Читать книгу Brief Gaudy Hour - Margaret Campbell Barnes - Страница 7

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When the Duke and temptation came, it was to take Mary back to England. Beyond that, Henry had said nothing. And it was not for a commoner, hankering after a Princess of the royal blood, to ask. Probably Henry had never even thought of him as a suitor, or perceived the danger of sending him. The Brandons were nouveaux riches, even more so than the usurping Tudors. No royal favour could make Charles’ lineage like that of the Duke of Norfolk, Anne’s maternal uncle, whose family had often intermarried with the Plantagenets and whose quarterings were prouder than the King’s.

Out of respect for Louis, Mary lived in seclusion for some weeks. She and Suffolk rode and hawked together in the parklands whenever they dared. But all too soon came a letter from England full of welcome and brotherly affection; and an envoy primed with instructions regarding their return.

It was the following morning that Anne was summoned early from her bed. She shivered as she drew her fur lined cape about her and hurried through deserted, draughty passages. Although none of the other women had been roused, she found her mistress already dressed, and Suffolk standing by the window in her bedroom. Mary had discarded her black and put on rose brocade. They both looked bright-eyed and pale, almost like children bent on some unlawful enterprise, and the Duke was snapping his long loose fingers as he always did in moments of stress. Beyond them, through a low arch, Anne could see a priest moving about in the little private oratory.

“We want you to be a witness to our marriage,” said Mary, without preamble.

Anne felt cold with excitement and fear. “Does my father know?” she asked.

Mary shook her head.

“Better that he be not involved,” said Suffolk courteously. But they all knew that somehow her father would have prevented it.

The candles were lighted and the young priest stood waiting in the archway, his frayed vestments no whiter than his face. He was no celebrated French prelate, fit to marry royalty; only a humble English monk who had done nothing more conspicuous all his life than fear God.

“But now he fears Henry Tudor more,” thought Anne.

The sea might flow between, but Henry Tudor was in the minds of all of them, and his presence seemed to dominate the room. Somehow they all found themselves talking in whispers. Anne turned appealingly to Mary, formalities forgotten. “Wouldn’t it be safer to wait?” she suggested.

As if in answer, Mary went buoyantly to her lover’s side and pushed open a casement. Spring sunshine streamed over her gown and on her eager hands, making her the most romantic thing Anne had ever seen. Outside, the Seine was sparkling through thin morning mists, and the great city was coming to life. Birds were singing in the garden trees, and the heavy scent of lilac caught at one’s senses. “I have waited so long,” breathed Mary, betraying herself to a suspicion that fear of being forced to marry the Dauphin had had nothing to do with it.

Suffolk took her into his arms carefully, as if afraid of crushing her beautiful dress.

Anne realized that in his present situation he must be afraid of a good many things. But mostly, at the moment, her mind was criticizing him as a lover. Had he been her lover, she would not have minded about any rose brocade. Only that the man for whom she risked so much should be ardent. Ardent enough to match her courage, and to satisfy that denied, ravening desire that was hidden in her. Anne felt the flame of it rising, suffocating her, so that she put a hand to her slender throat. On a magic morning like this, while lovers were still young, the fusion of two such forces should indeed have power to jettison fear and tradition and common sense. How right, she thought, to snatch at real love when one met it! To escape the ugly obscenity of bartered sex. How thrilling to be married secretly in Paris, in the spring!

But common sense had a way of outliving sentiment. “W—what will become of me, Madame?” she asked, when that unadorned, brief sacrament was over, the frightened priest gone, and when the thought of what her father would say was very present.

“You know that there will always be a place for you wherever we live,” Mary assured her.

“Will that be in England?” asked Anne.

The Duke himself handed her a glass of wine. “I am afraid not, Mistress Boleyn. Not for awhile, at least,” he said gravely.

“Dear Nan, it may mean hardship and even ignominy,” prophesied Mary, too honest to persuade. “Living quietly away from Court until we hear whether my brother will receive us. My husband,” Mary Tudor smiled at him and blushed adorably. “My husband is going to write to Cardinal Wolsey to plead for us to the King.”

That seemed a very sensible thing to do. Anne conjured up a picture of the rich, scarlet-clad Cardinal who, more than any man in England, had the King’s ear. “Is he kind?” she asked, ingenuously.

“He has always been kind to me,” answered Mary, as simply.

Then surely the King must forgive them. And if he didn’t? Mary, at least, would never suffer at his hands. Living with her might mean giving up for a time all the fun and fashion and flattery of palaces, all the excitement of this new found power with men, all her success. Anne’s mind ranged regretfully over these hard-won things that had come to mean so much to her. In any other mood the thought of losing them would have swayed her more. But today it was not her head, but her heart, that was involved. The primal part of her that loved Jocunda and stirred to the beauty of a Kentish garden. Anne did not love easily. The circle of her dear ones was small; but she had learned to love with loyalty. And, essentially, she was a gambler. After all, everything might turn out well. Caught in the right mood, Henry might possibly have granted them permission to marry anyway. If one had the courage, it was always worth-while challenging life. Anne kissed Mary’s hand, made her obeisance to the Duke, and said she would stay.

All day she went about with a vast sense of importance and primly sealed lips. But all this romantic pother had made her forget that staying or going did not rest with her.

After supper her father sent for her. It was rarely that she saw him in the sombre panelled room where he worked and talked with important people about international affairs. “It is known all over Paris that the Duke of Suffolk has abused the trust our master placed in him, so it is time I made other plans for you,” he said, still writing the last sentence of his dispatches.

In this setting he seemed like some stranger, and Anne tried to speak as if she were at ease. “I know about it. I was there,” she admitted. “And I have promised to stay in milady’s household.”

“Don’t talk like a fool, Anne!” he said, without looking up.

She stared down at his neat, greying head in dismay. She knew that he only called her Anne on formal occasions, or when he was very much displeased. “You mean you will not let me?”

Sir Thomas appeared to be reading over what he had written. “Mary Tudor is no longer Queen of France,” he observed.

Anne stood before him feeling very young and unsure of herself. “No. I suppose she is just the Duchess of Suffolk now, but I know how much she has always wanted to be Charles Brandon’s wife. And when a woman—”

“She may not long be anybody’s wife,” interrupted Sir Thomas grimly. “She may be widowed again.”

“Then the Duke is a very brave man,” said Anne, grudgingly.

“Or plays for very high stakes. Without the King’s mercy this sudden lunacy could be accounted treason.”

She remembered how unimpassioned he had been, and that any children of the union would stand very near the succession. Traitors who coveted the crown were beheaded on the block. For the first time a faint impact of tragedy impinged upon Anne’s carefree life. The possibility of it for someone she had actually spoken to—someone she knew. And thinking of the morning’s ecstasy, she realized what a different degree of widowhood such tragic loss would mean to Mary. Anne’s new-born selflessness made a last desperate flutter. “But do you not see, sir, she would want me all the more. It has always been, ‘Nan, Nan, the Queen has need of you!’”

“You did well in her service,” conceded her father, more mildly. “But we must wait and see whether the King will pardon them.”

Anne watched him seal and roll his parchments. “Is it true that they would have made her marry the new French king?” she asked.

“No. There was a minority for it in the Council. But he is going to marry his cousin Claude.”

Sir Thomas dismissed the matter as irrelevant, and Anne felt sure that Mary had seized upon the scare as an excuse. She sat down slowly by the hearth. It had all been rather a shock, and her father had never insisted upon his children standing upon ceremony.

He came now and stood with a hand on the back of her chair. “My dear Nan, it is not like you to be unreasonable. We are all devoted to her Grace. But surely you don’t suppose I would risk offending the King for a matter of womanish sentiment? I have your brother’s career to consider. And then there is my claim to your great-grandfather’s estates and the earldom of Ormonde which is still in dispute. We must all move cautiously until we know how the King takes this outrage.”

Anne began to feel afraid. She wished he hadn’t talked about treason. It was a terrible word. “Do you think, sir, that he will hold it against me that I was a witness at their marriage?” she asked.

Sir Thomas Boleyn fingered his gold chain of office consideringly. “You are very young, and I shall do my best to persuade him that being in the Princess’ service you had no option but to obey. But if you go on doing such impulsively foolish things I shall begin to think that, after all, the admirable Simonette did not quite finish your education.” He went back to a final sorting of the dispatches on his table. “And in that case, there are plenty of good convents in France,” he added.

It was the usual threat to insubordination—the accepted retreat from any family impasse. And Anne had no desire for la vie religieuse. “What do you propose doing with me, sir?” she enquired docilely.

“I see no reason to change my original plans for the present,” said her father, suavely. “You have always wished to be in the household of the Queen of France.”

Anne sprang up. “You mean Claude?” All that Francis had said about his cousin came back to her. “But she is so strict!”

“She is a very God-fearing woman.”

Anne seemed to have heard someone say those very words about Katherine of Aragon. Incontestably, it was true of both exalted ladies. But why, oh why, couldn’t some of the good people it was her lot to live with be less dull? It had been a long day, and Anne felt older and wiser for its happenings. Perhaps this new worldly wisdom was one of the last and most useful things which France would teach her.