The Nymph from Heaven, page 23
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
The Duc shook his head, making the cock’s feather in his hat dance. “It is not the Flemish who will break the betrothal, but the English. King Henry wishes to get his own back on King Ferdinand for his past treacheries. An alliance with France would be a trump for him, considering that the Spanish king and the emperor are at this very moment trying the same wiles on Louis. Louis, however, is not deceived.”
“Jesu!” hissed Jane. “You are certain of this?”
“I am. But there is one other thing. The princess’ hand has been offered to King Louis.”
Jane hissed back, in a vehement whisper, “Whose damned fool idea was that?”
The Duc looked sheepish. “Mine, I’m afraid.” It was he who had first proposed such a marriage to Wolsey, who agreed to the unenviable task of broaching the matter with King Henry.
“Yours?” she shrieked. The Duc threw a warning glance at Mary’s back, and put a finger to his lips. Jane lowered her voice back to a whisper. “Just what wickedness are you about, My Lord?”
The Duc shrugged. “Louis wants a son. A young, beautiful wife is just what he needs. But he is a romantic. He wants assurances that the lady will have him.”
“He is not likely to get them from Her Grace.”
“Then you will not discover the lady’s mind for me?”
“My darling Orleans, I can tell you her mind without disturbing Her Grace with such a loathsome proposal. That she is not to marry the Prince of Castile will be welcome news indeed. But she is likely to throw herself straightaway into the nearest moat if she discovers there are plans to marry her to that old, toothless valetudinarian instead,” snorted Jane.
“Then you fear her answer will be no?”
Jane frowned in frustration. “Can you not conceive, My Lord? She will be given no choice by her royal brother, if there is an advantage to be had in such an arrangement. She will be forced to it, just as she would have been forced to marry Prince Charles.”
“Ah, my love, do not frown. I would not for the world have vexed you, but that you are so close to the lady in question. I thank you for your insight on the matter. I will tell His Grace that I have consulted with Her Grace’s maid of honor and that the lady is disposed to cooperate.”
“What a cool liar you are.”
“It is no lie; it is simply a twisting of the truth,” the Duc replied. He rode on in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “Jane, look at me.” She did, and he was taken once again with her aquamarine eyes, her flaxen hair. He was sure; he had never been so certain of anything. “Jane, now who cannot conceive? Can you think of no other reason why I should work so hard to arrange for the Princess Mary to marry the King of France?”
Jane racked her brain, but could think of none. She shrugged. What had she missed, she who was usually so astute?
“Jane,” he said, almost in a whisper, “if the Princess goes to France, you will go with her.”
Jane’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. “Oh, My Lord…”
“Did you think when I told you of my love for you, that it was only a lie to gain your bed? Did you think that I would go back to France, knowing that we might never meet again? I want you with me, Jane, if I have to rock the foundations of four kingdoms to accomplish it.”
“But your wife…”
“…is of the French blood royal, yes. But it was an arranged match. We are not in love.” He grinned and ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “Rather the opposite, I am afraid.” He became serious again. “Jane, you must prepare the princess for this news. The King will be informing her very shortly of what is to happen. She will be asked to publicly renounce her betrothal to Prince Charles. That, as you say, will give her great pleasure, I am sure. But Jane, she must appear to accept this new marriage with equanimity. King Louis has been twice married; he was deeply in love with his second wife. When Anne of Brittany died in January, he moaned that they should not seal her crypt, for he would be joining her there before the year was out. His health bears this out. Jane, it was all we could do, myself and Wolsey, to convince him to try again. Only the Princess Mary’s legendary beauty and his lack of a male heir convinced him. There are a number of people who are not anxious to see the King’s cousin, François, take the throne. But François is his nearest male relative and will inherit the crown unless Louis remarries and has a son.”
“I see,” said Jane. That the Duc de Longueville loved her she was now in no doubt; but it was still very much a political agenda that drove his thinking. Jane understood and respected that. But if by helping him she could attain her heart’s desire, so much the better.
The Royal Manor of Wanstead, Essex, July 1514
Mary knew an uprush of exaltation as she watched the ink spread across the bottom of the parchment, saw her signature appear before her eyes as if someone else were writing it, as if she were watching, like a fly upon the wall, the little scene below.
The four men in the room with her were people she had known all of her life; two of them she loved, Henry and Brandon; one of them she respected and depended upon, Wolsey; the other, Norfolk, was not to her liking. And yet she knew that from this day forward she would share an unforgettable bond with them. For the paper she was signing was the public declaration of her renunciation of her betrothal to the Prince of Castile.
The day Jane had told her, in the strictest confidence, that her marriage was not to take place after all, had been, for the space of about one minute, one of the happiest of her life. She had grasped Jane’s hands and danced with her about the room until they were both breathless. It was not until she had released Jane’s hands and collapsed panting into a chair that she noticed that Jane was not smiling, indeed, wore a rather pained expression on her face. “What ails you?” Mary asked. “Are you not happy for me?”
“I am, My Lady, from the bottom of my heart, but…”
Mary was instantly wary. “But what?”
“There is something else…” Jane, usually so poised, twisted the silk cord of her pomander as she spoke. “Mary…”
Mary stood up, frozen, the cold feeling in her insides creeping, spreading, until she felt as if she couldn’t move. “What is it?”
“My Lady, another match has been arranged for you.”
Abruptly, the frozen feeling left her and she felt as limp as a rag doll. The blood drained from her already pale face. She plopped ungracefully, she who was usually so graceful, back into the chair.
“Who?”
It was useless to mince the words. “The King of France.”
Mary, too stunned to speak, just stared back at Jane with a face that was curiously expressionless.
“Mary, dearest, surely you didn’t think…surely you knew…that another husband would be found for you? You are a royal princess, Mary. It was inevitable. Had it not been Louis, it would have been that old dog, Maximilian. I’ve heard it said that he positively slavered over your portrait at Tournai, and was much disappointed with the one of the Queen of Scotland.”
Mary snorted derisively. “You comfort me marvelous much!”
"But Mary, there is comfort to be had in this,” said Jane, now on the floor at Mary’s feet in front of the chair. She clasped Mary’s hand, so cold, so deathly cold. I should have been more gentle, thought Jane. But what else was there to be said, besides the truth?
“Comfort? What comfort, Jane? I pray you, inform me, for I languish in ignorance!”
Jane took Mary’s other hand, rose to her knees and looked Mary in the eyes. “Think, Mary. Charles is five years younger than you.”
“Yes, so I have been told! He needs a wife and not a mother! Did they think to make me weep with their protestations? I am only too glad to be free of that…that…monster! But not for this, Jane! Not for this!”
“Mary, listen to me. Louis is an old man.” Jane searched Mary’s eyes. Understanding still did not dawn, but it would.
“Yes, I have gone from the ridiculous to the sublime, have I not? First I was to marry a child, and now I am to marry a sick old man, who is at death’s door!”
Jane said nothing.
Mary was silent for a few moments, and then she expelled a long breath. “Jesu!” she whispered.
Jane relaxed, nodded her head imperceptibly.
“Yes, I see,” said Mary slowly. “I do see.” Mary leaned back, nibbled a cuticle. “I have heard it said that he cannot last the year. Jane, Jane, this is my chance! Oh, blessed fate!” She might have been married to Charles until she died in childbirth as her mother had done, it being unlikely that she would outlive a husband five years her junior in any case. She had often lamented of this to Jane; sharing with her the tidbit of information that her Grandmother Beaufort had given her all those years ago. Once a woman marries to please her family, her second marriage is her own. It was possible that she would never have been free of Charles. But Louis… This was good news indeed, as bad as it seemed on the surface. There would still be a hell to go through. But she would triumph in the end.
The scratching and squeaking of the quill finally ceased, and Mary realized that all these thoughts had rushed through her mind in the short space of time that it had taken for her to write her name. She laid the quill aside and raised her eyes to her brother, who was watching her closely. Their eyes locked.
Mary knew what was coming, and was glad that she knew; dearest Jane, always smoothing the way, always making things easier for her. She had given long, hard thought to this interview. She dreaded it, and yet she knew it was possibly the most important conversation of her life. She was no stranger to mummery; many was the time that she had acted a part in Henry’s pageants and spectacles. But now she must give the performance of her life.
Mary knew her brother well; she had learned that he never valued highly that which was easily obtained. That for which he had to fight he had a healthy respect. If she agreed to this marriage, acquiesced without a whimper, she was unlikely to extract any promises from him. But if she put up a fight, made him think his victory hard-won, then he would make concessions. She hated fooling him, but it was the only way.
She realized that Henry was still staring at her, as if seeing her for the first time, or as if she were a horse he was considering buying. “Leave us,” he said, without looking away. “I wish to speak to Her Grace alone.”
Mary longed to glance at Brandon, who also knew what was coming, to send him a reassuring look, but she dared not, lest she betray her heart.
The door closed softly behind the men, and Henry shed his assessing manner, assuming his bluff one. “Well, sister,” he said. Mary just looked at him. He was mildly discomfited by her silence. That was good. She intended to discomfit him a great deal more before this interview was over. “Well, sister,” he said again. “Are you not pleased? The bogey of your childhood is finally banished.”
Still she said nothing.
“Christ on the cross, Mary, say something! Speak! Why do you stare so?”
“I, stare? It is you who are staring at me.” She was determined not to yield an inch.
“Mary…” Henry, usually so self-confident, snatched off his jeweled velvet cap and twisted it in his hands. “Mary, I…” He hesitated. “Mary, I have something to tell you.”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“It is a difficult situation,” he whined. “One in which I need your help.”
Good, she thought. This was good. He was asking for her help; that implied that she had power of a sort.
“Mary…”
“Yes again, My Lord.”
“Damn it all, Mary! You are to marry the King of France.” He looked about the room as if he expected a lightning bolt to strike. Well, he would not be disappointed.
“No.”
Henry looked at her questioningly, as if he doubted that he had heard her aright. “No? No, did you say?”
“I said it, and I mean it. No. I will not marry the King of France. Not to please you or anyone else.”
“But…I have promised.”
“That is your affair. Henry, I have borne it all, all these years. I have done everything you ever asked of me. I would have married that deformed monster if you had forced me to it. But now I have not to do that. How can you ask me, whom you say you love, to do such a thing? I know all about Louis; he is old, gouty, missing his teeth so that he spits when he speaks. I have said that I will not marry him, and I mean what I say.” Mary stood, battling to keep her face expressionless. It was important, very important, that she keep her temper, even if Henry lost his; as she knew that he would.
“Mary,” he said quietly. “Mary, I have always loved you. We have been through much together; you are the sister of my heart, as Margaret could never be. It breaks my heart to lose you to any husband. But you know that you must marry out of England. It was our father’s wish and instruction that you should do so, and my will. Did you think never to have to pay the piper for the tune he has played for you all these years? It is time, Mary, for you to do your royal duty. If not with Charles, and many was the time that I regretted that match, for the very reasons you have described, then with Louis, or anyone else I decree.”
“No.”
Henry, now red-faced, threw his cap to the floor. It landed in a patch of sunlight, and the rainbow colors of the diamond pins that adorned it filled the room. “Damn it all, Mary, you must! I say you shall! I have made a bargain with Louis that is beyond any reasonable man’s belief! Possession of Therouanne, Boulogne, and San Quentin! One and a half million gold crowns, the arrears of all the pensions owed by France to England for past wars! And all Louis asks for is peace, and your hand in marriage! Even your dowry and jewels are to be returned when he dies!”
“Then say goodbye to it all, because I will not marry him.” For the first time in her life, Mary saw the expression turned on her that she had seen Henry turn on others, and from which she had always shrunk away.
“And what is to prevent me from forcing you?”
Mary pretended to consider. “On the face of it, nothing. You can put me on a ship and send me to France. God willing, I will arrive, and make my way to Paris. But Henry, there is always a moment, in the church, when the priest asks, “Will you?” I will simply say, “No, I will not.” And you will not be there to prevent me.”
“Why do you defy me so? Do you wish to make a fool of me?”
“As God is my witness, Henry, I do not. But one must draw a line somewhere. This is my line. I will not marry King Louis of France.” Mary pretended to consider. “Unless…”
Her threat had shaken him; if she got as far as the church and refused, there would be little he could do. He thought of all that money; all those lands, the first lands in France that any English king had taken since Agincourt; an Englishwoman on the throne of France, Tudor and Plantagenet blood flowing through the veins of France’s future kings. Barring his own conquest of France and accession to its throne, it was more than he had hoped to achieve. But at what price? Anything, he thought. “Unless what?”
Here it was. This was it. The moment on which her entire future happiness depended. It seemed strangely like any other moment; and yet it was not. It was vastly different. She drew a breath and said, almost in a whisper, “Grandmother Beaufort once told me that once a lady has married to please her family, or in this case, for state reasons, that her second husband might be of her own choosing.”
“So that’s it!” Henry’s fist came down so hard on the table that the parchment freeing her from Charles of Castile, which had hitherto lain flat due to a small crease in the bottom of it, suddenly snapped and curled up. “I knew it! Who is it? Brandon?”
Mary tried to keep her face expressionless, but she could not hide the involuntary softness that her eyes took on at the mention of her beloved’s name.
“And how long has this been going on?” he bellowed.
“I have loved him since I was a child.”
“And Brandon?”
“Took longer to convince. But we have been discreet, have always observed the proprieties.”
“But he is nobody! He is only that to which I have raised him, and nothing more! He is not good enough to marry my sister!”
“And you, who profess to love him, can say this? He is your best friend, Henry. And if he was good enough to marry the Archduchess of Austria, then he is good enough to marry a princess of England.”
In spite of himself, Henry threw her a look of mild loathing. No woman should be capable of such logic. It was one of the things that irritated him about Katharine from time to time.
Mary regarded her brother, and was able to think detachedly that Henry in a rage truly was something to see. But he had not softened; he might say no. And then where would she be? She took the last arrow from her quiver, and shot her bolt. “You spoke of honoring our father’s wishes, Henry, and would force me to do so. And yet you defied his deathbed wish that you were not to marry Katharine.”
“And see where that has led me!”
“The fact that remains that you followed your heart, Henry, disregarding England’s needs and Father’s instructions. And yet you will not allow me to follow my heart. Or, if you will, I must do so after great discomfort to myself.” She had not yet resolved in her mind which was worse; the fumbling attentions of a drooling boy, or the lecherous attentions of a slavering old man. And yet one of them would have her before Brandon did. It was so unfair!
“Touché,” said Henry. He knew when to cut his losses. He had no wish to make an enemy of Mary, whose love for him was the only truly disinterested love he had ever known, the only such love he would probably ever know. Except, perhaps, for Brandon’s. He knew that it was true; he had told Brandon as much in Tournai. And even with Brandon’s elevation to the peerage, nothing had changed. Brandon still loved him, asked him for nothing. And how gay it would be, to have Mary and Brandon, here, by his side, for the rest of their lives. Perhaps Mary’s plan was the best way, after all. “All right,” he said. “I agree.”
“Oh, Henry!” Mary’s face crumpled, and she burst into tears. She ran to him, took him into her arms, kissed his face, her words incoherent in her relief and happiness.
