The Nymph from Heaven, page 22
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
“Well,” said Chievres, “as you say, we shall see.”
Men rarely got the better of Margaret, especially at her own council table; the time had come for her to lob back a salvo of her own. “My Lords, it is evident to me that you seek to use this affair of the Duke of Suffolk simply as a way to dance out of the treaty with England. That, I assure you, would be a terrible mistake. Think!” She pounded her fist on the table. “We are bound to England by a thread. Can you not see it? They send their wool to us, we buy it, we weave it into cloth, and sell it back to them at a profit to ourselves. If we align with the French, we lay ourselves open to attack, possibly to annexation. That will never happen with England. Money, My Lords, ensures that England will always be a faithful partner to Flanders. And,” she said, her voice now almost a whisper, “England is an island. She will not invade us as she did France; she has no reason to. And England has agreed to help us if we need help, indeed has already done so on a number of occasions, most recently in our action against the Duke of Guelders. What have the French to offer? The answer, My Lords, is nothing.”
“That brings up a good point,” said the Emperor. “We must find, as you put it, a way to dance out of this marriage of Prince Charles with the Princess Mary. It is no longer of advantage to us.”
“Christ’s wounds!” Margaret expostulated. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? If the nuptials are not solemnized by June, we face tremendous financial penalties, not to mention the loss of the princess’ dowry.” Her father fixed his gaze upon her. Reason and logic were not working; she opted for a more vehement tone. “Father…Your Imperial Highness…It is evident to me that you are bent on disregarding our treaty with England. But what of your intent to marry the king’s sister, the Queen of Scots?”
To her surprise, Maximilian laughed. “What of it? Our good King Henry across the channel thinks that would be to his advantage. But I assure you, it would not. The Scots have always had an affinity for the French. It is the basis of the Auld Alliance. Even now, Louis sends arms and money to the Scots for a retaliatory invasion of England in the spring, without, I might add, the knowledge of their own regent, Queen Margaret, and despite the fact that the Scots lords themselves signed a peace treaty with England only a month ago. With Margaret Tudor bound to me by marriage, I could thwart King Henry at every turn. I am surprised, but pleased, that neither he nor his ministers can see this.”
Margaret’s eyes burned like twin charcoals. All of her careful plans, to come to naught! “And what of Charles? His time has come. He expects a bride.”
No one spoke; each man shuffled his papers and none would meet her gaze. Finally, Maximilian said, “King Louis has two daughters. One will be for Charles.”
It was Margaret’s turn to snort. “And has the Prince been informed of this decision?”
“Of course not,” Maximilian replied. “He is but a boy yet. He will marry where he is told.”
Margaret smiled, but there was no mirth in it. She knew her nephew Charles better than any of these men did. If they thought he would take with equanimity the news of losing Princess Mary of England as his wife, they were sadly mistaken.
Greenwich Palace, May 1514
“I like this not, My Lord Bishop,” said Henry, tapping the parchment on the table between them. “What do you think it means, Wolsey?”
Wolsey licked his sticky fingers to get the last bit of honey off of them, and then dipped them fastidiously into a golden bowl filled with lemon-scented water. How to reply to Henry’s question? He had not come so far so quickly by not thinking carefully before he spoke. And one who wished to retain, and if at all possible augment, rank and privilege, did not say “I told you so” to a king. At least not in so many words. Wolsey had recently been given the Deanery of York and had been made Bishop of Lincoln; if he were careful, more sinecures would come. But only if he were careful.
“It is as we have suspected for some time, Your Grace.” The “we” was generous; Wolsey had suspected, had tried to warn Henry, but the King’s blind spot where the Emperor Maximilian and King Ferdinand were concerned had been even worse than usual after Henry’s return from his conquests in France. All of them! Wolsey gave an inward snigger. For Wolsey had a very efficient spy system; he had known practically before the sheets were dry, of Henry’s encounter with the Archduchess.
“I believe that these inexplicable postponements of the wedding of the Princess Mary and Prince Charles point to a deeper issue. The King of Spain and His Imperial Highness are treating with the King of France behind our backs, Sire, I am certain of it. Louis and Ferdinand have already reached an accord concerning Aragon, and it will not be long before the Emperor follows suit. Once that happens, and I believe it to be inevitable, the Holy League will be made a mock of and the pair of them will once again have made fools of England. Sir Richard’s communiqué bears this out.” He lifted the parchment, just arrived that morning from Sir Richard Wingfield, whom Henry had sent to Flanders in April to finalize the details of Mary’s wedding, which, despite all, was still officially scheduled to take place on May the fifteenth in Calais.
Henry glanced at the parchment which Wolsey had lifted and some words at the bottom of the page caught his eye. “And such insults from those arrogant Flemings! “The Prince needs a wife, not a mother”, indeed! And the part…where is it…” he seized the parchment and skimmed it. “Ah! Here it is. “…and I am certain that the Flemish council seeks to hinder this marriage with the Princess Mary, saying the Prince is but a child still and she a woman full grown.” God’s teeth, Thomas, all knew of the difference in age between Mary and Charles when they agreed to the betrothal. Why balk at it now?” Wolsey hesitated just that half second too long before replying. The age difference of six years between Henry and Katharine, which Henry had conveniently ignored when he married her, was beginning to tell now. But no one dared say so to the king, to whom it was painfully obvious. Henry, guessing his thoughts, pouted and said, “It doesn’t matter, Wolsey. The Queen is with child again.”
Wolsey brightened, visibly and genuinely, at this news. “Oh, Your Grace, I rejoice for you! Truly I do!”
“Tell no one, Thomas, make no official announcement. Not yet. You know what women are!” He laughed, spread his hands on either side of his face, batted his eyelids, and said, in his best falsetto voice, “Am I? I think so. I hope so. I must be! Oh, yes, I am certain!” Then he dropped the façade and said sourly, “Let us wait a little while longer, until there can be no doubt. There’s no sense in getting peoples’ hopes up, just to dash them down.”
Poor Henry, thought Wolsey. Married almost six years and not only did he not have a son, but there was not even a daughter…the royal nursery should have been filled with princes and princesses by this time, their laughter ringing in the ears of a contented court. Perhaps this time…
Henry slapped his hand on the table. “It’s not fair, Wolsey. It just isn’t fair! The Queen of Scots has two boys now, and I have no child at all!”
There was little one could say to that; Margaret Tudor had given birth six times, and had had four disappointments. But she did have two lively boys to show for her efforts, the latest born, posthumously, just the month before. It was ironic, really; the King of Scots, dead on Flodden field and past caring, had two boys to uphold his legacy, but the King of England, alive and well, had none. “Your Grace has had his share of disappointments, to be sure. Perhaps this time…”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Perhaps this time.” But the way he said it did not bode well for Katharine if she failed again. “What are we to do about this?” He nodded towards the dispatch.
Wolsey shifted his bulk in his chair. Advice given, but not sought, was rarely welcomed, or heeded; advice solicited was an opportunity. “Your Grace, Maximilian and Ferdinand cannot be trusted. We know this. Treaties, agreements, plans, mean nothing to them. I often wonder why they even enter into these parleys, just to turn their coats before the ink on the paper is dry. I believe, that is, I have received the most reliable intelligence, that they are going to deliver yet another blow to English prestige. These excuses for the postponement of the princess’ wedding are just that; empty excuses, a way of buying time. Charles ill of fever! Plague in Calais! All lies.”
Henry nibbled a cuticle. These days he rarely evinced outward signs of nervousness. That he felt comfortable doing so in Wolsey’s presence spoke volumes of his esteem for the father figure Wolsey had become to him. “What are we to do, then, Thomas?”
It was now or never. Wolsey had for years mistrusted Ferdinand, and because of him, the Queen; Princess Mary’s betrothed was the grandson of both Ferdinand and Maximilian, and stood to inherit dominions vaster than any leader since Alexander when both his grandfathers had finally succumbed to the test of time. In such an alliance, England, he firmly believed, would be the loser. England’s fortunes lay now with her ancient enemy, France. But convincing king and country of this would be difficult…and dangerous.
Wolsey took a deep breath and said, “Your Grace, I prescribe subterfuge. Let the Emperor and King Ferdinand treat with Louis. They will never honor any agreement they make with him, anyway. But let us be equally sly. I am already treating with Louis over the matter of the ransom for the Duc de Longueville. Let us cast a line into French waters and see what we pull in.” The papal nuncio had arrived in January advocating peace between France and England; the pope had as much as promised Wolsey his cardinal’s hat if he could accomplish it.
Henry considered this suggestion. He was a blunt man, and schooled to the cloth; he was straightforward and rarely since he had come to the throne had he engaged in any form of duplicity. “It would be treachery.”
Wolsey’s eyes narrowed. “It is survival, Your Grace, and no more than others do, to their own advantage. We have England to think of.”
Henry considered for a moment and then replied, “I agree. Approach Louis and let us see what he is willing to offer us for peace.”
Wolsey steepled his fingers under his double chin. “We must appear to accept the delay of Princess Mary’s wedding with equanimity. Yes, go along, agree to wait.”
“But what is our strategy, Wolsey? What have we to offer the King of France that would buy peace? Come to it, what could he offer me that would keep me away? My illness prevented a spring campaign, but…” He lifted his hands in an eloquent gesture.
“Your Grace…” Wolsey hesitated, which was rare for him.
“Go on, then,” said Henry. “It is just you and me here, Thomas. What do you propose?”
Wolsey looked into Henry’s eyes and spoke, so softly that Henry had to lean forward to hear him. “It would be a tremendous blow to Maximilian and Ferdinand if, instead of exercising the privilege of tweaking our noses in public over this much-delayed marriage, the Princess Mary were to marry the King of France.”
For a moment Wolsey felt his future hang in the balance; France was England’s ancient enemy. The very idea of peace with France was anathema to the English, if it were thinkable at all; what would they say, what would Henry think, of the idea of marrying his beautiful sister to a man twice married, chronically ill, and old enough to be her grandfather?
Henry’s face had gone pale and so blank that Wolsey feared he was too angry to reply. Then suddenly Henry broke out into a wide grin, slapped his thigh and said, “Oh, my clever, clever Thomas! My True Thomas! What a game! What a ploy! I can just see…” he was laughing so hard now that he spluttered, “…I-I can j-just see Ferdinand’s face w-when…” So this pair of jackals thought they could insult the King of England at every turn with impunity, did they? By God, they would not! He would strike a blow, finally, and what a blow! Snatching peace and a marriage alliance with the King of France in one fell swoop! Suddenly he sobered. Unschooled in the art of lying, he asked ingenuously, “But if we were going to Calais for the Princess Mary’s wedding, we should be doing so now, Wolsey. What of that?”
Wolsey smiled a long, slow, satisfied smile. If this were His Grace’s only concern! “You are prepared for travel; let us go on a progress. What say you to that?”
Henry’s eyes lit up like a little boy’s; he loved traveling, since he did so like a king, and loved showing himself to his adoring people. It would be a lark. “Oh, yes!” What a good idea, Wolsey! Let us depart as soon as possible. But what of our negotiations with Louis?”
“Your Grace may safely leave all that to me.” Wolsey heaved a sigh of relief. The first part of his political strategy for England was finally in place. And if there was a cardinal’s hat to be had into the bargain, why, so much the better.
On progress through the English countryside, May 1514
Mary sat her white palfrey, ambling along at a leisurely pace in the fresh spring air. The daffodils were in full bloom, and at their heady yellow peak. A few warm days had brought out the bluebells, which could be seen at wood’s edge; along with the green grass of spring and the crystal blue of the sky, the scenery made a show of color to rival an artist’s palette.
Beside her Brandon rode on his great bay stallion, and behind her she could hear Jane’s hearty laughter as the Duc de Longuville made a jest that amused her. Seldom had she felt so happy, so at ease, so contented. She had had a strange feeling that all would be well, and she had been right.
The Archduchess Margaret had written to Henry demanding that Brandon be made to marry Lady Lisle immediately as the only possible remedy to the damage done to her reputation concerning the rumors of her supposedly pending marriage with the Duke of Suffolk; Henry had refused absolutely, firing back at her a stream of invective that surely must have made even that hoyden’s ears burn. Henry was furious that Margaret was now backpedaling on her promise to marry Brandon, but seemed strangely smug about the constant excuses flowing across the Channel to postpone Mary’s marriage with Margaret’s nephew, a situation that Margaret assured him she deplored and was doing all in her power to correct.
Mary tilted her face up to the sun, closed her eyes, and smiled. Every time the thought entered her mind that the delays, the postponements, could mean the breaking of her betrothal to Prince Charles, she embraced the thought, caressed it. This could be the deliverance she had hoped and prayed for; she was certain of it. Had it not been for her concern about Jane, she would have been completely happy.
Jane Poppincourt had been born of a French mother and a Flemish father. Mary had always thought that Jane had inherited her father’s pragmatism and sound good sense, which she so often demonstrated; but then, Jane had never before been in love. And love, Mary had discovered, made one vulnerable.
Jane’s physical aspect was entirely her mother’s; she had the delicate figure and subtle mannerisms, that indefinable charm, of the Frenchwoman. And it appeared that a strong streak of French fatalism and romanticism, hitherto latent in her cynical character, had been awakened by her friendship with Louis de Orleans, Duc de Longueville and Marquis de Rothelin.
Mary almost snorted her derision aloud at that thought; friendship, indeed. Jane had hardly spent a night in Mary’s bed since the Duc’s arrival on English shores, as a royal prisoner of war.
Poor Katharine had been at wit’s end regarding what to do with such an important personage as the Duc in the middle of her Scottish war preparations in August of the year before. She had at first housed the Duc in the Tower of London, but upon learning that this was so, Henry had hastily instructed Katharine to place him under house arrest in Henry’s own royal chamber at Greenwich.
The Duc de Longueville had been captured by the English during Henry’s campaign in France, at the Battle of the Spurs. There had been only one pitched battle during that campaign, if battle it could be called; the French had been sent by King Louis to observe the English in their siege warfare at Tournai, and had orders not to fight. But the English had espied them and given chase. Under orders, the Frenchman had spurred their horses and ridden away. Hence, the ignominious name of the Battle of the Spurs. But Henry did not allow this knowledge, which came to him later, to tarnish the pride he felt in winning the so-called battle.
Many Frenchmen had spurred their horses insufficiently that day and had been captured, the Duc de Longueville among them. In that age of chivalry, important men captured in war were not treated harshly, and they were detained only until they could be properly ransomed. But Henry so enjoyed the Duc’s gay company that the negotiations for his ransom had moved very slowly, and he had become a fixture at the English court.
“Can you keep a secret?” asked the Duc.
Jane fixed de Longueville with her best mocking-incredulous expression. “How absurd you are! No woman can keep a secret.”
“Perhaps with some inducement, then…” His eyes danced. “I will share a secret with you, but you must promise to keep it or I shall withhold my favors from you.”
“I pray you, My Lord, keep your secret. I would rather have your favors than your secrets.”
The Duc smiled pleasantly. “You are a most difficult woman.”
“That did not seem to be your opinion last night.” Jane smiled. “My Lord, no man ever told a woman a secret expecting her to keep it. Rather the opposite, I should think, or he was indeed a fool. Let us dispense with this banter. You wish to tell me something in confidence, but you want the person who is not to know the secret to be apprised of it anyway. Is that a fair resume of the situation?”
The Duc laughed. “Indeed, it is.” He looked warily from left to right, slowed his horse just enough to allow Mary and Brandon to gain more distance between them, and whispered, “I have it on the best authority that the princess’ betrothal to the Prince of Castile is to be broken.”
“That, My Lord, is no secret. We daily expect the Flemish to own up to their perfidy and break the engagement.” If it were definite, though, this was news that Jane would gladly share with Mary, for she knew that it would lighten her heart; but it was hardly a secret.
