The Secret Bride (22 page)

At least he had not said, like so many others, that he felt himself like a father to her. In spite of the fact that she felt closer to Thomas Wolsey than any other of the men at her brother’s court, she could not have tolerated the duplicity in that just now. The room was stifling and the dizziness it caused was making her ill. Charles was dancing with Lady Monteagle’s daughter, with her long, shimmering golden hair and clear sparkling skin. Was he trying to make her jealous?

He seemed to be ignoring her entirely now that he was a man soon betrothed to his ward. What did it mean? The Duke of Buckingham’s words, and now Wolsey’s as well, swam in what felt like the thickening clot of mud building in her head. Her heart and her fantasy were making everything more than it was. He was committed once again. She was betrothed. There was no future for them, only heartbreak if they were alone and she let him do what she knew he wanted to do. She had only to look upon Jane’s history to see that.

When Wolsey reached over to squeeze her hand in that familiar gesture of his, Mary closed her eyes. In response, Wolsey smiled to himself but Mary did not see that.

Thomas Wolsey’s grand country estate could not be a more perfect destination. He had marked time for days, waiting for just the right moment to step in and offer it to her. It was like one of the king’s favorite dances—timing, with each step, was everything and Mary had needed to be at her most vulnerable. Brandon was close to the goal he sought and if Wolsey was to oversee things, he must intervene now. He genuinely liked Brandon. Always had. And, unlike his two opponents, Wolsey was not entirely certain that what was between Brandon and the king’s sister could, or would, be stopped simply by the two men wielding their combined power against it. On the contrary, Wolsey knew that by befriending the would-be lovers at a key moment, his loyalty to them above reproach, the three of them could become a triumvirate of power to which neither Buckingham or Surrey could ever come near.

The next morning, he waited near the entrance to Mary’s apartments. Like a moth to a flame, he knew Brandon would come as well, and he did. Wolsey closed his prayer book with a little snap and advanced, his red silk shift the only sound as he walked.

“She has gone to Herefordshire, my boy. It was for Jane Popincourt’s sake—and for hers as well.”

“Did she ask you to wait here and speak to me like this?”

“I care for the princess Mary as if she were my own daughter. I know her heart. She loves you and you are in love with her.”

“It is true.”

Wolsey pressed a deliberate hand onto Brandon’s shoulder. “Then let her go for now. No good can come of it for the moment. If she is meant to be yours one day, God will light a clear path and I shall help you find it. I know not why, but something tells me the marriage with the Prince of Castile will not happen. But for now, while the king is so set upon it, you press her into an impossible situation when she must do her duty to England.”

Charles did not argue further. Wolsey had convinced him that he was right. She must go with Jane. He must go to France. That was all the future there was for Charles and Mary just now. All that there could be until the time was right.

On the eve of Henry’s departure for France, on his mission to aid in the Holy Church’s recovery of Bordeaux and to gain back for England that which had been lost at the legendary battle of Agincourt a century before, he knelt on cold stone inside the royal chapel. He lowered his head as he received Wolsey’s exceedingly reverently delivered Latin blessing, and the melodic sound of the murmured words was a tonic to the fear overwhelming him. Fanciful thoughts, through the mists of time, of Sir Galahad, Lancelot and Henry V, had been replaced with trepidation and even a hint of dread. The French were a powerful force and would not surrender land easily no matter how methodical or powerful was his strategy. But chivalric glory was the only way to win respect with his powerful allies, Maximilian, Pope Julius and Ferdinand, from which his youth and inexperience had so far kept him.

“God grant me the strength and the wisdom of my father, and those who came before us both,” he murmured like a prayer. “Let me be half the warrior king that he was.”

Piously, he made the sign of the cross, drew in a breath, then stood and went to bid farewell to the queen, who was pregnant again. He found her alone in her bedchamber, a collection of maps of Europe tacked up on the walls. They were similar to his, yet most of these were written over with what looked like routes or directions. There were books lying open on top of her bed—books about war—a large statue of her patron saint, Catherine, and between the maps a large Spanish cross hung. When Katherine came to him, he saw that she was dressed for travel, in a long rose-colored riding jacket over her dress, bulging in front, and a simple unadorned hat. She clutched a pair of fawn brown riding gloves in her clean, jewel-free hand. Her dark eyes glittered with commitment.

“It is impossible, Katherine.”

“But I want to go with you, Hal. I know I could actually be a help to you. I have studied naval strategy! I know all about the French. I am the daughter of a warrior queen. You know my heritage. I ache for my chance to prove myself, as you do. Our chance is now! And you were the one who entrusted me with writing the dispatches to Venice. I could advise you as we go along.”

He touched her softly rounded belly gently to calm her.

“No,
mi amore
. It is not safe for you in your condition. We must both think first of the child.”

“My place is by your side. Other aides have gone.”

“But not the mother of the next king of England,” he reminded her tenderly when he saw too much desperation in her passionate, black Spanish eyes. This was her third pregnancy in four years without a living child, and they both knew how serious it was that she soon produce an heir who could survive. “Besides, you are to be regent here in my absence.”

Her intense expression changed quickly to one of marked surprise. “Regent?”

“Who else has studied the situation as you have?”

He could see her overcome with pride, and the disappointment withered beneath it. The proud and wise daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella would finally be called upon to do more than produce a child. Henry valued his wife—he loved her deeply—and he wanted her to know that without doubt. This was his gift to her. Now if only she would give him a son.

The common folk do not go to war of their own accord but are driven to it by the madness of kings.

—Sir Thomas More

August 1513, Lille,France

By late summer on a hot and dry day as Henry sat astride a magnificent white Barbary horse, caparisoned in tooled silver and crimson velvet, gilded stirrups hanging from his saddle, he rode victoriously through the countryside, Charles, as always, right beside him.

The young girls of the town followed behind bearing garlands of flowers. Behind them were attendants and forces that were strung out for miles. Numbering nearly a thousand riders were his courtiers and servants, including six hundred guardsmen, over thirty of his physicians, his pages and his secretaries. He was also accompanied by a personal bowyer, a trumpeter and his own minstrels, then gunners and black-smiths to keep the weapons working and the camps comfortable. Behind them rode his favorites, the Duke of Buckingham and Thomas Wolsey, brought along for his ability to deal and negotiate with the French. Wolsey’s own motivation for coming had been to ensure that Buckingham did not steal too much ground with the king.

“Not at all bad for a summer’s work,” Brandon leaned over to remark behind a hand, gloved and studded with silver.

Henry smiled, and waved to the crowds surging forward around them. A moment before, just as they passed beneath the city gates, a herald in royal green livery had ridden up beside the king with an urgent dispatch. The news was somber; Edward Howard had been killed at sea, trying to avenge the death of Thomas Knyvet and to revive his honor with the king. But Henry had little time to grieve, especially for a friend he believed had disappointed him.

This was a moment to savor, for which he had waited all of his life. They had challenged the French and they had been victorious. Advised to protect himself by dashing out ahead of the trouble, Henry had refused, enduring instead the entire battle with his soldiers. After fighting in the dust-choked mists, nine standards were taken and dozens of notable French prisoners who would be held for ransom, before the French troops sped hotly into retreat.

Henry had single-handedly changed the world’s view of himself, riding bravely before his men, creating a legend of his own—the conquering hero, taking back first Therouanne, then Tournai and five other walled towns that had once belonged to the English. It was not the French crown, which he coveted, but it was a beginning. Now that he had tasted victory, Henry had every intention of returning to France the next spring for a second campaign, and conquering more of the country. The respect he had so craved he had at last received. At the taking of Therouanne, Emperor Maximilian, who had attended the English during their victory, rode at a discreet distance into the town behind Henry. It was a symbolic gesture whose significance was not lost on Henry.

Now forty miles away, just outside the town of Lille, Henry walked into the massive tent erected there, tanned and handsome, amid dozens of candle lamps flickering on crisp white damask. He was weary and still wearing light armor over a doublet of cloth of silver, but at least he had been doused with the scent of ambergris by one of his gentlemen servants and his hair had been combed by another.

He drew in a breath to collect himself, then wrapped a weary arm across Charles Brandon’s shoulder. They were comrades in arms as they moved deeper into the huge, magnificently ornamented tent. Their hostess had constructed it in a vast, open meadow surrounded by flaming torches and urns of flowers and plants. Their hostess, Margaret, Regent of the Netherlands and daughter of the emperor, Maximilian, sat now in the center of the tent on a chair, cushioned in purple velvet, to receive them.

She was mildly attractive, Henry thought, seeing her for the first time. For a woman of her age she was remarkably slender and tall, with chestnut hair and green eyes that in this light looked to him slightly exotic. He lifted the glass of heady
vin de Beaune
that was offered to him, and drank deeply from it to help bring back his carefree smile. Then he and Brandon went to her together.

The triumph Henry felt over the day must be balanced with decorum and enough humor to make an impression. It was important to him. While he was politically allied with the emperor against France, the issue of Mary’s marriage still lingered unresolved between them. Henry felt desperate to save political face, and to solidify the still uncertain liaison between his sister and Margaret’s nephew, Charles of Castile. At the moment, ingratiating himself with the lovely widow before him seemed the most expedient path to achieving that. When she invited him to congratulate him on his victory—and presumably to discuss her nephew’s upcoming marriage to Mary—he readily agreed. Watching her eyes follow Brandon, then flicker with interest at his irritatingly handsome friend, a thought occurred to Henry. Margaret stood and curtsied just slightly as Henry took her hand.