The Nymph from Heaven, page 62
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
As the organ began to play and the new Lady Taillebois recessed triumphantly from the altar to its booming strains, her hand on Sir Gilbert’s arm, Henry brightened visibly, but he was looking right through her. In Bessie’s place he was picturing his new bride, a nameless, faceless entity at the moment, but the woman who would, at last, bear England her much-needed heir.
London, Suffolk Place, May 1522
Katharine paced up and down the wooden dock with barely concealed impatience. It was only May, but the weather had been unusually warm and already the river threatened the unpleasant odor that often offended royal and common noses alike in the summertime. She pulled up the chain on which her pomander hung and held the pungent golden globe to her nose.
Mary understood Katharine’s nervous excitement; Charles was coming, and her sister-in-law simply could not wait to see her nephew once again. Mary sat on a wooden bench on the grass at the water stairs at Suffolk Place. She had not had a recurrence of her painful ailment for many months, but she had learned that certain things were apt to bring on an attack. One of them was standing for long periods, so now, wherever she went, she always endeavored to sit down if she could.
At last the king’s barge was sighted farther downriver, and a young page came running towards them, breathless, with the news.
“They come, Your Grace, they come!” he shouted, waving his hands. The sight of the enthusiastic young boy, by chance a redhead, caused Katharine’s heart to twist. If only things had gone right with her instead of so terribly wrong, she would have had a son just that age now, and Henry would not be so angry with her. Oh, he tried to hide his feelings, she knew. He still loved her, if not as a wife then as his very good friend. That thought alone was enough to break her heart. But somehow he had discovered that she was now probably incapable of another child, and it had colored his attitude towards her remarkably. It seemed almost as if he could no longer bear to be in her presence. He avoided her by day, and spent his nights in Mary Boleyn’s bed. Since the Assertio had been completed and Henry had gained his title of Defender of the Faith, it seemed as if she had almost ceased to exist for him. She knew this because sometimes she caught the surprised, confused expression on his face whenever they were unavoidably in the same place at the same time. Was she to live out the rest of her life this way? How would she bear it?
But there was no time for these hurtful thoughts today. For on this day her beloved nephew was coming. The emperor had landed at Dover two days before and Henry had met his ship. From there they had gone together to worship at the shrine of St. Thomas Becket at Canterbury. Then they had made their way to London, discussing affairs of state as they rode along in the fine May weather. And now they were almost here. Katharine shaded her eyes against the sun, and just as she did so, the king’s elaborate barge came into view. As soon as the trumpeters sighted the queen, they blew a fanfare.
“Oh, Mary, they are here! They are here at last!” Katharine’s eyes swam with tears and Mary rose and walked down to the dock to hold her hand. The hand that gripped hers was moist and it trembled. Poor Katharine, she had had so little happiness of late.
Mary’s own feelings about Charles’ visit were mixed. They had met twice now, and both times Charles had evoked in her some intriguing emotions. She had been betrothed to him for six years; she could not help imagining what it might have been like to be his wife. He was exceptionally handsome, despite his deformed jaw. How could the son of Philip the Handsome and the stunning Joanna of Castile have been otherwise? In fact, had she not known Charles Brandon, had Brandon never existed, Mary often thought that she might have been quite happy with Charles. And Charles was obviously in love with her. No, it went beyond that. It seemed to her that Charles worshipped her. There was an indefinable vibration between them when she was in his presence that was baffling. It was almost as if his love for her were so intense that it took on some form that could be sensed, if not actually touched. As flattering as all that was, was this any way for a happily married woman to feel about a frustrated suitor? It was not.
But still, there was something about Charles that attracted her. To deny it would have been useless. Whatever it was had no bearing upon her attachment to, her love for, her husband; that was a thing apart, and quite unshakeable. Perhaps her relationship with Charles was like that ideal that the troubadours had sung about during the Age of Chivalry, when Queen Eleanor had reigned as the unattainable epitome of beauty in her famous Courts of Love. But that time was in the misty past, hundreds of years ago. There was no place in the modern, pragmatic Tudor court for such an idyll. And yet here she was, every bit as nervous as Katharine about Charles’ arrival, but for vastly different reasons.
Brandon was off drilling troops, happily engaged in preparation for war, a war which Mary greatly feared was finally going to come to pass. It was on account of the Treaty of London, and all the posturing between the French and the English at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Anglo-French relations had deteriorated to a nadir not reached for a decade. And the fact that Charles had come to England would serve to signal the French that war was now inevitable.
She had begged Henry privately that if war did come, that he would not send Brandon to fight. Her brother had looked at her incredulously.
“Mary,” Henry had said. “Do you honestly believe that I would be able to hold him back, even if I wanted to?” But in her eyes the desperation was unmistakable. Men died in wars. She was afraid of the same thing that every woman since the dawn of time had feared; losing her man, her love, in battle. Perhaps here was that opportunity he had been searching for, to make her love him again as she used to do. “I will promise you this, Sister,” he had said benignly. “I will not send Brandon to war until I must. And that day will come, I assure you. But my promise is that I will not send him until it is necessary to do so. That may not be for quite some time, despite all this blustering. You have my word on it.”
“Oh, thank you!” she had exclaimed. “Dear Henry! Dearest Brother! Let us pray that the time will never come.” Then Mary had hugged him to her, crying, and he had soothed her, smoothed her hair, and kissed the tears from her hot, wet cheeks. She was his darling little sister again, and he had not made his promise to her idly. There were certain to be false starts and mild skirmishes before the real war began. He would save Brandon for the time when war came in earnest. Until then, he would use his other, quite capable commanders to harry the French.
The barge slid to a silent halt at the dock and Henry and Charles stepped out. Charles tried to kneel before his aunt, the queen, but she would have none of that; Katharine embraced her nephew and kissed him warmly several times, only breaking away to look at his face, pat his cheek, wipe her tears, and kiss him yet again.
“Dearest Aunt!” exclaimed Charles. “I am so happy to see you.” It was true; Katharine had told Charles that he should look upon her as his mother, and he who been deprived of parents for most of his life did so eagerly. His grandfather, the Emperor Maxilmilian, had been away for much of his life, sending him only terse instructions about his lessons and how he was to conduct himself; his aunt Margaret had been too preoccupied with ensuring that he would know how to rule when the time came to be a loving mother to him. His own mother, the few times he had seen her, had frightened him as a child and disgusted him as a young man. Technically, his mother, Joanna of Castile, was still the rightful ruler of Spain, but how could she, who raved in her dark castle that was really her prison, in her widow’s rags and with her hair hanging dirty and wild, rule a country? She spoke to his father, who had been dead for years, as if he were actually there, and her utterings against God for taking her beloved husband from her would have been enough to have her burnt by the Inquisition had she not had the protection of her royalty.
What a contrast was that shameful mother to the woman who stood before him now, smelling of perfume, clad in silks and jewels, with the green trees in flower all around her, and who so obviously loved him? He kissed her with genuine feeling, and then clasping Katharine’s hand tightly, he turned to face Mary.
His own eyes brimmed with tears as he kissed her proffered hand. “Your Grace,” he murmured, afraid to look into her face lest the tears should fall and he should be shamed.
“Welcome,” said Mary, “to Suffolk Place, Your Grace. It is an honor to have you here as my guest.” It had been decided that this meeting between Henry and Charles would be treated as the others between them had been, as a family affair, although no one expected that to fool the French. Still, in the intimacy of Mary’s home they could all pretend for a while that they were just like any other family.
The days passed pleasantly, as Henry, Katharine, Charles and Mary visited in the casual informality of the sunny Great Room at Suffolk Place, and took their meals in the intimacy of a small, elegantly appointed dining room. In the evenings they sat outside, listening to the river rushing by and to the sounds of the city across the water, playing cards and counting fireflies. It was a time apart for all of them, frozen like a leaf in the winter ice of a stream. Henry and Charles hunted and hawked, Katharine and Mary planned cozy evenings. Finally, the time came for Charles to leave.
On the night before his departure, Katharine was so upset by Charles’ going that she had taken to her bed with a headache. Henry had seized the opportunity to take his barge across the river to visit Mary Boleyn, who was ensconced at Baynard’s Castle in the hope of just such a chance, and so Mary found herself alone with Charles.
“I understand that your husband is gathering troops for the war,” said Charles. His eyes looked very green in the firelight, and Mary saw in his face, for just a fleeting moment, the image of the beautiful Queen Joanna who had so enchanted her father in 1506. Mary had been just eleven during Queen Joanna’s visit to the court that year, but she remembered both Joanna and Philip vividly. How like them both he was!
“Indeed,” Mary replied. “I have heard that none can rival our English and Welsh archers, who drill constantly and need no special preparation for battle. But when the common foot soldier is needed, I have been told that one must needs gather them up and train them in the art of war.”
“That is true. I hope you are not too lonely with the duke away.”
Mary smiled. “I am terribly lonely whenever My Lord is from me.” She instantly regretted the response when she saw him suppress a wince. So it was true! His words at their last two meetings had not been idle ones; she was in no doubt that Charles loved her deeply.
Just then an Imperial page appeared in the doorway and Charles addressed him in a language that had always fascinated Mary whenever she heard it spoken. It was so inelegant, so guttural. The man entered, bowed to both of them, handed Charles a dispatch, and then, bowing himself out of the room, departed.
“Was that German you were speaking?”
“Yes,” Charles replied, laying the dispatch aside and giving Mary his full attention.
“It sounds so harsh,” laughed Mary. “Almost like a pig grunting!” To her surprise, he laughed. She wished that she could make him laugh more often.
“It does, does it not? I usually don’t speak German to people. I usually only speak it to my horse. But that man speaks only German.”
“How many languages do you speak?” asked Mary.
“Several. Mine is a far-flung empire, and to successfully rule it I must speak to the people I rule in their own tongues if I am to gain their respect and their loyalty. I have always believed that a man who speaks four languages is worth four men.”
Mary smiled impishly. “And how do you know that your horse understands German?”
Charles laughed again. “Why, because he is a German horse, of course! I speak German to my horse, French to men, Italian to women and Spanish to God.”
“You ought to speak French to women. It is such a beautiful language. I had great difficulty learning it. I fear me that my tutor, Master Palsgrave, often despaired of me.”
Charles watched Mary intently as she spoke. The firelight danced upon her hair, making it glint; her lips reminded him of the pink rosebuds in the vase beside her on the table. How he longed to kiss her, to take her hand and lead her onto the great sheepskin rug that lay in front of the hearth, to…
“…in Paris?” She looked at him quizzically.
He flushed red, grateful that the orange light of the flames hid his blush. He had not been listening to her words, but only to the music of her voice. He had no idea what she was asking him, or how to respond. Paris. She had mentioned Paris.
“Ah, Paris,” he said. “Do you know that I could fit all of Paris right into my city of Ghent, and lose it there? But Paris is not just a city, is it? It is a universe, a law unto itself.”
“How poetic you are!” Mary laughed. “But you are right. I loathed leaving my home, I had difficulty with the language at first, but once in France, one cannot help but fall in love with it. Paris is, indeed, unique.”
“Yes,” he said. His eyes bore into hers. “It is.” As are you, my beautiful one. If only I could tell you…
Mary, sensing his wandering thoughts, racked her brain for a subject that would distract him from herself. For that he was hopelessly fixated upon her, there seemed no doubt.
“What thought you of the Princess Mary?” she asked brightly. Her little niece and namesake was such a charming, intelligent child. It was a shame that Charles would have to wait so long to be able to marry her.
“A fascinating girl,” he replied. “She seems wise beyond her years.”
“And clever,” said Mary. “She is only six years old, but already she speaks several languages, just like you. You will have that in common. How ironic that once…” Oh dear, she thought, I had meant to distract him from his thoughts of...
“That once I thought to marry her beautiful aunt? Mary, let us stop bandying words.” He reached out and placed his hand on top of hers. It was very warm. “I love you. That has not changed. Nothing will ever change it. No matter what happens, I shall love you until I die.”
Mary raised her eyes to his. “I am sorry,” she said simply.
“I am not.”
“But you must marry, Charles. We have discussed this before. What will become of your vast empire if you do not marry and beget an heir? I think it best that you marry the princess. That way our two realms will be tied with the bonds of marriage. And since she is your cousin, those bonds will be doubly strong. The English people deplore the thought of a French marriage for her. Charles, the English people love the queen, who is Spanish, and because you are her nephew, they love you, too. They would welcome a marriage alliance between their beloved princess and the queen’s nephew.”
Charles laughed, but this time it was an unpleasant sound. How many men had to bear the exquisite pain of hearing the woman they loved tell them to marry elsewhere with such grave conviction?
Mary looked at him with a pained expression. “Why do you laugh?”
I laugh, he thought, because if I do not, I shall cry. His plans, his hopes, his dreams of Brandon meeting an untimely end and of Mary becoming his wife after all, were as insubstantial as the morning mists over the marshes. She would never have him, even if such a thing were possible. And there was something unsettling about the idea of his happiness depending entirely upon another person. What if he were to finally attain his heart’s desire, and she were to die, or betray him? That anguish would be great indeed, and even harder to bear than that which he bore now. One must face reality; she would never, ever be his.
“It is late,” he said. “And I must see to this,” he tapped the dispatch he had laid aside, “before I sleep. Thank you for your company this evening and for your superb hospitality. I have so much enjoyed my visit to Suffolk Place.” He rose, kissed her hand, bowed and departed before she could say a word.
It seemed to her as if, in the short space of a few seconds, he had entirely changed. One moment he was barely able to conceal his ardor and the next he was coldly bidding her goodnight as if she had been a foreign ambassador. She sighed. Perhaps it was better this way.
The next morning a tearful Katharine bade her nephew goodbye, with promises on both sides to visit again soon. But Katharine was royal and understood the obligations of kings and queens; it was unlikely that she would ever leave England, and Charles would only visit again if political necessity dictated it, as it had in this case. She knew full well that she might never see him again, and she sought to put a brave face on it. Was his last memory of her to be one of her tear-stained face? She forced herself to stop crying and smile, and waved to him cheerfully as the king’s barge glided away on a river as smooth as glass.
Henry was in a more jovial mood than normal. He had spent the night in Mary Boleyn’s bed, no longer even bothering to lie to Katharine regarding his whereabouts, and upon his arrival back at Suffolk Place early that morning had been greeted by the news of what Charles’ dispatch had contained. It was reported that French and Swiss forces under Odet de Lautrec had been utterly defeated by Charles’ Spanish troops in an attempt to retake Milan. In his great delight, and possibly wishing to put on a show of fondness for Katharine in front of Charles, Henry had kissed Katharine soundly on the lips as he boarded the boat.
