Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (21 page)

Guilt and fear were sharply etched as he blurted his worries to Francis. ‘If this matter comes to the ear of my master, I am likely to be undone. I swore a solemn oath to King Henry not to pursue my love for the queen.’

With a wave of his arm, Francis swept Brandon’s anxieties aside. ‘Leave King Henry to me. Queen Claude and I shall both write letters to your master, in the best manner that can be devised. I feel sure we can sway him in your favour.’

Looking scarce able to believe his ears - and who could blame him for that? Brandon stammered out his thanks and bent to kiss Francis’ hand.

Francis, enjoying his magnanimity, basked in the warm glow of his good deed. But beneath the surface show, he admired his own cleverness. Mary would perhaps, with his help, gain a low-born husband, if such was truly her desire. But France would gain so much more if he managed to bring this marriage off. With the beautiful Mary removed from the marriage market it would be difficult for Henry to make a swift Flemish alliance. And should Henry decide to break with France, Mary’s revenues as Dowager-Queen could be suspended. Quite a coup for a newly-anointed king, Francis told himself in self-admiration. He could scarcely wait to confide his achievement to his mother.

Charles Brandon entered the Hotel de Cluny and was ushered into Mary’s darkened chamber by one of her ladies. He hadn’t expected to gain admission so easily, but Francis must have cleared the lovers’ way by telling his mother of the recent turn of events. She, in turn, made no difficulty and seemed only too happy to smooth their path.

Still bemused, but grateful not to have been clapped in a French dungeon, Brandon groped his way in the unaccustomed gloom of Mary’s chamber and reached her bed. He frowned when he saw that for some reason, Mary’s eyes were tight shut.

Mary’s eyes flew open as he uttered her name. ‘I thought you were Madam Louise come to torment me again,’ she told him as she stretched out her hand in delight, drew him down on to the bed and embraced him. ‘How is my brother? Has he said anything about our marriage? When can I go home?’ Anxiously, the questions tumbled from her lips as she searched his face for answers. When he failed to answer her barrage of questions quickly enough, Mary frowned and asked. ‘You are come to take me home, Charles, are you not?’

Charles’s response came more swiftly this time, but it wasn’t swift enough to reassure her. Dolefully, she told him, ‘I have been told I am destined for Flanders. Father Langley and another visited me here and told me it was so. They seemed so sure of their facts. They told me you were part of a plot with my brother to entice me into Flanders for marriage with their Prince.’ She stared searchingly at him and beseeched, ‘Tell me it is not true Charles. Pray you tell me plain.’

His faltering reply that she was to return to England and her brother was scarcely reassuring. All her suspicions gushed like a river in flood, and she turned on him. ‘Yes, but for how long? One month? Two? How long before my brother fixes another alliance?’ Fear turned to anger at his betrayal of their love and she shouted at him, ‘Are you not supposed to utter soft and loving words to me, my lord? That is what the friars told me. Come, soothe my foolish fears with some honeyed words. Make a few careless promises, Charles, as did my brother. You follow him in all else, why balk at this?’ Tears welled in her eyes and she stormed at him, ‘Marry me now, Charles, or if I come in to England, you’ll never have me.’

‘You say that but to prove me withal. You cannot mean to marry me here.’

But Mary had decided on her course and would not be swayed by Charles’s insulting lack of lover-like ardor. Stubbornly, she told him, ‘Mean it I do. King Francis has also been with me here. He told me what I might expect. He said I am destined for Flanders. Why should he and the two friars have the same tale if it’s not true?’ Mary raised her fists and beat him on the manly chest she had so admired and told him, ‘I’ll not go. I’d rather be torn in pieces.’ She began to weep in earnest.

Through her tears, she watched Charles wring his hands, before it finally occurred to him that he could make better use of them. He put them round her and tried to comfort her. ‘Sweetheart, calm yourself. You’ll make yourself ill with such passion. It is not true, my love, you are not for Flanders. Please believe me. I have it from King Henry himself.’

Mary didn’t believe him. She continued to sob and ignored Charles’s pleas that she stop weeping. But tears were the only weapon at her command.

‘What can I do?’ he asked her, helplessly. ‘What can I say? How can I marry you now? You know I promised the king, your brother, not to further aught between us till we were both home.’ Mary only shook her head and wept some more. ‘Write to the king,’ Charles pleaded. ‘Obtain his good will and I’ll wed you, right gladly.’

Only too aware that if she did not sway him now there would be no future for them, Mary was determined not to be so lightly fobbed off. Between sobs, she reminded him, ‘My brother has consented to our marriage. Have I not his promise? He gave me his word before ever I left England that I could choose my next husband when Louis died. You know this well. King Louis is dead. I choose you. The King of France is happy to give his consent, why should we wait? Why should my brother want us to wait unless he means to betray my trust?’

Bitter at his lack of lover-like resolve, she demanded ‘Is the agreement of two kings not enough for you? Perhaps Francis and the friars spoke truth after all. Confess it,’ she screamed at him. ‘You are here for one reason only, to entice me into Flanders. I’ll never go should I die for it and so I told the French King before you came.’ She glowered at him, in her passion, she wrenched off the cap covering her hair and threw it at him. ‘If you will not marry me now as I ask, never look to have the proffer again.’ She turned away from his pleading and his outstretched hand and refused to listen to any more of his denials.

But her tears had done their work. He grabbed her and folded her in a great bear hug as he muttered against her hair, ‘For the love of God, Mary, all right, I’ll marry you. Only I beseech you, stop this weeping. You tear me apart.’

Mary’s smile pressed unseen against his neck. As if by magic, her tears dried. Now her eyes shone bright with love alone. She had got her heart’s desire at last. It was a heady feeling. One she was determined would linger longer than this brief interlude. Worried that once he left her chamber and her tears behind, Charles might begin to fret in fear of what her brother might do, and renege on his agreement to marry her, Mary meant to make sure she held him fast. Her body would give him the courage of her convictions, she vowed, as she kissed him with the passion Francis had been denied.

It took just a few moments for Charles’s passion to swell to match her own. Soon, the chamber echoed and re-echoed to the sounds of their mutual delight.

Caught up in the tumult of rapture, Mary’s senses were oblivious to the sound of the door opening or the faint waft of the perfume Louise favoured.

But the lovers sprang apart at the harsh accusation when they heard Louise demand, ‘What is the meaning of this?’

They stared fearfully at Louise as she walked towards them. Her voice scornful, she asked Mary, ‘How can you behave in such a shameless fashion, Madam? How many men do you draw into your web? First my son and now my Lord of Suffolk. ‘Tis no way for a queen to behave, I’ll swear. And you sir.’ Now the scorn was aimed at Charles. ‘Is this how you behave to your master’s sister, queen as she is though she be unfit for the role? You had better make good your promise and wed the lady here and now, before she causes more scandal.’

Mary turned hesitantly to Charles. Much as she wanted to marry him, it was demeaning to be caught like this and by Louise of all people. Especially as, ill-concealed behind the scorn, Mary could detect the woman’s triumph that, having caught them in each other’s arms, her lustful son could be saved from the folly of his pursuit of Mary. Finding them like this must have been exactly what Louise had hoped for when she had set her spies. How richly she had been rewarded.

‘Why do you hesitate?’ Louise now demanded, as Mary and Charles both remained silent. ‘You made the lady a promise, my lord. I presume you would honour it?’

It was a humiliating few moments for Mary before Charles said he would.

Once Louise had obtained Charles’s agreement, she turned back to Mary. ‘And you, Madam? You pushed him hard enough to wed you, I vow. I could hear your tantrums from the garden. Have you changed your mind so soon?’

Mary shook her head.

‘Very well then. Adjust your disordered clothing and come with me.’

A few minutes’ later, they followed bemusedly behind Louise as she strode briskly through the door to the exquisite little chapel that was along the passage from Mary’s bed-chamber. They barely had a chance to exchange a look or a word before a hastily summoned priest led them through their falteringly exchanged vows as they stood before the altar under the determined eye of Francis’ mother. When the priest asked for the ring, Louise pulled one from her finger and handed it to Brandon. Mary could feel his hand tremble as he slipped it on her finger.

And so they were wed. But it didn’t feel real to Mary. She only woke to reality when they were bid to kiss. The physical embrace broke the spell and Mary gazed at Charles in sudden fear as she realised the enormity of what they had done. But the matching fear she saw in her new husband’s eyes brought back a measure of courage and defiance to Mary. This, however, didn’t last any longer than the time it took them to retrace their steps back up the aisle.

What would Henry say? Mary asked herself as her heart thundered in her breast. Worse – what would he do? By now, fear had them both in its grip. Mary told herself that she now had her heart’s desire. But only time would tell what it would cost them.

Again defiance crept into her mind. Let Henry do what he would. She was now Charles’s wife. And, after all, she had Henry’s promise - didn’t she? Mary clung to this thought with the tenacity brought of desperation.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alone again in Mary’s bed-chamber, she and Charles gazed fearfully at one another. The spectre of Henry’s wrath hung over them both. Mary, worried that Charles’s dread of Henry’s reaction to their marriage would encourage resentment that her love had put his very life in danger, flung herself into his arms. She was relieved when he clung to her instead of pushing her away as she had half feared. But it could not be long before he realised it would be him who would bear the brunt of Henry’s anger. How could he not then blame her for it?

But, at least for now, Charles seemed set on quietening Mary’s anxieties. He poured a glass of wine for her, then another. When she had quietened, he removed the glass from her trembling fingers. He stroked her hair and gently, at first, kissed the rest of her tears away.

Mary, her senses heightened by their plight, felt the last tremors of fear turn to passion. As their kisses grew more urgent, fear was thrust aside before an even stronger emotion. Charles undressed her, kissed her arms, her breasts, her belly, as each part of her clothing fell away. Hastily, he stripped off his own garments. Lifting her into his arms he lay her down on the tumbled covers of the bed.

Mary, eager to forget their plight, yielded with delight to his demanding hands. This was what she had yearned for for so long. After poor Louis, the experienced Francis had made her senses churn and reminded her of the feelings Charles had brought her to in England. Now, she was free to indulge such feelings. And indulge them she did. Her hands caressed Charles’s muscular back as he rested on his elbows above her. She kissed his face, his chest, his lips.

She realised her inexperience only tormented him when he grabbed her hands and held them above her head so he could take charge. Masterfully, he did so, kissing and fondling every inch of her till she twisted and turned like a wanton. Finally, driven mad with desire, eager for the consummation, she arched herself to him and begged. She didn’t have to beg for long.

Passion spent, they lay still. With the passing of passion, their fears had leisure to return.

Mary, used to strong guidance all her life, now sought the guidance of her new husband. But when she asked him what they should do it was clear that her earlier fears had been prescient. For Charles had no more words of comfort to offer her. He lay staring at the painted ceiling, as rigid as if he saw depicted there all the hellish sufferings a mere mortal must endure after defying the gods.

Certainly, the wrath of a Tudor could be every bit as awesome and Henry was Tudor to his very core. What might he not do to the man who had secretly married his sister and who had then compounded his folly by laying with her? Mary trembled as it dawned on her that Charles could lose his head over this.

It seemed Charles shared her worry, for he fingered his neck as if to check his head still remained attached to it. His breath became ragged. Did he, too, hear the voices of Henry’s Council as they demanded death for his treachery, Norfolk’s voice above all, baying for blood? As she watched, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. She reached for him to offer what comfort she could, but he leapt from the bed, evaded her clutching hands, and began to throw his clothes on. He paused in his dressing for long enough to reply to Mary’s earlier, unanswered question.

‘We don’t tell him. We won’t tell Henry that we are wed and have lain together. You must write to him, Mary, ask his permission as though we had never exchanged our vows.’

But they had and they meant the world to her. Mary stared at him in dismay. Charles didn’t notice, she saw. He was too keen to line up his defences.

‘Write tenderly to him, Mary. Remind him of his promise. He’ll relent and release me from my oath and we can be married again as though the first had never been. Your brother need never know of our folly. It is the only way.’

Mary scrambled from the bed. She put a robe around her nakedness, crossed the room and took his hand. It was her fault that her magnificent warrior of only a few weeks’ past had turned into this fear-filled creature. She must do what she could to assuage his fears and reassure him. But to do that he must first face facts. ‘You forget there were witnesses, Charles. Do you think Madam Louise will keep our secret? She has no great love for me. She has long looked to do me some harm and she now has her weapon. We cannot conceal our marriage as easily as you say.’