“And then … you will be mistress of yourself, sister.”
She sat up in bed and caught at his coat with impatient fingers.
“Henry, if I marry the King of France to please you, will you, when I am a widow and free, let me marry where I please?”
He saw the hope in her face and it pleased him. He had to rouse her from her melancholy, for if he did not he would have a sick sister who would be unfit for any marriage at all.
“I promise,” he said.
Her arms were about his neck. “Swear, Henry. Swear solemnly.”
He stroked her hair with great tenderness. “I give you my word,” he assured her.
After that interview with her brother, Mary’s manner had changed. She rose from her bed; she ate a little; it was true she remained melancholy but those about her noticed that she had become resigned.
She had realized that as a princess she had her duty and must needs perform it.
She did not see Charles, whom Henry had sent from Court for a while because he knew that to allow them to be together at such a time might be like putting flame to gunpowder.
If only Mary would continue in this state of resignation until the nuptials were completed he would feel at peace.
Charles spent the days of his absence staying at the home of his ward.
Elizabeth had heard a great deal of gossip about him and at one time had thought he would be the wife of Margaret of Savoy.
She had never greatly desired to marry him but since that day when he had rescued the child from the river she had viewed their future union without the distaste she had first felt for it. She had come to believe that since she must marry she might as well marry Charles Brandon as any.
But when she had learned that he had gone to Flanders as Lord Lisle—the title he had taken through his connection with her—and using it had attempted to woo Margaret, her pride revolted; and when he arrived at the manor she greeted him without much warmth.
Charles was too immersed in his own problems to notice this in the beginning.
He was thinking along the same lines as those which Henry had put before Mary. Louis was an old man and it might well be that he would not live long; indeed marriage to a young and beautiful and vital girl would not help him to longevity. Could it be that it was only a matter of waiting?
To imagine Mary in the bed of Louis was revolting; but he would try to think beyond it. Their position had been extremely dangerous; they could not expect to have their desires fulfilled without facing bitter trial beforehand.
In time, he thought, we shall marry. It is only a matter of waiting and enduring for a while.
Elizabeth said to him one day when they rode together: “You have been thoughtful, my lord Duke, since you came here.”
He admitted he had much on his mind.
“I think I know what it is that makes you moody.”
He turned to smile at her.
“Why, my lord,” she said, “you are now the Duke of Suffolk and as such have no need of the title which you took from me. It was useful for a while when you paid court to the Lady of the Netherlands. Now, of course, as a noble Duke you need not concern yourself with the daughter of a viscount.”
He was silent, not really paying attention to her because he could not stop thinking of Mary, going to France, being crowned there, her meeting with Louis.
Elizabeth sensed his lack of attention. She said angrily: “Have no fear, my lord Duke. I have no intention of holding you to your promise. Let me tell you this: I have no intention of marrying you. Nothing would induce me to.”
He turned and looked blankly at her. Piqued and angry, for she sensed he was still not paying full attention to what she said, she whipped her horse and rode on because she was afraid he would see the tears which had started to her eyes.
Charles looked after her retreating figure. He did not pursue her.
She had spoken in childish anger, but he must accept her refusal, because he, like Mary, must be free for whatever good fortune could befall them.
He would return to Court in due course and, when an opportunity offered itself, he would tell Henry that Elizabeth Grey had rejected him and thus he was released from his contract to marry her.
The ceremony took place in the state apartments of Greenwich. Mary was solemn in her wedding robes. At her side was Louis d’Orleans, that Duc de Longueville who had played such a big part in arranging the match, and who on this occasion was acting as proxy for his master, King Louis XII of France.
As he took her cold hand and slipped on it the nuptial ring, as he put his lips on hers for the nuptial kiss, she was thinking: It will not be for long. I could not endure it if it were. What sort of a marriage is this, where the wife can only endure it because she hopes her husband cannot live long? What sort of a person have they turned me into, that I can long for the death of a man I have never seen, and that man my own husband?
She went through the ceremony mechanically, repeating words that she was asked to repeat, without thinking of their meaning; she only knew that, in place of the slack-mouthed boy, she had been given to an old man, and the
