The Nymph from Heaven, page 53
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
“I am sorry, I do not mean to laugh,” she said. “What you said to me just now is much like something your father said to me fourteen years ago.”
“Is that indeed so?” His gray eyes, expressionless, continued to pursue Mary around the dance floor.
“Yes,” Katharine replied. “I was just your age, and had been brought out of my miserable squalor to be present at the visit of your father and mother at the court of England during their visit to King Henry the Seventh. I asked the Archduke to dance and he flatly refused me, saying that he was a solider, not a dancer!”
Charles did not reply, but continued his useless vigil. He did not remove his hand from Katharine’s, and she held his tightly, wondering, once he departed England, if she would ever see him again. Suddenly an idea struck her. “I like not this meeting with the French,” she said.
“Nor do I.”
“I am happy that we have been vouchsafed this time together, Nephew.”
“As am I.”
“I am certain that the time spent with my husband will be valuable to both of you.”
Charles turned to look at his aunt. “I am grateful that you encouraged me to suggest such a meeting,” he said. “The king seems most agreeable. It is a grand opportunity to put to him my positions before His Grace meets with the French king.”
“Exactly my thought. Would it not be equally advantageous to meet again afterwards?”
Charles’ eyebrows shot up. “Think you that the king would be agreeable to another such meeting?”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Katharine. “Shall I suggest it to him?”
“Yes,” Charles replied. “I would very much like to be privy to what transpires at the Val d’Or. We could meet at…at Gravelines. When is the French parley to be concluded?”
“Certainly by the end of June,” Katharine replied.
“I think it is very possible, then,” Charles said. “Thank you, Aunt.”
The dancing continued until dawn, giving Charles the opportunity to feast his starved, melancholy eyes on Mary for hours on end. It seemed that she never tired. Looking at her lithe form, it was hard for him to believe that she was three times a mother.
At five of the clock in the morning, the king and queen retired, effectively ending the evening. The great hall emptied and most people retired to their beds, weary but happy. Mary did not retire, though. Charles knew from the conversation at table earlier in the evening that her husband, the Duke of Suffolk, was at Dover, assisting Wolsey with the mammoth effort of preparing the English fleet to sail to Calais. Perhaps, without him, she was loath to go to her bed. To her bed! A groan escaped his lips at that thought. He dismissed his attendants and then followed her, at a discreet distance, in the direction of the palace garden.
# # #
The Archbishop of Canterbury was an avid gardener, and the garden adjoining his palace at Canterbury, though he seldom visited it, was always kept in meticulous form. And it was May, and the weather was warm. The arbors of roses were in full bloom and their fragrance filled the air. It seemed, on that enchanted morning, with the dew fresh on every leaf and flower, with the sun just peeking up over the horizon and shedding its magical golden light, as if he could have been in the Garden of Eden itself.
And suddenly, there she was, his Eve. In the half-light she could have been mistaken for a fairy or a nymph, with her garments glowing golden in the tentative rays of the sun, and her hair floating like spun silk on the warm dawn breeze.
She turned and saw him, silhouetted against the imposing palace behind him. He quickly removed his velvet cap and bowed to her. She supposed this meeting was inevitable. She felt a little sheepish about talking with her former betrothed; after all, she had so vehemently refused him in her mind, thinking him a monster and calling him hideous names. But it was not so. True, his jaw ruined his looks, but they were looks that otherwise would have been quite pleasing without that glaring fault. He had nice eyes, a smooth skin, and he was otherwise quite attractive, though he was too small of stature to appeal to her after her lifelong exposure to the likes of her brother Henry and Charles Brandon, those fair-haired giants.
He approached and, bowing low over her hand, he said, “Well met, My Lady.”
Mary smiled. “I am afraid I have no sleep in me,” she said. “I came to walk in the garden to ease my mind.”
“I would not for the world disturb your ease,” he replied. “Shall I leave you?”
“Nay, nay,” said Mary, laying a hand on his arm. His stares and gazing had not gone unnoticed by her. In fact, she recognized in him a fellow sufferer. She had mimicked his yearning stare at the ball at many a court function when she was younger and had so ardently desired Charles Brandon. She knew what it was to be hopelessly in love, and she felt sorry for him. Charles laid his hand upon hers, as he had done Katharine’s. It was almost feverishly warm. Mary looked at him with concern. “Are you ill, My Lord?”
“No,” he said, a trifle too quickly. “Yes,” he said, then he shook his head. “I am sick at heart.”
Mary looked at him sympathetically. “Upon what cause? If there is aught I can do…”
“Do not say it!” he said, his voice almost shrill. He stopped, took a breath, and then said, almost in a whisper, “What I would have you do to assuage my pain, you cannot do,” he said. “I would you were my wife, as God had ordained you should be!”
“Oh, My Lord,” said Mary. “I am sorry.”
“No,” he said. “I do not think you are!” He turned and walked quickly away, lest she see his tears.
He walked further into the garden; Mary followed him. “Please wait,” she said. “Please…” He stopped, but did not turn to face her. “I am a princess of England,” she said. “Surely you must know that I went where I was called. I had no control over my fate. Do you think I wanted to marry Louis?” Forgive me, my dear Louis, but I must comfort this aching heart, this poor, distraught child…
He whipped around to face her. “But you knew of my deformity,” he said. “You would have been told. You could see from my portrait…”
“I saw a young boy,” she said firmly. “A boy, alas, far too young for me. You know it is true.”
Charles considered her words. He knew that she alluded to his aunt’s childlessness, and to the fact that she was six years younger than her husband, who now despaired of a male heir of his body. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for trying to spare my feelings. You are sweet, and kind, as well as too beautiful to be of this earth. But can you honestly say that, if we had been of an age, that you would have wanted me?” The challenge was in his eyes; she read it and had her answer ready.
“No,” she said. “I would not. Shall I tell you why?” Their eyes locked; her heart smote her when she saw him steel himself for her next words. “My heart was already pledged,” she said. “Irrevocably pledged. It broke my heart to marry Louis, as it would have broken my heart to marry any but the man I love.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Sheer joy transformed his face, which, in the shadowy light of early day, looked almost normal. “Say you so, then?”
Mary nodded. “I have loved Charles Brandon since I was a child. I have loved him since you were naught but a babe in arms. I could never love any man but he.”
Charles took both her hands in his, and leaned forward to kiss her. She trusted him; he was royal, as was she, and knew the rules. The kiss landed, gentle, cousinly, on her brow. “Thank you a thousand times, most gracious lady,” he said. So she could never have truly been his. He had heard the stories of how Brandon had married her in France. Rumors about the whole affair had abounded; he had seduced her in her grief, he had forced himself upon her, François had forced her to marry a commoner to besmirch her and to ensure that no royal man would have her after that. Who knew the truth, from miles away and from the mouths of those who had little to gain by being honest? He had renewed his suit immediately Louis died, yes, even before. But now, looking into Mary’s gray eyes, aglow with the fire of the dawn light and listening to her talk of the husband whom she loved, he knew the truth. Even had he married her, she would never, ever truly have been his.
He sighed, and let go of her hands. He bowed his head. “I shall never marry,” he said, his voice choking on a sob.
Mary gently took his hands back into her own. “Oh, but you must! You must marry and get an heir to inherit your vast domains. It is your duty.”
Charles looked into her eyes. “I care not. My position, my lands, mean nothing when I have been deprived of that which a man must have to live.”
Mary searched his eyes. “Not all men,” she said.
“I have always loved you,” he said softly, the tears swimming in his eyes. “I always shall.”
“And I shall always think lovingly and fondly of you,” she replied. “But we both have our duties, have we not? Let me tell you something that may help you, Charles.” They began walking arm in arm. It was some moments before she continued. “I hated the idea of marrying Louis of France.”
He smiled. “Almost as much as you hated the idea of marrying me?”
“I would have hated the thought of marrying anyone but Brandon. But I had to marry Louis. I railed against my fate, against my royal status, against life, and against Louis himself. But when I arrived in France, and met him, I realized that he was just a lonely old man who needed my love. And I did love him. I came to love him. Not as a husband, but as my very dear friend, who needed me. I have never told anyone of this.”
Charles understood her meaning. “I will not betray your trust,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.” He knew what she was saying; his own bride, whoever she happened to be, would be a poor, frightened princess, just as Mary had been, torn from all she had ever known and sent to a foreign land to marry a stranger. Whoever this shadowy, elusive person turned out to be, for he knew that Mary was right, he must marry and beget an heir, he must first be her friend. If he would do that, then perhaps, for his bride at least, love might come.
“Mary,” he said. “Will you do something for me?”
Mary turned and smiled, the yellow light of the fully risen sun on her face. “Of course.”
“Will you kiss me, here, now, just this once?”
Chapter 19
“Her beauty exceeds description.”
– Sebastian Giustiniani, Venetian Ambassador
Calais, Guisnes, and the Val d’Or, France, June 1520
Henry ran back and forth across the deck of the Great Harry like an excited boy, unable to contain his pleasure at being at sea again. Katharine reclined on piles of colorful velvet cushions high on the raised poop deck, affording her a spectacular view. She smiled indulgently at her husband’s antics. Brandon followed him like a puppy this way and that, as Henry pointed out landmarks still visible on the receding coast of England.
Mary appeared from below decks looking decidedly pale; Katharine peered at her with concern. “Are you ill?” she asked. “Is it the pain in your side? Come here and sit beside me.”
Mary’s face was the color of suet. She sat down beside Katharine on the pile of cushions and put her head in her hands. “I am not ill,” she whispered. Fortunately, the pain in her side had subsided from the attack she had suffered after dancing all night at the ball in Canterbury. “It is just that I am frantic.”
“Upon what cause?” Katharine frowned. Mary had not been herself since they had boarded the ship that morning. When they finally set sail, she had gone below. Now she had emerged looking like death itself.
“I simply cannot bear it!” sobbed Mary.
“There, there! Cannot bear what, my dear?”
“I cannot bear being below; it so hot and stifling! And I cannot bear being up here, watching England disappear behind me, to become naught but a smudge on the horizon! I do not want to go back to France!”
Katharine bit her lip; there was nothing she could say to that. She understood that Mary’s experiences in France had made her loath to return. Perhaps she could distract her with some conversation.
“What thought you of my nephew, Charles?”
Mary brightened visibly at the question. “I thought him most engaging. And I believe Henry was very impressed with his abilities.”
Katharine smiled. “I am certain of it,” she replied. “I think many are fooled by his appearance into thinking him slow and stupid. But it is not so.”
Mary sat up, taking deep gulps of the fresh sea air. “Indeed, it is not. Charles will make a formidable ruler, I am sure. But I believe that he will be a gentle husband.”
“My nephew has suffered much in his short life.”
“I believe that is so.” And I was the cause of some of that poor boy’s distress, she thought. But not through my own fault!
“I assured him that he must always think of me as his mother,” said Katharine. “It is so ironic, really. My sister Joanna is his mother, but he says that when he visits her, she does not know him. If only he were my own son…”
Katharine and Henry had been enjoying a renewal of their love of late. Henry had all but abandoned Mistress Blount; his bastard son had been sent north with a suite worthy of a prince. But at least the child was now far from London and the court. She and Henry worked together daily on Henry’s Assertio Septem Sacramentorum, which occupied almost all of his time. But still she had not quickened again. She was getting older; perhaps it would take longer this time. She must be patient. And St. Michael and all his angels knew, her life had taught her nothing if not patience. She could wait. But could Henry?
Katharine realized that she had become lost in her own thoughts and was ignoring Mary, whom she had at first sought to distract. Mary, who had been sitting with her back to the receding shoreline, now turned to look at it. The White Cliffs were shining in the far distance like tiny diamonds. Mary was watching them disappear into the sea mist, the tears streaming down her face.
Suddenly Henry and Brandon came clambering up the ladder. Mary quickly wiped away her tears. Why am I so distraught? she asked herself. And then she thought she knew; it was the confluence of so many things. She had broken Charles’ heart and it made her very sad to think of it. Her feelings about seeing François again were mixed and complicated. And she truly did not want to set foot on French soil again in this life. But alas, she had no choice.
# # #
“And Wolsey told me that some of the timbers used for the tent poles were so long that they had to be lashed together and floated all the way to Calais,” said Henry excitedly.
“And if you can credit it,” Brandon said, “six thousand craftsmen have been laboring since March to prepare the site and to refurbish the castle at Guisnes. Hundreds of carpenters, masons by the score, glaziers, painters! And the royal pavilion, Wolsey says, is to be a grand surprise!”
“And supplies have been pouring across the Channel for weeks now,” Henry continued. “The numbers are simply staggering. Seven thousand eels! Even I cannot eat that many! At least not in one month,” he laughed, patting his flat belly.
“And over two thousand sheep,” Brandon said excitedly. “And dozens and dozens of herons, and quail, and heads of cheese! And rabbits, cows, chickens, lambs, the list is simply endless!”
“Seemingly,” said Mary, with a smile and a raised eyebrow.
“Wolsey has seen to it all, and magnificently,” said Henry. “He assures me that even the cream for my cakes has not been forgotten!”
“Even the straw and oats for the horses have been shipped across the water,” added Brandon.
“And how do you think Wolsey will keep us all in trenchers?” asked Henry, his eyes dancing.
“I cannot guess,” Katharine replied. Mary shrugged helplessly.
“He has sent across the water dozens of bakers with portable ovens!” laughed Henry. “Just as if we were on campaign! The bread will be baked each day, fresh loaves in their thousands! Is that not clever?”
“Very clever,” agreed Katharine.
Suddenly a shrill whistle blew.
“We are coming into the harbor!” shouted Henry. “Ho, Brandon! Let us watch the pilot!” And with that, they left as quickly as they had come, scampering down the ladders like boys.
Mary stood, stretched, and gazed about her. The ships of the mighty fleet were closer to each other now than they had been out on the open sea. The sun sparkled on the water, a warm breeze blew, and dozens of gulls wheeled and cried. Overhead colorful pennons and flags flew and snapped from every mast. All along the ships’ rails were gathered the cream of English nobility. Everyone who was anyone had taken ship across the water for this meeting of two great courts, except for the Duke of Norfolk and a few others too old or unwilling to travel, left behind to see to the government in the absence of king and court. They were all smiling, excited, dressed in their finest velvets, silks and satins, damasks and brocades, cloth of gold and silver. It was a glittering company.
“Let us walk to the forecastle,” said Katharine.
From there Mary could see Calais, and at once her heart fell. She shuddered.
“What is the matter?” asked Katharine. “Are you feeling ill again?”
“No,” said Mary. “I was just remembering that the last time I was here, the people were rioting.”
Katharine laughed. “Well, I verily believe that there will be no riots today. I hear that Wolsey has arranged for wine to flow in the conduits of the streets. All will be merry. People have been streaming into the port for days now, hoping to catch a glimpse of the king.”
“And of the queen,” smiled Mary, squeezing Katharine’s hand.
“And of the king’s beautiful sister!” said a booming voice.
“Henry! We thought you were on the bridge!” laughed Katharine.
“The view is better from here,” said Brandon, his eyes soft as they caught Mary’s. He pulled Mary aside and searching her worried eyes said, “Do not distress yourself. This time all will be well, I promise you.”
