The Secret Bride (46 page)

As if somehow sensing her distraction, he set down the papers and came back to her then, not bothering to cover himself before her, nor she before him. Henry touched her pale, freckled cheek with a tanned finger. Without a word, he pressed his lips against hers and drew her tongue into his mouth. Helpless to stop him, or the story nearly played out at last between them, Jane let the King of England lead her silently back to his bed.

“Very well, you have my ear, Norfolk. Say what you mean to.”

“Pray, forgive me, Your Majesty, I know of the love you bear for both of them. But I am afraid I do not trust either Wolsey or Suffolk.”

The Duke of Norfolk, slightly hunched now, more silver than bronze in his hair, sat at the end of the council table alone with Henry VIII after all of the other members had gone. Frigid winter cold still bled through the walls of Richmond Palace, and a heavy rain beat against the leaded windows that rattled them nearby. “I believe there is something between them well beyond friendship. Something to do with the Dowager Queen of France, though I have no real proof of it.”

“Not that again! Are there not enough real problems to contend ourselves with?” Henry moaned, slumping more deeply into his leather-back chair, weary of Jane . . . of Katherine . . . of Bessie . . . of the complications of them all.

“Charles assured me there was nothing between him and Mary beyond our childhood alliance. No rumors have come from France to the contrary in the meantime, have they?”

Norfolk was cautious. Each word meticulously chosen, each enemy—Buckingham, Wolsey, Brandon—more vulnerable to his desire for power than they would ever know. “If it please Your Majesty, allow me to say that I have it on sound authority that Wolsey writes to the queen daily, counseling her and—”

“His Eminence is like an uncle to us both. I would expect nothing less,” Henry interjected, but Norfolk would not miss an opportunity alone with the king, as there were so few of them these days. Now with rumors of Buckingham’s potential renewed claim to the throne as a descendant of Edward III, the discontented duke would take care of himself. Norfolk’s greatest obstacle remained the team of Wolsey and Brandon. To vanquish them both, he had but to prove that they could not be trusted. But how to convince the king what he already knew? That Wolsey had known all along about Mary and Brandon and even assisted in their deception.

“And, sire, he then speaks privately to Suffolk almost immediately afterward.”

“The two are related?”

“One could make that inference.”

Henry pounded a fist onto the table. At his feet, his two favorite greyhounds passively lifted their heads. “Facts, Norfolk. By God, I can do nothing at all without facts!”

He had precious few of those. Only what rumors he longed to believe, and a heavy dose of ambition to bind them. He was many things, but a foolish man Norfolk was not. There was something between Mary and Brandon. Henry could feel it, down to the very marrow of his bones. Now, if only he could prove it, their betrayal—and Wolsey’s complicity, the stage, and the power, would be his entirely. And after all, was not the sovereign owed fidelity from those he trusted?

And did he not have the opportunity to punish those who betrayed that trust?

“Perhaps I cannot yet prove it, sire. But there is one way to find out.”

Henry leaned forward, his red-gold brows merging.

“Since the death of the French king, the Prince of Castile has renewed his suit for the hand of your sister.”

“So have several others, Norfolk. What of it?”

Norfolk could see Henry was swiftly growing impatient.

Norfolk supposed the king wished to return to Mistress Blount or whoever his newest mistress was. Pleasure now, most of the time, was the only thing. The duke had little time. There must be an impact made with each and every sharp, clear word.

“So have you a plan to entrap my two friends . . . as well as a most beloved sister?”

“The Prince of Castile is older now, a better candidate by far than he was before, but still the same man you and your father before you thought of as suitable for a princess. Send His Grace, the Duke of Suffolk, to inform your sister of that.

If there has been anything untoward between them, the announcement of the new marriage shall be like a closing off.

If Brandon cannot or will not tell her, you shall have your answer as proof. Then you may send me to finish the job by informing Mary myself.”

“Brandon has already offered to head up the delegation to France,” Henry revealed with a suddenly uneasy tone.

Norfolk could see as the words left his lips that Henry’s mind fought reaching the same inevitable conclusion the duke already had long ago accepted about Mary and the king’s best friend. Henry scratched his neat beard, remembering how fervently Charles Brandon had offered to return to France, though he did not reveal that to Norfolk.
If I do this for you . . . do you promise I can choose my next husband? . . .
No, Mary, his Mary, would not take matters into her own hands. They were far too close as brother and sister for her to betray him like that. He had not really meant she could marry
anyone
, best friend or not. And of course she knew that. She was a princess of the blood. He arched a brow in a show of irritation. In life sometimes there were things one simply did not wish to know. But as sovereign, Henry did not often have that luxury. Even if it involved betrayal of the most horrible kind.

“You are playing with fire in this, Norfolk,” said Henry at last. “You know that, I hope.”

“It shall be worth the risk if I honor Your Highness’s trust in me.”

“And if you are wrong about all of it . . . what then, Norfolk?”

Freed from the Hotel de Cluny, yet attired still in unadorned white silk, Mary stood before the new French king, Francois, as he had instructed her to do. Her place was beside him, next to the throne of Queen Claude. His mother, Louise de Savoy, was as resplendently attired now as her daughter-in-law, in gold and green brocade and glittering emerald jewels.

Mary had thought it an odd arrangement until the entrance of the delegation was announced. She should have known, she thought, that there would be a reason. The shock of hearing his name squeezed her heart.

“Representing His Gracious Majesty Henry VIII, King of England, His Grace the Duke of Suffolk, attended by Sir Nicholas West and Sir Richard Wingfield.”

He had returned! Hearing his name now, Mary had the overwhelming urge to run to him, fling herself into his arms.

But she was not that little girl anymore. Instead, she held herself with the greatest dignity now. Still she nearly forgot to breathe as Charles, Wingfield and West advanced and all three bowed deeply to the new, young French king.

“It is pleasing to see you again, Suffolk,” said Francois.

“Though in sad circumstances. But the late king, our good father, was fond of you, so it is a pleasure to receive you nonetheless.”

“My thanks, Your Majesty.” Brandon nodded. This time when he looked up, his gaze met Mary’s. In the fleeting exchange she saw everything: concern, love and longing. She felt herself tremble. But she steeled herself solidly against that. His beard was longer, his smile slightly weary, his eyes held not quite the same youthful sparkle as they crinkled at the corners a little more now. “His Highness, King Henry, sends his greatest love and congratulations to you on your coronation.”

“It is a pity you missed the event. It was all such a magnificent spectacle.” Suddenly, Mary felt the king’s hand go around her waist and tighten with an odd familiarity. “Sadly, Her Majesty, the dowager queen, was required to miss it as well, due to her period of mourning.” Francois then glanced over at her with what was calculated to look like a great intimacy between them. “Of course,
ma belle-mère
was as much there in all of our thoughts as if she had been right beside me, as she is now.” His jeweled hand moved down to her hip just enough to ensure that Charles could not miss the small, important liberty, which Queen Claude, in her position on the other side, would be spared viewing.

Mary watched Charles’s jaw tighten. But he gave nothing else away. Francois was boldly baiting him, knowing that between the two men, he possessed the power, and never quite forgiving him entirely for what had happened at Mary’s coronation tournament.

“I assume,” Francois said, still not taking his hand from her hip, “that your delegation has come not only to offer congratulations and condolences, but to offer a proposal?”

“If it pleases Your Majesty, I have been authorized to discuss that with you.”

“Excellent.” Francois smiled disingenuously when he undoubtedly saw, as Mary did, Charles’s hands clench and then open at his sides. “Longueville!” the new king called out to the slim, silver-haired French duke who stood at the foot of the dais, along with a collection of other elegantly garbed French nobles. “See these gentlemen to their accommodations. I am sure they are weary after the long journey. But I invite you all, personally, to dine with us this evening once you have had a chance to rest and don more suitable attire.”

He made a little sneer then as he spoke the last few words, inferring unkindly, Mary thought, as the French always did, that the English had a boorish sense of style not appropriate for the sophisticated French court.

After the men had gone, Mary was dismissed from Francois’ presence as well, her usefulness, for the moment, at an end. She had not been returned to her own apartments for more than a few moments, when Anne Boleyn, in crimson silk slippers and a scurrying gait, brought her a small folded note, curtsied to her and withdrew. There were only four words written down. The note was unsigned but Mary recognized the small tight script as belonging to the duc de Longueville.

Third floor, second door.

By design, Charles had viewed the lecherous glance, the uninvited groping. It was meant as a taunting from one man to the other and, in it, was an open challenge. He stalked the length of the grand room, elegantly furnished, facing down onto the peaceful inner courtyard of Les Tournelles and the patchy snow-covered ground. He could not press the ugly moment from his mind. He wanted Mary, he physically ached for her, he loved her still. That would have been clear to any man, whether or not Henry had ordered him not to jeopardize relations in France upon his return. Even the well-being of the vulnerable dowager queen.

I should have killed him in that tournament when I had the chance, as he lay in the dirt, his eyes spiked not with rivalry but with fear,
he thought with a building rage now. Whether or not, in his absence, the notoriously womanizing monarch had taken his pleasure with her was the only question. Mary had been like a hostage here. She would have had no choice. His mind understood that, even if his heart did not.
I love you, wildly and forever,
he thought.
No matter what you have been forced to do in my absence. . . . I am returned now, returned for you. . . .
He longed to say that to her, and so much more.

Charles stood at the long window and braced himself with both arms extended against the casement. And then he wondered, because he could not stop himself, if there would be a part of Mary now, one who had spent her company with, and been adored by, kings these past months, that would prevent her from going back again to a mere duke with scant lineage and little else to offer. She certainly deserved better.