E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Jeannie Howse, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 17498-h.htm or 17498-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/4/9/17498/17498-h/17498-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/4/9/17498/17498-h.zip)
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| A number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected |
| in this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of |
| this document. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER
or, the Love Story of
Charles Brandon and Mary Tudor
the King's Sister, and Happening
in the Reign of
His August Majesty
King Henry the
Eighth
Rewritten and Rendered into Modern English from
Sir Edwin Caskoden's Memoir
by
EDWIN CASKODEN
[Charles Major]
Julia Marlowe Edition
With Scenes from the Play
[Illustration]
Indianapolis, U.S.A.
The Bowen-Merrill Company
Publishers
Copyright, Eighteen Hundred Ninety
Eight, and Nineteen Hundred One
by The Bowen-Merrill Company
Press of
Braunworth & Co.
Bookbinders and Printers
Brooklyn, N.Y.
_"There lived a Knight, when Knighthood was in flow'r,
Who charmed alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r_."
To My Wife
CONTENTS
The Caskodens 1
I The Duel 6
II How Brandon Came to Court 13
III The Princess Mary 23
IV A Lesson in Dancing 45
V An Honor and an Enemy 74
VI A Rare Ride to Windsor 89
VII Love's Fierce Sweetness 102
VIII The Trouble in Billingsgate Ward 128
IX Put Not Your Trust in Princesses 146
X Justice, O King! 169
XI Louis XII a Suitor 182
XII Atonement 202
XIII A Girl's Consent 213
XIV In the Siren Country 226
XV To Make a Man of Her 244
XVI A Hawking Party 256
XVII The Elopement 268
XVIII To the Tower 289
XIX Proserpina 302
XX Down into France 320
XXI Letters from a Queen 337
_"Cloth of gold do not despise,
Though thou be match'd with cloth of frize;
Cloth of frize, be not too bold,
Though thou be match'd with cloth of gold_."
Inscription on a label affixed to Brandon's lance under a picture
of Mary Tudor and Charles Brandon, at Strawberry Hill.
The Play
The initial performance of the play was given in St. Louis on the
evening of November 26, 1900, and the first New York production was on
the fourteenth of the following January.
Its instant and continued success is well known. A prominent dramatic
critic of the press has said:
"Julia Marlowe fully realized the popular idea of the Mary described
by the novelist. She seemed to revel in the role. With its
instantaneous changes from gay daring to anger and fear, from coyness
to the dignity that hedges a princess, from resentment to ardent love,
the part of Mary Tudor gives Julia Marlowe full scope for the display
of her talent. She has never appeared to better or as good advantage
as in this play for the reason that it gives opportunity for broader
and more effective lights and shades than anything she has hitherto
given us."
When Knighthood Was in Flower
When Knighthood Was in Flower....
_The Caskodens_
We Caskodens take great pride in our ancestry. Some persons, I know,
hold all that to be totally un-Solomonlike and the height of vanity,
but they, usually, have no ancestors of whom to be proud. The man who
does not know who his great-grandfather was, naturally enough would
not care what he was. The Caskodens have pride of ancestry because
they know both who and what.
Even admitting that it is vanity at all, it is an impersonal sort of
failing, which, like the excessive love of country, leans virtueward;
for the man who fears to disgrace his ancestors is certainly less
likely to disgrace himself. Of course there are a great many excellent
persons who can go no farther back than father and mother, who,
doubtless, eat and drink and sleep as well, and love as happily, as if
they could trace an unbroken lineage clear back to Adam or Noah, or
somebody of that sort. Nevertheless, we Caskodens are proud of our
ancestry, and expect to remain so to the end of the chapter,
regardless of whom it pleases or displeases.
We have a right to be proud, for there is an unbroken male line from
William the Conqueror down to the present time. In this lineal list
are fourteen Barons--the title lapsed when Charles I fell--twelve
Knights of the Garter and forty-seven Knights of the Bath and other
orders. A Caskoden distinguished himself by gallant service under the
Great Norman and was given rich English lands and a fair Saxon bride,
albeit an unwilling one, as his reward. With this fair, unwilling
Saxon bride and her long plait of yellow hair goes a very pretty,
pathetic story, which I may tell you at some future time if you take
kindly to this. A Caskoden was seneschal to William Rufus, and sat at
the rich, half barbaric banquets in the first Great Hall. Still
another was one of the doughty barons who wrested from John the Great
Charter, England's declaration of independence; another was high in
the councils of Henry V. I have omitted one whom I should not fail to
mention: Adjodika Caskoden, who was a member of the Dunce Parliament
of Henry IV, so called because there were no lawyers in it.
It is true that in the time of Edward IV a Caskoden did stoop to
trade, but it was trade of the most dignified, honorable sort; he was
a goldsmith, and his guild, as you know, were the bankers and
international clearance house for people, king and nobles. Besides, it
is stated on good authority that there was a great scandal wherein the
goldsmith's wife was mixed up in an intrigue with the noble King
Edward; so we learn that even in trade the Caskodens were of honorable
position and basked in the smile of their prince. As for myself, I am
not one of those who object so much to trade; and I think it
contemptible in a man to screw his nose all out of place sneering at
it, while enjoying every luxury of life from its profits.
This goldsmith was shrewd enough to turn what some persons might call
his ill fortune, in one way, into gain in another. He was one of those
happily constituted, thrifty philosophers who hold that even
misfortune should not be wasted, and that no evil is so great but the
alchemy of common sense can transmute some part of it into good. So he
coined the smiles which the king shed upon his wife--he being
powerless to prevent, for Edward smiled where he listed, and listed
nearly everywhere--into nobles, crowns and pounds sterling, and left a
glorious fortune to his son and to his son's son, unto about the
fourth generation, which was a ripe old age for a fortune, I think.
How few of them live beyond the second, and fewer still beyond the
third! It was during the third generation of this fortune that the
events of the following history occurred.
Now, it has been the custom of the Caskodens for centuries to keep a
record of events, as they have happened, both private and public. Some
are in the form of diaries and journals like those of Pepys and
Evelyn; others in letters like the Pastons'; others again in verse and
song like Chaucer's and the Water Poet's; and still others in the
more pretentious form of memoir and chronicle. These records we always
have kept jealously within our family, thinking it vulgar, like the
Pastons, to submit our private affairs to public gaze.
There can, however, be no reason why those parts treating solely of
outside matters should be so carefully guarded, and I have determined
to choose for publication such portions as do not divulge family
secrets nor skeletons, and which really redound to family honor.
For this occasion I have selected from the memoir of my worthy
ancestor and namesake, Sir Edwin Caskoden--grandson of the goldsmith,
and Master of the Dance to Henry VIII--the story of Charles Brandon
and Mary Tudor, sister to the king.
This story is so well known to the student of English history that I
fear its repetition will lack that zest which attends the development
of an unforeseen denouement. But it is of so great interest, and is so
full, in its sweet, fierce manifestation, of the one thing insoluble
by time, Love, that I will nevertheless rewrite it from old Sir
Edwin's memoir. Not so much as an historical narrative, although I
fear a little history will creep in, despite me, but simply as a
picture of that olden long ago, which, try as we will to put aside the
hazy, many-folded curtain of time, still retains its shadowy lack of
sharp detail, toning down and mellowing the hard aspect of real
life--harder and more unromantic even than our own--into the blending
softness of an exquisite mirage.
I might give you the exact words in which Sir Edwin wrote, and shall
now and then quote from contemporaneous chronicles in the language of
his time, but should I so write at all, I fear the pleasure of perusal
would but poorly pay for the trouble, as the English of the Bluff King
is almost a foreign tongue to us. I shall, therefore, with a few
exceptions, give Sir Edwin's memoir in words, spelling and idiom which
his rollicking little old shade will probably repudiate as none of his
whatsoever. So, if you happen to find sixteenth century thought
hob-nobbing in the same sentence with nineteenth century English, be
not disturbed; I did it. If the little old fellow grows grandiloquent
or garrulous at times--_he_ did that. If you find him growing
super-sentimental, remember that sentimentalism was the life-breath of
chivalry, just then approaching its absurdest climax in the bombastic
conscientiousness of Bayard and the whole mental atmosphere laden with
its pompous nonsense.
_CHAPTER I_
_The Duel_
It sometimes happens, Sir Edwin says, that when a woman will she
won't, and when she won't she will; but usually in the end the adage
holds good. That sentence may not be luminous with meaning, but I will
give you an illustration.
I think it was in the spring of 1509, at any rate soon after the death
of the "Modern Solomon," as Queen Catherine called her old
father-in-law, the late King Henry VII, that his august majesty Henry
VIII, "The Vndubitate Flower and very Heire of both the sayd Linages,"
came to the throne of England, and tendered me the honorable position
of Master of the Dance at his sumptuous court.
As to "worldly goods," as some of the new religionists call wealth, I
was very comfortably off; having inherited from my father, one of the
counselors of Henry VII, a very competent fortune indeed. How my
worthy father contrived to save from the greedy hand of that rich old
miser so great a fortune, I am sure I can not tell. He was the only
man of my knowledge who did it; for the old king had a reach as long
as the kingdom, and, upon one pretext or another, appropriated to
himself everything on which he could lay his hands. My father,
however, was himself pretty shrewd in money matters, having inherited
along with his fortune a rare knack at keeping it. His father was a
goldsmith in the time of King Edward, and enjoyed the marked favor of
that puissant prince.
Being thus in a position of affluence, I cared nothing for the fact
that little or no emolument went with the office; it was the honor
which delighted me. Besides, I was thereby an inmate of the king's
palace, and brought into intimate relations with the court, and above
all, with the finest ladies of the land--the best company a man can
keep, since it ennobles his mind with better thoughts, purifies his
heart with cleaner motives, and makes him gentle without detracting
from his strength. It was an office any lord of the kingdom might have
been proud to hold.
Now, some four or five years after my induction into this honorable
office, there came to court news of a terrible duel fought down in
Suffolk, out of which only one of the four combatants had come
alive--two, rather, but one of them in a condition worse than death.
The first survivor was a son of Sir William Brandon, and the second
was a man called Sir Adam Judson. The story went that young Brandon
and his elder brother, both just home from the continental wars, had
met Judson at an Ipswich inn, where there had been considerable
gambling among them. Judson had won from the brothers a large sum of
money which they had brought home; for, notwithstanding their youth,
the elder being but twenty-six and the younger about twenty-four years
of age, they had gained great honor and considerable profit in wars,
especially the younger, whose name was Charles.
It is a little hard to fight for money and then to lose it by a single
spot upon the die, but such is the fate of him who plays, and a
philosopher will swallow his ill luck and take to fighting for more.
The Brandons could have done this easily enough, especially Charles,
who was an offhand philosopher, rather fond of a good-humored fight,
had it not been that in the course of play one evening the secret of
Judson's winning had been disclosed by a discovery that he cheated.
The Brandons waited until they were sure, and then trouble began,
which resulted in a duel on the second morning following.
This Judson was a Scotch gentleman of whom very little was known,
except that he was counted the most deadly and most cruel duelist of
the time. He was called the "Walking Death," and it is said took pride
in the appellation. He boasted that he had fought eighty-seven duels,
in which he had killed seventy-five men, and it was considered certain
death to meet him. I got the story of the duel afterwards from Brandon
as I give it here.
John was the elder brother, and when the challenge came was entitled
to fight first,--a birthright out of which Charles tried in vain to
talk him. The brothers told their father, Sir William Brandon, and at
the appointed time father and sons repaired to the place of meeting,
where they found Judson and his two seconds ready for the fight.
Sir William was still a vigorous man, with few equals in sword play,
and the sons, especially the younger, were better men and more skilful
than their father had ever been, yet they felt that this duel meant
certain death, so great was Judson's fame for skill and cruelty.
Notwithstanding they were so handicapped with this feeling of
impending evil, they met their duty without a tremor; for the motto of
their house was, "_Malo Mori Quam Fedrai_."
It was a misty morning in March. Brandon has told me since, that when
his elder brother took his stand, it was at once manifest that he was
Judson's superior, both in strength and skill, but after a few strokes
the brother's blade bent double and broke off short at the hilt when
it should have gone home. Thereupon, Judson, with a malignant smile of
triumph, deliberately selected his opponent's heart and pierced it
with his sword, giving the blade a twist as he drew it out in order to
cut and mutilate the more.
In an instant Sir William's doublet was off, and he was in his dead
son's tracks, ready to avenge him or to die. Again the thrust which
should have killed broke the sword, and the father died as the son had
died.
After this, came young Charles, expecting, but, so great was his
strong heart, not one whit fearing, to lie beside his dead father and
brother. He knew he was the superior of both in strength and skill,
and his knowledge of men and the noble art told him they had each been
the superior of Judson; but the fellow's hand seemed to be the hand of
death. An opening came through Judson's unskilful play, which gave
young Brandon an opportunity for a thrust to kill, but his blade, like
his father's and brother's, bent double without penetrating. Unlike
the others, however, it did not break, and the thrust revealed the
fact that Judson's skill as a duelist lay in a shirt of mail which it
was useless to try to pierce. Aware of this, Brandon knew that victory
was his, and that soon he would have avenged the murders that had gone
before. He saw that his adversary was strong neither in wind nor arm,
and had not the skill to penetrate his guard in a week's trying, so he
determined to fight on the defensive until Judson's strength should
wane, and then kill him when and how he chose.
After a time Judson began to breathe hard and his thrusts to lack
force.
"Boy, I would spare you," he said; "I have killed enough of your
tribe; put up your sword and call it quits."
Young Brandon replied: "Stand your ground, you coward; you will be a
dead man as soon as you grow a little weaker; if you try to run I will
thrust you through the neck as I would a cur. Listen how you snort. I
shall soon have you; you are almost gone. You would spare me, would
you? I could preach a sermon or dance a hornpipe while I am killing
you. I will not break my sword against your coat of mail, but will
wait until you fall from weakness and then.... Fight, you bloodhound!"
Judson was pale from exhaustion, and his breath was coming in gasps as
he tried to keep the merciless sword from his throat. At last, by a
dexterous twist of his blade, Brandon sent Judson's sword flying
thirty feet away. The fellow started to run, but turned and fell upon
his knees to beg for life. Brandon's reply was a flashing circle of
steel, and his sword point cut lengthwise through Judson's eyes and
the bridge of his nose, leaving him sightless and hideous for life. A
revenge compared to which death would have been merciful.
The duel created a sensation throughout the kingdom, for although
little was known as to who Judson was, his fame as a duelist was as
broad as the land. He had been at court upon several occasions, and,
at one time, upon the king's birthday, had fought in the royal lists.
So the matter came in for its share of consideration by king and
courtiers, and young Brandon became a person of interest. He became
still more so when some gentlemen who had served with him in the
continental wars told the court of his daring and bravery, and related
stories of deeds at arms worthy of the best knight in Christendom.
He had an uncle at the court, Sir Thomas Brandon, the king's Master of
Horse, who thought it a good opportunity to put his nephew forward
and let him take his chance at winning royal favor. The uncle broached
the subject to the king, with favorable issue, and Charles Brandon,
led by the hand of fate, came to London Court, where that same fate
had in keeping for him events such as seldom fall to the lot of man.
_CHAPTER II_
_How Brandon Came to Court_
When we learned that Brandon was coming to court, every one believed
he would soon gain the king's favor. How much that would amount to
none could tell, as the king's favorites were of many sorts and taken
from all conditions of men. There was Master Wolsey, a butcher's son,
whom he had first made almoner, then chief counselor and Bishop of
Lincoln, soon to be Bishop of York, and Cardinal of the Holy Roman
Church.
From the other extreme of life came young Thomas, Lord Howard, heir to
the Earl of Surrey, and my Lord of Buckingham, premier peer of the
realm. Then sometimes would the king take a yeoman of the guard and
make him his companion in jousts and tournaments, solely because of
his brawn and bone. There were others whom he kept close by him in the
palace because of their wit and the entertainment they furnished; of
which class was I, and, I flatter myself, no mean member.
To begin with, being in no way dependent on the king for money, I
never drew a farthing from the royal treasury. This, you may be sure,
did me no harm, for although the king _sometimes_ delighted to give,
he always hated to pay. There were other good reasons, too, why I
should be a favorite with the king. Without meaning to be vain, I
think I may presume to say, with perfect truth, that my conversation
and manners were far more pleasing and polished than were usual at
that day in England, for I made it a point to spend several weeks each
year in the noble French capital, the home and center of good-breeding
and politeness.
My appointment as Master of the Dance, I am sure, was owing entirely
to my manner. My brother, the baron, who stood high with the king, was
not friendly toward me because my father had seen fit to bequeath me
so good a competency in place of giving it all to the first-born and
leaving me dependent upon the tender mercies of an elder brother. So I
had no help from him nor from any one else. I was quite small of
stature and, therefore, unable to compete, with lance and mace, with
bulkier men; but I would bet with any man, of any size, on any game,
at any place and time, in any amount; and, if I do say it, who perhaps
should not, I basked in the light of many a fair smile which larger
men had sighed for in vain.
I did not know when Brandon first came to London. We had all remained
at Greenwich while the king went up to Westminster to waste his time
with matters of state and quarrel with the Parliament, then sitting,
over the amount of certain subsidies.
Mary, the king's sister, then some eighteen or nineteen years of age,
a perfect bud, just blossoming into a perfect flower, had gone over to
Windsor on a visit to her elder sister, Margaret of Scotland, and the
palace was dull enough. Brandon, it seems, had been presented to Henry
during this time, at Westminster, and had, to some extent at least,
become a favorite before I met him. The first time I saw him was at a
joust given by the king at Westminster, in celebration of the fact
that he had coaxed a good round subsidy out of Parliament.
The queen and her ladies had been invited over, and it was known that
Mary would be down from Windsor and come home with the king and the
court to Greenwich when we should return. So we all went over to
Westminster the night before the jousts, and were up bright and early
next morning to see all that was to be seen.
* * * * *
[Here the editor sees fit to substitute a description of this
tournament taken from the quaint old chronicler, Hall.]
The morow beyng after dynner, at tyme conuenenient, the Quene with
her Ladyes repaired to see the Iustes, the trompettes blewe vp,
and in came many a noble man and Gentleman, rychely appeareiled,
takynge vp thir horses, after whome folowed certayne lordes
appareiled, they and thir horses, in cloth of Golde and russet and
tynsell; Knyghtes in cloth of Golde, and russet Veluet. And a
greate nomber of Gentlemen on fote, in russet satyn and yealow,
and yomen in russet Damaske and yealow, all the nether parte of
euery mans hosen Skarlet, and yealow cappes.
Then came the kynge vnder a Pauilion of golde, and purpul Veluet
embroudered, the compass of the Pauilion about, and valenced with
a flat, gold beaten in wyre, with an Imperiall croune in the top,
of fyne Golde, his bases and trapper of cloth of Golde, fretted
with Damask Golde, the trapper pedant to the tail. A crane and
chafron of stele, in the front of the chafro was a goodly plume
set full of musers or trimbling spangles of golde. After folowed
his three aydes, euery of them vnder a Pauilion of Crymosyn
Damaske & purple. The nomber of Gentlemen and yomen a fote,
appareiled in russet and yealow was clxviii. Then next these
Pauilions came xii chyldren of honor, sitting euery one of them on
a greate courser, rychely trapped, and embroudered in seuerall
deuises and facions, where lacked neither brouderie nor
goldsmythes work, so that euery chyld and horse in deuice and
fascion was contrary to the other, which was goodly to beholde.
Then on the counter parte, entered a Straunger, fyrst on
horsebacke in a long robe of Russet satyne, like a recluse or a
religious, and his horse trapped in the same sewte, without dromme
or noyse of mynstrelsye, puttinge a byll of peticion to the Quene,
the effect whereof was, that if it would please her to license hym
to runne in her presence, he would do it gladly, and if not, then
he would departe as he came. After his request was graunted, then
he put off hys sayd habyte and was armed at all peces with ryche
bases & horse, also rychely trapped, and so did runne his horse to
the tylte end, where dieurs men on fote appareiled in Russet satyn
awaited on him. Thereupon the Heraulds cryed an Oyez! and the
grownd shoke with the trompe of rushynge stedes. Wonder it were to
write of the dedes of Armes which that day toke place, where a man
might haue seen many a horse raysed on highe with galop, turne and
stoppe, maruaylous to behold. C.xiv staves were broke and the
kynge being lusty, he and the straunger toke the prices.
When the queen had given the stranger permission to run, and as he
moved away, there was a great clapping of hands and waving of
trophies among the ladies, for he was of such noble mien and comely
face as to attract the gaze of every one away from even the glittering
person of his majesty the king.
His hair, worn in its natural length, fell in brown curls back from
his forehead almost to the shoulder, a style just then new, even in
France. His eyes were a deep blue, and his complexion, though browned
by exposure, held a tinge of beauty which the sun could not mar and a
girl might envy. He wore neither mustachio nor beard, as men now
disfigure their faces--since Francis I took a scar on his chin--and
his clear cut profile, dilating nostrils and mobile, though firm-set
mouth, gave pleasing assurance of tenderness, gentleness, daring and
strength.
I was standing near the queen, who called to me: "Who is the handsome
stranger that so gracefully asked our license to run?"
"I can not inform your majesty. I never saw him until now. He is the
goodliest knight I have ever beheld."
"That he is," replied the queen; "and we should like very much to know
him. Should we not, ladies?" There was a chorus of assent from a dozen
voices, and I promised, after the running, to learn all about him and
report.
It was at this point the heralds cried their "Oyes," and our
conversation was at an end for the time.
As to height, the stranger was full six feet, with ample evidence of
muscle, though no great bulk. He was grace itself, and the king
afterwards said he had never seen such strength of arm and skill in
the use of the lance--a sure harbinger of favor, if not of fortune,
for the possessor.
After the jousting the Princess Mary asked me if I could yet give her
an account of the stranger; and as I could not, she went to the king.
I heard her inquire:
"Who was your companion, brother?"
"That is a secret, sister. You will find out soon enough, and will be
falling in love with him, no doubt. I have always looked upon you as
full of trouble for me in that respect; you will not so much as glance
at anyone I choose for you, but I suppose would be ready enough with
your smiles for some one I should not want."
"Is the stranger one whom you would not want?" asked Mary, with a
dimpling smile and a flash of her brown eyes.
"He most certainly is," returned the king.
"Then I will fall in love with him at once. In fact, I don't know but
I have already."
"Oh, I have no doubt of that; if I wanted him, he might be Apollo
himself and you would have none of him." King Henry had been compelled
to refuse several very advantageous alliances because this fair,
coaxing, self-willed sister would not consent to be a part of the
moving consideration.
"But can you not tell me who he is, and what his degree?" went on Mary
in a bantering tone.
"He has no degree; he is a plain, untitled soldier, not even a knight;
that is, not an English knight. I think he has a German or Spanish
order of some sort."
"Not a duke; not an earl; not even a baron or knight? Now he has
become interesting."
"Yes, I suppose so; but don't bother me."
"Will he be at the dance and banquet to-night?"
"No! No! Now I must go; don't bother me, I say." And the king moved
away.
That night we had a grand banquet and dance at Westminster, and the
next day we all, excepting Lady Mary, went back to Greenwich by boat,
paying a farthing a head for our fare. This was just after the law
fixing the boat fare, and the watermen were a quarreling lot, you may
be sure. One farthing from Westminster to Greenwich! Eight miles. No
wonder they were angry.
The next day I went back to London on an errand, and over to Wolsey's
house to borrow a book. While there Master Cavendish, Wolsey's
secretary, presented me to the handsome stranger, and he proved to be
no other than Charles Brandon, who had fought the terrible duel down
in Suffolk. I could hardly believe that so mild-mannered and boyish a
person could have taken the leading part in such a tragedy. But with
all his gentleness there was an underlying dash of cool daring which
intimated plainly enough that he was not all mildness.
We became friends at once, drawn together by that subtle human quality
which makes one nature fit into another, resulting in friendship
between men, and love between men and women. We soon found that we had
many tastes in common, chief among which was the strongest of all
congenial bonds, the love of books. In fact we had come to know each
other through our common love of reading, for he also had gone to
Master Cavendish, who had a fine library, to borrow some volumes to
take with him down to Greenwich.
Brandon informed me he was to go to Greenwich that day, so we
determined to see a little of London, which was new to him, and then
take boat in time to be at the palace before dark.
That evening, upon arriving at Greenwich, we hunted up Brandon's
uncle, the Master of Horse, who invited his nephew to stay with him
for the night. He refused, however, and accepted an invitation to take
a bed in my room.
The next day Brandon was installed as one of the captains of the
king's guard, under his uncle, but with no particular duties, except
such as should be assigned him from time to time. He was offered a
good room on one of the lower floors, but asked, instead, to be lodged
in the attic next to me. So we arranged that each had a room opening
into a third that served us alike for drawing-room and armory.
Here we sat and talked, and now and then one would read aloud some
favorite passage, while the other kept his own place with finger
between the leaves. Here we discussed everything from court scandal to
religion, and settled to our own satisfaction, at least, many a great
problem with which the foolish world is still wrestling.
We told each other all our secrets, too, for all the world like a pair
of girls. Although Brandon had seen so much of life, having fought on
the continent ever since he was a boy, and for all he was so much a
man of the world, yet had he as fresh and boyish a heart as if he had
just come from the clover fields and daisies. He seemed almost
diffident, but I soon learned that his manner was but the cool
gentleness of strength.
Of what use, let me ask, is a friend unless you can unload your heart
upon him? It matters not whether the load be joy or sorrow; if the
former, the need is all the greater, for joy has an expansive power,
as some persons say steam has, and must escape from the heart upon
some one else.
So Brandon told me of his hopes and aspirations, chief among which was
his desire to earn, and save, enough money to pay the debt against his
father's estate, which he had turned over to his younger brother and
sisters. He, as the eldest, could have taken it all, for his father
had died without a will, but he said there was not enough to divide,
so he had given it to them and hoped to leave it clear of debt; then
for New Spain, glory and fortune, conquest and yellow gold. He had
read of the voyages of the great Columbus, the Cabots, and a host of
others, and the future was as rosy as a Cornish girl's cheek. Fortune
held up her lips to him, but--there's often a sting in a kiss.
_CHAPTER III_
_The Princess Mary_
Now, at that time, Mary, the king's sister, was just ripening into her
greatest womanly perfection. Her skin was like velvet; a rich, clear,
rosy snow, with the hot young blood glowing through it like the faint
red tinge we sometimes see on the inner side of a white rose leaf. Her
hair was a very light brown, almost golden, and fluffy, soft, and fine
as a skein of Arras silk. She was of medium height, with a figure that
Venus might have envied. Her feet and hands were small, and apparently
made for the sole purpose of driving mankind distracted. In fact, that
seemed to be the paramount object in her creation, for she had the
world of men at her feet. Her greatest beauty was her glowing dark
brown eyes, which shone with an ever-changing luster from beneath the
shade of the longest, blackest upcurving lashes ever seen.
Her voice was soft and full, and, except when angry, which, alas, was
not infrequent, had a low and coaxing little note that made it
irresistible; she was a most adroit coaxer, and knew her power full
well, although she did not always plead, having the Tudor temper and
preferring to command--when she could. As before hinted, she had
coaxed her royal brother out of several proposed marriages for her,
which would have been greatly to his advantage; and if you had only
known Henry Tudor, with his vain, boisterous, stubborn violence, you
could form some idea of Mary's powers by that achievement alone.
Will Sommers, the fool, one day spread through court an announcement
that there would be a public exhibition in the main hall of the palace
that evening, when the Princess Mary would perform the somewhat
alarming, but, in fact, harmless, operation of wheedling the king out
of his ears. This was just after she had coaxed him to annul a
marriage contract which her father had made for her with Charles of
Germany, then heir to the greatest inheritance that ever fell to the
lot of one man--Spain, the Netherlands, Austria, and heaven only knows
what else.
She had been made love to by so many men, who had lost their senses in
the dazzling rays of her thousand perfections--of whom, I am ashamed
to say, that I, for a time, had been insane enough to be one--that
love had grown to be a sort of joke with her, and man, a poor,
contemptible creature, made to grovel at her feet. Not that she liked
or encouraged it; for, never having been moved herself, she held love
and its sufferings in utter scorn. Man's love was so cheap and
plentiful that it had no value in her eyes, and it looked as if she
would lose the best thing in life by having too much of it.
Such was the royal maid to whose tender mercies, I now tell you
frankly, my friend Brandon was soon to be turned over. He, however,
was a blade of very different temper from any she had known; and when
I first saw signs of a growing intimacy between them I felt, from what
little I had seen of Brandon, that the tables were very likely to be
turned upon her ladyship. Then thought I, "God help her," for in a
nature like hers, charged with latent force, strong and hot and fiery
as the sun's stored rays, it needed but a flash to make it patent,
when damage was sure to follow for somebody--probably Brandon.
Mary did not come home with us from Westminster the morning after the
joustings, as we had expected, but followed some four or five days
later, and Brandon had fairly settled himself at court before her
arrival. As neither his duties nor mine were onerous, we had a great
deal of time on our hands, which we employed walking and riding, or
sitting in our common room reading and talking. Of course, as with
most young men, that very attractive branch of natural history, woman,
was a favorite topic, and we accordingly discussed it a great deal;
that is, to tell the exact truth, _I_ did. Although Brandon had seen
many an adventure during his life on the continent, which would not do
to write down here, he was as little of a boaster as any man I ever
met, and, while I am in the truth-telling business, I was as great a
braggart of my inches as ever drew the long-bow--in that line, I mean.
Gods! I flush up hot, even now, when I think of it. So I talked a
great deal and found myself infinitely pleased with Brandon's
conversational powers, which were rare; being no less than the
capacity for saying nothing, and listening politely to an infinite
deal of the same thing, in another form, from me.
I remember that I told him I had known the Princess Mary from a time
when she was twelve years old, and how I had made a fool of myself
about her. I fear I tried to convey the impression that it was her
exalted rank only which made her look unfavorably upon my passion, and
suppressed the fact that she had laughed at me good humoredly, and put
me off as she would have thrust a poodle from her lap. The truth is,
she had always been kind and courteous to me, and had admitted me to a
degree of intimacy much greater than I deserved. This, partly at
least, grew out of the fact that I helped her along the thorny path to
knowledge; a road she traveled at an eager gallop, for she dearly
loved to learn--from curiosity perhaps.
I am sure she held me in her light, gentle heart as a dear friend, but
while her heart was filled with this mild warmth for me, mine began to
burn with the flame that discolors everything, and I saw her
friendliness in a very distorting light. She was much kinder to me
than to most men, but I did not see that it was by reason of my
absolute harmlessness; and, I suppose, because I was a vain fool, I
gradually began to gather hope--which goes with every vain man's
love--and what is more, actually climbed to the very apex of idiocy
and declared myself. I well knew the infinite distance between us; but
like every other man who came within the circle of this charming
lodestone I lost my head, and, in short, made a greater fool of myself
than I naturally was--which is saying a good deal for that time in my
life, God knows!
I knew vaguely but did not fairly realize how utterly beyond my reach
in every way she was until I opened the flood-gates of my passion--as
I thought it--and saw her smile, and try to check the coming laugh.
Then came a look of offended dignity, followed by a quick softening
glance.
"Leave me one friend, I pray you, Edwin. I value you too highly to
lose, and esteem you too much to torment. Do not make of yourself one
of those fools who feel, or pretend to feel, I care not which, such
preference for me. You cannot know in what contempt a woman holds a
man who follows her though she despises him. No man can beg a woman's
love; he must command it; do not join their ranks, but let us be good
friends. I will tell you the plain truth; it would be no different
were we both of the same degree; even then I could not feel toward you
as you think you wish, but I can be your friend, and will promise to
be that always, if you will promise never again to speak of this to
me."
I promised solemnly and have always kept my word, as this true,
gracious woman, so full of faults and beauties, virtues and failings,
has, ever since that day and moment, kept hers. It seemed that my
love, or what I supposed was love, left my heart at once, frozen in
the cold glint of her eyes as she smiled upon my first avowal;
somewhat as disease may leave the sickened body upon a great shock.
And in its place came the restful flame of a friend's love, which so
softly warms without burning. But the burning! There is nothing in
life worth having compared with it for all its pains and agonies. Is
there?
"Now if you must love somebody," continued the princess, "there is
Lady Jane Bolingbroke, who is beautiful and good, and admires you,
and, I think, could learn to----" but here the lady in question ran
out from behind the draperies, where, I believe, she had been
listening to it all, and put her hand over her mistress' mouth to
silence her.
"Don't believe one word she says, Sir Edwin," cried Lady Jane; "if you
do I never _will_ like you." The emphasis on the "will" held out such
involuntary promise in case I did not believe the princess, that I at
once protested total want of faith in a single syllable she had said
about her, and vowed that I knew it could not be true; that I dared
not hope for such happiness.
You see, I had begun to make love to Jane almost before I was off my
knees to Mary, and, therefore, I had not been much hurt in Mary's
case. I had suffered merely a touch of the general epidemic, not the
lingering, chronic disease that kills.
Then I knew that the best cure for the sting which lies in a luckless
love is to love elsewhere, and Jane, as she stood there, so _petite_,
so blushing and so fair, struck me as quite the most pleasing antidote
I could possibly find, so I began at once to administer to myself the
delightful counter-irritant. It was a happy thought for me; one of
those which come to a man now and then, and for which he thanks his
wits in every hour of his after life.
But the winning of Jane was not so easy a matter as my vanity had
prompted me to think. I started with a handicap, since Jane had heard
my declaration to Mary, and I had to undo all that before I could do
anything else. Try the same thing yourself with a spirited girl,
naturally laughter-loving and coy, if you think it a simple, easy
undertaking. I began to fear I should need another antidote long
before I heard her sweet soul-satisfying "yes." I do not believe,
however, I could have found in the whole world an antidote to my love
for Jane. You see I tell you frankly that I won her, and conceal
nothing, so far as Jane and I are concerned, for the purpose of
holding you in suspense. I have started out to tell you the history of
two other persons--if I can ever come to it--but find a continual
tendency on the part of my own story to intrude, for every man is a
very important personage to himself. I shall, however, try to keep it
out.
In the course of my talk with Brandon I had, as I have said, told him
the story of Mary, with some slight variations and coloring, or rather
discoloring, to make it appear a little less to my discredit than the
barefaced truth would have been. I told him also about Jane; and, I
grieve and blush to say, expressed a confidence in that direction I
little felt.
It had been perhaps a year since my adventure with Mary, and I had
taken all that time trying to convince Jane that I did not mean a word
I had said to her mistress, and that I was very earnest in everything
I said to her. But Jane's ears would have heard just as much had they
been the pair of beautiful little shells they so much resembled. This
troubled me a great deal, and the best I could hope was that she held
me on probation.
On the evening of the day Mary came home to Greenwich, Brandon asked:
"Who and what on earth is this wonderful Mary I hear so much about?
They say she is coming home to-day, and the court seems to have gone
mad about it; I hear nothing but 'Mary is coming! Mary is coming!
Mary! Mary!' from morning until night. They say Buckingham is beside
himself for love of her. He has a wife at home, if I am right, and is
old enough to be her father. Is he not?" I assented; and Brandon
continued: "A man who will make such a fool of himself about a woman
is woefully weak. The men of the court must be poor creatures."
He had much to learn about the power of womanhood. There is nothing
on earth--but you know as much about it as I do.
"Wait until you see her," I answered, "and you will be one of them,
also. I flatter you by giving you one hour with her to be heels over
head in love. With an ordinary man it takes one-sixtieth of that time;
so you see I pay a compliment to your strength of mind."
"Nonsense!" broke in Brandon. "Do you think I left all my wits down in
Suffolk? Why, man, she is the sister of the king, and is sought by
kings and emperors. I might as well fall in love with a twinkling
star. Then, besides, my heart is not on my sleeve. You must think me a
fool; a poor, enervated, simpering fool like--like--well, like one of
those nobles of England. Don't put me down with them, Caskoden, if you
would remain my friend."
We both laughed at this sort of talk, which was a little in advance of
the time, for a noble, though an idiot, to the most of England was a
noble still, God-created and to be adored.
Another great bond of sympathy between Brandon and myself was a
community of opinion concerning certain theories as to the equality of
men and tolerance of religious thought. We believed that these things
would yet come, in spite of kingcraft and priestcraft, but wisely kept
our pet theories to ourselves: that is, between ourselves.
Of what use is it to argue the equality of human kind to a man who
honestly thinks he is better than any one else, or to one who really
believes that some one else is better than he; and why dispute about
the various ways of saving one's soul, when you are not even sure you
have a soul to save? When I open my mouth for public utterance, the
king is the best man in Christendom, and his premier peer of the realm
the next best. When the king is a Catholic I go to Mass; since,
praised be the Lord, I have brains enough not to let my head interfere
with the set ways of a stone wall.
Now, when Mary returned the whole court rejoiced, and I was anxious
for Brandon to meet her and that they should become friends. There
would be no trouble in bringing this meeting about, since, as you
know, I was upon terms of intimate friendship with Mary, and was the
avowed, and, as I thought, at least hoped, all but accepted lover of
her first lady in waiting and dearest friend, Lady Jane Bolingbroke.
Brandon, it is true, was not noble; not even an English knight, while
I was both knighted and noble; but he was of as old a family as
England boasted, and near of kin to some of the best blood of the
land. The meeting came about sooner than I expected, and was very near
a failure. It was on the second morning after Mary's arrival at
Greenwich. Brandon and I were walking in the palace park when we met
Jane, and I took the opportunity to make these, my two best-loved
friends, acquainted.
"How do you do, Master Brandon?" said Lady Jane, holding out her
plump little hand, so white and soft, and dear to me. "I have heard
something of you the last day or so from Sir Edwin, but had begun to
fear he was not going to give me the pleasure of knowing you. I hope I
may see you often now, and that I may present you to my mistress."
With this, her eyes, bright as overgrown dew-drops, twinkled with a
mischievous little smile, as if to say: "Ah, another large handsome
fellow to make a fool of himself."
Brandon acquiesced in the wish she had made, and, after the
interchange of a few words, Jane said her mistress was waiting at the
other side of the grounds, and that she must go. She then ran off with
a laugh and a courtesy, and was soon lost to sight behind the
shrubbery at the turning of the walk.
In a short time we came to a summer house near the marble
boat-landing, where we found the queen and some of her ladies awaiting
the rest of their party for a trip down the river, which had been
planned the day before. Brandon was known to the queen and several of
the ladies, although he had not been formally presented at an
audience. Many of the king's friends enjoyed a considerable intimacy
with the whole court without ever receiving the public stamp of
recognition, socially, which goes with a formal presentation.
The queen, seeing us, sent me off to bring the king. After I had
gone, she asked if any one had seen the Princess Mary, and Brandon
told her Lady Jane had said she was at the other side of the grounds.
Thereupon her majesty asked Brandon to find the princess and to say
that she was wanted.
Brandon started off and soon found a bevy of girls sitting on some
benches under a spreading oak, weaving spring flowers. He had never
seen the princess, so could not positively know her. As a matter of
fact, he did know her, as soon as his eyes rested on her, for she
could not be mistaken among a thousand--there was no one like her or
anything near it. Some stubborn spirit of opposition, however,
prompted him to pretend ignorance. All that he had heard of her
wonderful power over men, and the servile manner in which they fell
before her, had aroused in him a spirit of antagonism, and had
begotten a kind of distaste beforehand. He was wrong in this, because
Mary was not a coquette in any sense of the word, and did absolutely
nothing to attract men, except to be so beautiful, sweet and winning
that they could not let her alone; for all of which surely the prince
of fault-finders himself could in no way blame her.