The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [56]
Then the Duc de Longueville approached the foot of the bed, wearing red hose and boots, which he ceremoniously removed, placing them neatly side by side. Assisted by Wolsey and Brandon, he mounted the side of the bed, lay down beside Mary, and touched her bare foot with his naked leg. He remained in that position whilst the onlookers gazed intently and Archbishop Warham peered over them and solemnly pronounced, “The marriage has been consummated!” The witnesses then broke into cheers and showered Mary and de Longueville with flowers.
De Longueville sat up and began making jokes. “ ’Twas over in less time than a fifteen-year-old, and here I am of an age with His Highness! Were this all one felt, a man would scarcely hurry home from the fields for it!”
Mary, blushing (as befitted a modest bride), rose from the nuptial bed to change into yet a third costume, her ballgown, for the banquet and ball were to follow. The guests flocked to the Banquet Hall while Wolsey, Katherine, de Longueville, and I lingered, waiting for Mary.
“Well done,” I said. “You assisted in the making of a Queen. This wns—that of England and France,” I said, hoping to cajole Katherine. I had pointedly excluded the Spanish ambassador from all these ceremonies, to her anger.
“If only your other sister were here, there would be three Queens,” she answered, irrelevantly. She was determined to be aloof; so be it. I turned to de Longueville.
“You are a free man now. King Louis has paid your ransom.” A fat one it was, too, and I had put it right into my private account. “Although I must say you passed your ‘captivity’ in French style.”
He smiled, and answered my implied question. “Yes. Mistress Popincourt is going with me. I shall install her in my apartments in the Louvre.” De Longueville had, naturally, acquired a mistress during his brief stay with us. I resolved that it was high time I acquired one, too.
Mary joined us, dazzling in a gown of royal blue silk.
Wolsey bowed low. “You shine like the angels painted by the Italian masters,” he murmured. “All blue and gold you are.”
“My Queen.” De Longueville made obeisance.
Mary looked startled. The transformation from Tudor Princess to French Queen had been so swift, and so absolute.
Katherine moved over to kiss her cheek. “Now we are sister Queens,” she said.
Together the five of us entered the Banquet Hall, where all the company awaited us: glowing spots of colour against the creamy stone of the Hall; the candlelight reflecting and magnifying from the gold plate that was displayed everywhere.
Mary was feted again and again, and I led out the first dance with her, Brother King and Sister Queen. I knew we were a stunning sight, our youth and strength and colour making us seem more than mortal. Indeed, I felt myself, that night, to be something beyond an ordinary being, certainly beyond my ordinary self, with all his confines and sensitivities.
Katherine danced only the sedate basse-dances and the pavane, that introductory measure in which all the company paraded their wardrobes. She was now in her eighth month, and all was well. I made sure her thronelike chair was fitted with extra velvet pillows, and that she had a footstool for her swollen feet.
That left me free to dance with whomsoever I pleased, and there were many pleasing women. Katherine’s attendants, particularly her maids of honour, were young and unmarried. Yes, it was time I found a mistress. I had been too laggard in availing myself of a sovereign’s prerogative. Sovereign’s? I looked over at Brandon, smiling at his partner, looking like Bacchus. It was a man’s prerogative. One did not need to justify it on the grounds of rank.
There was winsome little Kate, from Kent, a niece of Edward Baynton’s. She was light as gauze, bright as a butterfly, and as insubstantial. There was Margery, a raven-haired Howard girl, some relation to the Duke of Norfolk, with a big bosom and pudgy fingers. There was Jocelyn, a distant cousin of mine, through my Bourchier relations in Essex. But she was a thin, intense sort,