injured innocence--that impregnable feminine redoubt--and when the
enemy once gets fairly behind it one might as well raise the siege. I
think it the most amusing, exasperating and successful defense and
counter attack in the whole science of war, and every woman has it at
her finger-tips, ready for immediate use upon occasion.
Mary would often pout for days together and pretend illness. Upon one
occasion she kept the king waiting at her door all the morning, while
she, having slipped through the window, was riding with some of the
young people in the forest. When she returned--through the window--she
went to the door and scolded the poor old king for keeping her waiting
penned up in her room all the morning. And he apologized.
She changed the dinner hour to noon in accordance with the English
custom, and had a heavy supper at night, when she would make the king
gorge himself with unhealthful food and coax him "to drink as much as
brother Henry," which invariably resulted in Louis de Valois finding
lodgment under the table. This amused the whole court, except a few
old cronies and physicians, who, of course, were scandalized beyond
measure. She took the king on long rides with her on cold days, and
would jolt him almost to death, and freeze him until the cold tears
streamed down his poor pinched nose, making him feel like a half
animated icicle, and wish that he were one in fact.
At night she would have her balls, and keep him up till morning
drinking and dancing, or trying to dance, with her, until his poor old
heels, and his head, too, for that matter, were like to fall off; then
she would slip away from him and lock herself in her room. December,
say I, let May alone; she certainly will kill you. Despite which sound
advice, I doubt not December will go on coveting May up to the end of
the chapter; each old fellow--being such a fine man for his age, you
understand--fondly believing himself an exception. Age in a fool is
damnable.
Mary was killing Louis as certainly and deliberately as if she were
feeding him slow poison. He was very weak and decrepit at best, being
compelled frequently, upon public occasions, such, for example, as the
coronation tournament of which I have spoken, to lie upon a couch.
Mary's conduct was really cruel! but then, remember her provocation
and that she was acting in self-defense. All this was easier for her
than you might suppose, for the king's grasp of power, never very
strong, was beginning to relax even what little grip it had. All faces
were turned toward the rising sun, young Francis, duke of Angouleme,
the king's distant cousin, who would soon be king in Louis's place.
As this young rising sun, himself vastly smitten with Mary, openly
encouraged her in what she did, the courtiers of course followed suit,
and the old king found himself surrounded by a court only too ready to
be amused by his lively young queen at his expense.
This condition of affairs Mary welcomed with her whole soul, and to
accent it and nail assurance, I fear, played ever so lightly and coyly
upon the heart-strings of the young duke, which responded all too
loudly to her velvet touch, and almost frightened her to death with
their volume of sound later on. This Francis d'Angouleme, the dauphin,
had fallen desperately in love with Mary at first sight, something
against which the fact that he was married to Claude, daughter of
Louis, in no way militated. He was a very distant relative of Louis,
going away back to St. Louis for his heirship to the French crown. The
king had daughters in plenty, but as you know, the gallant Frenchmen
say, according to their Law Salic: "The realm of France is so great
and glorious a heritage that it may not be taken by a woman." Too
great and glorious to be taken by woman, forsooth! France would have
been vastly better off had she been governed by a woman now and then,
for a country always prospers under a queen.
Francis had for many years lived at court as the recognized heir, and
as the custom was, called his distant cousin Louis, "Uncle." "Uncle"
Louis in turn called Francis "_Ce Gros Garçon_," and Queen Mary
called him "_Monsieur, mon beau fils_," in a mock-motherly manner that
was very laughable. A mother of eighteen to a "good boy" of
twenty-two! Dangerous relationship! And dangerous, indeed, it would
have been for Mary, had she not been as pure and true as she was
wilful and impetuous. "Mon beau fils" allowed neither his wife nor the
respect he owed the king to stand in the way of his very marked
attention to the queen. His position as heir, and his long residence
at court, almost as son to Louis, gave him ample opportunities for
pressing his unseemly suit. He was the first to see Mary at the
meeting place this side of Abbeville, and was the king's
representative on all occasions.
"Beau fils" was rather a handsome fellow, but thought himself vastly
handsomer than he was; and had some talents, which he was likewise
careful to estimate at their full value, to say the least. He was very
well liked by women, and in turn considered himself irresistible. He
was very impressionable to feminine charms, was at heart a libertine,
and, as he grew older, became a debauchee whose memory will taint
France for centuries to come.
Mary saw his weakness more clearly than his wickedness, being blinded
to the latter by the veil of her own innocence. She laughed at, and
with him, and permitted herself a great deal of his company; so much,
in fact, that I grew a little jealous for Brandon's sake, and, if the
truth must be told, for the first time began to have doubts of her. I
seriously feared that when Louis should die, Brandon might find a much
more dangerous rival in the new king, who, although married, would
probably try to keep Mary at his court, even should he be driven to
the extreme of divorcing Claude, as Claude's father had divorced Joan.
I believed, in case Mary should voluntarily prove false and remain in
France, either as the wife or the mistress of Francis, that Brandon
would quietly but surely contrive some means to take her life, and I
hoped he would. I spoke to my wife, Jane, about the queen's conduct,
and she finally admitted that she did not like it; so I, unable to
remain silent any longer, determined to put Mary on her guard, and for
that purpose spoke very freely to her on the subject.
"Oh! you goose!" she said, laughingly. "He is almost as great a fool
as Henry." Then the tears came to her eyes, and half angrily, half
hysterically, shaking me by the arm, she continued: "Do you not know?
Can you not see that I would give this hand, or my eyes, almost my
life, just to fall upon my face in front of Charles Brandon at this
moment? Do you not know that a woman with a love in her heart such as
I have for him is safe from every one and everything? That it is her
sheet anchor, sure and fast? Have you not wit enough to know that?"
"Yes, I have," I responded, for the time completely silenced. With
her favorite tactics, she had, as usual, put me in the wrong, though I
soon came again to the attack.
"But he is so base that I grieve to see you with him."
"I suppose he is not very good," she responded, "but it seems to be
the way of these people among whom I have fallen, and he cannot harm
me."
"Oh! but he can. One does not go near smallpox, and there is a moral
contagion quite as dangerous, if not so perceptible, and equally to be
avoided. It must be a wonderfully healthy moral nature, pure and
chaste to the core, that will be entirely contagion-proof and safe
from it."
She hung her head in thought, and then lifted her eyes appealingly to
me. "Am I not that, Edwin? Tell me! Tell me frankly; am I not? It is
the one thing of good I have always striven for. I am so full of other
faults that if I have not that there is no good in me." Her eyes and
voice were full of tears, and I knew in my heart that I stood before
as pure a soul as ever came from the hand of God.
"You are, your majesty; never doubt," I answered. "It is pre-eminently
the one thing in womanhood to which all mankind kneels." And I fell
upon my knee and kissed her hand with a sense of reverence, faith and
trust that has never left me from that day to this. As to my estimate
of how Francis would act when Louis should die, you will see that I
was right.
Not long after this Lady Caskoden and I were given permission to
return to England, and immediately prepared for our homeward journey.
Ah! it was pretty to see Jane bustling about, making ready for our
departure--superintending the packing of our boxes and also
superintending me. That was her great task. I never was so thankful
for riches as when they enabled me to allow Jane full sway among the
Paris shops. But at last, all the fine things being packed, and Mary
having kissed us both--mind you, both--we got our little retinue
together and out we went, through St. Denis, then ho! for dear old
England.
As we left, Mary placed in my hands a letter for Brandon, whose bulk
was so reassuring that I knew he had never been out of her thoughts. I
looked at the letter a moment and said, in all seriousness: "Your
majesty, had I not better provide an extra box for it?"
She gave a nervous little laugh, and the tears filled her eyes, as she
whispered huskily: "I fancy there is one who will not think it too
large. Good-bye! good-bye!" So we left Mary, fair, sweet girl-queen,
all alone among those terrible strangers; alone with one little
English maiden, seven years of age--Anne Boleyn.
_CHAPTER XXI_
_Letters from a Queen_
Upon our return to England I left Jane down in Suffolk with her uncle,
Lord Bolingbroke, having determined never to permit her to come within
sight of King Henry again, if I could prevent it. I then went up to
London with the twofold purpose of seeing Brandon and resigning my
place as Master of the Dance.
When I presented myself to the king and told him of my marriage, he
flew into a great passion because we had not asked his consent. One of
his whims was that everyone must ask his permission to do anything; to
eat, or sleep, or say one's prayers; especially to marry, if the lady
was of a degree entitled to be a king's ward. Jane, fortunately, had
no estate, the king's father having stolen it from her when she was an
infant; so all the king could do about our marriage was to grumble,
which I let him do to his heart's content.
"I wish also to thank your majesty for the thousand kindnesses you
have shown me," I said, "and, although it grieves me to the heart to
separate from you, circumstances compel me to tender my resignation as
your Master of Dance." Upon this he was kind enough to express regret,
and ask me to reconsider; but I stood my ground firmly, and then and
there ended my official relations with Henry Tudor forever.
Upon taking my leave of the king I sought Brandon, whom I found
comfortably ensconced in our old quarters, he preferring them to much
more pretentious apartments offered him in another part of the palace.
The king had given him some new furnishings for them, and as I was to
remain a few days to attend to some matters of business, he invited me
to share his comfort with him, and I gladly did so.
Those few days with Brandon were my farewell to individuality.
Thereafter I was to be so mysteriously intermingled with Jane that I
was only a part--and a small part at that I fear--of two. I did not,
of course, regret the change, since it was the one thing in life I
most longed for, yet the period was tinged with a faint sentiment of
pathos at parting from the old life that had been so kind to me, and
which I was leaving forever. I say I did not regret it, and though I
was leaving my old haunts and companions and friends so dear to me, I
was finding them all again in Jane, who was friend as well as wife.
Mary's letter was in one of my boxes which had been delayed, and Jane
was to forward it to me when it should come. When I told Brandon of
it, I dwelt with emphasis upon its bulk, and he, of course, was
delighted, and impatient to have it. I had put the letter in the box,
but there was something else which Mary had sent to him that I had
carried with me. It was a sum of money sufficient to pay the debt
against his father's estate, and in addition, to buy some large tracts
of land adjoining. Brandon did not hesitate to accept the money, and
seemed glad that it had come from Mary, she, doubtless, being the only
person from whom he would have taken it.
One of Brandon's sisters had married a rich merchant at Ipswich, and
another was soon to marry a Scotch gentleman. The brother would
probably never marry, so Brandon would eventually have to take charge
of the estates. In fact, he afterwards lived there many years, and as
Jane and I had purchased a little estate near by, which had been
generously added to by Jane's uncle, we saw a great deal of him. But I
am getting ahead of my story again.
The d'Angouleme complication troubled me greatly, notwithstanding my
faith in Mary, and although I had resolved to say nothing to Brandon
about it, I soon told him plainly what I thought and feared.
He replied with a low, contented little laugh.
"Do not fear for Mary, I do not. That young fellow is of different
stuff, I know, from the old king, but I have all faith in her purity
and ability to take care of herself. Before she left she promised to
be true to me, whatever befell, and I trust her entirely. I am not so
unhappy by any means as one would expect. Am I?" And I was compelled
to admit that he certainly was not.
So it seems they had met, as Jane and I suspected, but how Mary
managed it I am sure I cannot tell; she beat the very deuce for having
her own way, by hook or by crook. Then came the bulky letter, which
Brandon pounced upon and eagerly devoured. I leave out most of the
sentimental passages, which, like effervescent wine, lose flavor
quickly. She said--in part:
"_To Master Brandon:_
"Sir and Dear Friend, Greeting--After leaving thee, long time had
I that mighty grief and dole within my heart that it was like to
break; for my separation from thee was so much harder to bear even
than I had taken thought of, and I also doubted me that I could
live in Paris, as I did wish. Sleep rested not upon my weary eyes,
and of a very deed could I neither eat nor drink, since food
distasted me like a nausea, and wine did strangle in my throat.
This lasted through my journey hither, which I did prolong upon
many pretexts, nearly two months, but when I did at last rest mine
eyes for the first time upon this King Louis's face, I well knew
that I could rule him, and when I did arrive, and had adjusted
myself in this Paris, I found it so easy that my heart leaped for
very joy. Beauty goeth so far with this inflammable people that
easily do I rule them all, and truly doth a servile subject make
a sharp, capricious tyrant. Thereby the misfortune which hath come
upon us is of so much less evil, and is so like to be of such
short duration, that I am almost happy--but for lack of thee--and
sometimes think that after all it may verily be a blessing unseen.
"This new, unexpected face upon our trouble hath so driven the old
gnawing ache out of my heart that I love to be alone, and dream,
open-eyed, of the time, of a surety not far off, when I shall be
with thee.... It is ofttimes sore hard for me, who have never
waited, to have to wait, like a patient Griselda, which of a truth
I am not, for this which I do so want; but I try to make myself
content with the thought that full sure it will not be for long,
and that when this tedious time hath spent itself, we shall look
back upon it as a very soul-school, and shall rather joy that we
did not purchase our heaven too cheaply.
"I said I find it easy to live here as I wish, and did begin to
tell thee how it was, when I ran off into telling of how I long
for thee; so I will try again. This Louis, to begin with, is but
the veriest shadow of a man, of whom thou needst have not one
jealous thought. He is on a bed of sickness most of the time, of
his own accord, and if, perchance, he be but fairly well a day or
so, I do straightway make him ill again in one way or another,
and, please God, hope to wear him out entirely ere long time. Of a
deed, brother Henry was right; better had it been for Louis to
have married a human devil than me, for it maketh a very one out
of me if mine eyes but rest upon him, and thou knowest full well
what kind of a devil I make--brother Henry knoweth, at any rate.
For all this do I grieve, but have no remedy, nor want one. I
sometimes do almost compassionate the old king, but I cannot
forbear, for he turneth my very blood to biting gall, and must
e'en take the consequences of his own folly. Truly is he wild for
love of me, this poor old man, and the more I hold him at a
distance the more he fondly dotes. I do verily believe he would
try to stand upon his foolish old head, did I but insist. I
sometimes have a thought to make him try it. He doeth enough that
is senseless and absurd, in all conscience, as it is. At all of
this do the courtiers smile, and laugh, and put me forward to
other pranks; that is, all but a few of the elders, who shake
their heads, but dare do nothing else for fear of the dauphin, who
will soon be king, and who stands first in urging and abetting me.
So it is easy for me to do what I wish, and above all to leave
undone that which I wish not, for I do easily rule them all, as
good Sir Edwin and dear Jane will testify. I have a ball every
night, wherein I do make a deal of amusement for every one by
dancing La Volta with his majesty until his heels, and his poor
old head, too, are like to fall off. Others importune me for those
dances, especially the dauphin, but I laugh and shake my head and
say that I will dance with no one but the king, because he dances
so well. This pleases his majesty mightily, and maketh an opening
for me to avoid the touch of other men, for I am jealous of myself
for thy sake, and save and garner every little touch for thee....
Sir Edwin will tell you I dance with no one else and surely never
will. You remember well, I doubt not, when thou first didst teach
me this new dance. Ah! how delightful it was! and yet how at first
it did frighten and anger me. Thou canst not know how my heart
beat during all the time of that first dance. I thought, of a
surety, it would burst; and then the wild thrill of frightened
ecstasy that made my blood run like fire! I knew it must be wrong,
for it was, in truth, too sweet a thing to be right. And then I
grew angry at thee as the cause of my wrong-doing and scolded
thee, and repented it, as usual. Truly didst thou conquer, not win
me. Then afterwards, withal it so frightened me, how I longed to
dance again, and could in no way stay myself from asking. At times
could I hardly wait till evening fell, and when upon occasion thou
didst not come, I was so angry I said I hated thee. What must thou
have thought of me, so forward and bold! And that afternoon! Ah! I
think of it every hour, and see and hear it all, and live it o'er
and o'er, as it sweeter grows with memory's ripening touch. Some
moments there are, that send their glad ripple down through life's
stream to the verge of the grave, and truly blest is one who can
smile upon and kiss these memory waves, and draw from thence a
bliss that never fails. But thou knowest full well my heart, and I
need not tease thee with its outpourings.
"There is yet another matter of which I wish to write in very
earnestness. Sir Edwin spoke to me thereof, and what he said hath
given me serious thought. I thank him for his words, of which he
will tell thee in full if thou but importune him thereto. It is
this: the Dauphin, Francis d'Angouleme, hath fallen desperately
fond of me, and is quite as importunate, and almost as foolish as
the elder lover. This people, in this strange land of France,
have, in sooth, some curious notions. For an example thereto: no
one thinks to find anything unseeming in the dauphin's conduct, by
reason of his having already a wife, and more, that wife the
Princess Claude, daughter to the king. I laugh at him and let him
say what he will, for in truth I am powerless to prevent it. Words
cannot scar even a rose leaf, and will not harm me. Then, by his
help and example I am justified in the eyes of the court in that I
so treat the king, which otherwise it were impossible for me to do
and live here. So, however much I may loathe them, yet I am driven
to tolerate his words, which I turn off with a laugh, making sure,
thou mayest know, that it come to nothing more than words. And
thus it is, however much I wish it not, that I do use him to help
me treat the king as I like, and do then use the poor old king as
my buckler against this duke's too great familiarity. But my
friend, when the king comes to die then shall I have my fears of
this young Francis d'Angouleme. He is desperate for me, and I know
not to what length he might go. The king cannot live long, as the
thread of his life is like rotten flax, and when he dies thou must
come without delay, since I shall be in deadly peril. I have a
messenger waiting at all hours ready to send to thee upon a
moment's notice, and when he comes waste not a precious instant;
it may mean all to thee and me. I could write on and on forever,
but it would be only to tell thee o'er and o'er that my heart is
full of thee to overflowing. I thank thee that thou hast never
doubted me, and will see that thou hast hereafter only good cause
for better faith.
"MARY, Regina."
"Regina!" That was all. Only a queen! Surely no one could charge
Brandon with possessing too modest tastes.
It was, I think, during the second week in December that I gave this
letter to Brandon, and about a fortnight later there came to him a
messenger from Paris, bringing another from Mary, as follows:
"_Master Charles Brandon_:
"Sir and Dear Friend, Greeting--I have but time to write that the
king is so ill he cannot but die ere morning. Thou knowest that
which I last wrote to thee, and in addition thereto I would say
that although I have, as thou likewise knowest, my brother's
permission to marry whom I wish, yet as I have his one consent it
is safer that we act upon that rather than be so scrupulous as to
ask for another. So it were better that thou take me to wife upon
the old one, rather than risk the necessity of having to do it
without any. I say no more, but come with all the speed thou
knowest.
"MARY."
It is needless to say that Brandon started in haste for Paris. He left
court for the ostensible purpose of paying me a visit and came to
Ipswich, whence we sailed.
The French king was dead before Mary's message reached London, and
when we arrived at Paris, Francis I reigned on the throne of his
father-in-law. I had guessed only too accurately. As soon as the
restraint of the old king's presence, light as it had been, was
removed, the young king opened his attack upon Mary in dreadful
earnest. He begged and pleaded and swore his love, which was surely
manifest enough, and within three days after the old king's death
offered to divorce Claude and make Mary his queen. When she refused
this flattering offer his surprise was genuine.
"Do you know what you refuse?" he asked in a temper. "I offer to make
you my wife--queen of fifteen millions of the greatest subjects on
earth--and are you such a fool as to refuse a gift like that, and a
man like me for a husband?"
"That I am, your majesty, and with a good grace. I am Queen of France
without your help, and care not so much as one penny for the honor. It
is greater to be a princess of England. As for this love you avow, I
would make so bold as to suggest that you have a good, true wife to
whom you would do well to give it all. To me it is nothing, even were
you a thousand times the king you are. My heart is another's, and I
have my brother's permission to marry him."
"Another's? God's soul! Tell me who this fellow is that I may spit him
on my sword."
"No! no! you would not; even were you as valiant and grand as you
think yourself, you would be but a child in his hands."
Francis was furious, and had Mary's apartments guarded to prevent her
escape, swearing he would have his way.
As soon as Brandon and I arrived in Paris we took private lodgings,
and well it was that we did. I at once went out to reconnoiter, and
found the widowed queen a prisoner in the old palace des Tournelles.
With the help of Queen Claude I secretly obtained an interview, and
learned the true state of affairs.
Had Brandon been recognized and his mission known in Paris, he would
certainly have been assassinated by order of Francis.