“I have told no one, not even Guildford, though I believe she guesses. She has been with me so long and she knows me so well. She said: ‘My little Princess has changed of late. I could almost wonder whether she was in love.’ Then, Charles,
She was a child, he thought; a vehement, passionate child. This devotion of hers which she was thrusting at him would likely pass. It might well be that in a few weeks’ time she would develop a passion for one of the other young men of the Court, someone younger than himself, for he was more than ten years her senior.
The thought of her youth comforted him. It was pleasant enough to be so favored by the King’s sister. He was at ease. None would take this passion seriously, and certainly he was not to blame for its existence.
If he attempted to seduce her as she was so earnestly inviting him to do, there would be danger. Henry might not respect the virginity of other young women, but he most certainly would his sister’s.
Charles knew that he was being lured into a dangerous—though fascinating—situation, but he believed he was wise enough to steer clear of disaster.
She was pressing close to him in the dance.
“Charles, tell me, what shall we do?”
He whispered: “Wait. Be cautious. Tell no one of this. Who knows what is in store for us?”
She was exultant. They had declared their love. She had the sort of faith which would enable her to believe the movement of mountains was a possibility.
She had already made up her mind: One day I shall be the wife of Charles Brandon.
When Henry’s son was born there was more merrymaking. The boy made his appearance on the first of January; he was a feeble child who struggled for existence for a few weeks, and by the twenty-second of the following month had died.
This was Henry’s first setback, his first warning that what he urgently desired was not always going to be his. He was plunged into deepest melancholy; and that was the end of one phase of his life. He had spent almost the whole of the first two years of his kingly state in masking, jousting, and feasting; but with the death of his son his feelings had undergone a change; he would never be quite the same lighthearted boy again.
He wanted to give himself to more serious matters. His father-in-law, Ferdinand of Aragon, had persuaded him to join him, with Pope Julius II and the Venetians, against France; and because Henry saw in war a vast and colorful joust in which, on account of his youth, riches, and strength, he was bound to succeed, he was ready to follow his father-in-law’s advice and promised to send troops into France.
War now occupied Henry’s mind; he was constantly closeted with his statesmen and generals; and while he planned a campaign he dreamed of himself as the all-conquering hero who would one day win France back for the English crown.
He was impatient because he could not collect an army without delay and go into battle; he had thought a war was as quickly organized as a joust. His ministers had a hard time persuading him that this was not so, and gradually he began to see that they were right.
The Court was at Greenwich, the King much preoccupied with thoughts of conquest; and one day when he was walking with some of his courtiers in the gardens there, Mary saw him and went to him.
She signed to the courtiers to leave them together and, because Henry was always more indulgent to his sister than to anyone else, he did not countermand her order but allowed Mary to slip her arm through his.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, “how dull is all this talk of war! The Court is not so merry as it used to be.”
“Matters of state, sweetheart,” he answered, with an indulgent smile. “They are part of a king’s life, you should know.”
“But why go to war when you can stay here and have so much pleasure?”
“You, a daughter of a king and sister of one, should understand. I shall not rest until I am crowned in Rheims.”
“Do you hate the French so much?”
“Of course I hate our enemies. And now I have good friends in Europe. Between us we shall crush the French. You shall see, sister.”
“Henry, there is one matter which gives me great cause for sorrow. You could ease my pain if you would.”
“Sorrow! What is this? I was of the opinion that life used you very well.”
“I do not wish to leave you ever, Henry.”
“Oh come, my dearest sister, that is child’s talk.”
“It is not child’s talk. It is woman’s talk, for I am a woman now, Henry.”
“What! Are you so old then?”
“Henry, as you love me, stop treating me as a child. I am sixteen years old, and I am begging you not to send me to that odious Charles.”
“What’s this?”
“You know full well. Against my wishes I was affianced to him. I am asking you to break off this match.”
“Sister, you are being foolish. How could I break off this match? The Emperor Maximilian is a good friend to England. He would not be, I do assure you, if I said to him, ‘There shall be no match between your grandson and my sister … because she has taken a sudden dislike to the boy.’”
“Henry, this is
