They could not remain alone for long. That they should have been given this short time together was a great concession. He must return to his embassy, she to her mockery of mourning.

But before he left she had shown him her determination. She was a Tudor and she would have her way.

She talked to Anne Boleyn of her suspicions. She was certain that many were jealous of her Charles.

“Why, look,” she cried, “he is handsome, so clever, so skilled in everything he does. He is my brother’s best friend. So they are jealous of him—men, such as Norfolk, seek to spoil the friendship between him and Henry. They have whispered poison into my brother’s ear so that he forgets his promise to me. But I do not forget.”

She liked to talk to Anne because the child never attempted to soothe her. She merely sat and listened, and now and then added a shrewd remark of her own.

“It is for this reason that Henry extracted a promise from Charles before he left England. But my brother also gave me a promise, and I have no intention of forgetting that, I tell you. The King of France will help. So I shall insist on Henry’s keeping his promise to me. For if my brother did not wish me to have Charles, why did he send him over here with the embassy?”

“It is said that he sent the Duke of Suffolk in order to lure you back to England, Madame.”

“So they are chitty-chatting about me and Charles, are they?”

“It is said that the Duke is a very ambitious man, Madame, and that, having failed to win an Archduchess, he will try for a queen.”

Mary pulled Anne’s long black hair sharply. “Do not speak of the Archduchess to me. Charles never had any fancy for her.”

“No, Madame.”

“And understand this, little Boleyn, that my Charles would never lure me back that my brother might marry me to that slack-mouthed idiot of Castile.”

The Queen’s confessor came to her apartments and asked that he might speak to her alone; and when Mary signed to Anne to go, the young girl went quietly from the room.

The friar was an Englishman—and that she should have a confessor from her own country was another concession from François.

“Madame,” he said, “I wish to speak to you on a most urgent matter.”

“Speak on,” Mary commanded.

“It concerns one of our countrymen who is here on a mission.”

Mary studied him through narrowing eyes. “Which man?” she demanded.

“His Grace of Suffolk.”

“And what of his Grace of Suffolk?”

“A most ambitious gentleman, Madame.”

“Is that so? I see nothing wrong with ambition. I doubt not that you have some of that tucked away behind that holy expression you show me and the world.”

“Madame, I come to warn you.”

“Of what and whom?”

“Of this ambitious man.”

The color was high in her cheeks but the friar ignored the danger signals.

He went on blithely: “It is said that Your Highness is inclined to favor this man, and I have been warned that I should make known to you the type of man he is. Beware of Suffolk, Madame. He traffics with the devil.”

“Who told you this?”

“It is well known that Sir William Compton has an ulcer on his leg which will not heal. Your brother, the King himself, has made an ointment which has cured other ulcers. Nothing cures Compton’s. And do you know why?”

“Yes,” Mary replied. “Compton has led too merry a life, and the ulcer is an outward sign of all his gaiety.”

“Your Highness misjudges him. Suffolk laid a spell on the man out of jealousy of the King’s friendship for him. Suffolk is a friend of Wolsey who, it is well known, is one of the devil’s servants.”

“They are my friends, also, sir friar. And you are not. You fool, do you not think I shall treat your lies with anything but what they deserve? If there is one grain of sense left in your addled pate, you would remove yourself from my presence without delay, for the sight of you so sickens me that I wish never to look on your silly face again. And I tell you this: If you repeat to anyone the lies you have told me, you will ere long have no tongue with which to tell even the truth, if so be you have a mind to it—which I doubt.”

“My lady Mary …”

She went toward him, her hand uplifted to strike him. The friar hurried from her presence.

When he was gone, she threw herself onto her couch. So many enemies, she thought. Powerful men against us. Where will it all end?

But not for more than a moment would she allow her confidence to desert her.

There was another interview with Charles.

She faced him triumphantly.

“I have the answer,” she told him. “Henry made you swear not to influence me. Well, you have kept that promise. You did not influence me. My mind has long been made up. He made you promise not to induce me to plight my troth to you. Well, have I? Did I need any inducement? Now, Charles, you have kept your promise. But I insist that you plight your troth to me. I command that you marry me.”

Charles shook his head sadly. “I fear it will not do.”

“But it shall do,” she insisted.

“And afterward?”

“Oh, let us not think of afterward. I will deal with that if need be. I will make known to Henry that I was determined to marry you and commanded that you should obey me. Oh Charles, why do you hesitate? Do you not want to marry me?”

“More than anything on earth. But I want to live with you in peace and comfort for the rest of our lives. I want us to be able to watch our children growing up. I do not want a few short nights and then a dungeon for us both.”

She took his hands and laughed up at him. “I would not think beyond those few short nights,” she answered.

Then his emotions seemed to catch fire from hers. He seized her hungrily and they remained close.

Then she said: “If you do not marry me, Charles, I shall go into a convent. I’ll not be thrown to that other Charles. Oh my dearest, have no fear. I will face Henry. He will never harm us. He loves me too dearly and has often said that you are his greatest friend. What do you say, Charles?”

“When shall it be?” he asked, his lips close to her ear.

“As soon as it can be arranged. François will help us.”

“Then,” said Charles, “we will marry. And when it is done, together we will face whatever has to be faced.”

“I promise you this, my love,” she told him solemnly. “There will be no regrets. As long as I live there shall be none.”

In the oratory chapel of the Hôtel de Clugny a marriage ceremony took place in great secrecy.

Only ten people were present, and the priest was a humble one who had no notion, when he had been summoned, of the people whom he was to marry.

And there Mary stood, blissfully content, for this was the ceremony of which she had dreamed over many years.

The nuptial ring, the nuptial kiss—how different this occasion from that other in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse—how simple this, how elaborate that!

She smiled to think of the cloth of gold she had worn, and all the glittering jewels; they served their purpose for they did hide some of the bitter dejection, the melancholy which was then in her heart.

Now there were no jewels and the ceremony was simple; yet she wore her exultation, her supreme happiness more proudly than she had worn the costly treasures of France and England.

And as she stood beside her bridegroom, one of the spectators, smiling down his long nose at the bridal pair, cynically told himself that he was a fool to pass over this radiant girl to a rival. Yet it gave him pleasure to contemplate his own chivalry, and he would always remember the grateful glances of the bride.

The ceremony was over, and Mary Tudor was married to Charles Brandon.

The King of England might be furious, but at least they had the blessing of the King of France.


THE COUNTRYSIDE was at its most beautiful when Mary and her husband returned to England, for the spring was well advanced. What a joy to be riding once more through the country lanes of her native land with the man of her choice beside her.

Charles was the perfect lover, the perfect husband, as she had always known he would be, simply because she had long ago decided that he was the only man for her. He was more uneasy than she was, particularly since they had crossed the sea. He was apprehensive, thinking of facing the King.

As they came near to London, she said: “Charles, whatever happens now, it was worth it.”

He turned to smile at her. Her recklessness amused and delighted him while it often startled him; and when he thought of the honeymoon and the singleminded passion of his wife, he could say honestly that it was worthwhile and he would do the same again.

“But,” he added, “having tasted bliss, I could not bear to give it up now.”

“Nor shall you,” she retorted. “I know Henry well. He wants us back at Court. He will speak sternly to us but that is not to be taken seriously. At heart he is rejoicing because we are coming home.”

Charles did not deny this. But he could not forget those noblemen who were his enemies and who would be ready to poison the King’s mind against him. If Wolsey had not been on his side, he felt, it would almost certainly be a cell in the Tower of London which would be awaiting him.

Wolsey had indeed been his friend, and it was he who had warned the Duke how to act. The King, Wolsey had told him, was extremely displeased with both his sister and her husband. It was a foolish—one might say treasonable—act to marry without the King’s consent, and so quickly after the Queen had become a widow. Wolsey trembled at the thought of the King’s anger, but knowing the great love he bore his sister he believed that His Grace might be slightly placated if Mary made over to him her French rents, which amounted to some twenty-four thousand pounds. Then there was the matter of the Queen’s dowry which François had promised to pay back to her. This was some two hundred thousand crowns. If the King was asked graciously to accept these monies, together with the Queen’s plate and jewels, he might show a little leniency.

Mary had laughed when she heard this. She had waved her hand airily:

“Let him have all my possessions. What do I care? All that matters is that we are together, Charles.”

“I doubt we shall be able to afford to live at Court.”

“I believe, sir, you have estates in Suffolk?”

“You will find them somewhat humble after all the splendor you have known.”

“I was never more unhappy than when I lived most splendidly, Charles. I shall be happy, if need be, in Suffolk. Not that I believe Henry will allow us to leave Court. Did he not always love to have us with him? Why, when he was about to plan a joust his first thought was: ‘Where is Mary? Where is Suffolk?’”

“That was before we had so offended him.”

“Nonsense! Henry is only offended with those he dislikes. He loves us both. We shall be forgiven.”

“At a great cost.”

“Who cares for the cost?”

“Twenty-four thousand pounds? Two hundred thousand crowns?”

“Oh come, Charles, am I not worth that?”

He laughed at her. She was worth all the riches of France and England … and indeed the world, he told her.

Now as they rode along she was remembering how she had left Paris accompanied by the nobility of the Court. François himself had ridden with her, a little sad at parting, she fancied.

She would miss him, she assured him. Evidently not as he would miss her, he replied.

“Why, François,” she told him on parting, “if there had not been such a paragon of many virtues in the world as Charles Brandon, then I think I might have loved you.”

François grimaced and when he kissed her in parting at St. Dennis he was very loth to let her go.

She had embraced Marguerite tenderly; she would always remember their friendship with pleasure, she told her.

Louise was affectionate, bearing no malice, because she was now a completely contented woman. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight and she seemed years younger, for she was a woman with a dream at last come true. Even Claude said goodbye as though she were a friend; but that might have been due to relief at the parting.

Then on to Calais, leaving that phase of her life behind her forever.

They stayed some weeks in Calais, and it was then that she had been aware of Charles’s fear. They dared not cross to England until they had Henry’s permission to return, and each day Charles had eagerly hoped for a messenger from his King.

Mary had been content to remain in Calais, for anywhere was a good place as long as Charles was in it; and she could not completely share his anxieties because she was certain that she would be able to win Henry to her side as easily as she had François.