wished to speak to me privately at a convenient opportunity. So, when
the bishop left his card-table, an hour later, I threw myself in his
way. He spoke gayly to me, and we walked down the corridor arm in arm.
I could not imagine what was wanted, but presently it came out: "My
dear Caskoden"--had I been one for whom he could have had any use, I
should have grown suspicious--"My dear Caskoden, I know I can trust
you; especially when that which I have to say is for the happiness of
your friends. I am sure you will never name me in connection with the
suggestion I am about to make, and will use the thought only as your
own."
I did not know what was coming, but gave him the strongest assurance
of my trustworthiness.
"It is this: Louis of France is little better than a dead man. King
Henry, perhaps, is not fully aware of this, and, if he is, he has
never considered the probability of his speedy death. The thought
occurred to me that although the princess cannot dissuade her brother
from this marriage, she may be able, in view of her ready and cheerful
compliance, to extract some virtue out of her sore necessity and
induce him to promise that, in case of the death of Louis, she herself
shall choose her second husband."
"My lord," I replied, quickly grasping the point, "it is small wonder
you rule this land. You have both brain and heart."
"I thank you, Sir Edwin, and hope that both may always be at the
service of you and your friends."
I gave the suggestion to Mary as my own, recommending that she proffer
her request to the king in the presence of Wolsey, and, although she
had little faith or hope, she determined to try.
Within a day or two an opportunity offered, and she said to Henry: "I
am ready to go to France any time you wish, and shall do it decently
and willingly; but if I do so much for you, brother, you might at
least promise me that when King Louis is dead I may marry whomsoever I
wish. He will probably live forever, but let me have at least that
hope to give me what cheer it may while I suffer."
The ever-present Wolsey, who was standing near and heard Mary's
petition, interposed: "Let me add my prayer to that of her highness.
We must give her her own way in something."
Mary was such a complete picture of wretchedness that I thought at the
time she had really found a tender spot in Henry's heart, for he gave
the promise. Since then I have learned, as you will shortly, that it
was given simply to pacify the girl, and without any intention
whatever of its being kept; but that, in case of the death of King
Louis, Henry intended again to use his sister to his own advantage.
To be a beautiful princess is not to enjoy the bliss some people
imagine. The earth is apt to open at any time, and Pluto to snatch her
away to--the Lord knows where.
Mary again poured out her soul on paper--a libation intended for
Brandon. I made a dozen attempts, in as many different ways, to
deliver her letters, but every effort was a failure, and this missive
met the fate of the others. De Longueville kept close watch on his
master's rival, and complained to Henry about these attempts at
communication. Henry laughed and said he would see that they were
stopped, but paid no more attention to the matter.
If Mary, before her interview with Henry, had been averse to the
French marriage, she was now equally anxious to hurry it on, and
longed to go upon the rack in order that Brandon might be free. He, of
course, objected as strenuously as possible to the purchase of his
life by her marriage to Louis, but his better judgment told him--in
fact, had told him from the first--that she would be compelled
eventually to marry the French king, and common sense told him if it
must be, she might as well save his life at the same time.
Furthermore, he felt a certain sense of delight in owing his life to
her, and knew that the fact that she had saved him--that her
sacrifice had not all been in vain--would make it easier for her to
bear.
The most beautiful feature of the relations between these two lovers
was their entire faith in each other. The way of their true love was
at least not roughened by cobble-stones of doubt, however impassable
it was from mountains of opposition.
My inability to deliver Mary's letters did not deter her from writing
them; and as she was to be married in a few days--de Longueville to
act as proxy--she devoted her entire time to her letters, and wrote
pages upon pages, which she left with me to be delivered "after
death," as she called her marriage.
At this time I was called away from court for a day or two, and when I
returned and called upon Brandon at the Tower, I found him whistling
and singing, apparently as happy as a lark. "You heartless dog,"
thought I, at first; but I soon found that he felt more than
happiness--exaltation.
"Have you seen her?" I asked.
"Who?" As if there were more than one woman in all the world for him.
"The princess."
"Not since I left her at Bristol."
I believed then, and believe now, that this was a point blank
falsehood--a very unusual thing for Brandon--but for some reason
probably necessary in this case.
There was an expression in his face which I could not interpret, but
he wrote, as if carelessly scribbling on a scrap of paper that lay
upon the table, the words, "Be careful," and I took the hint--we were
watched. There is an unpleasant sensation when one feels that he is
watched by unseen eyes, and after talking for awhile on common topics
I left and took a boat for Greenwich.
When I arrived at the palace and saw Mary, what was my surprise to
find her as bright and jubilant as I had left Brandon. She, too,
laughed and sang, and was so happy that she lighted the whole room.
What did it all mean? There was but one explanation; they had met, and
there was some new plan on foot--with a fatal ending. The next failure
would mean death to Brandon, as certainly as the sun rises in the
east. What the plan was I could not guess. With Brandon in the Tower
under guard both day and night, and Mary as closely guarded in the
palace, I could not see any way of escape for either of them, nor how
they could possibly have come together.
Brandon had not told me, I supposed, for fear of being overheard, and
Mary, although she had the opportunity, was equally non-communicative,
so I had recourse to Jane upon the first occasion. She, by the way,
was as blue and sad-faced as Mary was joyous. I asked her if the
princess and Brandon had met, and she sadly said: "I do not know. We
went down to London yesterday, and as we returned stopped at Bridewell
House, where we found the king and Wolsey. The princess left the
room, saying she would return in a few minutes, and then Wolsey went
out, leaving me alone with the king. Mary did not return for half an
hour, and she may have seen Master Brandon during that time. I do not
understand how the meeting could have occurred, but that is the only
time she has been away from me." Here Jane deliberately put her head
on my shoulder and began to weep piteously.
"What is the trouble?" I asked.
She shook her head: "I cannot, dare not tell you."
"Oh! but you must, you must," and I insisted so emphatically that she
at length said:
"The king!"
"The king! God in heaven, Jane, tell me quickly." I had noticed Henry
of late casting glances at my beautiful little Jane, and had seen him
try to kiss her a few days before, as I have told you. This annoyed me
very much, but I thought little of it, as it was his habit to ogle
every pretty face. When urged, Jane said between her sobs: "He tried
to kiss me and to--mistreat me when Wolsey left the room at Bridewell
House. I may have been used to detain him, while Mary met Master
Brandon, but if so, I am sure she knew nothing of it."
"And what did you do?"
"I struggled away from him and snatched this dagger from my breast,
telling him that if he took but one step toward me I would plunge it
in my heart; and he said I was a fool."
"God keep you always a fool," said I, prayerfully. "How long has this
been going on?"
"A month or two; but I have always been able to run away from him. He
has been growing more importunate of late, so I bought a dagger that
very day, and had it not one hour too soon." With this she drew out a
gleaming little weapon that flashed in the rays of the candle.
This was trouble in earnest for me, and I showed it very plainly. Then
Jane timidly put her hand in mine, for the first time in her life, and
murmured:
"We will be married, Edwin, if you wish, before we return from
France." She was glad to fly to me to save herself from Henry, and I
was glad even to be the lesser of two evils.
As to whether my two friends met or not that day at Bridewell I cannot
say; but I think they did. They had in some way come to an
understanding that lightened both their hearts before Mary left for
France, and this had been their only possible opportunity. Jane and I
were always taken into their confidence on other occasions, but as to
this meeting, if any there was, we have never been told a word. My
belief is that the meeting was contrived by Wolsey upon a solemn
promise from Brandon and Mary never to reveal it, and if so, they have
sacredly kept their word.
On the 13th of August, 1514, Mary Tudor, with her golden hair falling
over her shoulders, was married at Greenwich to Louis de Valois; de
Longueville acting as his French majesty's proxy. Poor, fair
Proserpina!...
Note.--Maidens only were married with their hair down. It was "the
sacred token of maidenhood."--Editor.
_CHAPTER XX_
_Down into France_
So it came to pass that Mary was married unto Louis and went down into
France.
[Again the editor takes the liberty of substituting Hall's quaint
account of Mary's journey to France.]
Then when all things were redy for the conueyaunce of this noble
Ladye, the kyng her brother in the moneth of Auguste, and the xV
daye, with the quene his wife and his sayde sister and al the
court came to Douer and there taryed, for the wynde was troblous
and the wether fowle, in so muche that shippe of the kynges called
the Libeck of IXC. tonne was dryuen a shore before Sangate and
there brase & of VI C. men scantely escaped iiiC and yet the most
part of them were hurt with the wrecke. When the wether was fayre,
then al her wardrobe, stable, and riches was shipped, and such as
were appoyncted to geue their attendaunce on her as the duke of
Norfolke, the Marques of Dorset, the Bysshop of Durham, the Earle
of Surrey, the lorde Delawar, sir Thomas Bulleyn and many other
knights, Squyers, getlemen & ladies, al these went to shippe and
the sayde ladye toke her leaue of the quene in the castell of
Douer, and the king brought her to the sea syde, and kissed her,
and betoke her to GOD and the fortune of the see and to the
gouernaunce of the French king her husband. Thus at the hower of
foure of the clock in the morenynge thys fayre ladye toke her
shippe with al her noble compaignie: and when they had sayled a
quarter of the see, the wynde rose and seuered some of the shippes
to Cayles, and some in Flaunders and her shippe with greate
difficultie to Bulleyn, and with greate ieopardy at the entrying
of the hauen, for the master ran the shippe hard on shore, but the
botes were redy and receyued this noble ladye, and at the landyng
Sir Christopher Garnysha stode in the water and toke her in his
armes, and so caryed her to land, where the Duke of Vandosme and a
Cardynall with many estates receyued her, and her ladies, and
welcommed all the noble men into the countrey, and so the quene
and all her trayne came to Bulleyn and ther rested, and from
thence she remoued by dyuerse lodgynges tyll she came all most
within iii miles of Abuylé besyde the forrest of Arders, and ther
kynge Loyes vppon a greate courser met her, (which he so longe
desired) but she toke her way righte on, not stopping to conurse.
Then he returned to Abuyle by a secret waye, & she was with greate
triumphe, procession & pagiantes receyued into the toune of Abuyle
the VIII day of October by the Dolphin, which receyued her with
greate honor. She was appeareilled in cloth of siluer, her horse
was trapped in goldsmythes work very rychly. After her followed
xxxvi ladies al ther palfreys trapped with crymsyn veluet,
embraudered: after the folowed one charyott of cloth of tyssue,
the seconde clothe of golde and the third Crymsyn veluet
embraudered with the kynges armes & hers, full of roses. After
them folowed a greate nomber of archers and then wagons laden with
their stuf. Greate was the riches in plate, iuels, money, and
hangynges that this ladye brought into France. The Moday beyng the
daye of Sayncte Denyce, the same kynge Leyes maried the lady Mary
in the greate church of Abuyle, bothe appareled in goldesmythes
woorke. After the masse was done ther was a greate banket and fest
and the ladyes of England highly entreteyned.
The Tewesdaye beyng the x daye of October all the Englishmen
except a fewe that wer officers with the sayde quene were
discharged whiche was a greate sorowe for theim, for some had
serued her longe in the hope of preferment and some that had
honest romes left them to serue her and now they wer out of
seruice, which caused the to take thought in so much, some dyed by
way returning, and some fell mad, but ther was no remedy. After
the English lordes had done ther commission the French kynge
wylled the to take no lenger payne & so gaue to theim good
rewardes and they toke ther leaue of the quene and returned.
Then the Dolphyn of Fraunce called Frauncys duke of Valoys, or
Fraunceys d'Angouleme, caused a solempne iustes to be proclaymed,
which shoulde be kept in Parys in the moneth of Noueber next
ensuyng, and while al these thinges were prepearyng, the Ladye
Mary, the V. daye of Noueber, then beying Sondaye was with greate
solempnitee crowned Queen of Fraunce in the monasterye of Saynct
Denyce, and the Lorde Dolphyn, who was young, but very toward, al
the season held the crowune ouer her hed, because it was of greate
waight, to her greuaunce.
Madame Mary took her time, since a more deliberate journey bride never
made to waiting bride-groom. She was a study during this whole
period--weeping and angry by turns. She, who had never known a
moment's illness in all her days, took to her bed upon two occasions
from sheer antipathetic nervousness, and would rest her head upon
Jane's breast and cry out little, half-articulate prayers to God that
she might not kill the man who was her husband, when they should meet.
When we met the king about a league this side of Abbeville, and when
Mary beheld him with the shadow of death upon his brow, she took hope,
for she knew he would be but putty in her hands, so manifestly weak
was he, mentally and physically. As he came up she whipped her horse
and rode by him at a gallop, sending me back with word that he must
not be so ardent; that he frightened her, poor, timid little thing, so
afraid of--nothing in the world. This shocked the French courtiers,
and one would think would have offended Louis, but he simply grinned
from ear to ear, showing his yellow fangs, and said whimperingly: "Oh,
the game is worth the trouble. Tell her majesty I wait at Abbeville."
The old king had ridden a horse to meet his bride in order that he
might appear more gallant before her, but a litter was waiting to take
him back to Abbeville by a shorter route, and they were married again
in person.
[Again a quotation from Hall is substituted]:
Mondaye the .vi daye of Noueber, ther the sayde quene was receyued
into the cytee of Parys after the order thar foloweth. First the
garde of the cytee met her with oute Sayncte Denyce al in coates
of goldsmythes woorke with shippes gylt, and after them mett her
al the prestes and religious whiche were estemed to be. iiiM. The
quene was in a chyre coured about (but not her ouer person) in
white clothe of golde, the horses that drewe it couered in clothe
of golde, on her bed a coronall, al of greate perles, her necke
and brest full of Iuels, before her wente a garde of Almaynes
after ther fascion, and after them al noblemen, as the Dolphyn,
the Duke of Burbon, Cardynalles, and a greate nomber of estates.
Aboute her person rode the kynge's garde the whiche wer Scottes.
On the morowe bega the iustes, and the quene stode so that al men
might see her, and wonder at her beautie, and the kynge was feble
and lay on a couche for weakenes.
So Mary was twice married to Louis, and, although she was his queen
fast and sure enough, she was not his wife.
You may say what you will, but I like a fighting woman; one with a
touch of the savage in her when the occasion arises; one who can fight
for what she loves as well as against what she hates. She usually
loves as she fights--with all her heart.
So Mary was crowned, and was now a queen, hedged about by the tinseled
divinity that hedgeth royalty.
It seemed that she was climbing higher and higher all the time from
Brandon, but in her heart every day she was brought nearer to him.
There was one thing that troubled her greatly, and all the time. Henry
had given his word that Brandon should be liberated as soon as Mary
had left the shores of England, but we had heard nothing of this
matter, although we had received several letters from home. A doubt of
her brother, in whom she had little faith at best, made an ache at her
heart, which seemed at times likely to break it--so she said. One
night she dreamed that she had witnessed Brandon's execution, her
brother standing by in excellent humor at the prank he was playing
her, and it so worked upon her waking hours that by evening she was
ill. At last I received a letter from Brandon--which had been delayed
along the road--containing one for Mary. It told of his full pardon
and restoration to favor, greater even than before; and her joy was so
sweet and quiet, and yet so softly delirious, that I tell you plainly
it brought tears to my eyes and I could not hold them back.
The marriage, when once determined upon, had not cast her down nearly
so deep as I had expected, and soon she grew to be quite cheerful and
happy. This filled me with regret, for I thought of how Brandon must
suffer, and felt that her heart was a poor, flimsy thing to take this
trouble so lightly.
I spoke to Jane about it, but she only laughed. "Mary is all right,"
said she; "do not fear. Matters will turn out better than you think,
perhaps. You know she generally manages to have her own way in the
end."
"If you have any comfort to give, please give it, Jane. I feel most
keenly for Brandon, heart-tied to such a wilful, changeable creature
as Mary."
"Sir Edwin Caskoden, you need not take the trouble to speak to me at
all unless you can use language more respectful concerning my
mistress. The queen knows what she is about, but it appears that you
cannot see it. I see it plainly enough, although no word has ever been
spoken to me on the subject. As to Brandon being tied to her, it seems
to me she is tied to him, and that he holds the reins. He could drive
her into the mouth of purgatory."
"Do you think so?"
"I know it."
I remained in thought a moment or two, and concluded that she was
right. In truth, the time had come to me when I believed that Jane,
with her good sense and acute discernment, could not be wrong in
anything, and I think so yet. So I took comfort on faith from her, and
asked: "Do you remember what you said should happen before we return
to England?"
Jane hung her head. "I remember."
"Well?"
She then put her hand in mine and murmured, "I am ready any time you
wish."
Great heaven! I thought I should go out of my senses. She should have
told me gradually. I had to do something to express my exultation, so
I walked over to a bronze statue of Bacchus, about my size--that is,
height--put my hat--which I had been carrying under my arm--on his
head, cut a few capers in an entirely new and equally antic step, and
then drew back and knocked that Bacchus down. Jane thought I had gone
stark mad, and her eyes grew big with wonder, but I walked proudly
back to her after my victory over Bacchus, and reassured her--with a
few of Mary's messages that I had still left over, if the truth must
be told. Then we made arrangements that resulted in our marriage next
morning.
Accordingly, Queen Mary and one or two others went with us down to a
little church, where, as fortune would have it, there was a little
priest ready to join together in the holy bonds of wedlock little
Jane and little me. Everything so appropriate, you see; I suppose in
the whole world we couldn't have found another set of conditions so
harmonious. Mary laughed and cried, and laughed again, and clapped her
hands over and over, and said it was "like a play wedding"; and, as
she kissed Jane, quietly slipped over her head a beautiful diamond
necklace that was worth full ten thousand pounds--aside, that is, from
the millions of actual value, because it came from Mary. "A play
wedding" it was; and a play life it has been ever since.
We were barely settled at court in Paris when Mary began to put her
plans in motion and unsettle things generally. I could not but recall
Henry's sympathy toward Louis, for the young queen soon took it upon
herself to make life a burden to the Father of his People; and, in
that particular line, I suppose she had no equal in all the length and
breadth of Christendom.
I heartily detested King Louis, largely, I think, because of prejudice
absorbed from Mary, but he was, in fact, a fairly good old man, and at
times I could but pity him. He was always soft in heart and softer in
head, especially where women were concerned. Take his crazy attempt to
seize the Countess of Croy while he was yet Duke of Orleans; and his
infatuation for the Italian woman, for whom he built the elaborate
burial vault--much it must have comforted her. Then his marriage to
dictatorial little Anne of Brittany, for whom he had induced Pope
Alexander to divorce him from the poor little crippled owlet, Joan. In
consideration of this divorce he had put Cæsar Borgia, Pope
Alexander's son, on his feet, financially and politically. I think he
must have wanted the owlet back again before he was done with Anne,
because Anne was a termagant--and ruled him with the heaviest rod of
iron she could lift. But this last passion--the flickering, sputtering
flame of his dotage--was the worst of all, both subjectively and
objectively; both as to his senile fondness for the English princess
and her impish tormenting of him. From the first he evinced the most
violent delight in Mary, who repaid it by holding him off and evading
him in a manner so cool, audacious and adroit that it stamped her
queen of all the arts feminine and demoniac. Pardon me, ladies, if I
couple these two arts, but you must admit they are at times somewhat
akin. Soon she eluded him so completely that for days he would not
have a glimpse of her, while she was perhaps riding, walking or
coquetting with some of the court gallants, who aided and abetted her
in every way they could. He became almost frantic in pursuit of his
elusive bride, and would expostulate with her, when he could catch
her, and smile uneasily, like a man who is the victim of a practical
joke of which he does not see, or enjoy, the point. On such occasions
she would laugh in his face, then grow angry--which was so easy for
her to do--and, I grieve to say, would sometimes almost swear at him
in a manner to make the pious, though ofttimes lax-virtued, court
ladies shudder with horror. She would at other times make sport of his
youthful ardor, and tell him in all seriousness that it was indecorous
for him to behave so and frighten her, a poor, timid little child,
with his impetuosities. Then she would manage to give him the slip;
and he would go off and play a game of cards with himself, firmly
convinced in his own feeble way that woman's nature had a tincture of
the devil in it. He was the soul of conciliatory kindness to the young
vixen, but at times she would break violently into tears, accuse him
of cruelly mistreating her, a helpless woman and a stranger in his
court, and threaten to go home to dear old England and tell her
brother, King Henry, all about it, and have him put things to right
and redress her wrongs generally. In fact, she acted the part of
injured innocence so perfectly that the poor old man would apologize
for the wrongs she invented, and try to coax her into a good humor.
Thereupon she would weep more bitterly than ever, grow hysterical, and
require to be carried off by her women, when recovery and composure
were usually instantaneous. Of course the court gossips soon carried
stories of the quick recoveries to the king, and, when he spoke to
Mary of them, she put on her injured air again and turned the tables
by upbraiding him for believing such calumnies about her, who was so
good to him and loved him so dearly.