“Oh Henry, Henry, help me.”
He held her against him. “Why, little one, if I could, I would, but even you must fulfill your destiny. We cannot choose whom we would marry. We marry for state reasons, and alas this is your fate. Do not be downhearted, little one. Why, you will charm your husband and all his Court as you charm us here. I doubt not that in a few months, when you are as loved and honored over there as you are here, you will laugh at this foolish child you once were. And you will not be far off. You shall visit us and we shall visit you. And, dearest, when you come to our Court we will have such a masque, such a banquet, as I never gave for any other. …”
She jerked herself from his embrace, her eyes dark with passion.
“Masques! Banquets!” she cried. “Is that all the balm you have to offer for a broken heart!”
Then she ran from the apartment, leaving him standing there, bewildered—but miraculously not angry, only sad because he could see no way of helping her.
There was a further check to his plans. Charles Brandon, now the Duke of Suffolk, was ready to set out for the Netherlands where he would fill the post of Henry’s ambassador. And once he is out of England I shall feel easier in my mind, thought Henry, for it is because she sees him constantly at Court that she has become so intractable.
Before the newly created Duke set out, however, a courier arrived with a letter from Margaret to Henry.
She was deeply embarrassed. A rumor had reached her father that she proposed marrying Charles Brandon, and the Emperor was extremely angry. She therefore thought it advisable that before he set out for the Netherlands, Brandon should marry Elizabeth Grey to whom she knew he was affianced. This she believed was the only way in which her father could be appeased.
Henry stared moodily before him. Clearly Margaret regretted that piece of romantic folly, and when Brandon was no longer at her side she realized that marriage with him would be incongruous. She was telling him and Charles that that little episode was over.
He sent for Charles and showed him the letter, and the manner in which his friend received the news was in itself disconcerting, because it seemed to Henry that the fellow was relieved.
“What of marrying Elizabeth Grey?” he asked.
“She is but nine years old, Your Grace; a little young for marriage.”
Henry grunted.
“Then,” he said, “you must perforce leave for the Netherlands without delay.” He brightened a little. “It may be that when Margaret has you at her side once more she will be ready to snap her fingers at the Emperor.”
Charles bowed his head. He did not want the King to read his thoughts.
Henry said: “Then begone, Charles. Leave at once. There is no time to say your farewells to … anyone. I expect you to have left by tomorrow.”
So Charles left for Flanders, and the Princess Mary was more and more melancholy as the days passed.
The Duc de Longueville, guest, rather than prisoner, at the Court of England, found means of writing to his master Louis XII.
He did not regret his capture, he wrote, because it was so amusing and interesting to watch the young King of England in his Court. At the moment there was a great bustle of preparation for the Princess Mary’s marriage to young Prince Charles. The Princess was not eager; in fact, he heard on good authority that she was imploring her brother to stop the match. Not that her pleas were of much avail, although Henry was made very anxious by the importunings of his sister.
“He loves this girl,” wrote the Duke, “as, to my mind, he loves no other; and it does not surprise me. If my gracious liege could see her, he would understand. For she is of a truth the loveliest creature in the Court. Her hair, which is the color of gold, is abundant and falls in thick shining curls to her waist; she has a healthy complexion like her brother’s, and her eyes are large and blue—though at this moment somewhat melancholy. She is well formed and graceful, high spirited by nature, though downcast at the prospect of her marriage, seeming a little younger than her eighteen years. A delightful girl.”
Henry liked to ride out to the chase, the French Duke beside him, for the man was an elegant and witty companion and Henry enjoyed his company; in addition it was so delightful to contemplate that he had taken the Duke prisoner in battle.
Once as they rode back to Greenwich after a pleasurable but exhausting day, Longueville said to Henry: “Your Grace, do you trust the Emperor?”
“Trust him!” cried Henry. “Indeed I trust him. We fought together in Flanders and he served under my command.”
“A strange gesture from his Imperial Highness.”
“Oh, he is a simple man. He told me that he was old and I was young; and that it was a mistake for youth to serve age. It should be the other way about.”
“And he was paid highly for those sentiments, I’ll swear.”
“I paid him as I would pay any generals serving under me.”
“And won for him the two towns he wanted?”
Henry flushed scarlet. “You forget, sir, that you are my prisoner.”
“I forget it not,” answered Longueville, “although the gracious manner in which you have always treated me might make me do so.”
“I forget not your rank.”
“Then, Your Highness will perhaps listen to my opinions, for I was a confidant of the King of France, my master, and I could be of use to you.”
“How so?”
“Your Highness discovered the perfidy of Ferdinand of Aragon.”
“That is so.”
