Then they would talk of the balls they would give when they returned to England as conquerors.
“Fair women to wait on us,” murmured Henry, his little eyes shining.
“The fairest in all England to serve Your Grace, and the next fairest for me.”
Henry liked Charles to forecast the masques and entertainments and this Charles did, for his imagination was a trifle more vivid than his master’s, although not much more so. That was why they were in such accord. Charles only had to remember to be one step behind his master, and all was well.
When he told of his betrothal to Anne Browne, Henry was a trifle envious because he was longing to be married.
“But when I marry it will be to a princess, an heiress to great dominions.”
That was true, and in comparison little Anne Browne, for all her delicacy, for all her charm, seemed unworthy of the greatest friend of the Prince of Wales.
He began to picture Anne at the balls and tourneys. It was difficult to imagine her in cloth of gold and scarlet velvet. He could see her clearly in a quiet country mansion, at his table, in his bed. But at Court? Scarcely.
It then occurred to him that the delectable Anne Browne, disturber of his dreams, was no worthy wife for Charles Brandon.
It was in his grandfather’s house that he first met Margaret Mortymer. Margaret was a widow, ripe and luscious, resentful of her state. Her dark, smoldering eyes were ready to rest on any young and personable man, and when they discovered Charles Brandon her desire for him was immediate.
His grandfather lived quietly in the country not far from London, where Margaret had her home; the two young people were much together while they stayed under the roof of Sir William Brandon.
Margaret’s late husband, Charles discovered, was his grandfather’s brother, so there was a connection, while Margaret herself was distantly related to Anne Browne.
Margaret was well connected, being the daughter of Neville, Marquis of Montacute, and widow of Sir John Mortymer, but in the first weeks of their friendship Charles was more aware of her physical charms than of her family background.
She was older than he was, an experienced widow; and although he was no virgin he learned that he was as yet a novice in the art of lovemaking.
Afterward, those hot summer days lived on in his memory like a dream that would have been best forgotten, but from which he believed he would never quite escape.
His erotic nature was titillated to such a pitch that he was ready to attempt any act which might satisfy it.
“Soon,” she told him, “you will return to Court; and how shall I see you then?”
He did not know, but he assured her that he would find some means of reaching her bed.
“But what of my reputation?” she demanded. “Here it is easy. We are both guests of your grandfather. How can you, a young man, come frequently to my house. How can you stay the night? Only if you were my husband could we be happy.”
He told her of his betrothal to Anne Browne, adding: “If I were free, I would not hesitate to marry you. Why did we not meet years ago?”
Margaret knew the solution, which was that he must obtain a dispensation, which need not be difficult because she had friends in the right quarter who would arrange that it should be procured with speed.
Margaret was a forceful woman. She was not going to let him escape. He thought now and then of Anne with the gazelle eyes and the adoring smile; he knew that she would be bitterly hurt, and he did not want to hurt Anne. He began to suspect that in his way he was in love with Anne, the virgin, more than he could ever be with the flamboyant widow, although his physical need of the latter was greater.
He knew Margaret was a match for him; he knew that she would never allow him to evade her; so he consoled himself that the daughter of the Marquis of Montacute was a better match than that of the Lieutenant of Calais.
Anne’s gentle eyes continued to haunt him until he and Margaret were married, but for the first months he found his life with her all that he could wish, so that he rarely gave a thought to the girl whom he had jilted.
He could not, however, stay away from Court indefinitely and the Prince was commanding his friend to return. It had been amusing to go back, the married man, to confide in the Prince, to bask in the royal and avid curiosity concerning his life with a woman.
But when he returned to her, some of the magic had gone for it was inconceivable that one so lusty could remain a faithful husband and he had discovered that there were girls at Court who could give all that Margaret gave and not demand marriage in exchange. He began to wonder whether he had been a little impulsive, particularly when he saw Anne again, grown taller and no less fragile, reminding him of a pale daffodil. Poor Anne! Her eyes were tragic when they met his, though not reproachful.
His conscience worried him a little, for he feared she might die of a broken heart.
Once more he confided in his Prince. Henry’s response was vehement for the sentimentality of his nature was touched by the thought of little Anne Browne.
“You should have the marriage pronounced invalid and marry Anne,” he told his friend.
“But how so?”
“How so? Marriages
The more Charles thought of Anne the more he desired to marry her and rid himself of Margaret. He was weary of erotic and passionate women for a while; he wanted a pure virgin. He no longer wanted to be instructed, being ready now to act as instructor.
“Anne, Anne, how could I have done this?” he asked himself. “I was led astray. I was young and foolish …”
