Charles Brandon jumped to his feet, and Mary Tudor wiped her cheeks with her fingers. From somewhere, as Mary had seen her do time and again, the proud woman covered herself with composure and nodded. “We will see him now, Mary.”
She curtseyed and backed from the room, nearly bumping into the angular form of her father, his arms folded across his cloaked chest, his hat now held in one hand.
“Her Grace will see you now, my lord.” He nodded and entered, closing the door firmly.
How suddenly familiar it all seemed, seeing him and being so formal and having to wait while he talked behind closed doors to others, like that long-ago day at Hever when he told mother he was sending Mary away.
Tears came to her eyes unbidden, and she felt weak and tired and very alone. Mary Tudor truly needed her no longer, not like she had. She was glad that Her Grace was happy and in love, so why should she cry? Father was angry, and she feared his displeasure. Dreaming of Hever and mother always hurt. And how much she wanted someone wonderful and grand like the handsome French king to love her.
She fought for control of herself. She was never like her mistress and the others when it came time to hide emotions. She still had much to learn before she could ever face the royal court of the English king.
She peered at her azure eyes in her tiny silvered mirror and wiped her cheeks, carefully pinching them for color. Slowly, she dusted her face with powder, resmoothed her coif, twined her side curls about her index finger and let them pop back into place. She paced and tried to make her mind a blessed blank, but her thoughts darted about the room and tried to pierce the thick wooden door behind which the great Henry’s lovely sister faced the great Henry’s ambassador. Surely he would be meek before the king’s dear sister.
Then, he was there. His face was impassive, but his eyes gave away his tension and his anger. “Sit, Mary. I will be brief.”
Please, father, stay for a while, she thought, but she sat gracefully, correctly.
“It is difficult to say how long the Princess Mary and her—the duke—will be staying here in France. When they leave, it may not be to return to the English court. And so, she has released you from your service to her, and you will join Queen Claude’s household here as a maid of honor to continue your schooling in French and court ways.”
Mary’s face showed her dismay clearly, and she clenched her hands as though she would implore him. “But, my lord, she said she needs me and wishes me to remain with them.”
“With them, Mary!” His voice spewed venom, and her eyes widened in terror as though he had hit her. Then he lowered his tone and bent menacingly close. “My foolish girl, there may not be ‘them’ unless the king’s blood greatly abates. The fool Suffolk has committed a treasonous act in this illegal marriage. He dares! He dares to come so near the throne in marriage! An effrontery to his lord king and to his once best and trusted friend our sovereign king!”
“But King Henry promised her she might choose her husband should King Louis die,” Mary interposed weakly.
“Ha! His Grace promised! Promised one day, perhaps, but that is not the way the wind blows now. She is important state business, and she has ruined it all.”
“She is only a woman in love, my lord.”
“She is also a fool and will pay dearly starting with this.” He extended his clenched fist and there lay the Jewel of Naples in his square palm. How dull and heavy it looks against his flesh, she thought irrationally.
“I will not have you go down with her, child. I thought she was the one for you to serve.” He swallowed audibly and pocketed the great gem. “I was mistaken.”
“The new king of France favors the marriage, my lord. Surely he will help to turn His Majesty’s mind.”
He reached for Mary’s shoulders, and his fingers hurt. “Stupid girl. He was only too pleased to have a valuable marriage pawn out of the way of a dangerous English alliance. He would have turned bigamist himself to keep Mary Tudor from a marriage to Charles of Castile. The fond and friendly Francois helped them only to their own destruction!”
Tears ran in jagged paths down Mary’s cheeks and fell off her chin. Each time she blinked, she felt the droplets plaster her thick lashes. Tiny involuntary sobs wracked her throat. Her father took his hard hands away and stepped back a pace.
“You have been trapped and used, child, and I will not have that. You are too important to my plans. I only hope the king never hears you were privy to their marriage plans and never told me. And I pray he never blames me for not having stopped them, though I could hardly have stopped the wily fox Francois from his meddling.
“Francois and Claude and their household progress toward Amboise,” he went on. “It is on the Loire where they will establish their court. You are going with them on the morrow.” He looked sideways at her small oaken garderobe. “You must pack immediately.”
“They stay not here at Tournelles?” she heard herself ask.