Chapter Twenty-One: Feeling Useful

Charles Brandon expected the young queen to be nervous and scared, or perhaps just cold and stiff. Much to his surprise, Mary Tudor proved to be a natural.

"Oh, yes. Oh, that's splendid! More to the left please. Oh, exactly like that. Oh, that's perfect!" Though refined and very ladylike, the queen's breathless voice betrayed her growing excitement.

"Your Majesty, you have great flair. But it isn't necessary for you to supervise the hall set-up personally. I can arrange the chairs and tables." Charles had to grin at the idea of a duke and a queen fighting over the right way to set up an audience chamber.

"Yes, but if I leave it to you, Your Grace, my subjects will be seated miles away. I want things to be cozy and informal, intimate. Remember, the people of the North are my people!"

"That they are." Charles couldn't help smiling back at the beautiful young queen. Mary had really blossomed in the last few weeks. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Though primly dressed in rustling black silks, the lush-figured little brunette had both dignity and a surprising degree of womanly allure. It was hard to believe how quickly Mary had assumed power, traveling immediately to the north of England where her support was strongest. Watching her take command filled Charles with a yearning, bittersweet satisfaction, a mix of emotions so strong it was almost painful.

The Duke of Suffolk had loved King Henry VIII. The two of them had been close friends since childhood. Yet the changes in the king had brought him much private agony in the past few years. Harry had turned cruel, unpredictable, and almost irrational at times. His accidental death at the jousting tournament had probably been a blessing for England. Yet guilt gnawed at Charles night and day. It was his lance that had slain the king . . .

Shaking off his gloomy thoughts, Charles tried to focus on the pageantry and pomp of the royal ceremonies. The presentations were now in full swing, and everything was going swimmingly. As each great noble of the north came forward, the proud knights and barons bent their knees, kneeling on splendid carpets before the beautiful young woman in black. Yet in every case Mary came forward with both her hands extended, smiling warmly and bidding the nobility to feel at home in her royal presence. And her ladies in waiting swiftly led them to their seats, in a way that made them feel favored and honored, like friends. Like family.

Mary was so good at her new job that she really needed no assistance at all. All Charles had to do was stand behind her throne and marvel at her triumph. His heart was filled with joy, but also sadness. I would have died to protect you, Harry. And I would die now, for this lovely young queen who is so much like you. Yet she has no need of me . . . no need . . . no need . . .

Just then the ceremonies were disrupted by a burst of noise and clamor at the entrance of the great hall.

"Your Majesty! Treason, Your Majesty! Rebellion has broken out in London!" The young squire staggered forward, his riding clothes spattered with mud and his face white with strain and fear. It was obvious that the pale, exhausted royal courier had ridden all night from London. He looked ready to collapse.

"Get him some wine," Charles snapped, instantly taking charge of the situation. There was a time for pomp and ceremony, and there was a time for action.

"Can you speak, dear?" Mary allowed her ladies to settle the young man on a bench, putting cushions beneath his head and giving him wine. A queen couldn't afford to be too hands-on, as much as she might want to be. Yet the moment the poor wretch was settled Mary was standing by his side, holding his hand, talking gently to him like a sister comforting an injured brother.

"It was the Boleyns," the messenger gasped. "Somehow they escaped from the Tower of London. They've got – the Lord Mayor on their side. And the merchants – and the guilds – and the reformers in the church. They seized the Tower two nights ago. The city gates have been shut. The rebels mean to proclaim the baby Elizabeth as queen and declare Your Majesty a traitor!"

"No . . . no, it can't be!" Mary reeled backwards, hearing Anne Boleyn's shrill laughter ringing in her ears. Her cheeks burned, yet her hands and feet were like ice. The room seemed to spin around her, going faster and faster until everything went black.

"Look to the queen, there!" Charles was at her side in an instant. Mary fainted, and the Duke of Suffolk caught her in his arms, feeling useful for the first time all day.