Chapter XIX Proserpina
So the value received for Wolsey’s friendship to Brandon was Mary’s promise to marry Louis.
Mary wanted to send a message at once to Brandon, telling him his life would be spared, and that she had made no delay this time—a fact of which she was very proud—but the Tower gates would not open until morning, so she had to wait. She compensated herself as well as she could by writing a letter, which I should like to give you here, but it is too long. She told him of his pardon, but not one word upon the theme he so wished yet feared to hear of—her promise never to wed any other man. Mary had not told him of her final surrender in the matter of the French marriage, for the reason that she dreaded to pain him, and feared he might refuse the sacrifice.
“It will almost kill him, I know,” she said to Jane that night, “and I fear it is a false kindness I do him. He would, probably, rather die than that I should marry another; I know that I should rather die, or have anything else terrible to happen, than for another woman to possess him. He promised me he never would; but suppose he should fail in his word, as I have to-day failed in mine? The thought of it absolutely burns me.” And she threw herself into Jane’s arms, and that little comforter tried to soothe her by making light of her fears.
“Oh! but suppose he should?”
“Well! there is no need to borrow trouble. You said he promised you, and you know he is one who keeps his word.”
“But I promised, too, and think of what I am about to do. Mary in heaven, help me! But he is made of different stuff from me. I can and do trust his word, and when I think of all my troubles, and when it seems that I cannot bear them, the one comforting thought comes that no other woman will ever possess him; no other woman; no other woman. I am glad that my only comfort comes from him.”
“I hoped that I might have been some comfort to you; I have tried hard enough,” said Jane, who was jealous.
“Oh! yes! my sweet Jane; you do comfort me; you are like a soothing balm to an aching pain,” and she kissed the hands that held hers. This was all that modest little Jane required. She was content to be an humble balm and did not aspire to the dignity of an elixir.
The girls then said their prayers in concert and Mary gently wept herself to sleep. She lay dreaming and tossing nervously until sunrise, when she got up and added more pages to her letter, until I called to take it.
I was on hand soon after the Tower gates had opened and was permitted to see Brandon at once. He read Mary’s letter and acted like every other lover, since love-letters first began. He was quick to note the absence of the longed for, but not expected assurance, and when he did not see it went straight to the point.
“She has promised to marry the French king to purchase my life. Is that not true?”
“I hope not,” I answered, evasively; “I have seen very little of her, and she has said nothing about it.”
“You are evading my question, I see. Do you know nothing of it?”
“Nothing,” I replied, telling an unnecessary lie.
“Caskoden, you are either a liar or a blockhead.”
“Make it a liar, Brandon,” said I, laughingly, for I was sure of my place in his heart and knew that he meant no offense.
I never doubt a friend; one would better be trustful of ninety-nine friends who are false than doubtful of one who is true. Suspicion and super-sensitiveness are at once the badge and the bane of a little soul.
I did not leave the Tower until noon, and Brandon’s pardon had been delivered to him before I left. He was glad that the first news of it had come from Mary.
He naturally expected his liberty at once, and when told that he was to be honorably detained for a short time, turned to me and said: “I suppose they are afraid to let me out until she is off for France. King Henry flatters me.”
I looked out of the window up Tower street and said nothing.
When I left I took a letter to Mary, which plainly told her he had divined it all, and she wrote a tear-stained answer, begging him to forgive her for having saved his life at a cost greater than her own.
For several days I was kept busy carrying letters from Greenwich to the Tower and back again, but soon letters ceased to satisfy Mary, and she made up her mind that she must see him. Nothing else would do. She must not, could not, and, in short, would not go another day without seeing him; no, not another hour. Jane and I opposed her all we could, but the best we could accomplish was to induce her for Brandon’s sake—for she was beginning to see that he was the one who had to suffer for her indiscretions—to ask Henry’s permission, and if he refused, then try some other way. To determine was to act with Mary, so off she went without delay to hunt the king, taking Jane and me along as escort. How full we were of important business, as we scurried along the corridors, one on each side of Mary, all talking excitedly at once. When anything was to be done, it always required three of us to do it.
We found the king, and without any prelude, Mary proffered her request. Of course it was refused. Mary pouted, and was getting ready for an outburst, when Wolsey spoke up: “With your majesty’s gracious permission, I would subscribe to the petition of the princess. She has been good enough to give her promise in the matter of so much importance to us, and in so small a thing as this I hope you may see your way clear toward favoring her. The interview will be the last and may help to make her duty easier.” Mary gave the cardinal a fleeting glance from her lustrous eyes full of surprise and gratitude, and as speaking as a book.
Henry looked from one to the other of us for a moment, and broke into a boisterous laugh.
“Oh, I don’t care, so that you keep it a secret. The old king will never know. We can hurry up the marriage. He is getting too much already; four hundred thousand crowns and a girl like you; he cannot complain if he have an heir. It would be a good joke on the miserly old dotard, but better on ‘Ce Gros Garçon.’”
Mary sprang from her chair with a cry of rage. “You brute! Do you think I am as vile as you because I have the misfortune to be your sister, or that Charles Brandon is like you simply because he is a man?” Henry laughed, his health at that time being too good for him to be ill-natured. He had all he wanted out of his sister, so her outbursts amused him.
Mary hurriedly left the king and walked back to her room, filled with shame and rage; feelings actively stimulated by Jane, who was equally indignant.
Henry had noticed Jane’s frown, but had laughed at her, and had tried to catch and kiss her as she left; but she struggled away from him and fled with a speed worthy of the cause.
This insulting suggestion put a stop to Mary’s visit to the Tower more effectually than any refusal could have done, and she sat down to pour forth her soul’s indignation in a letter.
She remained at home then, but saw Brandon later, and to good purpose, as I believe, although I am not sure about it, even to this day.
I took this letter to Brandon, along with Mary’s miniature—the one that had been painted for Charles of Germany, but had never been given—and a curl of her hair, and it looked as if this was all he would ever possess of her.
De Longueville heard of Henry’s brutal consent that Mary might see Brandon, and, with a Frenchman’s belief in woman’s depravity, was exceedingly anxious to keep them apart. To this end he requested that a member of his own retinue be placed near Brandon. To this Henry readily consented, and there was an end to even the letter-writing. Opportunities increase in value doubly fast as they drift behind us, and now that the princess could not see Brandon, or even write to him, she regretted with her whole soul that she had not gone to the Tower when she had permission, regardless of what any one would say or think.
Mary was imperious and impatient, by nature, but upon rare and urgent occasions could employ the very smoothest sort of finesse.
Her promise to marry Louis of France had been given under the stress of a frantic fear for Brandon, and without the slightest mental reservation, for it was given to save his life, as she would have given her hands or her eyes, her life or her very soul itself; but now that the imminent danger was passed she began to revolve schemes to evade her promise and save Brandon notwithstanding. She knew that under the present arrangement his life depended upon her marriage, but she had never lost faith in her ability to handle the king if she had but a little time in which to operate, and had secretly regretted that she had not, in place of flight, opened up her campaign along the line of feminine diplomacy at the very beginning.
Henry was a dullard mentally, while Mary’s mind was keen and alert—two facts of which the girl was perfectly aware—so it was no wonder she had such confidence in herself. When she first heard of Brandon’s sentence her fear for him was so great, and the need for action so urgent, that she could not resort to her usual methods for turning matters her way, but eagerly applied the first and quickest remedy offered. Now, however, that she had a breathing spell, and time in which to operate her more slowly moving, but, as she thought, equally sure forces of cajolery and persuasion, she determined to marshal the legions of her wit and carry war into the enemy’s country at once.
Henry’s brutal selfishness in forcing upon her the French marriage, together with his cruel condemnation of Brandon, and his vile insinuations against herself, had driven nearly every spark of affection for her brother from her heart. But she felt that she might feign an affection she did not feel, and that what she so wanted would be cheap at the price. Cheap? It would be cheap at the cost of her immortal soul. Cheap? What she wanted was life’s condensed sweets—the man she loved; and what she wanted to escape was life’s distilled bitterness—marriage with a man she loathed. None but a pure woman can know the torture of that. I saw this whole disastrous campaign from start to finish. Mary began with a wide flank movement conducted under masked batteries and skilfully executed. She sighed over her troubles and cried a great deal, but told the king he had been such a dear, kind brother to her that she would gladly do anything to please him and advance his interests. She said it would be torture to live with that old creature, King Louis, but she would do it willingly to help her handsome brother, no matter how much she might suffer.
The king laughed and said: “Poor old Louis! What about him? What about his suffering? He thinks he is making such a fine bargain, but the Lord pity him, when he has my little sister in his side for a thorn. He had better employ some energetic soul to prick him with needles and bodkins, for I think there is more power for disturbance in this little body than in any other equal amount of space in all the universe. You will furnish him all the trouble he wants, won’t you, sister?”
“I shall try,” said the princess demurely, perfectly willing to obey in everything.
“Devil a doubt of that, and you will succeed, too, or my crown’s a stew-pan,” and he laughed at the huge joke he was about to perpetrate on his poor, old royal brother.
It would seem that the tremendous dose of flattery administered by Mary would have been so plainly self-interested as to alarm the dullest perception, but Henry’s vanity was so dense, and his appetite for flattery so great, that he accepted it all without suspicion, and it made him quite affable and gracious.
Mary kept up her show of affection and docile obedience for a week or two until she thought Henry’s suspicions were allayed; and then, after having done enough petting and fondling, as she thought, to start the earth itself a-moving—as some men are foolish enough to say it really does—she began the attack direct by putting her arms about the king’s neck, and piteously begging him not to sacrifice her whole life by sending her to France.
Her pathetic, soul-charged appeal might have softened the heart of Caligula himself; but Henry was not even cruel. He was simply an animal so absorbed in himself that he could not feel for others.
“Oh! it is out at last,” he said, with a laugh. “I thought all this sweetness must have been for something. So the lady wants her Brandon, and doesn’t want her Louis, yet is willing to obey her dear, kind brother? Well, we’ll take her at her word and let her obey. You may as well understand, once and for all, that you are to go to France. You promised to go decently if I would not cut off that fellow’s head, and now I tell you that if I hear another whimper from you off it comes, and you will go to France, too.”
This brought Mary to terms quickly enough. It touched her one vulnerable spot—her love.
“I will go; I promise it again. You shall never hear another word of complaint from me if you give me your royal word that no harm shall come to him—to him,” and she put her hands over her face to conceal her tears as she softly wept.
“The day you sail for France, Brandon shall go free and shall again have his old post at court. I like the fellow as a good companion, and really believe you are more to blame than he.”
“I am all to blame, and am ready this day to pay the penalty. I am at your disposal to go when and where you choose,” answered Mary, most pathetically.
Poor, fair Proserpina, with no kind mother Demeter to help her. The ground will soon open, and Pluto will have his bride.
That evening Cavendish took me aside and said his master, Wolsey, wished to speak to me privately at a convenient opportunity. So, when the bishop left his card-table, an hour later, I threw myself in his way. He spoke gayly to me, and we walked down the corridor arm in arm. I could not imagine what was wanted, but presently it came out: “My dear Caskoden”—had I been one for whom he could have had any use, I should have grown suspicious—“My dear Caskoden, I know I can trust you; especially when that which I have to say is for the happiness of your friends. I am sure you will never name me in connection with the suggestion I am about to make, and will use the thought only as your own.”
I did not know what was coming, but gave him the strongest assurance of my trustworthiness.
“It is this: Louis of France is little better than a dead man. King Henry, perhaps, is not fully aware of this, and, if he is, he has never considered the probability of his speedy death. The thought occurred to me that although the princess cannot dissuade her brother from this marriage, she may be able, in view of her ready and cheerful compliance, to extract some virtue out of her sore necessity and induce him to promise that, in case of the death of Louis, she herself shall choose her second husband.”
“My lord,” I replied, quickly grasping the point, “it is small wonder you rule this land. You have both brain and heart.”
“I thank you, Sir Edwin, and hope that both may always be at the service of you and your friends.”
I gave the suggestion to Mary as my own, recommending that she proffer her request to the king in the presence of Wolsey, and, although she had little faith or hope, she determined to try.
Within a day or two an opportunity offered, and she said to Henry: “I am ready to go to France any time you wish, and shall do it decently and willingly; but if I do so much for you, brother, you might at least promise me that when King Louis is dead I may marry whomsoever I wish. He will probably live forever, but let me have at least that hope to give me what cheer it may while I suffer.”
The ever-present Wolsey, who was standing near and heard Mary’s petition, interposed: “Let me add my prayer to that of her highness. We must give her her own way in something.”
Mary was such a complete picture of wretchedness that I thought at the time she had really found a tender spot in Henry’s heart, for he gave the promise. Since then I have learned, as you will shortly, that it was given simply to pacify the girl, and without any intention whatever of its being kept; but that, in case of the death of King Louis, Henry intended again to use his sister to his own advantage.
To be a beautiful princess is not to enjoy the bliss some people imagine. The earth is apt to open at any time, and Pluto to snatch her away to—the Lord knows where.
Mary again poured out her soul on paper—a libation intended for Brandon. I made a dozen attempts, in as many different ways, to deliver her letters, but every effort was a failure, and this missive met the fate of the others. De Longueville kept close watch on his master’s rival, and complained to Henry about these attempts at communication. Henry laughed and said he would see that they were stopped, but paid no more attention to the matter.
If Mary, before her interview with Henry, had been averse to the French marriage, she was now equally anxious to hurry it on, and longed to go upon the rack in order that Brandon might be free. He, of course, objected as strenuously as possible to the purchase of his life by her marriage to Louis, but his better judgment told him—in fact, had told him from the first—that she would be compelled eventually to marry the French king, and common sense told him if it must be, she might as well save his life at the same time. Furthermore, he felt a certain sense of delight in owing his life to her, and knew that the fact that she had saved him—that her sacrifice had not all been in vain—would make it easier for her to bear.
The most beautiful feature of the relations between these two lovers was their entire faith in each other. The way of their true love was at least not roughened by cobble-stones of doubt, however impassable it was from mountains of opposition.
My inability to deliver Mary’s letters did not deter her from writing them; and as she was to be married in a few days—de Longueville to act as proxy—she devoted her entire time to her letters, and wrote pages upon pages, which she left with me to be delivered “after death,” as she called her marriage.
At this time I was called away from court for a day or two, and when I returned and called upon Brandon at the Tower, I found him whistling and singing, apparently as happy as a lark. “You heartless dog,” thought I, at first; but I soon found that he felt more than happiness—exaltation.
“Have you seen her?” I asked.
“Who?” As if there were more than one woman in all the world for him.
“The princess.”
“Not since I left her at Bristol.”
I believed then, and believe now, that this was a point blank falsehood—a very unusual thing for Brandon—but for some reason probably necessary in this case.
There was an expression in his face which I could not interpret, but he wrote, as if carelessly scribbling on a scrap of paper that lay upon the table, the words, “Be careful,” and I took the hint—we were watched. There is an unpleasant sensation when one feels that he is watched by unseen eyes, and after talking for awhile on common topics I left and took a boat for Greenwich.
When I arrived at the palace and saw Mary, what was my surprise to find her as bright and jubilant as I had left Brandon. She, too, laughed and sang, and was so happy that she lighted the whole room. What did it all mean? There was but one explanation; they had met, and there was some new plan on foot—with a fatal ending. The next failure would mean death to Brandon, as certainly as the sun rises in the east. What the plan was I could not guess. With Brandon in the Tower under guard both day and night, and Mary as closely guarded in the palace, I could not see any way of escape for either of them, nor how they could possibly have come together.
Brandon had not told me, I supposed, for fear of being overheard, and Mary, although she had the opportunity, was equally non-communicative, so I had recourse to Jane upon the first occasion. She, by the way, was as blue and sad-faced as Mary was joyous. I asked her if the princess and Brandon had met, and she sadly said: “I do not know. We went down to London yesterday, and as we returned stopped at Bridewell House, where we found the king and Wolsey. The princess left the room, saying she would return in a few minutes, and then Wolsey went out, leaving me alone with the king. Mary did not return for half an hour, and she may have seen Master Brandon during that time. I do not understand how the meeting could have occurred, but that is the only time she has been away from me.” Here Jane deliberately put her head on my shoulder and began to weep piteously.
“What is the trouble?” I asked.
She shook her head: “I cannot, dare not tell you.”
“Oh! but you must, you must,” and I insisted so emphatically that she at length said:
“The king!”
“The king! God in heaven, Jane, tell me quickly.” I had noticed Henry of late casting glances at my beautiful little Jane, and had seen him try to kiss her a few days before, as I have told you. This annoyed me very much, but I thought little of it, as it was his habit to ogle every pretty face. When urged, Jane said between her sobs: “He tried to kiss me and to—mistreat me when Wolsey left the room at Bridewell House. I may have been used to detain him, while Mary met Master Brandon, but if so, I am sure she knew nothing of it.”
“And what did you do?”
“I struggled away from him and snatched this dagger from my breast, telling him that if he took but one step toward me I would plunge it in my heart; and he said I was a fool.”
“God keep you always a fool,” said I, prayerfully. “How long has this been going on?”
“A month or two; but I have always been able to run away from him. He has been growing more importunate of late, so I bought a dagger that very day, and had it not one hour too soon.” With this she drew out a gleaming little weapon that flashed in the rays of the candle.
This was trouble in earnest for me, and I showed it very plainly. Then Jane timidly put her hand in mine, for the first time in her life, and murmured:
“We will be married, Edwin, if you wish, before we return from France.” She was glad to fly to me to save herself from Henry, and I was glad even to be the lesser of two evils.
As to whether my two friends met or not that day at Bridewell I cannot say; but I think they did. They had in some way come to an understanding that lightened both their hearts before Mary left for France, and this had been their only possible opportunity. Jane and I were always taken into their confidence on other occasions, but as to this meeting, if any there was, we have never been told a word. My belief is that the meeting was contrived by Wolsey upon a solemn promise from Brandon and Mary never to reveal it, and if so, they have sacredly kept their word.
On the 13th of August, 1514, Mary Tudor, with her golden hair falling over her shoulders, was married at Greenwich to Louis de Valois; de Longueville acting as his French majesty’s proxy. Poor, fair Proserpina!...
Note.—Maidens only were married with their hair down. It was “the sacred token of maidenhood.”—Editor.