The Nymph from Heaven, page 57
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
All this time Wolsey had stood dumbstruck on the sidelines, his face almost as crimson as his cardinal’s robe, wringing his hands in dismay. What in the world was Henry doing? What was he thinking? Was he trying to undo all the good that this hitherto friendly meeting had thus far done? Oh, God, he prayed, do not let this prank of the king’s escalate into… He jumped when a page touched him lightly on the shoulder from behind. “Yes, yes,” he said irritably. All his attention was on the two kings. “What is it?” The page murmured a few words into his ear and then sprinted off to the tent entrance. As he lifted the heavy flap to depart, a strong current of air rushed through the pavilion, causing the ladies’ hands to go to their headdresses in dismay.
Suddenly Wolsey rose to his full height. He seized the Archbishop of Canterbury’s crosier without so much as a by-your-leave and rapped the wood of the royal dais with it loudly. This was, indeed, an answer to prayer. Everyone’s attention was immediately arrested, including Henry and François’, who was about to use the same simple maneuver once again to land the obtuse king of England on his royal backside.
“I regret to inform you,” Wolsey said, pausing for effect and to be certain that all eyes were upon him, “that the French royal pavilion has been lost in the storm. Men are laboring now to retrieve it from the valley, and to salvage the belongings of the French royal party.”
Henry stared open-mouthed at Wolsey, hardly able to believe his words. So the French king had lost his quarters! What a joke! So much for French superiority! He was just about to make an appropriate jest when he caught sight of Queen Claude. Her face had gone very pale, and her hand was at her throat. He remembered the bed upon which he had so gently laid her on the day of their luncheon. Poor little queen! What, then, had become of her bed? Was it, too, lost in the debacle of the wreck of the French pavilion? A mist seemed to clear from before his eyes as he collected his thoughts. It was time to end the impromptu combat that he had so cavalierly started with François, and which had backfired so dismally. He must needs make amends, make some gesture.
“I am sorry to hear of the loss of the French royal pavilion,” Henry said in his loud, booming voice. “I would like to offer, nay, I insist, that the king and queen of France stay with the Queen and I in our quarters until arrangements can be made for them.” He knew that Katharine and Claude had become fast friends from the first day they had met; how could it have been otherwise for the two pious queens? He looked at Claude and seeing the color flood her face again, he felt relieved for her. When she shot him a grateful glance, he felt his heart go out to her in her distress. He made her an elegant bow.
“The queen and I accept your most gracious offer, Your Grace of England,” said François, with just the slightest emphasis on the word “gracious.” Henry had certainly not acted graciously that day, and all knew it. The whole incident of the royal wrestling match was best forgotten.
The next morning François arose early and left Henry’s bed in which he had spent the night. He whispered some orders to a sleepy page outside, and within minutes, that which he had requested was delivered. He reentered the king’s chamber, followed by a host of servants. He unceremoniously seized Henry, who was still sleeping, by the arm, wrenching him up in his stupor.
“What a slug-a-bed!” François cried. “It is time you were arisen, My Lord of England! This morning, to express my profound gratitude for your hospitality, I will act as your valet. I pray you, be seated!” He led the staggering king into the chair in which he sat each morning while his barber shaved him. Chattering merrily, François lathered Henry’s face, then lifted a gleaming and very sharp straight razor from the silver tray held up to him by a nervous page.
Just as François poised the blade for its first sweep through the lather on Henry’s face, the tent flap opened and in walked Wolsey. He took in the scene and its meaning at a glance, but there had been a split second when, seeing the French king poised over Henry’s throat with a sharp knife, his heart had skipped a beat.
If only, he thought, the two kings could get along as well as the two queens were able to do; he recalled an incident that very morning in the chapel, in which Katharine and Claude, each eager to yield precedence to the other, had each insisted that the other be the first to kiss the Pax. After several false starts, the two queens had laughed, and spontaneously turned and kissed each other instead. And yet what do I find when I visit the two kings, he asked himself? Henry, fuming and resentful in his barber’s chair with François holding a razor over his royal throat! Ah, well, he thought, after the high mass that he would perform that day there would be a final feast, an exchange of royal gifts, and then the formal leave-taking. And from the looks of things, that event would not occur a moment too soon.
Chapter 20
“She is very beautiful, and has not her match in England.”
– An observer at Mary’s speech to the cloth merchants of London who provided the stuffs for her trousseau
Gravelines, July 1520
“You mistake me, My Lord,” said Charles. But Henry observed that instead of making this statement with belligerence or with an angry countenance, his nephew-by-marriage’s face displayed an expressionless mask. “I do not seek to induce Your Grace to violate the Treaty of London; I but seek your assurance that you will uphold it when the time comes. For mark my words; the French king will be the first to break the peace, and when he does, I will expect the military assistance from England to which I am entitled by the pact.”
Henry considered the emperor’s words. It was true that François was jittery about being surrounded by Imperial holdings on all sides. And having now made the acquaintance of both men, Henry was in a much better position to judge both of them. What Charles said was true; François was an impetuous man, whereas his nephew-by-marriage was more like a cat sitting at a mouse hole. Charles would wait patiently for his prey to emerge, and when it did, he would pounce mercilessly.
But what was there in this for Henry, for England? Charles had hinted at several promises when they had met at Canterbury, promises of French lands. But, which French lands? Would they be enough to compensate him for the enormous expense of war, both in money and in English lives? And did not Henry already hold the title of King of France, at least in his own country, and did not the blood of the French princess Katherine of Valois run in his veins, entitling him to it?
Charles smiled inwardly. He wondered if his uncle-by-marriage knew that his thoughts were written so plainly upon his face. Charles suppressed a snort. He regarded the King of England with cold gray eyes. He knew what Henry wanted. “In return for England’s help, the land from Calais to Paris shall be yours,” he said softly.
Henry licked his thin lips. “And Paris? What of Paris?”
“Again, My Lord, you mistake me,” said Charles calmly. “There are those who believe that I wish to rule the world, but both my thoughts and my deeds demonstrate the contrary. I do not seek to add France to my domains, but simply to crush its arrogant king. Paris shall be yours.”
To crush, to utterly defeat François! To take his crown, his throne, his lands, his very capital city! Oh, it was a glittering dream! Henry recalled the last day of the meeting of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. On that day of farewell, Wolsey had said High Mass, absolving all present of their sins and granting a generous plenary indulgence. Then the two kings had stood beside the red-robed cardinal on the windy plain, caps in hand, while Wolsey placed the foundation stone for the permanent chapel of Our Lady of Peace, which both kings had agreed to build on the site of their meeting to commemorate their newfound amity.
It was not until they had prepared to depart that Henry had slowly, deliberately placed his black velvet cap onto his head. He always wore bejeweled headgear; but today he had chosen his cap’s adornment with especial care. Instead of the multiplicity of jeweled pins he usually wore all around whatever bonnet he chose, today his cap sported only one decoration. It was a table diamond as long and broad as a man’s finger, with a pear-shaped pearl dangling beneath it that was as big as a pigeon’s egg. When François beheld it he gasped; it was the much-coveted Mirror of Naples, the jewel that Louis had given to Mary and which François had tried so hard to recover, even ignominiously offering to buy back that which belonged to the French crown jewels in order to obtain it. In an instant, François realized that Henry had deliberately chosen to wear the jewel on that day, knowing that it would insult and anger him.
The French king visibly smoldered in his exasperation all through the final ceremony, but there was naught he could do. It would have been undignified in the extreme to make a scene. When Henry had exchanged the obligatory final kiss with the French king, François had murmured no words of amity in his ear at this, their final leave-taking. Henry walked smugly away, feeling that he had at last bested François Premier. Henry would have given much to have been a fly on the wall in François’ tent when he was finally able to give vent to his fury, as Henry knew he would.
It was amusing to Henry that in the end, the whole affair of the Field of the Cloth of Gold had miscarried of its purpose, which was to foster friendship between their two nations. But despite the enormous expense, the meeting had cost the English treasury well nigh on ten thousand pounds, Henry was more satisfied knowing that he had left François as his enemy rather than as his friend. And he had done it all under a cloak of harmony and goodwill. It was laughable, and well worth the cost.
Henry, lost in his thoughts, became aware once again of the emperor sitting before him. Something else occurred to him
“But what of your betrothal to the French king’s daughter, the Princess Charlotte?” asked Henry. “Surely if the French make war on the Holy Roman Empire...”
“I would ask the same question of you, Your Grace,” said Charles, with just the faintest hint of a smile. “What of your daughter’s betrothal to the Dauphin?”
Henry grunted. “Surely François Premier could not expect to bind his nation by marriage to those upon whom he makes war.”
“As we know,” said Charles, without giving even the faintest outward sign of what he was thinking, “betrothals were made to be broken.” But Henry was, perhaps, more perceptive than Charles realized.
“Ah,” Henry replied. “You are referring to your betrothal all those years ago to my sister, Mary. The breaking of that marriage was regrettable, but necessary at the time. Your ministers…”
“Exceeded their mandate,” said Charles. “I was managed and governed by my tutor, Chièvres, and I was not yet old enough to impose my will upon him, or upon my unruly council.” He struggled to maintain his composed demeanor; thoughts of Mary always brought his emotions from deep within him up to the very surface of his skin.
Henry sucked in a breath that puckered his full cheeks and pursued his lips, as if he were contemplating verbalizing a momentous decision. “How stands your disposition to marry the Princess Mary?”
Charles felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. Marry that insipid child, when he should have been married these last six years to her beautiful aunt? He almost shivered. Still, betrothal to the Tudor princess would be expedient, and was exactly the sop that he had expected his predictable uncle to offer. “The princess and I are first cousins. There would have to be a dispensation.”
Henry laughed. “Wolsey informs me that dispensations are ten a penny, as plentiful as may apples in summer,” he replied. “And Katharine will be very pleased. But are you certain? The child has not yet reached her fifth birthday. It is long to wait.”
Charles knew what Henry was thinking, he who had tried for eleven years to beget a legitimate son with Charles’ own aunt, Queen Katharine. But what Henry did not know was that the gap in years between himself and his cousin, the Princess Mary, actually suited the emperor very well. It would have been inconceivable to Henry, but Charles truly cared little for what would become of his vast empire when he died. A long engagement with the little princess fitted in well with his plans. For there was always the possibility that Charles Brandon would die on the tiltyard, or in the coming war. Certainly Charles expected that Henry would send his armies to the aid of the empire when the time came, with Brandon at their head. And if anything should happen to the duke, then Mary would be widowed, free once again to marry. And this time none would gainsay him.
# # #
The gathering at Gravelines turned out to be a quiet affair. The English royal party had rested two weeks at Calais, and then progressed by easy stages to this second meeting with Charles. The meeting was treated as more of a family gathering than a diplomatic affair, as had been the meeting at Canterbury, with Katharine unable to restrain her delight at seeing her nephew again so soon. The English were sated with pomp and ceremony from their weeks at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and the emperor was not given to show. Therefore the subdued atmosphere suited everyone but the Archduchess of Austria, it seemed.
Brandon looked at the faces ranged about the small but luxuriously appointed dining table. He was not a man given to fancies, but it seemed to him that he could almost read everyone’s thoughts. The Archduchess Margaret, Charles’ other aunt, was nervously animated as she entertained the English. She approached Brandon early on hoping to kindle a flame that she had not been able to inspire the last time they had met. It was almost laughable, really; the seven years that had passed since he had seen her had not been kind to Margaret. He supposed it was the work, and the worry. Margaret was, after all, queen of the Netherlands in all but name. Her nephew Charles had thought at one time to wrest that power from his aunt when he came into his inheritance, but quickly discovered that which his grandfather Maximilian had known; Margaret was a capable regent and irreplaceable in an empire of such vast domains.
But Margaret had sought to begin with Brandon where they had left off so many years ago, despite the fact that this time he had a wife in tow. And what a wife! Mary was the beauty of her age, but even had she not been, Brandon would not have forsaken his vows to her to dally with the Archduchess Margaret. It simply was not in him to be unfaithful to any vow.
And so Margaret had rebounded her coquettish advances onto Henry, despite the fact that at one time, she might very well have been his stepmother, and despite also the fact that this time, Henry had his queen with him. Neither Margaret nor Henry knew that Brandon had borne witness to their wild night of lovemaking in 1513, when they had supposed him unconscious on the bed beside them. But Henry seemed strangely detached, and did nothing more than respond politely to Margaret’s suggestive gestures.
Brandon regarded Henry speculatively. What had happened at the Field of the Cloth of Gold that he, Brandon, did not know about? For he was certain that something had happened there to make Henry so utterly unresponsive to a woman with whom had shared every vice, despite the fact that it was almost seven years ago and had only happened the one time.
Katharine, whom Brandon had never cared for, seemed blissfully unaware of the undercurrents flowing from Margaret towards her husband, so wrapped up was she in the moment, determined to enjoy her nephew’s company while she could.
Mary looked wan and similarly detached. He knew that the journey from Calais had aggravated the pain in her side, and that even these small suppers had become a strain upon her. He had suggested that she take to her bed, but she wouldn’t hear of it; it was an intimate family gathering, and who knew when upon this earth all of them would meet again?
But it was the emperor who most intrigued him. Charles had a reputation for concealing his thoughts and feelings, and he was usually able to do so to an unusual degree. But whenever he looked at Mary, his desire, his hunger for her, was written plainly upon his face for all to see. Ironically, no one, least of all Mary, seemed to be aware of it. But had Brandon known what his wife was thinking at that moment, he would have known himself to be utterly mistaken.
It was, perhaps, a quirk of nature that when Mary was feeling ill, the pallor her discomfort produced simply served to make her even more ethereally lovely than she already was. It was true that the pain in her side had threatened her all the way from Calais to Gravelines. But it was not as bad as it had been the previous autumn. Her nervous tension upon setting out for the meeting with Charles and Margaret had upset her far more. She felt that it was not good for poor Charles to have to see her again; it seemed that he was never going to give up his quest for her hand, despite the fact that she was happily, blissfully married. He seemed to think that somehow, someday, she would be his, and this idea disturbed her profoundly. If ought were to happen to Brandon, and she were free, Henry would not hesitate this time to bargain her away for a handful of ducats, she was certain of it. And with all the silver and gold that Charles’ ships brought in continually from the New World, he could afford to pay any price for her. Mary liked Charles, pitied him, she even felt motherly towards him. But be his wife she would not.
Added to this was the unexpected distress she felt upon making the acquaintance of the Archduchess Margaret. She knew that Henry had once tried very hard to get Brandon married to the lady. Margaret had seemed a formidable rival during that time in 1513 when her own marriage with Margaret’s nephew Charles had hung fire, and it seemed that despite all of her efforts, she might lose Brandon to another woman. And now that very woman was her hostess, but she was a woman whom Mary, she who usually had such a gentle nature, could not bring herself to like. In fact, she could barely tolerate the woman’s company. Brandon had told Mary forthwith of Margaret’s recent advances, and his own negative response to them, lest Mary should hear of it from someone else. That had served to assuage any fears she might have, but now the hussy was throwing herself at Henry, and Katharine was too oblivious even to notice. Henry seemed strangely unaware, inattentive to all of them; he obviously had something on his mind. Whatever it was, Mary blessed the cause of his preoccupation. It seemed that the archduchess was destined to come away empty-handed where the Englishmen who took her fancy were concerned.
