The Secret Bride (49 page)

When he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, Mary did not jump. Nor did she seem surprised that he had come. She merely made the sign of the cross in a firm triangle from her forehead and then across her chest, stood and turned to face him. Her expression alone was the thing that surprised him.

He had already seen that she had changed here in France.

But now those changes were marked. There was nothing of the child left on her face, in her bearing or in the tone of her voice. There was nothing uncertain left about her either.

“My horse waits in the courtyard. A single moment more and I would have been gone.”

“Then thanks to God for my impeccable sense of timing,” he countered, but she did not even smile. “Forgive me for not returning sooner, but I know what I want now.”

“I have known it all along.”

“I do not deserve your devotion.”

“That’s a pity,” she stubbornly countered. “Because I most definitely deserve yours.”

He took her into his arms then, not caring at all who might see. He pressed a kiss onto her forehead, each of her cheeks, and then onto her lips. “You are my life, Mary. All of it.”

It felt as if he were being swept up by a swiftly moving tide, carried along toward something very dangerous. But Charles Brandon no longer wished to free himself. He would live or die, and at peace, by whatever happened next.

The wedding ceremony was performed that same evening in absolute secrecy, in the same little stone chapel at the Hotel de Cluny where each of them had prayed about the other.

Flames flickered atop dozens of long white tapers and set the nave aglow, along with the faces of their witnesses. The king, queen, Louise de Savoy, the duc of Longueville and Claude de Lorraine, as well as Diane de Poitiers and her husband, all sat silently bathed in warm amber light. No one English was present besides the bride and groom. Francois had insisted because he felt that until Henry could be informed, the risk was too great. When Charles suggested a delay to pursue Henry’s permission, Claude de Lorraine had countered that, since His French Majesty’s graciousness had been offered, that should well be enough. It seemed too great a risk then to insult their host. They knelt together at the altar, all decorated now in white, the frontal embroidered with a Tudor rose. Their hands linked under a silk bridal canopy, prayers and blessings were spoken by Cardinal de Tournon. After a Mass was said, at last, Mary and Charles exchanged vows.

Then finally, the wedding ring was blessed. And in deep, reverent French, Charles was instructed by the cardinal.

“Place it now upon her thumb, as you speak the words, In the name of the Father. Then move it upon her second finger and say,
In the name of the Son.
Upon her third finger as you say,
And of the Holy Ghost . . .”

Charles’s eyes glowed with love and admiration for her and Mary was awed by that as he trembled just slightly, pressing the ring fully onto her finger. She leaned her head over onto his shoulder then as the cardinal pronounced that they were
mariés.
When he kissed her, she made certain not to close her eyes just in case when she opened them, she would find that tonight had all been nothing more than an exquisite, fleeting dream.

As they walked together back down the aisle toward the chapel doors, Charles gripped her hand and whispered to her, “Would you really have joined a convent?”

“Thank God, we shall never need to find out,” Mary replied, happier at that moment than she had ever been in her life.

Wolsey had not wanted to tell him, yet there was no one else brave enough. As always, he had simply needed to plunge into the sea of Henry’s fury and try his best to swim through it. It was how he had survived. How he had just last month fulfilled a lifelong dream, having been made cardinal. At Windsor Castle, he walked with Henry through the dormant privy garden, doing his best to keep up with a king who now stalked down the brick path, his face mottled red, not noticing the cold or the damp of the howling winter wind.

“How dare he? Brandon is a traitor to me!”

“Your Highness knows your sister. Stubborn to the core when it is something she desires.”

“After all these years, he owed me his loyalty! He gave me his word, for all that was apparently ever worth!”

Wolsey must pace himself, he knew that well enough.

Timing and a calm response were critical, not only for Charles and Mary’s sake, but for his own. “Love is a difficult thing to contain, sire. It makes one do impulsive things.”

“Love?!” Henry barked on a deep and icy chuckle. “The only thing Charles Brandon has ever loved is himself! If he were in England right now, his head would be on the block before he could even think about consummating this insult of a marriage!”

“Our Mary has written to you of the circumstances as well. Perhaps if you read her words, the two of you—”

“The devil I will! My sister is every bit as guilty of deceit in this as Brandon! Can she say anything to alter the reality of
that
?”

“Not alter, but perhaps explain.”

He stopped, pivoted back, his expression softened. “Tell me, Wolsey, was I not good to them both?”

“Your Highness’s goodness was beyond compare.”

“Charles was like my own brother, and I always treated him as such.”

“You have shown the greatest brotherhood to both of them,” Wolsey believably flattered.

Wolsey drew in a breath, glanced up at the bare, spiny oak ahead of them, prepared to exhibit his most apostolic posture: hands steepled, head slightly lowered reflectively.

“And yet, it does seem that perhaps, because of the familiarity with which the three of you have grown to adulthood, this trust was the consequence rather than an insult to you.”

“Whose side are you on?” Henry angrily asked in a voice that was becoming deeper and more booming every day.

“Your Highness’s of course.” He wisely bowed.

Wolsey saw that his familiar expression and tone were something of a balm, and beneath it, Henry softened. “She was my favorite in all the world. She knew that, and she used it against me to get her way.”

“She wants your love, Henry. They both do. They want to come home. They want to serve you here.”

“Never! It is too late for that now. They shall remain in France and see how tolerant and loving my good French brother will be to them over time.”

“You wish them to remain forever in France?”

“What other use is she to me now? No, she will go straight to the gallows here! As will he!”

Wolsey knew that Henry did not mean that, but he must continue to move with caution. Norfolk was just waiting for an opening to supplant him in the king’s mind and heart, as he had worked against Brandon and Buckingham.

The wind picked up then and blew the rich marten fur at both their necks. Wolsey felt himself shiver against the sudden chill but did not dare to break his gaze from the king’s.

“Her Majesty’s friendship is more dear to you than any other. I have heard you say so myself. That shall not have changed between you.”

“And the loyalty in that friendship, Wolsey? How could I ever forgive her for abandoning that?”

Wolsey could not answer now. The wound was too new, too raw. But in time, Henry would remember that there was no one in the world like his Mary. How he would help the king realize that, Cardinal Wolsey yet had no earthly idea.

That, perhaps, might best be put before God.

Finally—yes, finally—after seven years of disappointment, Katherine had given the King of England a living child, who had remained so for more than a scant few days like the others. The fact that the baby girl had survived a month already seemed something of a miracle to be celebrated. Just before the death of Louis XII, Henry had named her Mary, after his sister. That choice seemed a bitter pill now when Henry felt so betrayed, he thought, as he gazed down at the little cradle, lined with the smoothest white silk and linen. Her sweet little head was peeking out over a mound of bedding and the intricate lace coverlet sent from the queen’s father for his first grandchild. The queen was too old now for him to expect miracles, Henry realized, but a living child meant there was still a small ray of hope that she might yet be able to give him a son and heir after all. As they stood together before the tiny bed in the royal nursery, Henry put an arm gently over the shoulder of her stout body.

“Are you pleased with her, Hal?” Katherine tentatively asked, her English still thick with her Spanish roots in spite of her many years in England.

“I shall be more pleased when you give me a son.”

She tensed ever so slightly beneath his arm in response. It was a nuance, yet he felt it—and he also felt the guilt. He should not have said what he felt quite so directly, knowing how hard she had tried these past long years to do her duty—and what it meant to her that she had been unable to. The fact that Bessie Blount had given him the son he craved had been an excruciating indignity for Katherine—yet one she suffered silently. He no longer loved her, yet still she was his queen.

The emotion did compete with his affection for Bessie’s son, a beautiful boy, bastard or not, whom Henry had immediately christened Henry Fitzroy. He had also bestowed upon the infant the vaunted title Duke of Richmond, according him his own household and staff. By virtue of his birth, the world now knew that the problem of conception lay with Katherine of Aragon alone. The fact, along with his frustration, made it difficult for those barbs not to slip across his tongue.

Still, softened by the little royal child before him now, Henry reached over and kissed his wife very gently on the cheek. “She looks like my mother.”

“She is dark, Hal. Her hair is like ink. So are her eyes.”

“But her essence—that is my mother, and strictly Tudor.”

He smiled proudly. “Mary shall be a fine princess. The emperor has already offered another of his grandsons.”

Katherine shot him a glare and a gasp. “She is not yet two months old.”

“You know as well as I that it is never too soon to look toward those critical alliances for England, and with my sisters both disappointments to me and unavailable now, I must look to our daughter.”

“Have you written to Mary since her—”

He gritted his teeth. “Since her secret marriage? God’s bones, woman! Why must you destroy every rare moment that is between us these days with something unpleasant?”

“Because I love you, Hal. And I love your sister, as you do. She and Charles wish to return to us.”

“Did Wolsey tell you that? Infernal man is as meddle-some as you are!”

“We both care about you. Do you not want her back?

Not a day goes by you do not think of her. It was never right for Mary to be in France. She is too much a companion and helpmate to you. You need her.”

“Well, my beloved helpmate seems to have cared more for herself than for me! How can I ever take her back now, Kate? I would be the laughingstock of all the world! I would be that foolish English king ruled by his own sister, the secret bride! Just think of it!”

“If I were you,” she calmly countered (because she had known him for so long she still knew how to reach him that way, he thought), “I would think only of how I miss her. And Charles Brandon, for that matter.”