The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (54 page)

“You have to marry me, you have to! Take me away! Take me home! Didn’t you once send me tokens of your affection? Your portrait, which I wore in my bosom until the day of my marriage? Did you not swear eternal devotion and fealty? Now prove it! Prove all those words you have said to me!” The White Queen’s face was red and swollen as she wept and clung to the Duke of Suffolk’s gown. They were alone in the darkened chamber; the king had granted him a solitary audience and sent away the French women. Yet even that had not set the alarm bell ringing in Suffolk’s thick head. But even he had sensed some of the elements of the dilemma, though it was a strain to hold more than one idea at a time in his brain. At first, he had feared King Henry. A man who elopes with his sovereign’s sister must properly pay with his head. Then, he had feared King Francis. The man hated him. He could destroy the purpose of his embassy, at the very least, and then he would be in King Henry’s disfavor anyway. But on the other hand, Francis could do anything. He certainly wouldn’t be the first absolute ruler to imprison or destroy an ambassador he didn’t care for. But how could he get out of marrying Mary Tudor without offending King Francis? He didn’t like the way Francis smiled at him, as if he had it all figured out already.

But all this was before he confronted the whirlwind of passion contained in the White Queen’s chamber. Queen Mary, crazy with long confinement, had flung herself on him, her long red-gold hair flowing loose, her white gown crumpled and tearstained. And she was every bit as willful and stubborn as her brother. As a hurricane of words stormed about him, he tried to retreat but found the door barred. She was very lovely—he had once thought it would be very pleasant with her. But his head? He couldn’t.

“Oh, what kind of a knight are you? Aren’t you sworn to protect widows? Protect me! Marry me, or I will think you the falsest creature in the whole world. I will tell my brother, I will tell everyone. Charles Brandon, false knight and betrayer! Why do you delay? Don’t you love me? Are you afraid of my brother?” Numbly, Suffolk nodded. “Then know this, my brother promised me I should wed as I wished, after I was queen in France, and I shall remind him of this promise.”

“But…but, I would do you every service, but…”

“Oh, disgrace! You have broken my heart!” cried the girl-queen, flinging herself on the bed and weeping passionately, in great, gusty sobs.

Suffolk sat down on the bed beside the convulsing body and tried to stroke her, to calm her. Women. Incomprehensible, mindless, too many humors. She might die of all this sobbing, and then where would he be?

“I…I have always admired you,” he said, tentatively. The wild sobbing continued. “You are the sister of my sovereign, my lady, and I would do…”

“Marry me,” came the muffled demand from the pillow.

“I will marry you, my lady. I pledge you my troth, here and now.” One swollen, tearstained eye turned up from the pillow.

“Really?” she said.

“In truth, and most honorably, I do beg you to marry me.” Anything, anything to stop that infernal weeping.

“Take me from this horrible place,” she said.

“That I promise,” he answered, relieved.

Outside, Francis and several of his courtiers were waiting.

“Well?” asked the king. “What said the White Queen to your suit?”

“She has accepted, Your Grace.” Francis winced internally at the hidden insult. Once again, the Duke of Suffolk had not addressed him as king. Was he acting under orders from the English king? The man never quit. Suffolk deserved everything that was in store for him. His king would behead him for treason, and the White Queen would be so thoroughly disgraced by marrying beneath her that she could no longer become the center of plots against his throne. Any current or future pregnancy would be laid at the door of this petty English duke. All that, and he would take her out of the country as soon as possible. Perfect.

“Congratulations, my dear chevalier,” said Francis. “I have already summoned the priest to my chapel. I myself will serve as a witness.”

Only later did Charles Brandon begin to comprehend the true outline of Francis’s plot against him. Disgrace, ruin, death, all encompassed with a woman. How French. He sat, pale faced, in the apartments given him and his new wife by the French king.

“My lord, you must not sit like that, staring at nothing,” said Queen Mary, who had decided to retain her title, despite marrying a duke.

“We are ruined,” said her new husband.

“I think not,” said Mary, firmly. “But you must give up my dowry to my brother. He thinks a great deal of money.” Brandon, the man who had married before, for dowry money, did not catch the irony in her voice.

“I will write to my brother and remind him of his promise at the waterside.” The duke was silent, still brooding. “I will write to Archbishop Wolsey, and he will smooth my brother’s mind,” said his wife. The duke looked up at her. How could she not understand what would become of him?

“But first, you must write the news to my brother, before he hears of it from elsewhere. The man must write first. I can only write after you have told him.” She took out paper and ink and laid them on the writing desk. “I’ll leave if you want,” she said.

“It will take time,” he said, beginning to feel his hands sweat. What could he say? How would he start? The duke was no writer. Alone in the room, he crumpled start after start and threw them away before the lackey came in to light the candles. Perspiration was pouring down his forehead, and he could barely grasp the pen in his big, sweaty hands. I’ll write Wolsey first, he thought, and he’ll mend what can be mended. How to explain? It was easier to Wolsey: “The queen would never let me be at rest till I granted her to be married,” he wrote. “And so to be plain with you, I have married her heartily, and have lain with her, insomuch I fear me lest she be with child.” Ah, that made it easier, he thought. But what shall I tell the king? How can I make him understand? At last the pen scratched across the page, offering this as his only explanation for the tangle: “I newar sawe woman soo wyepe.” Spelling was never the duke’s strong point.

Archbishop Wolsey sat close to the fire in his paneled cabinet in York House. Outside was a fog so thick that no man could see his hand before his face. The chill was everywhere.

“Master Warren, add to the letter I have written to my lord of Suffolk that never have I known man in such mortal danger. He must not return to England until the king’s wrath has faded. Ah, the fool, the fool.” Wolsey sighed heavily. His policy was in ruins. The Queen of France was returning in disgrace, and it would take all his wiles to make sure she was not soon a widow for the second time. Francis, who cared little for the treaty, would be king. Already, French ship captains were seizing English ships, and Francis had not hindered them. What would come next? England could not face war with France without allies. Must Wolsey’s king endure the infinite pricking insults of the new French king?

Ah, but here was Tuke at the door with a new mountain of correspondence. Something about Tuke’s face irritated him. Ever since Ashton had left, the man seemed to be expanding like a toad. The pleasant pliability had become more weasel-like. I need to set him down, thought Wolsey. I think I shall favor Master Warren for a while. Ah, would that it were so easy to set down King Francis the First. Silently, he opened once again a little wooden case and looked at the face of his adversary. Young, but sly and foxy beyond his years. Arrogant. Lascivious. Willful. A fierce and devious enemy, with a smiling, glittering surface. The portrait said it all.

“Another letter from the Queen of France, Your Grace, and one in cipher from Master Ashton. There is also another little packet.”

“At last. What has he been doing over there, anyway? I’ve had nothing for over a month, since he sent me some rubbish about a conspiracy in the south of France and this portrait of King Francis. Useless dithering. Master Tuke, I’ll want the letter decoded at once.” Tuke snapped a finger at the code clerk, who bowed to hide the anger in his eyes, then sat to decipher the letter. While he labored with code wheel and candle flame, Tuke, still as smooth as silk, showered Wolsey with flattering, amusing remarks. With rising irritation, Warren heard Wolsey’s responses. My lord of York was clearly charmed. Who works, and who flatters? thought Warren, gouging the paper with his pen, so that the quill split and splattered, and he had to sharpen another.

As the decoding proceeded, Wolsey undid the oiled silk and, with a pleasurable anticipation, opened another of the familiar little wooden cases. At least Mistress Dallet serves me well, he thought. Staring up at him were a pair of resentful dark eyes, implanted like smoldering brands in a narrow, arrogant face. Ambition, betrayal, and war were written there. And to think, thought Wolsey, he was probably delighted to sit for this, never realizing he was betraying every secret. Splendid, splendid. Who was this? Ah, the Duke of Bourbon. Constable of France. A bold commander. Definitely a man to be watched.

“Your Grace, your letter here,” said Tuke at last, with a deft movement handing the archbishop the product of the code clerk’s labors.

“Fascinating, fascinating. There was a failed conspiracy to take the throne, led by the Duc de Bourbon.” Well, well. As one mind-compartment in the archbishop’s brain began to work over the idea of this new conspiracy, another began simultaneously to calculate about the writer of the letter. So Ashton has joined forces with the paintrix? He couldn’t have made it clearer if he’d written it. Ha, this must be his latest method of trying to worm his way around Tuke. Suppose he wishes to consolidate his position by marrying her? I imagine I might allow it—after all, it will keep her in my service. I’ll make him promise me that she continue to paint. Ah, how delightfully that will offend him! Should I cut her wages after she is wed? Perhaps I’ll raise his by the amount I lower hers. After all, they shouldn’t starve. I think I’ll begin by opposing the wedding. I’ll denounce it, just to see the look on his face. Yet even as this mind-compartment generated a certain enjoyment, the first one was still churning with the news in the letter.

“Bourbon’s role in this has not been discovered, and he continues to ingratiate himself with King Francis daily. The conspirators—ha, they are fools. Next time, Bourbon will choose a more powerful group of allies.” Bourbon, calculated this mind-compartment in Wolsey’s brain, heir to half the territory of France, with some slight claim to the throne. If Francis were wise, he would behead him instantly on some false charge. In statecraft, Francis is still young, thought Wolsey. Then he leaned back in his great oak chair and thought, tapping his fingers on the wooden arm of the chair. Yes, yes. Bourbon. Interesting. I think I might wait until he shows overt signs of discontent, then contact him. Let’s see. An alliance with the emperor and Bourbon against Francis. It could be done, Wolsey thought. Bourbon would split France in half, and Francis would come begging for the old alliance again. And I, I could choose…

“Your Grace,” said Tuke, interrupting Wolsey’s musings. Quietly, the archbishop filed it in yet another mind-compartment, under “Alliances, Treacherous,” which was not far from “Cardinalate, Progress On,” and “Hampton Court, Rebuilding of Waterworks Of.”

“Ah, yes, Tuke, the latest letter from the Queen of France. How
shall
we disentangle her?” he asked.