The Secret Bride

“Spectacular. . . . Haeger explores the fascinating, rich, exciting, and tragic life of Henry II’s beloved. . . . Lush in charac-terization and rich in historical detail,
Courtesan
will sweep readers up into its pages and carry them away.”

—
Romantic Times

“In Haeger’s impressive Restoration romance, King Charles II and his mistress . . . leap off the page. . . . Charles and Nell are marvelously complex—jealous and petty, devoted yet fallible.  Haeger perfectly balances the history with the trystery.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Set against the vivid descriptive detail of Rome and Traste-vere, Haeger’s tale of how the ring came to be obscured in the Raphael masterpiece resonates with the grandeur and intimacy of epic love stories. . . . This romance is first to be savored as the wonderful historical tale that it is.” —
BookPage “Lush . . . [a] rich yet fast-paced story.”

— The Historical Novels Review “With her wealth of detail cleverly interwoven into a fabu-lous plot, Diane Haeger has written a triumphant tale that will provide much delight to fans of historical fiction and Regency romance.”

— Affaire de Coeur

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First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Diane Haeger, 2008

Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Haeger, Diane.

The secret bride : in the court of Henry VIII / Diane Haeger.

p. cm.

ISBN: 1-4362-0818-1

1. Mary, Queen, consort of Louis XII, King of France, 1496–1533—Fiction. 2. Great

Britain—History—Henry VIII, 1509–1547—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3558.A32125S425 2008

813'.54—dc22 2007042219

Set in Simoncini Garamond

Designed by Elke Sigal

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the  copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For Alex, my joy, with all my love

I am especially indebted to Steven J. Gunn, Professor of History at Merton College, Oxford, England, for so graciously sharing his extensive knowledge regarding the life of Charles Brandon; to the staff at Hampton Court Palace for the generosity of their time and detailed information regarding a Tudor palace; to Frederic J. Baumgartner, Professor of History at Virginia Tech, for his assistance with details at the Court of Louis XII; to Elizabeth Haeger, truly the strongest person I know, you really do guide me daily; to Marlene Fried, for graciously reading every word I write; to Kelly Costello for her enduring friendship beyond anything I could ask; to my amazing literary agent, Irene Goodman, and my editor, Claire Zion, who both had a vision for and belief in this book and supported it every step of the way; and finally to Fran Measley once again, who has brought so much joy and encouragement to me this past year, there are no words to say what that has meant. You are extraordinary.

The ever whirling wheel of change; the which all mortal things doth sway.

—Edmund Spenser

April 1502, Eltham Palace

A 
collection of columbines, sweet peas and lilies of the valley clutched tightly in her hand, Mary dodged through the rows of apple trees in the orchard, chasing butterflies out behind the palace. Jane skittered just behind as they crossed the flagstone path, edged with rich moss, that bordered the new tiltyard the king had constructed. The spring wind carried their dresses out behind them like billowing sails, all beneath a broad azure sky. The royal nursery at Eltham was tucked deeply into the lush countryside outside the city, near Greenwich, where Henry VII’s children, and their companions, were being brought up in an idyllic moated brick castle blanketed in emerald ivy, far from the complexities of court. The princess Mary and Jane Popincourt, sent from Paris to speak French with the children, dashed past the moat, where swans glided over the surface of the water, which that day was smooth as glass. Each bird 
wore a badge loosely about its long graceful neck emblazoned with the Beaufort insignia. It was the crest of Mary’s powerful grandmother, the determined woman who had helped her son win the war that made him Henry VII. It was then, in the front courtyard, that Mary and Jane both heard it—whispered words, uttered by a servant.`

“Poor, dear Arthur! Poor Katherine!” The sound of weeping followed.

Not understanding, Mary dashed up the steps and through the entrance toward the twisted staircase, with its carved, polished banister. Jane followed, their smiles falling by degrees. Upstairs, they walked through the oak-paneled gallery, hands suddenly linked. Jane was like a sister to Mary since her own elder sister, Margaret, was being prepared to be sent to Scotland as the bride of King James. It was a political match, made by ambassadors, that greatly pleased their father but left Margaret fearful and sad, the fun gone out of her in preparation for her royal duty. Poor Margaret, Mary always thought, made to marry a man of the advanced age of twenty-nine, one who had already been married and widowed. Yet her turn would come soon enough. She too was the daughter of Henry VII. But Mary refused to think of that yet—at least until she turned eleven.

Beyond the door, the entire house was in an uproar. Mary could hear the faraway sound of more weeping, but those servants who moved around her carefully avoided her gaze.

The few who did catch her eye bore unmistakable pity in their expressions. Jane and Mary exchanged a glance.

“What’s happened?” Mary whispered, fingers splaying 
across her mouth, her other hand tightening with Jane’s. As it always did when anything was wrong, Mary felt panic rise and a need to find her brother strongly follow. Henry would know what had happened and how to fix it. He would know what to do.

Mary broke into a run toward the cavernous great hall, with its intricate hammer-beamed roof, rows of oriel windows, minstrels gallery and grand stone fireplace. She knew Henry would be there wrestling just now. But by the time she found him, her brother was surrounded by servants, all silent. He was standing still as a stone in their midst, tall and slim, his chin-length red-gold hair plastered with sweat against his forehead and cheeks.

Beside him stood his friend Charles Brandon, who was older, taller, auburn-haired and somber-eyed. In spite of the fact that both of them were covered in perspiration from the contest, their linen-shirted chests still heaving from exertion, the color had completely drained from her brother’s face.

Mary paused near the door, surveying the scene for a moment, her heart pounding. The flowers slipped from her hand and fell into a little pile of stems and petals at her feet. As she drew near, then stopped before him, Henry met her gaze and his pale green eyes misted with tears.

“It’s Arthur. He is dead,” Henry said, with a quiver in his voice that Mary had never heard from her carefree brother before.