thousand men.
“But my father was one of them,” Charles always said at this point.
“But when he landed, Welshmen rallied to his banner, for he was a Welshman himself.”
“But it was my father who was his standard-bearer,” young Charles would cry. “Tell how he rode into battle holding the standard high.”
And she would tell him how Richard III had challenged him to combat and how the brave standard-bearer had fallen at the hand of that King.
“So we shall always be for the Tudor,” Charles had announced. “Because it was the usurper Richard who killed my father.”
And when Henry, Earl of Richmond, became Henry VII of England he did not forget the brave standard-bearer’s family.
There are certain occasions which stand out in a lifetime and will never be forgotten. For Charles, the first of these was that day when the messenger came from the King.
“You have a son,” ran the King’s message. “If you care to send him to Court a place shall be found for him.”
What rejoicing there had been when that message came!
“This is the great opportunity,” he was told; “it is for you to see what can be made of it.”
In his own home he was an important personage; he was possessed of exceptionally good looks; he had strong limbs and already was tall for his age. His nurses and servants had said of him:
He had been taught jousting and fencing and had excelled at these sports; it had been the same with wrestling and pole-jumping. There seemed to be none who could equal him. True, Latin, Greek, and literature were not much to his taste; he was the reluctant scholar, grudging every moment that was not spent out of doors.
He could remember clearly the night before he had left for the Court, how he had knelt with his mother and their confessor and had prayed for his future. They had asked that he should be courageous and humble, that he should always serve God and the King. His thoughts had wandered because he was picturing what the King would say when he came face to face with Charles Brandon.
He had been a little hurt when, arriving at Court, he had not seen the King for weeks, and then only glimpsed him; it seemed at that time an astonishing thing that Charles Brandon should be at Court and the King appear neither to know nor care.
But soon he was given his place in the household of the young Duke of York, and it was not long before he made his presence known there. He was glad that he had been assigned to the household of the younger brother, although it would have been a greater honor to have been in the household of the Prince of Wales. Arthur would never have been his friend as Henry was, for he and Henry were two of a kind. Henry was some six years younger than himself but they had not known each other long when both recognized the affinity between them. It was Charles Brandon who was selected to fence with the Prince and when they practiced archery and pole-jumping together, Henry was put out because Charles always beat him.
“I am bigger and older than you,” Charles pointed out, “so it is but natural that I should beat you.”
Henry’s eyes had narrowed as he had retorted: “It is never natural for a commoner to beat a Prince.”
Charles was young but he was shrewd. After that he let Henry win now and then; not every time; he did not wish the Prince to be suspicious that his vanity was being humored; and the occasional win pleased him better than if he had always scored. Charles was becoming a diplomat. He decided that the Prince should win more and more frequently as time passed, for then he would always want to play with his friend Charles Brandon.
He was beloved of Fortune, he knew it. Having been born a few years before his Prince, he was that much wiser, that much stronger in the early days of their relationship. They grew side by side, until the Prince was as tall as he was—blond giants, of a size, and not dissimilar in appearance, both ruddy, both with that hint of corpulence to come in later life, two sportsmen, so perfectly matched that all Charles had to do was make certain Henry appeared to be that fraction more skillful in their games; but only a fraction so that Charles might be the worthiest of opponents; he need only bend forward a little to give his Prince that extra inch; all he had to do was please his Prince and his fortune was made. He was indeed blessed, for when the Prince of Wales died, Charles was the devoted friend of the new holder of that significant title: the King-to-be.
It was small wonder that he found life an exhilarating adventure.
He remembered the occasion of his betrothal to Anne Browne. He had been attracted to Anne the moment he saw her, and because of his precocity, he longed to be married; but Anne was considered too young as yet. He thought of her standing beside him while they were ceremoniously betrothed; a fragile girl, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes meek—half eager, half frightened, he thought; she looked at the handsome boy beside her and her emotions were easy to read. She thought herself the luckiest girl alive, being betrothed to Charles Brandon.
It was not, of course, a brilliant match, for Anne’s father, Sir Anthony Browne, was merely Lieutenant of Calais; but the Brandons had not known at that time how Charles’s friendship with the heir to the throne would advance his fortunes.
Back at Court he continued to be that friend whom the Prince of Wales kept most often at his side. Sometimes when he and Henry rode out hunting together they would break away from the main party, tether their horses and stretch themselves out on the grass, talking of the future.
Henry said: “When I am King, my first task shall be to conquer France.”
“I shall be beside you,” Charles told him.
“We will go together. None shall stand in our way. You’ll be a good soldier, Charles.”
“At Your Grace’s right hand.”
“Yes,” Henry agreed, “you shall be at my right hand.”
“Your standard-bearer … as my father was to your father.”
Henry liked that; he was inclined to sentimentality.
