Brandon was now even daring to carry on a flirtation with the Duchess Margaret; and such was the fascination of the man that Margaret seemed nothing loath.
He had watched the exchange of glances, the hands that touched and lingered.
By God, he thought, that fellow Brandon now has his eyes on the Emperor’s daughter.
He thought about the matter until some hot-eyed wench sought him out in the dance and, when they had danced awhile, found a quiet room in which to explore other pleasures.
Each new experience was a revelation.
What did we know—Katharine and I—of making love? he asked himself. Was our ignorance the reason for our lack of children?
It behooved him to learn all he could.
There must be children, so what he did was really for England.
CHARLES BRANDON was hopeful. Was it possible that he could marry Margaret of Savoy? The prospects were glittering. He could look into a future which might even lead to the Imperial crown, for this crown was never passed to a hereditary heir. The Empire was composed of vassal states and Emperors were elected from a few chosen candidates.
The Emperor’s grandson was a feeble boy who, Brandon was sure, would never win the approval of the electors. But Margaret was powerful and rich. Votes were won through bribery and the husband of Margaret would stand a very fair chance.
It was a dizzy prospect, and he brought out all his charm to dazzle the woman. He did not even have to make a great effort for she was attractive and he could feel real affection for her. Poor woman, she had been unfortunate first to have her betrothal to the Dauphin ruthlessly terminated by an ambitious King of France; then her marriage to the heir of Spain was short-lived, her child, which came after her husband’s death, still-born; then had followed the marriage with the Duke of Savoy who had soon left her a widow.
Surely she was in need of such solace as one of the most glittering personalities of the English Court—or any Court for that matter—could give her.
Brandon had for some time been thinking a great deal of another Princess who he was sure would be delighted to be his wife. This was none other than the King’s own sister, young Mary. Mary was a girl of great determination and too young to hide her feelings; Brandon had been drawn to her, not only because of her youthful charms and the great glory which would surely come to the King’s brother-in-law, but because there was an element of danger in the relationship, and he was always attracted by danger.
But Mary was betrothed to the pale-eyed anemic Charles, and she would never be allowed to choose her husband; but Margaret of Savoy was a widow, and a woman who would make her own decisions.
That was why he was growing more and more excited and blessing the fate which had brought him to Lille at this time.
He was elated because he believed that the King was not ill-disposed to a marriage between himself and Margaret. Henry knew how his sister felt towards him, and Henry was fond of young Mary. He would hate to deny her what she asked, so it would be helpful to have Brandon out of her path, to let Mary see she had better be contented with her fate, because Brandon, married to the Duchess Margaret, could certainly not be the husband of the Princess of England.
So Brandon made up his mind that he would take an opportunity of asking Margaret to be his wife.
When they walked in the gardens, Margaret allowed herself to be led aside by Brandon, and, as soon as they were out of earshot of their companions, Brandon said to her familiarly: “You spoil that nephew of yours.”
Margaret’s eyes dwelt fondly on young Charles who was standing awkwardly with his grandfather and Henry, listening earnestly to the conversation.
“He is very dear to me,” she answered. “I had no children of my own so it is natural that I should care for my brother’s son.”
“It is sad that you never had children of your own. But you are young yet. Might that not be remedied?”
Margaret saw where the conversation was leading and caught her breath in amazement. Would this arrogant man really ask the daughter of Maximilian to marry him as unceremoniously as he might—and she was sure did—invite some peasant or serving woman to become his mistress?
She was amazed and fascinated at the project; but she sought to ward it off.
“You have not a high opinion of my young nephew,” she said. “I see that your King has not either. You do not know my Charles; he is no fool.”
“I am sure that any child who had the good fortune to be under your care would learn something to his advantage.”
“Do not be deceived by his quiet manners. There is little he misses. He may seem slow of speech, but that is because he never makes an utterance unless he has clearly worked out what he is going to say. Perhaps it would be well if others followed his example.”
“Then there would never be time to say all that has to be said in the world.”
“Perhaps it would not be such a tragedy if much of it was left unsaid. Charles’ family has been very tragic. As you know his father died when he was so young, and his mother…”
Charles Brandon nodded. Who had not heard of the mad Queen of Spain who had so mourned her unfaithful husband that she had taken his corpse with her wherever she went until she had been made more or less a prisoner in the castle of Tordesillas where she still remained.
But Brandon did not wish to talk of dull Charles, his philandering father or his mad mother.
He took Margaret’s hand in his. Reckless in love had always been his motto, and he was considered a connoisseur.
“Margaret,” he began, “you are too fair to remain unmarried.”
“Ah, but I have been so unfortunate in that state.”
“It does not mean you always will be.”
“I have had such experiences that I prefer not to risk more.”
“Then someone must try to make you change your mind.”
“Who should that be?”
“Who but myself?” he whispered.
She withdrew her hand. She was too strongly aware of the potent masculinity of the man for comfort.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Why not? You are a widow who can choose your husband.”
She looked at him. He was indeed a handsome man; he had the experience of life which was so missing in his young King.
Margaret asked herself: Could I be happy again with him?
He saw her hesitation and, taking a ring from his finger, slipped it on hers.
She stared at it with astonishment.
They were then joined by Henry, Maximilian and young Charles, and as the young boy stared at the ring on his aunt’s hand there was no expression in his pallid eyes, but Margaret, who knew him so much better than everyone else, was aware that he understood the meaning of that little scene which he had witnessed from afar—understood and disapproved.
BY THE BEGINNING of October Henry, tired of play, now hoped to win fresh laurels; but the rainy season had started and when he sought out Maximilian and demanded to know when they would be ready to start on the march to Paris, the Emperor shook his head sagely.
“Your Grace does not know our Flanders mud. It would be impossible to plan an offensive when we have that to contend with.”
“When then?” Henry wanted to know.
“Next spring…next summer.”
“And what of all the troops and equipment I have here?”
“That good fellow Wolsey will take charge of all that. You can rely on him to get them safely back to England for you.”