by Jean Plaidy
He was now free—a widower. It was true he had two little daughters, but he was fond of them and they presented no difficulty. They were well looked after and he visited them from time to time; his visits were the highlights in their lives and they adored him.
Life had taken a very pleasant turn. The old King had died and his friend was now in the supreme position; Henry had a wife of his own and was no longer envious of Charles’s married state. The friendship had not slackened in any way; in fact it grew stronger. At all the coronation jousts and tourneys it was Charles Brandon who was closest to the King. He had a rival in Sir William Compton, but there was nothing new in this because Compton had been a page of Henry’s when he was Duke of York, for the boy had been a ward of Henry VII. Compton was a kindred spirit and Henry was drawn to him, but he was no Brandon; he was neither as tall, handsome, nor as skilled in the joust. Compton had been a butt for them both. “Come on, Compton, you try now,” Henry would say; and he and Charles would look on, mildly contemptuous of the other boy. But Henry had a great affection for him all the same, and Charles had at times wondered whether the Prince might not feel more tender toward one who was far behind him than another who was his equal.
Henry did not forget his friends, and those who had been close to the Prince of Wales were now as close to the King. He at once appointed Compton Groom of the Bedchamber, and shortly afterward he was Chief Gentleman of the Bedchamber, then Groom of the Stole and Constable of Sudeley and Gloucester Castles. But there were equal honors for Charles. Immediately on his accession Henry made his friend Squire of the Royal Body and Chamberlain of the Principality of North Wales; later he became Marshal of the King’s Bench and the office of Marshal of the Royal Household was promised him.
It became clear that King Henry VIII was not going to keep those solemn old men, appointed by his father, in office; he was going to surround himself with the young and the merry. So Charles could look forward to great honors and a successful life at Court.
It was at this stage that Charles became aware that he had attracted the attention of the King’s young sister.
Charles knew that he must act with the utmost care. To be the chosen companion of the Prince of Wales was pleasant and diverting; to be King’s favorite could be dangerous. In those early days of kingship, Henry was a careless giant scattering handfuls of gifts on those he favored, but there were many ambitious men ready to scramble for the treasures he threw so lightheartedly, ready to kick aside those for whom they were intended. And for all his ready bonhomie, temper could spring up suddenly behind those merry blue eyes, turning a smile to a scowl in a matter of seconds.
And at every ball and banquet Charles was thrown into the company of the Princess Mary. She herself arranged this.
There was little of the Tudor caution in Mary; she belonged completely to the Plantagenet House of York. Thus recklessly must her maternal grandfather have conducted himself when he defied his counselors and married the beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, scorning political advantage for the sake of love.
She fired his imagination and his senses; he was certain that if he did not take care she would lead him to such great disaster against which he would be powerless to defend himself. He realized that in all his affairs with women he had never been so close to danger as he was at this time. He knew he should avoid her company. But how could the King’s favorite courtier and the King’s favorite sister, both of whom he loved to have beside him, keep apart?
Whenever Henry wanted to plan some entertainment—and in these early years of his reign he was continually planning them—he would cry: “Brandon! Mary! Come here. Now I would plan a masque.”
And the three of them would sit together whispering in a window seat, Mary between them, slipping her arms through theirs with a childlike gesture which completely deceived her brother.
Charles understood how very near he was to danger on an occasion when Henry summoned them both, with Compton, to his bedchamber.
Henry’s eyes were alight with pleasure. “News, my friends,” he said, “and I tell you before it becomes known to any others. My hopes are about to be fulfilled. The Queen is with child.”
Mary impulsively went to her brother and, putting her arms solemnly about his neck, kissed him. Henry held her tightly against him, tears glittering in his eyes.
“Dearest, I am so happy for you,” said Mary.
“God bless you, little sister. I told Kate you should be the first—outside ourselves—to know it.”
Charles took the King’s hand and kissed it. Then he cried: “God bless the Prince of Wales.”
“Your Grace,” murmured Compton, “there is no news I would rather have heard.”
“Yes, yes,” said Henry. “This is a happy day. You know how I long for a son. My heir…the first of them. Kate and I intend to have a quiver-full.”
“It is a good sign,” Mary told him. “So soon after your marriage.”
Henry pinched her cheek. “You talk like an old beldame. What do you know of such matters?”
“What I learn at your Court, brother,” murmured Mary with a curtsy.
Henry burst into loud laughter. “Listen to this sister of mine! She’s a pert wench and not chary of making this known to her King.”
“She is sure of the King’s love,” answered Compton.
Henry’s eyes were very sentimental as he put an arm about Mary. “Aye,” he said, “and she is right to be. Pert she is, and I fancy somewhat wayward, yet she is my sister and I love her dearly.”
Mary stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.
“You see,” said Henry, “she would use her wiles on me. It is because she is going to ask me for something, depend upon it. What is it, sister?”
Mary looked from Compton to Brandon and her eyes rested a second or so on the latter.
“I shall not abuse your generosity by asking for small favors,” she replied. “When I ask it shall be for some great boon.”
“Hark to her!” cried Henry delightedly. “And what think you? When she asks, shall I grant it, eh, Compton? Eh, Brandon?”
“Of a certainty,” answered Compton.
“Our friend Charles is silent,” said Henry. “He is not sure.”
“I am sure of this,” Charles answered, “that if it is in your Grace’s power to grant it, grant it you will. But the Lady Mary may ask for the moon, and that, even the greatest King in Christendom could not grant.”
“If I wanted the moon, I should find some means of getting it,” replied Mary.
“You see, our sister is not like us mortals.” Henry was tired of the conversation. “We shall have the foreign ambassadors to entertain this Shrovetide, and I shall give them a banquet in the Parliament Chamber of Westminster; afterward there shall be a masque. We shall dance before the Queen and it shall be in her honor. She herself will not dance. We have to think of her condition. When the banquet is over I shall disappear and you, Brandon and Compton, will slip away with me.”
“And I shall too?” asked Mary.
“But of course. You will choose certain ladies. Some of us will dress ourselves in the Turkish fashion—not all though. Edward Howard and Thomas Parr are good dancers; they shall be dressed as Persians, and others shall wear the costume of Russia. The ambassadors, with Kate and the rest of the spectators, will think we are travelers from a foreign land….”
“Oh,” cried Mary, “it is to be that kind of masque! I tell you this, I shall take the part of an Ethiopian queen. There will be veils over my face, and perhaps I shall darken my skin…yes, and wear a black wig.”
“Perfect!” cried the King. “None will recognize you. Charles, have Howard and Parr brought here. Fitzwater too. And let me consider…who else?…”
Mary was not listening. She was looking at Charles, and her blue eyes reminded him of her brother’s. She was thinking of herself disguised as an Ethiopian queen; in the dance she would insist on dancing with one of the two tallest Turks.
Charles shared
her excitement.
How long, he wondered, could they go on in this way!
It was hot in the hall; the torch bearers, their faces blackened, that they might be mistaken for Moors, had ushered in the party, and the dance had begun. There was one among them who leaped higher and danced with more vigor than all the others, which excited cries of wonder from all who beheld him.
The Queen on her dais was indulgent. When the masque was over she would express great surprise that the Turk who danced so miraculously was her husband, the King. What a boy he was! How guileless? She, who carried their child in her womb, loved him with greater tenderness than he would understand.
Now the “foreigners” were mingling with the dancers and the Queen of Ethiopia had selected a tall Turk for her partner.
“Why, Charles,” she said, “you are much too tall for a Turk, you know. And so is Henry.”
“I fear so.”
“It is of no moment. Everyone is happy pretending they do not know who you are and who the King is. Do you think Henry believes he is deceiving them?”
“He wants to believe it, so he does. If he did not, the masque would have no meaning.”
“I am like my brother, Charles. I too believe that which I want to.” Her fingers dug into his flesh and the light pain was exquisite; he wished it were stronger. “But,” she went on, “I would not waste my energy pretending about a masque.”
“You would choose more serious subjects?”
“Charles, I tell you this: I do not believe I shall ever go to Flanders as the Princess of Castile.”
“It is a great match.”
“It is a hateful match. I loathe that boy.”
“It was once said that you loved him dearly.”
“My women used to put his picture by my bed so that it was the first thing I saw on waking; they used to tell me I was in love with him, that I could not wait for the day when we would be husband and wife.”
“And was it not so?”
“Charles, do not be foolish! How could it be? What did I know of love? I had never seen the boy. Have you seen his picture? He looks like a drooling idiot.”
“The grandson of Maximilian and Ferdinand could scarcely be that.”
“Why could he not be so? His mother is mad.”
“My lady, have a care. People are wondering what causes your vehemence.”
“Have I not reason for vehemence? To be given in marriage to a boy younger than myself…a boy whom I know I shall hate! If I could choose the man I would marry he would be a man. Tall, strong, excelling in the jousts. I have a fancy for an Englishman, Charles. Not an idiot foreigner.”
“Alas, matches are made for princesses.”
“I would I were not a princess.”
“Nay, you are proud. You are like your brother. Your rank delights you.”
“That is true, but there are things that delight me more. Oh, have done with talking round this matter. I know my own mind. I know what I want. Shall I tell you?”
“No, my Princess. It would not be wise.”
“Since when has Charles Brandon become such a sober-sides?”
“Since his emotions became engaged where he knows they should not.”
“Charles! Are you a puppet, then, to be jerked on strings, to be told: Do this! Do that? Or are you a man who has a will of his own?”
“My lady, I should ask you to give me permission to leave your side.”
“Charles, you are a coward!”
“Yes, my lady; and if you have any regard for me, you must see how misplaced it is, for how could you feel friendship for a coward?”
“Friendship!” He heard the tremor in her voice and he knew that she was near to tears. “I am not a child any more, Charles. Let us at least be frank with one another.”
He was silent and she stamped her foot. “Let us be frank,” she repeated.
He gripped her wrist and heard her catch her breath at the pain. In a moment, he thought, she would attract attention to them and the first rumors would start.
He drew her closer to him and said roughly: “Yes, let us be frank. You imagine that you love me.”
“Imagine!” she cried scornfully. “I imagine nothing. I know. And if you are going to say you don’t love me, you’re a liar, Charles Brandon, as well as a coward.”
“And you, a proud Tudor, find you love a liar and coward?”
“One does not love people for their virtues. I know you have been married…twice. I know that you cast off your first wife. I should not love you because you were a virtuous husband to another woman, should I? What care I, how many wives you have had, how many mistresses you have? All I know is this, that one day I shall command you to cast them all aside because…”
“My love,” he murmured tenderly, “you are attracting attention to us. That is not the way.”
“No,” she retorted, “that is not the way. You called me your love.”
“Did you doubt that I love you?”
“No, no. Love such as mine must meet with response. Charles, what shall we do? How can I marry that boy? Is it not a touch of irony that he should be Charles, too. I think of him as that Charles and you as my Charles. What shall we do?”
“My dearest Princess,” he said soberly, “you are the King’s sister. You are affianced to the Prince of Castile. The match has been made and cannot be broken simply because you love a commoner.”
“It must be, Charles. I refuse to marry him. I shall die if they send me away.”
He pressed her hand tightly and she laughed. “How strong you are, Charles. My rings are cutting into my fingers and it is very painful, but I’d rather have pain from you than all the gentleness in the world from any other. What shall I do? Tell me that. What shall I do?”
“First, say nothing of this mad passion of yours to anyone.”
“I have told no one, not even Guildford, though I believe she guesses. She has been with me so long and she knows me so well. She said: ‘My little Princess has changed of late. I could almost wonder whether she was in love.’ Then, Charles, my Charles, she put up the picture of that Charles. But I think she meant to remind me, to warn me. Oh Charles, how I wish I were one of the serving maids…any kind of maid who has her freedom, for freedom to love and marry where one wills are the greatest gifts in the world.”
She was a child, he thought; a vehement, passionate child. This devotion of hers which she was thrusting at him would likely pass. It might well be that in a few weeks’ time she would develop a passion for one of the other young men of the Court, someone younger than himself, for he was more than ten years her senior.
The thought of her youth comforted him. It was pleasant enough to be so favored by the King’s sister. He was at ease. None would take this passion seriously, and certainly he was not to blame for its existence.
If he attempted to seduce her as she was so earnestly inviting him to do, there would be danger. Henry might not respect the virginity of other young women, but he most certainly would his sister’s.
Charles knew that he was being lured into a dangerous—though fascinating—situation, but he believed he was wise enough to steer clear of disaster.
She was pressing close to him in the dance.
“Charles, tell me, what shall we do?”
He whispered: “Wait. Be cautious. Tell no one of this. Who knows what is in store for us?”
She was exultant. They had declared their love. She had the sort of faith which would enable her to believe the movement of mountains was a possibility.
She had already made up her mind: One day I shall be the wife of Charles Brandon.
When Henry’s son was born there was more merrymaking. The boy made his appearance on the first of January; he was a feeble child who struggled for existence for a few weeks, and by the twenty-second of the following month had died.
This was Henry’s first setback, his first warning that what he urgently desired was not always going to be his. He was plunged into deepest melanc
holy; and that was the end of one phase of his life. He had spent almost the whole of the first two years of his kingly state in masking, jousting, and feasting; but with the death of his son his feelings had undergone a change; he would never be quite the same lighthearted boy again.
He wanted to give himself to more serious matters. His father-in-law, Ferdinand of Aragon, had persuaded him to join him, with Pope Julius II and the Venetians, against France; and because Henry saw in war a vast and colorful joust in which, on account of his youth, riches, and strength, he was bound to succeed, he was ready to follow his father-in-law’s advice and promised to send troops into France.
War now occupied Henry’s mind; he was constantly closeted with his statesmen and generals; and while he planned a campaign he dreamed of himself as the all-conquering hero who would one day win France back for the English crown.
He was impatient because he could not collect an army without delay and go into battle; he had thought a war was as quickly organized as a joust. His ministers had a hard time persuading him that this was not so, and gradually he began to see that they were right.
The Court was at Greenwich, the King much preoccupied with thoughts of conquest; and one day when he was walking with some of his courtiers in the gardens there, Mary saw him and went to him.
She signed to the courtiers to leave them together and, because Henry was always more indulgent to his sister than to anyone else, he did not countermand her order but allowed Mary to slip her arm through his.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, “how dull is all this talk of war! The Court is not so merry as it used to be.”
“Matters of state, sweetheart,” he answered, with an indulgent smile. “They are part of a king’s life, you should know.”
“But why go to war when you can stay here and have so much pleasure?”
“You, a daughter of a king and sister of one, should understand. I shall not rest until I am crowned in Rheims.”
“Do you hate the French so much?”
“Of course I hate our enemies. And now I have good friends in Europe. Between us we shall crush the French. You shall see, sister.”