Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

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.

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 melancholy; 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.”

“Henry, there is one matter which gives me great cause for sorrow. You could ease my pain if you would.”

“Sorrow! What is this? I was of the opinion that life used you very well.”

“I do not wish to leave you ever, Henry.”

“Oh come, my dearest sister, that is child’s talk.”

“It is not child’s talk. It is woman’s talk, for I am a woman now, Henry.”

“What! Are you so old then?”

“Henry, as you love me, stop treating me as a child. I am sixteen years old, and I am begging you not to send me to that odious Charles.”

“What’s this?”

“You know full well. Against my wishes I was affianced to him. I am asking you to break off this match.”

“Sister, you are being foolish. How could I break off this match? The Emperor Maximilian is a good friend to England. He would not be, I do assure you, if I said to him, ‘There shall be no match between your grandson and my sister … because she has taken a sudden dislike to the boy.’”

“Henry, this is my life. I am to be sent away from home … to a strange land … to marry this boy who looks like an idiot … and his mother is mad, we know. So is he. I will not go.”

“Listen, little sister. We of royal blood cannot choose our brides and bridegrooms. We must remember always our duty to the State. We have to be brave and patient, and in good time we grow to love those chosen for us because we know it is our duty to do so.”

“You married whom you wished.”

“Kate is the daughter of a king and queen. Had she not been I should not have been able to marry her … however much I wished for the match. Nor should I have done so, because I have always known that to consider the advantages to the State is the first duty of princes.”

“Henry, something must happen. I cannot go to that boy. He is but a boy … and I thank God for that, otherwise I should have been cruelly sent away from my home and all I love, ere this. He is about twelve years old now. When he is fourteen they will say he is old enough to have a wife and then … then … unless you save me …”

“It is two years away, sister. Dismiss it from your mind. In two years’ time you will understand more than you do now. You will be reconciled to our fate. Believe me, a great deal can happen in two years. Why, at one time I repudiated Kate … then, when I was King, I married her.”

Mary stamped her foot. “Henry, stop treating me as a child.”

He smiled at her as indulgently as ever, but there was a sharp note in his voice. “Remember to whom you speak, sister.”

“Henry,” she said vehemently, “it is because I never want to leave England. Let me marry in England. Greenwich … Richmond … this river … this King … these I love.”

He patted her hand. “Methinks,” he said, “that I am over-soft with you, sister. It is because of the great love I bear you. I no more want you to leave us than you wish to. But I can no more keep you back than I could have kept Margaret.”

“You did not care that Margaret went.”

“I had no wish for her to go to Scotland. I love not the Scots.”

“And you love these Flemings, these Spaniards?”

“My wife is a Spaniard, sister, remember. Oh come, smile. Do not grieve about tomorrow when there is so much to make you smile today. I will tell you something. We will have a masque to beguile the time. You shall help me plan it, eh? And it shall be in your honor. How is that?” He turned and called: “Brandon! Compton!”

And it was when they were joined by these two that he noticed the look which Mary bestowed on Charles Brandon. She was too young to disguise her feelings and Henry believed he knew why she had suddenly become so eager to avoid the marriage with Charles of Castile.

So she had cast her eyes on Brandon. Well, Brandon was one of the most attractive men in his Court … the most attractive, with one exception. They were so much alike that when they wore masks one was often mistaken for the other. They could have some good sport with this resemblance.

Oh yes, he could quite understand the effect a man like Brandon would have on an impressionable girl.

It was nothing, though. A passing fancy. This happened with young girls now and then.

Brandon at the moment was unattached. It might be well to deal with that matter. When he had time he would remember. In the meantime he must keep Mary amused, for he was too fond of the child to be able to look on unmoved when she was unhappy.

She would have to go to Flanders or Spain at some time, but that time was not yet. He had to remember that she was a young girl with a young girl’s fancies.

All the same he would do something about Brandon.

Henry’s friendship with Charles was greater than ever during that year, and the King appointed his friend Keeper of the Royal Manor and Park of Wanstead and Ranger of the New Forest. Instead of Squire of the Royal Body he was now Knight of the same, and they were rarely out of each other’s company.

One winter’s day when they were returning from the hunt together Henry said to Charles: “I should like to bestow some title on you, Charles, and I have been turning this matter over in my mind for some time.”

“Your Grace has been so good to me already …”

“It gives me pleasure to honor my friends. But you who are so often in the company of your King should have a title. It has been brought to my notice that Elizabeth Grey is the sole heiress of her father, John Grey, Viscount Lisle. I propose to make the girl your ward. Then it is up to you, Charles; marry her and you will take over the title. Viscount Lisle! What think you?”

“I thank Your Grace.”

Henry slapped his friend’s arm. “Go to,” he said. “You have our leave to visit the girl. She has more than a title to offer you, Charles. There’s a fortune to go with it. Now go, and come back and tell me you have become Lord Lisle. It grieves me to see you without a wife.”

Charles renewed his thanks to the King and left Court, wondering whether Henry was more astute than he had imagined. But perhaps no great shrewdness was necessary. Mary, with her passionate vehemence, could so easily betray her feelings. Doubtless she had already done so to her chief lady-in-waiting, Lady Guildford, who had been her governess since her childhood; could it be that Lady Guildford had thought it her duty to inform the King?

If he were to prove that he was not to blame for the Princess’s passion, he must obey Henry’s command with speed. If there had been a hope of marrying Mary he would have worked with all his might to bring about that desirable end; but there was not. Why, he thought, even if she were not affianced to Prince Charles, she would never be allowed to marry plain Charles Brandon; and if Henry thought he had raised his eyes so high he would feel it imperative to slap him down. Who knew, that could be the end of the brilliant career which was opening out before him.

He arrived at the home of Elizabeth Grey to find a mansion which was an appropriate setting for a rich heiress. All this land would be mine, he thought. This house, a fortune, a great title. I trust she is beautiful.

He waited in the long hall for her servants to tell her of his arrival, but while he paced up and down he was thinking of Mary, picturing her fury when she heard that he was married. He murmured: “Mary, my Princess, it is useless. You would have had us both in the Tower.” She would answer: “Willingly would I endure imprisonment in the Tower, for I would rather be dead than married to Charles.”

She was a wild creature; she had escaped the discipline which had been enforced during the lifetime of her father; the restrictions Henry VII had imposed on his children could only make them more eager for freedom. The same was true of Henry, and, he was sure, of Margaret. They were headstrong people by nature; they called themselves Tudors but they had inherited none of the caution of Henry Tudor; they were Plantagenets, every one of them—adventurers who would demand of life what they wanted, and use all their tremendous willpower to acquire it.

He would have to explain to her that it was at the King’s command that he had married Elizabeth Grey. She would despise him, stop loving him; and perhaps that would be as well for her peace and his.

There was a commotion at the head of the great staircase, and he heard a shrill, imperious voice saying: “Must I see this man?”

“My lady, you must. It is the order of the King.”

Then she was coming down the stairs, lifting her skirts almost disdainfully; her little head high, as she looked straight ahead, walking regally like a queen in her palace. Brandon was astonished, for she could not be more than eight years old.

She stood before him and held out a hand. He bowed his tall figure a very long way and looked into her face. She was no beauty and her expression at this time was far from agreeable. Her governesses stood a few paces behind her.

Charles straightened up. “I would speak with the Lady Elizabeth in private,” he said.

For a moment the child’s face betrayed her fear; then she said: “Very well.” And to her attendants: “You may wait in the winter parlor.”

She was both imperious and apprehensive, as though she recognized that she was a very rich little girl, and that riches could mean power in some ways, disaster in others; Charles, who was fond of children, felt a little sorry for her.

When they were alone he said: “You know the King has commanded me to come here?”

“I know it,” she answered.

He took her hand and led her to a chair on which she sat while he drew up a stool and placed it opposite her, before seating himself.

“You should not be afraid of me,” he assured her.

“I trust not,” she answered.

“Then why does my presence worry you?”

“Because I know why you have come. The King has chosen you to be my husband.”

“And you like me not?”

“You are very old, and I do not want a husband.”

“It is because you are so young that you think me old. It is also because you are so young that you do not want a husband.”

“And it is because I have a large fortune that you want me for a wife.”

“My dear child, the King commanded me to come here. I did not seek this any more than you did. Shall we say we are victims of circumstances?”

“I am happy here. I have many people to care for me. My father is dead.” Her lips trembled. “But I have others to love me.”

“Do not be downcast. You are over-young to marry. You could not have a husband for at least five years.”

She looked relieved, and suddenly laughed in a merry fashion. “In five years,” she said incredulously, “why, by then …”

“I shall be quite ancient and beyond being a husband!” He laughed. “Not quite, my lady. But it may well be that in five years’ time you will have a different opinion of me from that which you have today.”

She was unconvinced, but clearly she did not find him such an ogre as she had feared he might be.

“The King has made you my ward,” he told her; “and as your guardian I must stay here awhile and make sure that you are being well cared for. It is the King’s wish that we should become betrothed to each other. But do not be alarmed. I do assure you that this will be only a simple ceremony; and we shall not be married until you are at least thirteen years old, which must be quite five years away. Come, show me the house and introduce me to your attendants. I promise you that in a few days you will recognize me as your friend.”

The little girl rose and put her hand uncertainly in his.

She said: “And if, when the time comes, I do not want to marry you …”

“Then I shall not force you to do so.”

Elizabeth Grey was clearly happier than she had been since she had heard that by the King’s command she was to become the ward of Charles Brandon whom Henry had chosen to be her husband.

As he learned the extent of Elizabeth’s wealth, Charles could not but feel gratified. Henry must indeed think highly of him to place such a prize in his hands. He was glad that the child was too young for marriage, because he would have time to prepare her for it; and since he could not have Mary, she would be a very good substitute.

She was an ungracious little creature whose confidence was not easily won, but he was sorry for her. Poor child! To lose her father and then suddenly find herself, on account of her position and wealth, offered to a stranger!

She would find that he was no brute. But how to convince her of this?

An incident occurred a few days after his arrival which made the little girl change her mind.

She and Charles were riding together through the countryside with a few of their attendants when, passing a river, they heard cries and, pulling up, saw a child of about three or four years struggling in the water.

Charles was the first out of his saddle and, striding into the river, grasped the child and brought her to the bank.

His handsome clothes were ruined by the water and the child was so still that she appeared to be dead.

“She is not dead,” cried Charles. “We must take her back to the house as quickly as possible. Give me your cloak, Elizabeth, and we’ll wrap it about her. Everything I have on is saturated.”

When the child was wrapped in the cloak, Charles remounted, and, holding her in his arms, took her back to the house. There he and Elizabeth looked after the little girl, who was suffering from shock and chill; but apart from this no harm had come to her and in a few days she was well.

When they questioned her she was able to tell them that she had neither father nor mother. Charles made inquiries in the village, where he learned that she was an orphan only tolerated by an aunt who had a brood of her own and did not want her. It was clear that this callous woman was far from grateful to Charles for saving the child.

“What shall we do with her?” asked Elizabeth.

Charles laughed. “I’ll not have made such an effort in vain. I came here to find one ward. It seems I have found two. I also have two daughters. I am going to send this child to be brought up with them.”

So Elizabeth found clothes for the child, who followed Charles wherever he went, rather to his amusement.

Elizabeth, who was not demonstrative and did not win the child’s affection as Charles had done, watched solemnly. She knew that Charles took pleasure in the child’s devotion, largely because he had saved her life.

Elizabeth said: “You are a kind man, but I think a vain one.”

“At least,” he answered with a laugh, “I have won some small approval.”

Before he left for Court he had persuaded her to make a contract of marriage with him, assuring her that this contract could be broken if, by the time she was of a marriageable age, she had no desire to continue with it.

He took with him the child he had rescued, and placed her with his own daughters, where she was to be cared for as one of them.

He was not displeased with that adventure. Now that he had the marriage contract he knew that Henry would create him Viscount Lisle; he would have the title in advance, and he had not to think of marriage for another five years.

When he returned to Court Mary demanded that he meet her secretly in the gardens of Greenwich Palace.

She turned on him angrily when he came to her. “So you are affianced to Elizabeth Grey!”

“At the King’s command.”

“Is it fitting that a man should have a wife found for him? I should have thought any worthy of the name would have chosen for himself.”

“I am not yet married.”

“But affianced … for the sake of her money and title, I understand.”

“For the sake of the King’s pleasure,” he retorted.

“And when does this marriage take place?”

He took her by the shoulders and shook her a little. “My Princess,” he said, “I am affianced to a girl of eight. It will be five years before we can marry. A great deal can happen in five years. When I entered into this contract I was playing for safety.”

She began to laugh suddenly, holding up her face to his. He kissed her and the passion in her delighted and alarmed him.

“Five years’ grace for you,” she said when at last he released her. “About two for me. Much can happen in five years … even two years. Charles, my mind is quite made up.”

“My dearest, do not allow your impetuosity to destroy us both.”

She threw her arms about him once more.

“Nay, Charles,” she said. “I’ll not destroy us. But I will find a way … and so must you.”

He wondered afterward whether his position had not in fact become more dangerous since his betrothal to little Elizabeth Grey.

The King was angry. His first foray into France had been a dismal failure, and the English were a laughingstock on the Continent of Europe. It was true Henry himself had not crossed the Channel but he was very put out because his soldiers had, as he said, failed him. His force, under the Marquis of Dorset, had landed in Biscay where they were to attack France while Ferdinand took Navarre. Ferdinand, however, had proved himself a questionable ally; he had promised the English Guienne, that region of southwest France which had come to England with the marriage of Henry II, and which the present Henry was eager to bring back to the crown. Ferdinand, however, had no intention of helping the English; all he wanted was for them to engage part of the French army so that he might be relieved of their attentions while pursuing his own goal. Consequently the English had lain at San Sebastian without provisions or arms and, because they drank too freely of the Basque wine, which they found a poor substitute for English ale, they contracted dysentery and, in spite of Henry’s orders that they were to remain at their posts, mutinied and came back to England.

It seemed to Henry then that God no longer favored him. He had lost his son; and now his own men had disobeyed him. He knew that Ferdinand was treacherous, and the fact that he was his own father-in-law did not soften that blow.

There was one way in which he could win back his self-respect. He himself was going to France.

Thus it was that in the May of the year 1513 he decided to lead his own army against the French.

The great cortège was on its way to Dover. An army of fourteen thousand men had already crossed the Channel and were awaiting the arrival of the King; and now Henry was setting out on the first great adventure of his reign.

He was determined that this should be a glorious occasion. He rode at the head of the cavalcade, his coat of gold brocade, his breeches of cloth of gold, his hose scarlet, and about his neck, on a chain of gold, a huge gold whistle encrusted with gems of great value. On this he blew from time to time.

The Queen and her ladies accompanied the party to Dover; and among this party was the Princess Mary, uneasy because Charles was going to war; and, although she loved the dazzling ceremonies before the departure, she hated the thought of the two men she loved so dearly going into danger.

The night before they sailed the four of them were alone together. Henry and his wife, herself and Charles; and she was envious of her sister-in-law who, like herself, was apprehensive, yet at the same time deeply content, because Katharine was pregnant and Henry was very affectionate toward her and had greatly honored her by making her Regent in his absence.

Lucky Katharine! thought Mary, who need make no secret of her fear and love.

Mary threw herself on her knees before her brother that night. “Henry,” she said, “you must take care, and not go into danger.”

Henry laughed aloud. “My dear sister, we are going to war. Would you have me hide behind the lines?”

“Why must there be this war?” demanded Mary.

“Come, come, that’s women’s talk. There must always be wars. We have a country to subdue. I promise you this: when I am crowned, you shall come to see the deed done.”

Mary murmured, her voice shaking with emotion: “Take care of each other.”

Then she turned away and stood at the window, staring out to sea.

Henry was studying Charles shrewdly. “Well, my Lord Lisle,” he said, stressing the title to remind Charles and Mary how the former had come by it, “my sister is deeply concerned for us. Methinks she loves us well.”

Then he smiled fondly at his meek wife who gave him no cause for anxiety. She would take charge of the realm while he was away, and on his return she might be holding their son in her arms.

Henry was delighted with his campaign. He joined his armies at Thérouanne where he found a timber-house with an iron chimney waiting to house him; and many tents were at his disposal, some of them as long as one hundred and twenty-five feet. It seemed possible to wage war in the utmost comfort, and when the Emperor Maximilian joined him, soberly clad in black frieze (for he was in mourning for his second wife), he came, he said, to serve under Henry as a common soldier. This delighted Henry and it did not strike him as strange that the seasoned old warrior should place himself in such a position. Inexperienced as he was, Henry believed himself to be godlike, as those surrounding him had been telling him he was, for as long as he could remember. So Maximilian, receiving a hundred thousand crowns in advance for the services of himself and his Lanzknechts, accepted pay (provided by Henry) like any soldier serving under his commander. Henry did not know yet that the Emperor wanted the capture of the twin towns, Thérouanne and Tournay, to facilitate trade for the Netherlands, and that he was ready to play the humble subordinate that they might be won at Henry’s expense.

And when the towns were taken—an easy conquest, for the French put up little resistance—and Henry wanted to go in triumph to Paris, Maximilian persuaded him to go with him to Lille and the court of his daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, where he could make the acquaintance of the Emperor’s grandson, Charles, who was betrothed to his sister Mary.

Henry was disappointed, and grumbled to his friends—Charles, Compton, Thomas Boleyn.

“Why,” he growled, “I had thought to go on to Paris, but it seems the Emperor does not advise it.”

Compton suggested that the French might put up more resistance for Paris than they had for those two border towns, and they had to remember that the autumn was almost upon them, and that the Emperor had warned them of the discomfort of Flanders’s mud.

Charles was overcome with a desire to see the boy who was betrothed to Mary and was not eager to continue with the war because, unlike Henry, he was beginning to see that Maximilian was not the friend the King so artlessly believed him to be; and it seemed that those two wily adventurers, Maximilian and Ferdinand, were of a kind, and their plan was to use Henry’s wealth to get what they wanted.

So he joined his voice to Compton’s, and Henry was not loath to be persuaded.

“I hear,” said Henry, “that the Lady Margaret is comely and eager to entertain us.”

The matter was settled. They would abandon war for the time being and give themselves up to pleasure in the Court at Lille.

The company was in high spirits. News had come from England that the Scots had been defeated at Flodden by what was left at home of the English army, and that James IV of Scotland had been slain.

Henry was jubilant even though James had become his brother-in-law by marrying his sister, Margaret Tudor.

“Never did trust a Scotsman,” he had often commented; and he was not displeased to have his doubts of them confirmed. For as soon as he had left England they had started to march against England. Well, they had learned their lesson. Conquests abroad; conquests at home; what better time for revelry?

And Margaret of Savoy had determined that there should be revels.

Margaret, twice widowed, was still young; being devoted to her nephew, the fourteen-year-old Prince Charles, who had spent much of his childhood with her, she was eager to learn something of the boy’s bride-to-be; and in any case it was always a pleasure to have an excuse for revelry.

When her father with his guests rode to the Palace she was waiting to greet them, her somewhat plump figure attired in regal velvet, her smile kindly; and with her was her nephew and the Emperor’s grandson, Prince Charles.

The boy was embraced with affection by his grandfather, then presented to Henry. Charles Brandon, standing behind his master, wondered if Henry was thinking the same as he was: Poor, brilliant, lovely Mary, to be given to such a weakling!

The boy’s picture, which Mary had come to loathe, had not lied; and he had changed little since it was painted. There were the prominent eyes and the heavy jaw, the mouth which did not close easily; there was the lank yellow hair, and the boy certainly seemed to have to concentrate with effort in order to follow the conversation.

And this was the greatest heir in Europe, the boy who would inherit the dominions of his Imperial grandfather Maximilian and his Spanish grandfather Ferdinand! The son of mad Juana!

Brandon’s indignation rose at the thought of Mary’s marriage.

Then he noticed that their hostess was smiling at him.

“My lord, Lisle,” she was saying in a soft and gentle voice, “it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to my Court.”

He took her hand and kissed it, and he fancied she lingered at his side just a little longer than was consistent with etiquette.

In the private apartment allotted to the King, Charles, with Compton, Parr and Boleyn, assisted at his toilet.

“The lady is not without charm,” commented Henry. “But the boy … ! It’s past my understanding how Max can feel so pleased with him.”

“He looks to be an oaf, Sire,” said Compton.

“Looks, man! He is. Did you notice how he stammered?”

“He has a great affection for his aunt and a respect for his grandfather,” added Thomas Boleyn.

“The boy’s in fear of his future, I’ll warrant,” said Henry. “He clings to auntie’s skirts, wanting to stay the baby forever. Ah! Has it occurred to you that Max won’t last long? He’s getting old. Ferdinand’s getting old. Then that boy will be one of the greatest rulers in Europe. Louis is no longer young; I hear he suffers from the gout and diverse ailments. But he’ll be of no account because France will be ours. That’ll put the long nose of that Dauphin of his out of joint. Dauphin! I tell you this, Francis of Angoulême will never mount the throne of France. There’ll be two monarchs standing astride the continent. The oaf and myself. I tell you, my friends, that gives me cause for great pleasure.”

“Your Highness will do with him what you will,” cooed Compton.

“So this is a happy day for me to see that young fellow with no more brains than an ass.”

“I am sorry for the Princess Mary.” Charles realized that he should not have spoken.

He had broken in on Henry’s pleasant reverie because he had reminded him of the Princess’s passionate pleas; and as Henry was fond of Mary, his pleasure in the apparent stupidity of Charles was spoiled by the reminder that his sister must marry the boy.

He frowned. “’Tis the fate of princesses to marry for reasons of State.” Then his jaw jutted out and he continued coldly: “Methinks, my lord Lisle, you concern yourself overmuch with this matter.”

It was a warning.

Margaret of Savoy having been twice widowed was no coy virgin and she was young enough to think now and then of another marriage, although her experiences of matrimony had scarcely been comforting. When she was three she had been betrothed to Charles VIII and sent to Amboise to be brought up to be Queen of France. But in order to link France with Brittany the marriage had been repudiated and Margaret sent back to Maximilian while Charles made a match with Anne of Brittany.

Later she had married the Infante of Spain, only to lose him and their child within a short time of their wedding. And after that she had married the Duke of Savoy, uncle of François, who was now Dauphin of France.

Her marriages seemed doomed not to last, for he too was dead and she once more a widow.

But she assured herself that did not mean that one day she might not find a husband with whom she could live in peace and pleasure. I have married for political reasons, she told herself; why should I not now marry to please myself?

When had this thought come to her? Was it when she had welcomed the King of England to her Court and found that his close friend was one of the most handsome men she had ever set eyes on? Before his coming she had been eager to meet him because her agent at the camp of Thérouanne, Philippe de Brégilles, had written to her of Charles Brandon. “Lord Lisle,” he had written, “is a man who should interest Your Grace, for he is at the right hand of the King; and it is clear that Henry listens to what he has to say.”

And now he had come to her Court she found him the most interesting member of the party.

It was not difficult to arrange that she should be next to him at table or in the dance; she began by pretending that she wanted to question him about the Princess Mary.

“I ask you, my lord Lisle,” she said, as he sat beside her while the minstrels played and the food was served, “because I see how fond the King is of his sister and I feel his account of her might be affectionately prejudiced.”

“The Princess Mary is deemed to be the loveliest lady at the English Court, and reports do not lie,” Brandon told her.

“Then I am glad. But tell me, is she gentle and kind? You have seen my Charles? He will be gentle and a little shy at first. I hope the Princess will be ready to discover his excellent qualities which are not apparent to all at first.”

“I am sure the Princess will be patient.”

“Tell me, is she eager to come to him?”

Charles hesitated. “She is young … she is uncertain. She loves her home and her brother.”

“Poor child! Life is difficult for royal princesses. I remember my own fate.”

“It has made Your Highness tolerant?”

“I try to be. I am so anxious for the boy to be happy. He is a good boy and he will be a great prince. You do not believe me? Why, Lord Lisle, I had thought you would be a man to look below the surface. Charles is slow of speech because he does not speak without thought. Have you noticed that when he does say something it is worth saying? Do not underestimate Charles, Lord Lisle. And you should warn the King of England not to.”

“I will do so, Your Highness.”

“I am sure you will. Tell me of England. I long to hear what the Court is like. I have heard it is quite brilliant since the young King came to power.”

He talked to her of the jousts and entertainments while she listened avidly.

And when he and the King’s gentlemen were in Henry’s bedchamber that night the King said: “Did you notice that the Archduchess seems mightily taken with our friend Charles Brandon?”

Compton had noticed it; he tittered, while Henry’s laughter burst out.

“Well, well, he’s a handsome fellow, our Charles. A little different from theirs. The lady noticed it, I’ll swear. Why, my lord Lisle, ’twould be a goodly match for you if you could marry Margaret of Savoy!”

“Your Grace is joking. The lady was asking me about your Court.”

“She had her eyes on me, but she said to herself ‘He’s well and truly married.’ So she turns to you. You know you are a little like me, Charles.”

“I have heard that said, Your Grace, and it has given me great pleasure. I fear I grow a little more vain every time it is repeated.”

Henry smiled affectionately at his friend. “Well, ’tis true enough. We might well be brothers, and I’d suspect we might be, but for the fact that my father was a man who never strayed from the marriage bed.”

“As was meet and fitting in so great a king,” murmured Charles.

Henry’s lip jutted out; he had found some of the women of this country tempting and, because he had assured himself that what he called a little gallantry was an essential part of a soldier’s life, he had succumbed to temptation. He did not like to be reminded of this.

“ ’Tis true,” he murmured, “that my father was a great King … in some ways.”

“He never had the people with him as Your Grace has,” Charles said quickly, realizing his mistake a few seconds before, and Henry’s expression was sunny again.

“The people like a king who is a man also,” he said. “They have a fancy for you, Charles … particularly the women. So ’tis small wonder that Margaret looks on you with favor.”

Henry changed the subject then, but he was thoughtful. His friends did not take Margaret of Savoy’s interest in Charles Brandon very seriously. The daughter of the mighty Emperor could scarcely marry an English nobleman whose only title was that which he had taken from his ward whom he had contracted to marry.

But why not? Henry asked himself. He could with the aid of a pen give his friend a title which would make him worthy … or almost. An Earldom? A Dukedom?

Henry was uneasy now that he had cast his eyes on the young Prince Charles, for reports would be quickly carried back to Mary of his unattractive looks; she might even rebel. He did not want trouble there. He loved that girl; she was like himself in so many ways and she had always been his favorite sister. She and he had stood together against Margaret, that elder sister who had often been critical of her bombastic brother. Mary had never been critical. She had always been the adoring child looking up to one who seemed all that a big brother should be. No, if Mary shed tears and pleaded with him, she’d unnerve him. He liked to see her merry. He had noticed the looks she had cast at Brandon. Why did the fellow have to have this attraction for women? Even Margaret of Savoy was not unmoved.

If he himself were not known as such a virtuous husband it would be the same with him. Charles had not that reputation. It was well known that he had been married twice already and was on the way to marrying again; and only he knew how many women there had been between, and doubtless he had lost count. It was a pity Elizabeth Grey was only a child. He would like to see Charles married, because he believed that if he were, Mary might come to her senses. While he remained free she could be capable of anything.

Why should not Margaret of Savoy marry a man who was well known as the King’s best friend and right hand man?

He sought an opportunity of speaking to Charles when they were alone together. As they strolled in the gardens he made it clear that he wished to be alone with Brandon, and putting his arm about Charles’s shoulders affectionately, said to him: “I did not joke when I spoke of you and Margaret, Charles. If you could persuade the lady, I’d put nothing in your way.”

“Your Grace!”

“I see no reason why there should not be a match between you. I have a fancy that when she marries again it will be to please herself. Max can’t dictate to a woman of her stature; and she has married for political reasons already. By God, she has an eye for you. Methought she could scarce keep her hands off you.” The King burst into loud laughter. “Why Charles, it would suit us well to have an Englishman like yourself become the son-in-law of his Imperial Highness.”

“What thinks Your Grace His Imperial Highness would say to such a match?”

“Let the lady win his approval, Charles. I tell you you have mine.”

Henry slackened his pace and others joined them. Charles felt bemused. Ambitious as he was he had never looked as high as this.

Those were weeks of feverish excitement. He had no doubt that Margaret was in love with him. And he? Margaret was a comfortable woman, genial, friendly, worldly-wise; she had much to attract him. He knew though that he would never cease to think of Mary. If he were a simple country gentleman and Mary his neighbor’s daughter, there would be no hesitation at all; they would be married by now. If she were a village girl, a serving maid, she would be his and he hers, for his passion, although not matching hers because he held it in check so much more easily than she could hers, was for her. But she was a princess and to love her could mean death to ambition, perhaps death itself.

On the other hand Margaret was personable, charming, eager to be loved.

So they danced together and much conversation passed between them; and he told himself, If I can win her hand I shall be almost a king. He would take his stand beside her in the governing of the Netherlands; and he would work wholeheartedly for the advancement of English affairs.

“Have you ever thought of marriage?” he asked Margaret as they danced together.

“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.