in the palace, I was ready to give up without a struggle, but not so
Mary. Her brain was worth having, so fertile was it in expedients, and
while I was ready to despair, she was only getting herself in good
fighting order.
After Mary's refusal of Francis, and after he had learned that the
sacrifice of Claude would not help him, he grew desperate, and
determined to keep the English girl in his court at any price and by
any means. So he hit upon the scheme of marrying her to his
weak-minded cousin, the Count of Savoy. To that end he sent a hurried
embassy to Henry VIII, offering, in case of the Savoy marriage, to pay
back Mary's dower of four hundred thousand crowns. He offered to help
Henry in the matter of the imperial crown in case of Maximilian's
death--a help much greater than any King Louis could have given. He
also offered to confirm Henry in all his French possessions, and to
relinquish all claims of his own thereto--all as the price of one
eighteen-year-old girl. Do you wonder she had an exalted estimate of
her own value?
[Illustration]
As to Henry, it, of course, need not be said, that half the price
offered would have bought him to break an oath made upon the true
cross itself. The promise he had made to Mary, broken in intent before
it was given, stood not for an instant in the way of the French king's
wishes; and Henry, with a promptitude begotten of greed, was as hasty
in sending an embassy to accept the offer as Francis had been to
make it. It mattered not to him what new torture he put upon his
sister; the price, I believe, was sufficient to have induced him to
cut off her head with his own hands.
If Francis and Henry were quick in their movements, Mary was quicker.
Her plan was made in the twinkling of an eye. Immediately upon seeing
me at the palace she sent for Queen Claude, with whom she had become
fast friends, and told her all she knew. She did not know of the
scheme for the Savoy marriage, though Queen Claude did, and fully
explained it to Mary. Naturally enough, Claude would be glad to get
Mary as far away from France and her husband as possible, and was only
too willing to lend a helping hand to our purpose, or Mary's, rather,
for she was the leader.
We quickly agreed among ourselves that Mary and Queen Claude should
within an hour go out in Claude's new coach for the ostensible purpose
of hearing mass. Brandon and I were to go to the same little chapel in
which Jane and I had been married, where Mary said the little priest
could administer the sacrament of marriage and perform the ceremony as
well as if he were thrice as large.
I hurriedly found Brandon and repaired to the little chapel, where we
waited for a very long time, we thought. At last the two queens
entered as if to make their devotions. As soon as Brandon and Mary
caught sight of each other, Queen Claude and I began to examine the
shrines and decipher the Latin inscriptions. If these two had not
married soon they would have been the death of me. I was compelled at
length to remind them that time was very precious just at that
juncture, whereupon Mary, who was half laughing, half crying, lifted
her hands to her hair and let it fall in all its lustrous wealth down
over her shoulders. When Brandon saw this, he fell upon his knee and
kissed the hem of her gown, and she, stooping over him, raised him to
his feet and placed her hand in his.
Thus Mary was married to the man to save whose life she had four
months before married the French king.
She and Queen Claude had forgotten nothing, and all arrangements were
completed for the flight. A messenger had been dispatched two hours
before with an order from Queen Claude that a ship should be waiting
at Dieppe, ready to sail immediately upon our arrival.
After the ceremony Claude quickly bound up Mary's hair, and the queens
departed from the chapel in their coach. We soon followed, meeting
them again at St. Denis gate, where we found the best of horses and
four sturdy men awaiting us. The messenger to Dieppe who had preceded
us would arrange for relays, and as Mary, according to her wont when
she had another to rely upon, had taken the opportunity to become
thoroughly frightened, no time was lost. We made these forty leagues
in less than twenty-four hours from the time of starting; having
paused only for a short rest at a little town near Rouen, which city
we carefully passed around.
We had little fear of being overtaken at the rate we were riding, but
Mary said she supposed the wind would die down for a month immediately
upon our arrival at Dieppe. Fortunately no one pursued us, thanks to
Queen Claude, who had spread the report that Mary was ill, and
fortunately, also, much to Mary's surprise and delight, when we
arrived at Dieppe, as fair a wind as a sailor's heart could wish was
blowing right up the channel. It was a part of the system of
relays--horses, ship, and wind.
"When the very wind blows for our special use, we may surely dismiss
fear," said Mary, laughing and clapping her hands, but nearly ready
for tears, notwithstanding.
The ship was a fine new one, well fitted to breast any sea, and
learning this, we at once agreed that upon landing in England, Mary
and I should go to London and win over the king if possible. We felt
some confidence in being able to do this, as we counted upon Wolsey's
help, but in case of failure we still had our plans. Brandon was to
take the ship to a certain island off the Suffolk coast and there
await us the period of a year if need be, as Mary might, in case of
Henry's obstinacy, be detained; then re-victual and re-man the ship
and out through the North Sea for their former haven, New Spain.
In case of Henry's consent, how they were to live in a style fit for a
princess, Brandon did not know, unless Henry should open his heart and
provide for them--a doubtful contingency upon which they did not base
much hope. At a pinch, they might go down into Suffolk and live next
to Jane and me on Brandon's estates. To this Mary readily agreed, and
said it was what she wanted above all else.
There was one thing now in favor of the king's acquiescence: during
the last three months Brandon had become very necessary to his
amusement, and amusement was his greatest need and aim in life.
Mary and I went to London to see the king, having landed at
Southampton for the purpose of throwing off the scent any one who
might seek the ship. The king was delighted to see his sister, and
kissed her over and over again.
Mary had as hard a game to play as ever fell to the lot of woman, but
she was equal to the emergency if any woman ever was. She did not give
Henry the slightest hint that she knew anything of the Count of Savoy
episode, but calmly assumed that of course her brother had meant
literally what he said when he made the promise as to the second
marriage.
The king soon asked: "But what are you doing here? They have hardly
buried Louis as yet, have they?"
"I am sure I do not know," answered Mary, "and I certainly care less.
I married him only during his life, and not for one moment afterwards,
so I came away and left them to bury him or keep him, as they choose;
I care not which."
"But--" began Henry, when Mary interrupted him, saying: "I will tell
you--"
I had taken good care that Wolsey should be present at this interview;
so we four, the king, Wolsey, Mary and myself, quietly stepped into a
little alcove away from the others, and prepared to listen to Mary's
tale, which was told with all her dramatic eloquence and feminine
persuasiveness. She told of the ignoble insults of Francis, of his
vile proposals--insisted upon, almost to the point of force--carefully
concealing, however, the offer to divorce Claude and make her queen,
which proposition might have had its attractions for Henry. She told
of her imprisonment in the palace des Tournelles, and of her deadly
peril and many indignities, and the tale lost nothing in the telling.
Then she finished by throwing her arms around Henry's neck in a
passionate flood of tears and begging him to protect her--to save her!
save her! save her! his little sister.
It was all such perfect acting that for the time I forgot it was
acting, and a great lump swelled up in my throat. It was, however,
only for the instant, and when Mary, whose face was hidden from all
the others, on Henry's breast, smiled slyly at me from the midst of
her tears and sobs, I burst into a laugh that was like to have spoiled
everything. Henry turned quickly upon me, and I tried to cover it by
pretending that I was sobbing. Wolsey helped me out by putting a
corner of his gown to his eyes, when Henry, seeing us all so affected,
began to catch the fever and swell with indignation. He put Mary away
from him, and striding up and down the room exclaimed, in a voice that
all could hear, "The dog! the dog! to treat my sister so. My sister!
My father's daughter! My sister! The first princess of England and
queen of France for his mistress! By every god that ever breathed,
I'll chastise this scurvy cur until he howls again. I swear it by my
crown, if it cost me my kingdom," and so on until words failed him.
But see how he kept his oath, and see how he and Francis hobnobbed not
long afterward at the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
Henry came back to Mary and began to question her, when she repeated
the story for him. Then it was she told of my timely arrival, and how,
in order to escape and protect herself from Francis, she had been
compelled to marry Brandon and flee with us.
She said: "I so wanted to come home to England and be married where my
dear brother could give me away, but I was in such mortal dread of
Francis, and there was no other means of escape, so--"
"God's death! If I had but one other sister like you, I swear before
heaven I'd have myself hanged. Married to Brandon? Fool! idiot! what
do you mean? Married to Brandon! Jesu! You'll drive me mad! Just one
other like you in England, and the whole damned kingdom might sink;
I'd have none of it. Married to Brandon without my consent!"
"No! no! brother," answered Mary softly, leaning affectionately
against his bulky form; "do you suppose I would do that? Now don't be
unkind to me when I have been away from you so long! You gave your
consent four months ago. Do you not remember? You know I would never
have done it otherwise."
"Yes, I know! You would not do anything--you did not want; and it
seems equally certain that in the end you always manage to do
everything you do want. Hell and furies!"
"Why! brother, I will leave it to my Lord Bishop of York if you did
not promise me that day, in this very room, and almost on this very
spot, that if I would marry Louis of France I might marry whomsoever I
wished when he should die. Of course you knew, after what I had said,
whom I should choose, so I went to a little church in company with
Queen Claude, and took my hair down and married him, and I am his
wife, and no power on earth can make it otherwise," and she looked up
into his face with a defiant little pout, as much as to say, "Now,
what are you going to do about it?"
Henry looked at her in surprise and then burst out laughing. "Married
to Brandon with your hair down?" And he roared again, holding his
sides. "Well, you do beat the devil; there's no denying that. Poor old
Louis! That was a good joke on him. I'll stake my crown he was glad to
die! You kept it warm enough for him, I make no doubt."
"Well," said Mary, with a little shrug of her shoulders, "he would
marry me."
"Yes, and now poor Brandon doesn't know the trouble ahead of him,
either. He has my pity, by Jove!"
"Oh, that is different," returned Mary, and her eyes burned softly,
and her whole person fairly radiated, so expressive was she of the
fact that "it was different."
Different? Yes, as light from darkness; as love from loathing; as
heaven from the other place; as Brandon from Louis; and that tells it
all.
Henry turned to Wolsey: "Have you ever heard anything equal to it, my
Lord Bishop?"
My Lord Bishop, of course, never had; nothing that even approached it.
"What are we to do about it?" continued Henry, still addressing
Wolsey.
[Illustration]
The bishop assumed a thoughtful expression, as if to appear deliberate
in so great a matter, and said: "I see but one thing that can be
done," and then he threw in a few soft, oily words upon the
troubled waters that made Mary wish she had never called him "thou
butcher's cur," and Henry, after a pause, asked: "Where is Brandon? He
is a good fellow, after all, and what we can't help we must endure.
He'll find punishment enough in you. Tell him to come home--I suppose
you have him hid around some place--and we'll try to do something for
him."
"What will you do for him, brother?" said Mary, not wanting to give
the king's friendly impulse time to weaken.
"Oh! don't bother about that now," but she held him fast by the hand
and would not let go.
"Well, what do you want? Out with it. I suppose I might as well give
it up easily, you will have it sooner or later. Out with it and be
done."
"Could you make him Duke of Suffolk?"
"Eh? I suppose so. What say you, my Lord of York?"
York was willing--thought it would be just the thing.
"So be it then," said Henry. "Now I am going out to hunt and will not
listen to another word. You will coax me out of my kingdom for that
fellow yet." He was about to leave the room when he turned to Mary,
saying: "By the way, sister, can you have Brandon here by Sunday next?
I am to have a joust."
Mary thought she could, ... and the great event was accomplished.
One false word, one false syllable, one false tone would have spoiled
it all, had not Mary--but I fear you are weary with hearing so much of
Mary.
So after all, Mary, though a queen, came portionless to Brandon. He
got the title, but never received the estates of Suffolk; all he
received with her was the money I carried to him from France.
Nevertheless, Brandon thought himself the richest man in all the
earth, and surely he was one of the happiest. Such a woman as Mary is
dangerous, except in a state of complete subjection--but she was bound
hand and foot in the silken meshes of her own weaving, and her power
for bliss-making was almost infinite.
And now it was, as all who read may know, that this fair, sweet,
wilful Mary dropped out of history; a sure token that her heart was
her husband's throne; her soul his empire; her every wish his subject,
and her will, so masterful with others, the meek and lowly servant of
her strong but gentle lord and master, Charles Brandon, Duke of
Suffolk.
_Note by the Editor_
Sir Edwin Caskoden's history differs in some minor details from other
authorities of the time. Hall's chronicle says Sir William Brandon,
father of Charles, had the honor of being killed by the hand of
Richard III himself, at Bosworth Field, and the points wherein his
account of Charles Brandon's life differs from that of Sir Edwin may
be gathered from the index to the 1548 edition of that work, which is
as follows:
CHARLES BRANDON, ESQUIRE,
Is made knight,
Created Viscount Lysle,
Made duke of Suffolke,
Goeth to Paris to the Iustes,
Doeth valiantly there,
Returneth into England,
He is sent into Fraunce to fetch home the French quene into England,
He maryeth her,
and so on until
"He dyeth and is buryed at Wyndesore."
No mention is made in any of the chronicles of the office of Master of
Dance. In all other essential respects Sir Edwin is corroborated by
his contemporaries.
* * * * *
_The Author and The Book_
BY MAURICE THOMPSON
When a man does something by which the world is attracted, we
immediately feel a curiosity to know all about him personally. Mr.
Charles Major, of Shelbyville, Indiana, wrote the wonderfully popular
historical romance, When Knighthood was in Flower, which has already
sold over a quarter million copies.
It is not mere luck that makes a piece of fiction acceptable to the
public. The old saying, "Where there is so much smoke there must be
fire," holds good in the case of smoke about a novel. When a book
moves many people of varying temperaments and in all circles of
intelligence there is power in it. Behind such a book we have the
right to imagine an author endowed with admirable gifts of
imagination. The ancient saying, "The cup is glad of the wine it
holds," was but another way of expressing the rule which judges a tree
by its fruit and a man by his works; for out of character comes style,
and out of a man's nature is his taste distilled. Every soul, like the
cup, is glad of what it holds.
Mr. Major himself has said, in his straightforward way, "It is what a
man does that counts." By this rule of measurement Mr. Major has a
liberal girth. The writing of When Knighthood was in Flower was a deed
of no ordinary dimensions, especially when we take into account the
fact that the writer had not been trained to authorship or to the
literary artist's craft; but was a country lawyer, with an office to
sweep every morning, and a few clients with whom to worry over
dilatory cases and doubtful fees.
The law, as a profession, is said to be a jealous mistress, ever ready
and maliciously anxious to drop a good-sized stumbling block in the
path of her devotee whenever he appears to be straying in the
direction of another love. Indeed, many are the young men who, on
turning from Blackstone and Kent in a comfortable law office to Scott
and Byron, have lost a lawyer's living, only to grasp the empty air of
failure in the fascinating garret of the scribbler. But "nothing
succeeds like success," and genius has a way of changing rules and
forcing the gates of fortune. And when we see the proof that a fresh
genius has once more wrought the miracle of reversing all the fine
logic of facts, so as to bring success and fame out of the very
circumstances and conditions which are said to render the feat
impossible, we all wish to know how he did it.
Balzac, when he felt the inspiration of a new novel in his brain,
retired to an obscure room, and there, with a pot of villainous black
coffee at his elbow, wrote night and day, almost without food and
sleep, until the book was finished. General Lew Wallace put Ben Hur on
paper in the open air of a beech grove, with a bit of yellowish canvas
stretched above him to soften the light. Some authors use only the
morning hours for their literary work; others prefer the silence of
night. A few cannot write save when surrounded by books, pictures and
luxurious furniture, while some must have a bare room with nothing in
it to distract attention. Mr. Charles Major wrote When Knighthood was
in Flower on Sunday afternoons, the only time he had free from the
exactions of the law. He was full of his subject, however, and
doubtless his clients paid the charges in the way of losses through
demurrers neglected and motions and exceptions not properly presented!
One thing about Mr. Major's work deserves special mention; its shows
conscientious mastery of details, a sure evidence of patient study.
What it may lack as literature is compensated for in lawful coin of
human interest and in general truthfulness to the facts and the
atmosphere of the life he depicts. When asked how he arrived at his
accurate knowledge of old London--London in the time of Henry VIII--he
fetched an old book--Stow's Survey of London--from his library and
said:
"You remember in my novel that Mary goes one night from Bridewell
Castle to Billingsgate Ward through strange streets and alleys. Well,
that journey I made with Mary, aided by Stow's Survey, with his map
of old London before me."
It is no contradiction of terms to speak of fiction as authentic. Mere
vraisemblance is all very well in works of pure imagination; but a
historical romance does not satisfy the reader's sense of justice
unless its setting and background and atmosphere are true to time,
place and historical facts. Mr. Major felt the demand of his
undertaking and respected it. He collected old books treating of
English life and manners in the reign of Henry VIII, preferring to
saturate his mind with what writers nearest the time had to say,
rather than depend upon recent historians. In this he chose well, for
the romancer's art, different from the historian's, needs the literary
shades and colors of the period it would portray.
Another clever choice on the part of our author was to put the telling
of the story in the mouth of his heroine's contemporary. This, of
course, had often been done by romancers before Mr. Major, but he
chose well, nevertheless. Fine literary finish was not to be expected
of a Master of the Dance early in the sixteenth century; so that Sir
Edwin Caskoden, and not Mr. Major, is accepted by the reader as
responsible for the book's narrative, descriptive and dramatic style.
This ruse, so to call it, serves a double purpose; it hangs the
glamour of distance over the pages, and it puts the reader in direct
communication, as it were, with the characters in the book. The
narrator is garrulous, and often far from artistic with his scenes and
incidents; but it is Caskoden doing all this, not Mr. Charles Major,
and we never think of bringing him to task! Undoubtedly it is good art
to do just what Mr. Major has done--that is, it is good art to present
a picture of life in the terms of the period in which it flourished.
It might have been better art to clothe the story in the highest terms
of literature; but that would have required a Shakespeare.
The greatest beauty of Mr. Major's story as a piece of craftsmanship
is its frank show of self-knowledge on the author's part. He knew his
equipment, and he did not attempt to go beyond what it enabled him to
do and do well.
His romance will not go down the ages as a companion of Scott's,
Thackeray's, Hugo's and Dumas'; but read at any time by any
fresh-minded person, it will afford that shock of pleasure which
always comes of a good story enthusiastically told, and of a pretty
love-drama frankly and joyously presented. Mr. Major has the true
dramatic vision and notable cleverness in the art of making effective
conversation.
The little Indiana town in which Mr. Major lives and practices the law
is about twenty miles from Indianapolis, and hitherto has been best
known as the former residence of Thomas A. Hendricks, late
Vice-President of the United States. Already the tide of kodak artists
and autograph hunters has found our popular author out, and his
clients are being pushed aside by vigorous interviewers and reporters
in search of something about the next book. But the author of When
Knighthood was in Flower is an extremely difficult person to handle.
It is told of him that he offers a very emphatic objection to having
his home life and private affairs flaunted before the public under
liberal headlines and with "copious illustrations."
Mr. Major is forty-three and happily married; well-built and dark;
looking younger than his years, genial, quiet and domestic to a
degree; he lives what would seem to be an ideal life in a charming
home, across the threshold of which the curiosity of the public need
not try to pass. As might be taken for granted, Mr. Major has been all
his life a loving student of history.
Perhaps to the fact that he has never studied romance as it is in art
is largely due his singular power over the materials and atmosphere of
history. At all events, there is something remarkable in his vivid
pictures not in the least traceable to literary form nor dependent
upon a brilliant command of diction. The characters in his book are
warm, passionate human beings, and the air they breathe is real air.
The critic may wince and make faces over lapses from taste, and
protest against a literary style which cannot be defended from any
point of view; yet there is Mary in flesh and blood, and there is
Caskoden, a veritable prig of a good fellow--there, indeed, are all
the _dramatis personae_, not merely true to life, but living beings.