honor to have been in the household of the Prince of Wales. Arthur would never have been his friend as Henry was, for he and Henry were two of a kind. Henry was some six years younger than himself but they had not known each other long when both recognized the affinity between them. It was Charles Brandon who was selected to fence with the Prince and when they practiced archery and pole-jumping together, Henry was put out because Charles always beat him.
“I am bigger and older than you,” Charles pointed out, “so it is but natural that I should beat you.”
Henry’s eyes had narrowed as he had retorted: “It is never natural for a commoner to beat a Prince.”
Charles was young but he was shrewd. After that he let Henry win now and then; not every time; he did not wish the Prince to be suspicious that his vanity was being humored; and the occasional win pleased him better than if he had always scored. Charles was becoming a diplomat. He decided that the Prince should win more and more frequently as time passed, for then he would always want to play with his friend Charles Brandon.
He was beloved of Fortune, he knew it. Having been born a few years before his Prince, he was that much wiser, that much stronger in the early days of their relationship. They grew side by side, until the Prince was as tall as he was—blond giants, of a size, and not dissimilar in appearance, both ruddy, both with that hint of corpulence to come in later life, two sportsmen, so perfectly matched that all Charles had to do was make certain Henry appeared to be that fraction more skillful in their games; but only a fraction so that Charles might be the worthiest of opponents; he need only bend forward a little to give his Prince that extra inch; all he had to do was please his Prince and his fortune was made. He was indeed blessed, for when the Prince of Wales died, Charles was the devoted friend of the new holder of that significant title: the King-to-be.
It was small wonder that he found life an exhilarating adventure.
He
remembered the occasion of his betrothal to Anne Browne. He had been attracted to Anne the moment he saw her, and because of his precocity, he longed to be married; but Anne was considered too young as yet. He thought of her standing beside him while they were ceremoniously betrothed; a fragile girl, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes meek—half eager, half frightened, he thought; she looked at the handsome boy beside her and her emotions were easy to read. She thought herself the luckiest girl alive, being betrothed to Charles Brandon.
It was not, of course, a brilliant match, for Anne’s father, Sir Anthony Browne, was merely Lieutenant of Calais; but the Brandons had not known at that time how Charles’s friendship with the heir to the throne would advance his fortunes.
Back at Court he continued to be that friend whom the Prince of Wales kept most often at his side. Sometimes when he and Henry rode out hunting together they would break away from the main party, tether their horses and stretch themselves out on the grass, talking of the future.
Henry said: “When I am King, my first task shall be to conquer France.”
“I shall be beside you,” Charles told him.
“We will go together. None shall stand in our way. You’ll be a good soldier, Charles.”
“At Your Grace’s right hand.”
“Yes,” Henry agreed, “you shall be at my right hand.”
“Your standard-bearer…as my father was to your father.”
Henry liked that; he was inclined to sentimentality.
Then they would talk of the balls they would give when they returned to England as conquerors.
“Fair women to wait on us,” murmured Henry, his little eyes shining.
“The fairest in all England to serve Your Grace, and the next fairest for me.”
Henry liked Charles to forecast the masques and entertainments and this Charles did, for his imagination was a trifle more vivid than his master’s, although not much more so. That was why they were in such accord. Charles only had to remember to be one step behind his master, and all was well.
When he told of his betrothal to Anne Browne, Henry was a trifle envious because he was longing to be married.
“But when I marry it will be to a princess, an heiress to great dominions.”
That was true, and in comparison little Anne Browne, for all her delicacy, for all her charm, seemed unworthy of the greatest friend of the Prince of Wales.
He began to picture Anne at the balls and tourneys. It was difficult to imagine her in cloth of gold and scarlet velvet. He could see her clearly in a quiet country mansion, at his table, in his bed. But at Court? Scarcely.
It then occurred to him that the delectable Anne Browne, disturber of his dreams, was no worthy wife for Charles Brandon.
It was in his grandfather’s house that he first met Margaret Mortymer. Margaret was a widow, ripe and luscious, resentful of her state. Her dark, smoldering eyes were ready to rest on any young and personable man, and when they discovered Charles Brandon her desire for him was immediate.
His grandfather lived quietly in the country not far from London, where Margaret had her home; the two young people were much together while they stayed under the roof of Sir William Brandon.
Margaret’s late husband, Charles discovered, was his grandfather’s brother, so there was a connection, while Margaret herself was distantly related to Anne Browne.
Margaret was well connected, being the daughter of Neville, Marquis of Montacute, and widow of Sir John Mortymer, but in the first weeks of their friendship Charles was more aware of her physical charms than of her family background.
She was older than he was, an experienced widow; and although he was no virgin he learned that he was as yet a novice in the art of lovemaking.
Afterward, those hot summer days lived on in his memory like a dream that would have been best forgotten, but from which he believed he would never quite escape.
His erotic nature was titillated to such a pitch that he was ready to attempt any act which might satisfy it.
“Soon,” she told him, “you will return to Court; and how shall I see you then?”
He did not know, but he assured her that he would find some means of reaching her bed.
“But what of my reputation?” she demanded. “Here it is easy. We are both guests of your grandfather. How can you, a young man, come frequently to my house. How can you stay the night? Only if you were my husband could we be happy.”
He told her of his betrothal to Anne Browne, adding: “If I were free, I would not hesitate to marry you. Why did we not meet years ago?”
Margaret knew the solution, which was that he must obtain a dispensation, which need not be difficult because she had friends in the right quarter who would arrange that it should be procured with speed.
Margaret was a forceful woman. She was not going to let him escape. He thought now and then of Anne with the gazelle eyes and the adoring smile; he knew that she would be bitterly hurt, and he did not want to hurt Anne. He began to suspect that in his way he was in love with Anne, the virgin, more than he could ever be with the flamboyant widow, although his physical need of the latter was greater.
He knew Margaret was a match for him; he knew that she would never allow him to evade her; so he consoled himself that the daughter of the Marquis of Montacute was a better match than that of the Lieutenant of Calais.
Anne’s gentle eyes continued to haunt him until he and Margaret were married, but for the first months he found his life with her all that he could wish, so that he rarely gave a thought to the girl whom he had jilted.
He could not, however, stay away from Court indefinitely and the Prince was commanding his friend to return. It had been amusing to go back, the married man, to confide in the Prince, to bask in the royal and avid curiosity concerning his life with a woman.
But when he returned to her, some of the magic had gone for it was inconceivable that one so lusty could remain a faithful husband and he had discovered that there were girls at Court who could give all that Margaret gave and not demand marriage in exchange. He began to wonder whether he had been a little impulsive, particularly when he saw Anne again, grown taller and no less fragile, reminding him of a pale daffodil. Poor Anne! Her eyes were tragic when they met his, though not reproachful.
His conscience worried him a little, for he feared she might die of a broken heart.
Once more he confided in his Prince. Henry’s response was vehement for the sentimentality of his nature was touched by the thought of little Anne Browne.
“You should have the marriage pronounced invalid and marry Anne,” he told his friend.
“But how so?”
“How so? Marriages are pronounced invalid. Why not yours? If Anne dies of a broken heart you will be her murderer.”
The more Charles thought of Anne the more he desired to marry her and rid himself of Margaret. He was weary of erotic and passionate women for a while; he wanted a pure virgin. He no longer wanted to be instructed, being ready now to act as instructor.
“Anne, Anne, how could I have done this?” he asked himself. “I was led astray. I was young and foolish…”
“There must be means of ending that marriage,” Henry told him. “There are always means of ending marriages which have become distasteful.”
Charles, gratified by the royal interest and setting himself to work on his problem, discovered that the Prince was right. There were always ways. Margaret’s first husband was the brother of Charles’s grandfather. Surely that placed them in the second or third degree of affinity? Then Charles had been betrothed to Anne Browne who was related to Margaret. He was certain that with a little help he could arrange that his marriage should be pronounced invalid on the grounds of consanguinity.
At this time he had another of those brilliant strokes of good fortune which were a feature of his life; Margaret discovered that she was as weary of the union as he was. She wanted a husband who was with her all the time and Charles’s place at Court
made this impossible. She therefore would put nothing in the way of having the marriage dissolved.
When he was free, Charles at once sought out his first love and without hesitation married her.
Here was a different kind of wife! Here he had nothing to regret! Anne was meek and loving; she made no demands; she was thankful for any scrap of affection he gave her; and almost immediately she became pregnant.
Like his royal master Charles loved children and the thought of having a child of his own made him very happy. Moreover, Henry was interested in the coming child, and growing more and more impatient to marry and have children. Sometimes Charles feared that his master’s envy might in some way turn him against him; but it did not, and when Charles’s daughter—whom he called Anne after her mother—was born, Henry sent as rich a present as he could afford. Not that it was a handsome gift, as his father kept him very short, but it gave Charles and Anne great pleasure to bask thus in the favor of the man who would one day be King.
For a while Charles was content; he lived his life between the Court and his home where Anne and her little namesake were always waiting for him. There were several light love affairs at Court which was quite natural, he consoled himself, since he must in the course of his duty spend so much time away from the marital bed; and he placated his conscience with the thought that even had Anne known of these she would have understood.
In the course of time she again became pregnant, and little Mary was born.
Henry followed his friend’s married adventures with the utmost interest and chafed more and more at his own bonds which would not allow him to act as freely as Brandon did.
Anne died soon after Mary was born; Charles mourned, but not deeply; he had already begun to wish that he had married a more spirited wife, for life with Anne had been becoming rather dull. Charles began to think then that the humdrum life was not for him; he wanted adventure all the time. Here again he asked himself whether he was Fortune’s favorite, for Anne’s early death had saved him from the discomfort of discovering he had made a second mistake.