but in the midst of it, Mary, who, I had noticed, was restless and
uneasy, full of blushes and hesitancy, and with a manner as new to her
as the dawn of the first day was to the awakening world, abruptly
asked Brandon to dance with her again. She had risen and was standing
by her chair, ready to be led out.
"Gladly," answered Brandon, as he sprang to her side and took her
hand. "Which shall it be, La Galliard or the new dance?" And Mary
standing there, the picture of waiting, willing modesty, lifted her
free hand to his shoulder, tried to raise her eyes to his, but
failed, and softly said: "The new dance."
This time the dancing was more soberly done, and when Mary stopped it
was with serious, thoughtful eyes, for she had felt the tingling of a
new strange force in Brandon's touch. A man, not a worm, but a real
man, with all the irresistible infinite attractions that a man may
have for a woman--the subtle drawing of the lodestone for the passive
iron--had come into her life. Doubly sweet it was to her intense,
young virgin soul, in that it first revealed the dawning of that
two-edged bliss which makes a heaven or a hell of earth--of earth,
which owes its very existence to love.
I do not mean that Mary was in love, but that she had met, and for the
first time felt the touch, yes even the subtle, unconscious,
dominating force so sweet to woman, of the man she could love, and had
known the rarest throb that pulses in that choicest of all God's
perfect handiwork--a woman's heart--the throb that goes before--the
John, the Baptist, as it were, of coming love.
It being after midnight, Mary filled two cups of wine, from each of
which she took a sip, and handed them to Brandon and me. She then paid
me the ten crowns, very soberly thanked us and said we were at liberty
to go.
The only words Brandon ever spoke concerning that evening were just as
we retired:
"Jesu! she is perfect. But you were wrong, Caskoden. I can still
thank God I am not in love with her. I would fall upon my sword if I
were."
I was upon the point of telling him she had never treated any other
man as she had treated him, but I thought best to leave it unsaid.
Trouble was apt to come of its own accord soon enough.
In truth, I may as well tell you, that when the princess asked me to
bring Brandon to her that she might have a little sport at his
expense, she looked for a laugh, but found a sigh.
_CHAPTER V_
_An Honor and an Enemy_
A day or two after this, Brandon was commanded to an audience, and
presented to the king and queen. He was now eligible to all palace
entertainments, and would probably have many invitations, being a
favorite with both their majesties. As to his standing with Mary, who
was really the most important figure, socially, about the court, I
could not exactly say. She was such a mixture of contradictory
impulses and rapid transitions, and was so full of whims and caprice,
the inevitable outgrowth of her blood, her rank and the adulation amid
which she had always lived, that I could not predict for a day ahead
her attitude toward any one. She had never shown so great favor to any
man as to Brandon, but just how much of her condescension was a mere
whim, growing out of the impulse of the moment, and subject to
reaction, I could not tell. I believed, however, that Brandon stood
upon a firmer foundation with this changing, shifting, quicksand of a
girl than with either of their majesties.
In fact, I thought he rested upon her heart itself. But to guess
correctly what a girl of that sort will do, or think, or feel would
require inspiration.
Of course most of the entertainments given by the king and queen
included as guests nearly all the court, but Mary often had little
fêtes and dancing parties which were smaller, more select and
informal. These parties were really with the consent and encouragement
of the king, to avoid the responsibility of not inviting everybody.
The larger affairs were very dull and smaller ones might give offense
to those who were left out. The latter, therefore, were turned over to
Mary, who cared very little who was offended or who was not, and
invitations to them were highly valued.
One afternoon, a day or two after Brandon's presentation, a message
arrived from Mary, notifying me that she would have a little fête that
evening in one of the smaller halls and directing me to be there as
Master of the Dance. Accompanying the message was a note from no less
a person than the princess herself, inviting Brandon.
This was an honor indeed--an autograph invitation from the hand of
Mary! But the masterful rascal did not seem to consider it anything
unusual, and when I handed him the note upon his return from the hunt,
he simply read it carelessly over once, tore it in pieces and tossed
it away. I believe the Duke of Buckingham would have given ten
thousand crowns to receive such a note, and would doubtless have shown
it to half the court in triumphant confidence before the middle of the
night. To this great Captain of the guard it was but a scrap of paper.
He was glad to have it nevertheless, and, with all his self-restraint
and stoicism, could not conceal his pleasure.
Brandon at once accepted the invitation in a personal note to the
princess. The boldness of this actually took my breath, and it seems
at first to have startled Mary a little, also. As you must know by
this time, her "dignity royal" was subject to alarms, and quite her
most troublesome attribute--very apt to receive damage in her
relations with Brandon.
Mary did not destroy Brandon's note, despite the fact that her sense
of dignity had been disturbed by it, but after she had read it slipped
off into her private room, read it again and put it on her escritoire.
Soon she picked it up, reread it, and, after a little hesitation, put
it in her pocket. It remained in the pocket for a moment or two, when
out it came for another perusal, and then she unfastened her bodice
and put it in her bosom. Mary had been so intent upon what she was
doing that she had not seen Jane, who was sitting quietly in the
window, and, when she turned and saw her, she was so angry she
snatched the note from her bosom and threw it upon the floor, stamping
her foot in embarrassment and rage.
"How dare you watch me, hussy?" she cried. "You lurk around as still
as the grave, and I have to look into every nook and corner, wherever
I go, or have you spying on me."
"I did not spy upon you, Lady Mary," said Jane quietly.
[Illustration]
"Don't answer me; I know you did. I want you to be less silent after
this. Do you hear? Cough, or sing, or stumble; do something, anything,
that I may hear you."
Jane rose, picked up the note and offered it to her mistress, who
snatched it with one hand, while she gave her a sharp slap with the
other. Jane ran out, and Mary, full of anger and shame, slammed the
door and locked it. The note, being the cause of all the trouble, she
impatiently threw to the floor again, and went over to the window
bench, where she threw herself down to pout. In the course of five
minutes she turned her head for one fleeting instant and looked at the
note, and then, after a little hesitation, stole over to where she had
thrown it and picked it up. Going back to the light at the window, she
held it in her hand a moment and then read it once, twice, thrice. The
third time brought the smile, and the note nestled in the bosom again.
Jane did not come off so well, for her mistress did not speak to her
until she called her in that evening to make her toilet. By that time
Mary had forgotten about the note in her bosom; so when Jane began to
array her for the dance, it fell to the floor, whereupon both girls
broke into a laugh, and Jane kissed Mary's bare shoulder, and Mary
kissed the top of Jane's head, and they were friends again.
So Brandon accepted Mary's invitation and went to Mary's dance, but
his going made for him an enemy of the most powerful nobleman in the
realm, and this was the way of it.
These parties of Mary's had been going on once or twice a week during
the entire winter and spring, and usually included the same persons.
It was a sort of coterie, whose members were more or less congenial,
and most of them very jealous of interlopers. Strange as it may seem,
uninvited persons often attempted to force themselves in, and all
sorts of schemes and maneuvers were adopted to gain admission. To
prevent this, two guardsmen with halberds were stationed at the door.
Modesty, I might say, neither thrives nor is useful at court.
When Brandon presented himself at the door his entrance was barred,
but he quickly pushed aside the halberds and entered. The Duke of
Buckingham, a proud, self-important individual, was standing near the
door and saw it all. Now Buckingham was one of those unfortunate
persons who never lose an opportunity to make a mistake, and being
anxious to display his zeal on behalf of the princess stepped up to
prevent Brandon's entrance.
"Sir, you will have to move out of this," he said pompously. "You are
not at a jousting bout. You have made a mistake and have come to the
wrong place."
"My Lord of Buckingham is pleased to make rather more of an ass of
himself than usual this evening," replied Brandon with a smile, as he
started across the room to Mary, whose eye he had caught. She had seen
and heard it all, but instead of coming to his relief stood there
laughing to herself. At this Buckingham grew furious and ran around
ahead of Brandon, valiantly drawing his sword.
"Now, by heaven! fellow, make but another step and I will run you
through," he said.
I saw it all, but could hardly realize what was going on, it came so
quickly and was over so soon. Like a flash Brandon's sword was out of
its sheath, and Buckingham's blade was flying toward the ceiling.
Brandon's sword was sheathed again so quickly that one could hardly
believe it had been out at all, and, picking up Buckingham's, he said
with a half-smothered laugh:
"My lord has dropped his sword." He then broke its point with his heel
against the hard floor, saying: "I will dull the point, lest my lord,
being unaccustomed to its use, wound himself." This brought peals of
laughter from everybody, including the king. Mary laughed also, but,
as Brandon was handing Buckingham his blade, came up and demanded:
"My lord, is this the way you take it upon yourself to receive my
guests? Who appointed you, let me ask, to guard my door? We shall have
to omit your name from our next list, unless you take a few lessons in
good manners." This was striking him hard, and the quality of the man
will at once appear plain to you when I say that he had often
received worse treatment, but clung to the girl's skirts all the more
tenaciously. Turning to Brandon the princess said:
"Master Brandon, I am glad to see you, and regret exceedingly that our
friend of Buckingham should so thirst for your blood." She then led
him to the king and queen, to whom he made his bow, and the pair
continued their walk about the room. Mary again alluded to the
skirmish at the door, and said laughingly:
"I would have come to your help, but I knew you were amply able to
take care of yourself. I was sure you would worst the duke in some
way. It was better than a mummery, and I was glad to see it. I do not
like him."
The king did not open these private balls, as he was supposed, at
least, not to be their patron, and the queen, who was considerably
older than Henry, was averse to such things. So the princess opened
her own balls, dancing for a few minutes with the floor entirely to
herself and partner. It was the honor of the evening to open the ball
with her, and quite curious to see how men put themselves in her way
and stood so as to be easily observed and perchance chosen. Brandon,
after leaving Mary, had drifted into a corner of the room back of a
group of people, and was talking to Wolsey--who was always very
friendly to him--and to Master Cavendish, a quaint, quiet, easy little
man, full of learning and kindness, and a warm friend to the Princess
Mary.
It was time to open the ball, and, from my place in the musicians'
gallery, I could see Mary moving about among the guests, evidently
looking for a partner, while the men resorted to some very transparent
and amusing expedients to attract her attention. The princess,
however, took none of the bidders, and soon, I noticed, she espied
Brandon standing in the corner with his back toward her.
Something told me she was going to ask him to open the dance, and I
regretted it, because I knew it would set every nobleman in the house
against him, they being very jealous of the "low-born favorites," as
they called the untitled friends of royalty. Sure enough, I was right.
Mary at once began to make her way over to the corner, and I heard her
say: "Master Brandon, will you dance with me?"
It was done prettily. The whole girl changed as soon as she found
herself in front of him. In place of the old-time confidence, strongly
tinged with arrogance, she was almost shy, and blushed and stammered
with quick coming breath, like a burgher maid before her new-found
gallant. At once the courtiers made way for her, and out she walked,
leading Brandon by the hand. Upon her lips and in her eyes was a rare
triumphant smile, as if to say:
"Look at this handsome new trophy of my bow and spear."
I was surprised and alarmed when Mary chose Brandon, but when I turned
to the musicians to direct their play, imagine, if you can, my
surprise when the leader said:
"Master, we have our orders for the first dance from the princess."
Imagine, also, if you can, my double surprise and alarm, nay, almost
my terror, when the band struck up Jane's "Sailor Lass." I saw the
look of surprise and inquiry which Brandon gave Mary, standing there
demurely by his side, when he first heard the music, and I heard her
nervous little laugh as, she nodded her head, "Yes," and stepped
closer to him to take position for the dance. The next moment she was
in Brandon's arms, flying like a sylph about the room. A buzz of
astonishment and delight greeted them before they were half way
around, and then a great clapping of hands, in which the king himself
joined. It was a lovely sight, although, I think, a graceful woman is
more beautiful in La Galliard than any other dance, or, in fact, any
other situation in which she can place herself.
After a little time the Dowager Duchess of Kent, first lady in waiting
to the queen, presented herself at the musicians' gallery and said
that her majesty had ordered the music stopped, and the musicians, of
course, ceased playing at once. Mary thereupon turned quickly to me:
"Master, are our musicians weary that they stop before we are
through?"
The queen answered for me in a high-voiced Spanish accent: "I ordered
the music stopped; I will not permit such an indecent exhibition to go
on longer."
Fire sprang to Mary's eyes and she exclaimed: "If your majesty does
not like the way we do and dance at my balls you can retire as soon as
you see fit. Your face is a kill-mirth anyway." It never took long to
rouse her ladyship.
The queen turned to Henry, who was laughing, and angrily demanded:
"Will your majesty permit me to be thus insulted in your very
presence?"
"You got yourself into it; get out of it as best you can. I have often
told you to let her alone; she has sharp claws." The king was really
tired of Catherine's sour frown before he married her. It was her
dower of Spanish gold that brought her a second Tudor husband.
"Shall I not have what music and dances I want at my own balls?" asked
the princess.
"That you shall, sister mine; that you shall," answered the king. "Go
on master, and if the girl likes to dance that way, in God's name let
her have her wish. It will never hurt her; we will learn it ourself,
and will wear the ladies out a-dancing."
After Mary had finished the opening dance there was a great demand for
instruction. The king asked Brandon to teach him the steps, which he
soon learned to perform with a grace perhaps equaled by no living
creature other than a fat brown bear. The ladies were at first a
little shy and inclined to stand at arm's length, but Mary had set the
fashion and the others soon followed. I had taken a fiddler to my room
and had learned the dance from Brandon; and was able to teach it also,
though I lacked practice to make my step perfect. The princess had
needed no practice, but had danced beautifully from the first, her
strong young limbs and supple body taking as naturally to anything
requiring grace of movement as a cygnet to water.
This, thought I, is my opportunity to teach Jane the new dance. I
wanted to go to her first, but was afraid, or for some reason did not,
and took several other ladies as they came. After I had shown the step
to them I sought out my sweetheart. Jane was not a prude, but I
honestly believe she was the most provoking girl that ever lived. I
never had succeeded in holding her hand even the smallest part of an
instant, and yet I was sure she liked me very much; almost sure she
loved me. She feared I might unhinge it and carry it away, or
something of that sort, I suppose. When I went up and asked her to let
me teach her the new dance, she said:
"I thank you, Edwin; but there are others who are more anxious to
learn than I, and you had better teach them first."
"But I want to teach you. When I wish to teach them I will go to
them."
"You did go to several others before you thought of coming to me,"
answered Jane, pretending to be piqued. Now that was the unkindest
thing I ever knew a girl to do--refuse me what she knew I so wanted,
and then put the refusal on the pretended ground that I did not care
much about it. I so told her, and she saw she had carried things too
far, and that I was growing angry in earnest. She then made another
false, though somewhat flattering, excuse:
"I could not bear to go through that dance before so large a company.
I should not object so much if no one else could see--that is, with
you--Edwin." "Edwin!" Oh! so soft and sweet! The little jade! to think
that she could hoodwink me so easily, and talk me into a good humor
with her soft, purring "Edwin." I saw through it all quickly enough,
and left her without another word. In a few minutes she went into an
adjoining room where I knew she was alone. The door was open and the
music could be heard there, so I followed.
"My lady, there is no one to see us here; I can teach you now, if you
wish," said I.
She saw she was cornered, and replied, with a toss of her saucy little
head: "But what if I do not wish?"
Now this was more than I could endure with patience, so I answered:
"My young lady, you shall ask me before I teach you."
"There are others who can dance it much better than you," she
returned, without looking at me.
"If you allow another to teach you that dance," I responded, "you will
have seen the last of me." She had made me angry, and I did not speak
to her for more than a week. When I did--but I will tell you of that
later on. There was one thing about Jane and the new step: so long as
she did not know it, she would not dance it with any other man, and
foolish as my feeling may have been, I could not bear the thought of
her doing it. I resolved that if she permitted another man to teach
her that dance it should be all over between us. It was a terrible
thought to me, that of losing Jane, and it came like a very stroke
upon my heart. I would think of her sweet little form, so compact and
graceful; of her gray, calm eyes, so full of purity and mischief; of
her fair oval face, almost pale, and wonder if I could live without
the hope of her. I determined, however, that if she learned the new
dance with any other man I would throw that hope to the winds, whether
I lived or died. St. George! I believe I should have died.
The evening was devoted to learning the new dance, and I saw Mary
busily engaged imparting information among the ladies. As we were
about to disperse I heard her say to Brandon:
"You have greatly pleased the king by bringing him a new amusement. He
asked me where I learned it, and I told him you had taught it to
Caskoden, and that I had it from him. I told Caskoden so that he can
tell the same story."
"Oh! but that is not true. Don't you think you should have told him
the truth, or have evaded it in some way?" asked Brandon, who was
really a great lover of the truth, "when possible," but who, I fear on
this occasion, wished to appear more truthful than he really was. If a
man is to a woman's taste, and she is inclined to him, he lays up
great stores in her heart by making her think him good; and shameful
impositions are often practiced to this end.
Mary flushed a little and answered, "I can't help it. You do not know.
Had I told Henry that we four had enjoyed such a famous time in my
rooms he would have been very angry, and--and--you might have been the
sufferer."
"But might you not have compromised matters by going around the truth
some way, and leaving the impression that others were of the party
that evening?"
That was a mistake, for it gave Mary an opportunity to retaliate: "The
best way to go around the truth, as you call it, is by a direct lie.
My lie was no worse than yours. But I did not stop to argue about such
matters. There is something else I wished to say. I want to tell you
that you have greatly pleased the king with the new dance. Now teach
him 'honor and ruff' and your fortune is made. He has had some Jews
and Lombards in of late to teach him new games at cards, but yours is
worth all of them." Then, somewhat hastily and irrelevantly, "I did
not dance the new dance with any other gentleman--but I suppose you
did not notice it," and she was gone before he could thank her.
_CHAPTER VI_
_A Rare Ride to Windsor_
The princess knew her royal brother. A man would receive quicker
reward for inventing an amusement or a gaudy costume for the king than
by winning him a battle. Later in life the high road to his favor was
in ridding him of his wife and helping him to a new one--a dangerous
way though, as Wolsey found to his sorrow when he sank his glory in
poor Anne Boleyn.
Brandon took the hint and managed to let it be known to his
play-loving king that he knew the latest French games. The French Duc
de Longueville had for some time been an honored prisoner at the
English court, held as a hostage from Louis XII, but de Longueville
was a blockhead, who could not keep his little black eyes off our fair
ladies, who hated him, long enough to tell the deuce of spades from
the ace of hearts. So Brandon was taken from his duties, such as they
were, and placed at the card table. This was fortunate at first; for
being the best player the king always chose him as his partner, and,
as in every other game, the king always won. If he lost there would
soon be no game, and the man who won from him too frequently was in
danger at any moment of being rated guilty of the very highest sort of
treason. I think many a man's fall, under Henry VIII, was owing to
the fact that he did not always allow the king to win in some trivial
matter of game or joust. Under these conditions everybody was anxious
to be the king's partner. It is true he frequently forgot to divide
his winnings, but his partner had this advantage, at least: there was
no danger of losing. That being the case, Brandon's seat opposite the
king was very likely to excite envy, and the time soon came, Henry
having learned the play, when Brandon had to face someone else, and
the seat was too costly for a man without a treasury. It took but a
few days to put Brandon _hors de combat_, financially, and he would
have been in a bad plight had not Wolsey come to his relief. After
that, he played and paid the king in his own coin.
This great game of "honor and ruff" occupied Henry's mind day and
night during a fortnight. He feasted upon it to satiety as he did with
everything else; never having learned not to cloy his appetite by
over-feeding. So we saw little of Brandon while the king's fever
lasted, and Mary said she wished she had remained silent about the
cards. You see, she could enjoy this new plaything as well as her
brother; but the king, of course, must be satisfied first. They both
had enough eventually; Henry in one way, Mary in another.