The Queen was growing restive. December had come and, although the King often looked fatigued, he still attended the masques and entertainments which Marguerite and François devised. I believed that they, like the Queen, were anxious to tire him out.
Poor man, I thought. In a way it is a gentle sort of murder. How dreadful that people should want to be rid of you so much that they are prepared to kill you…even gently. But what goals these people had! For the Trinity there was the crown; for the Queen there was Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.
I wondered if Louis knew. He was a very astute man, so it might have occurred to him.
I think he was longing for the Queen to be pregnant so that he could foil François's hopes. If what I heard was true, he was apprehensive about leaving the crown to François. He was a good king who cared about his country. I wished that I knew more about French history. I did know that there had been a hundred years’ war which the English had lost and that one of the Charleses—Charles VII, I believe—had been crowned because of the success of Joan of Arc who had been burned as a witch. But it was the present in which everyone was interested now and it seemed as eventful as anything that had gone before.
As the weeks passed the tension seemed to be rising. The Queen was aware of it and did all she could to intensify it. She liked to tease. I had quickly realized that. I had seen her when in the presence of the Duchess Louise, being aware of how closely the older woman watched her, giving some little sign which might mean that she was enceinte.
She used to laugh about it. “Well, why not?” she said. “Let us give the lady some excitement. Did you see her eyes on me? She would like to bore through me. Is she? Is she not? I can see the question in her eyes. And if she is… mon dieu, mon François …my god, my Caesar… deprived of the crown. The good God cannot be so cruel. What a king he will make! And that poor, feeble old man struggles on when there is my incomparable François…”
She gave a good imitation of the Duchess which made me laugh.
I think she was beginning to feel that we were reaching some climax, for she talked more frankly now. Charles! It was always Charles. I would not have thought such a mercurial creature could have been so faithful, so single-minded. But however much she flitted from one enthusiasm to another, she was always true to Charles.
“I would be happier in a little house… right away from everyone…if Charles were in it with me,” she told me wistfully. “These fine clothes, these jewels… this flattery… this homage…I would give it all for a quiet life with Charles.”
I was not sure that I believed her. She seemed to have been born for her position, just as her brother seemed to be for his.
She was talking more and more of Charles. I would brush her hair and she would close her eyes. I heard her murmur once: “How much longer?”
I almost said: It is only eight weeks since we came, Madame. But I had learned my lesson. It was unwise for me to comment; and at times she was really talking to herself.
Sometimes she seemed depressed and then she would talk of Charles to me, how he had first come to Court with little hope of promotion save for one thing.
“His father was the standard-bearer to my father at the battle of Bosworth Field. His father died defending mine. We Tudors remember our friends… and our enemies. When my father was declared the rightful King and the usurper Richard was dead, he remembered the faithful standard-bearer and sent a message to his widow to tell her that if his son came to Court there would be a place for him. And that was how Charles came to Court. He was put into the house of the Duke of York. Perhaps he would have preferred to be in that of the Prince of Wales. But fate works strangely, does it not? For the Prince of Wales married Katharine of Aragon and very soon he was dead and his brother, Henry, Duke of York, became Henry, Prince of Wales…and now he is the King instead of going into the Church as they intended him to. Every time I think of Henry as a Cardinal, I want to laugh. Well, it was the crown for him, and much more suitable, too. And Katharine did not lose by it. She was Arthur's widow but now she is Henry's wife. So you see, Charles was in the right place after all.”
She was silent for a while, musing.
“They are alike. So tall… both of them … my brother and the man I love. I love them both, of course. Henry is very dear to me but there is no one like Charles. Charles is six years older than my brother…so my love is not a silly, beardless boy.”
“He is indeed a man,” I said, feeling the need to say something.
“Such a man! There was never one like him. At Court he learned to joust and ride and fence… and being Charles he could do it all better than anyone else. He and my brother became the closest friends. They are so like each other. They might be brothers…so tall, so fair… both of them, and excelling in all sport. You cannot be surprised that I love him.”
“No, Madame,” I said.
“Go on with the brushing. It soothes me. You are thinking if he is six years older than the King why is he not married?”
I was afraid to say yes, though it was what I was thinking.
“Well…he has been married. Twice. But that is of no consequence to me. I would not want a foolish, inexperienced boy.”
“Of course not, Madame.”
“And what do you know of such things?”
“Only what Your Highness tells me.”
“I believe there is more going on in your head than you would let us know.”
“Oh no, Madame,” I said in some alarm.
“Well, there should be,” she said. “I do not want stupid little girls about me.”
I did not know what to reply to that. But she was smiling at me.
“He has told me all about his marriages,” she said. “There are no secrets between us. Did you know that Margaret of Savoy wanted to marry him?”
“I did not,” I said.
“Well, she did. When he was on an embassy there, she fell in love with him. We can understand that, can we not? She might have married him. What a catastrophe! But fate was kind. Though perhaps it was the Emperor. He would never have allowed it to happen…however much she wanted him. And you may depend upon it, she did want him. Any woman would be mad not to want Charles.”
I waited because I was afraid to speak, lest what I said did not please her. I found these sessions with her fraught with apprehension and delight. Her conversation was so racy, so indiscreet. I was sure a great deal of what she told me was exaggerated, but that made it all the more exciting.
She went on: “When he was very young, he fell in love…or thought he did… with the daughter of the Lieutenant of Calais. Of course he was not really in love. He has never loved anyone but me, but when people are young they hear the minstrels singing of love and they become enamored of love… for love's sake. So it was with Charles. This girl, Anne Browne, was, of course, madly in love with him; but she was very young and the marriage was delayed; and after a while Charles realized that it had been a temporary infatuation and that he would be a fool to marry someone in such a humble position, for by that time my brother had become King and Charles was his constant companion. It is a very different matter to be King of England from Prince of Wales with a stern father to keep one in check. You understand me?”
“Oh yes, I understand.”
“Charles is human and all young men have desires. They must satisfy them for it may be that they do not meet the only one in the world for them until they are passing out of their first youth. So it was with Charles…”
She was silent for a while. Then suddenly she dismissed me—and that was the end of her confidences for that time.
But later she took up the story where she had left off.