by Tony Riches
Lady Guildford studied her face. ‘You look pale, my lady. Is it seasickness – or is there some other reason you wish to see me?’ Her tone softened, returning to the way she’d spoken when Mary was a girl.
Mary took a deep breath. ‘I worry about becoming Queen of France. John Palsgrave has been helping me understand the ways of the French court but as the time draws closer...’ She twisted the loose gold wedding ring on her finger as she struggled with the words. ‘I cannot rest with worry about my first meeting with King Louis.’ She spoke quickly, her voice echoing in the small cabin. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what I shall do if my new husband… mistreats me.’
Lady Guildford held up a gloved hand. ‘I understand, Your Grace. It is natural for a bride to be anxious about a husband she has never met.’ She smiled. ‘I shall act as your chaperone and help ensure King Louis behaves with proper decorum.’
Mary smiled with relief. ‘It will only be until I become used to his ways.’
Lady Guildford nodded. ‘I have a feeling this will prove an education to us all, Your Grace.’
The storm worsened as the day wore on. Lightning flashed across the ashen sky, followed soon after by the crack and boom of thunder. Blustery winds tossed and pitched the ship in the rolling seas. Mary and all her ladies succumbed to seasickness and took to their beds, while the crew fought to keep them on course.
Mary shivered in fear for her life, the shipwreck of the Great Elizabeth fresh in her mind. She tried to pray for the storm to ease before they reached the rocky coast of France. Curling up on her narrow bunk, she listened to the waves crashing over the deck and the incessant drumming of rain on the roof of her cabin.
After what seemed an eternity, there was a knock at her door and her chamberer, Mistress Anne Jerningham, entered with a cup of warmed mead. Like all of them, Mistress Anne looked pale and dark-eyed after less than a day at sea. Water stained the hem of her silk dress and she’d removed her fashionable French cowl, leaving a linen coif covering her hair.
Weakened by seasickness, Mary knew she must drink to keep up her strength. ‘What news is there of our progress, Anne?’
‘We are not far from France, but...’
‘What is it? Are we blown off course?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Your Grace. I heard the fleet is scattered by the storm, my lady. I think we are alone.’
A deep grinding sound reverberated through the ship, which shuddered like a dying beast. Mary listened for shouts of alarm but heard only a strange stillness. With a jolt she realised the tiresome rocking motion of the ship had stopped. They had run aground.
Pulling her cape around her she joined the others on the deck. The rain had eased a little but a bitter wind took her breath away. Gulls swooped and shrieked overhead and a little way off were the twinkling lights of a harbour. They had reached France yet an expanse of dark water still lay between them and safety.
A tall, well-built man wearing a black leather riding cape over his silken doublet approached her and bowed. ‘Sir Christopher Garnish, Your Grace.’
‘Tell me, Sir Christopher, is that Boulogne?’ Mary looked out towards the seaweed-covered walls of the harbour.
Sir Christopher grinned. ‘It is, my lady. We were beaten by the tide. The captain decided to put us aground, rather than risk the rocks.’ He glanced to where sailors were lowering a longboat. ‘We shall need you to take the boat ashore, my lady, if I might assist you?’
Choppy waves slapped at the side of the ship and cold rain made Mary wish for the shelter of her cabin. Torn between the comparative safety of the grounded ship and the short but risky trip by boat, she studied his face for a moment. He reminded her of Charles Brandon, who’d not even come to see her off from Dover.
Mary made a decision. ‘I shall place my trust in the Lord – and your kind offer of help, Sir Christopher.’
He led her to where the longboat waited, with four sailors ready at the oars. Worried faces lined the rail as they pushed off. Each new wave began to swamp them, making the bow of the longboat rise high in the air before plunging into the trough of the next.
‘There are breakers ahead!’ Sir Christopher shouted. ‘Pull hard men, we must not allow these waves to take us broadside!’
A great wave broke over the boat, soaking Mary to the skin and making her gasp with the shock of cold water. She glanced back at the ship and knew there was no going back. She shut her eyes and said a silent prayer.
As they neared the harbour Sir Christopher leapt into the sea and stood up to his waist, doing his best to steady the boat through the pounding surf. The oarsmen heaved one more time, then he lifted Mary in the air as if she weighed nothing and carried her in his arms, wading to the shore. He didn’t set her down until they were safe on dry land.
He grinned as he looked down at their soaked clothing and the seawater running from his boots. ‘Welcome to France, my lady!’
‘Thank you, Sir Christopher.’ Mary shivered with cold as she looked up at the lights and saw the delegation of curious French nobles already gathering to welcome her. ‘This is not the grand arrival I’d planned, but I’ve never been so grateful to feel solid ground under my feet.’
* * *
It took a week for Mary’s entourage to prepare for the fifty-mile journey south to Abbeville, where King Louis waited. She was saddened to learn that one of Henry’s largest ships, the Lubeck, had been wrecked with the loss of several hundred souls. Four more of her fleet made it to Boulogne and the rest reached Calais and Flanders, from where they were able to join her.
At last, on the first day of sunshine since they arrived, their procession set out with Mary riding a fine white palfrey. Lady Guildford, now fully recovered from the trials of the voyage, rode at her side, and her entire household followed, with wagons laden with her possessions and supplies.
At Etaples they were greeted by dukes and the Governor of Picardy on behalf of the king. Their progress was delayed by a series of long-winded pageants. Mary appreciated the considerable efforts made by the local people to welcome her, the sister of a king who had so recently been their enemy. She was also conscious of the need not to keep King Louis waiting longer than necessary.
The next day as they reached the wooded outskirts of Anders forest a number of mounted men approached them. Their leader rode directly towards Mary. Young and athletic, with a flamboyant ostrich plume in his hat, he dressed in black-and-silver silks and carried a gold-handled sword, low slung on his belt. Mary’s yeomen of the guard were unsure of his intentions and formed a barrier across the road, weapons at the ready.
‘I am Duke Francis, son-in-law of the king,’ he called out in French and studied her with sharp eyes, as if making a judgement. ‘King Louis grows impatient for your arrival, my lady.’
Mary recalled Catherine’s concern that the duke, as heir presumptive, could threaten the delicate peace. ‘Good day to you, Duke Francis,’ Mary called back in her best French and glanced across at Lady Guildford, who nodded to reassure her. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’
The duke rode closer and stared at the line of riders and wagons trailing far into the distance behind her. ‘The king rides with a hunting party, so it is possible he might encounter you, by chance, of course.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘I must return to Abbeville to report your progress, my lady.’ He gave a curt bow from the saddle. ‘I look forward to becoming better acquainted.’
There was something about the glance he gave her that alerted Mary’s instinctive defences. Unless Louis had a son, Francis would one day become King of France. It struck her as odd he should trouble to ride out in person, although she suspected there would be many things the French did that would surprise her.
Ten miles from Abbeville another, much larger, group of riders appeared in the distance. This time, outriders carried the flag of France and, as they approached, Lady Guildford turned to Mary.
‘I suspect this to be the king himself. If I am not mistaken, your moment has come, m
y lady.’
‘Surely he should wait for us to make our entry into Abbeville?’
‘That is how we would do it in England, but it seems everything is done differently here.’
‘What should I say? How should I greet him, Lady Guildford?’
‘My advice is to let him do the talking.’ She smiled. ‘I suspect the king’s impatience has got the better of him.’
They watched as the riders came closer. Mary spotted a figure riding a powerful warhorse, caparisoned with cloth of gold and black silk, flanked by French knights in silver armour with flowing blue capes. Behind him followed several hundred nobles dressed in colourful robes. This was not like any hunting party she’d ever seen in England.
Sir Thomas Howard rode to her side. ‘I recognise King Louis, Your Grace.’ He peered ahead. ‘Would you wish me to announce you?’
Mary nodded. ‘If you will, Sir Thomas.’ Her dry throat muted her words and she glanced again at Lady Guildford for reassurance. ‘Please convey apologies for our delay.’
They watched as Sir Thomas rode ahead and saw him nodding as he addressed the king. Henry chose the earl as his representative for good reason. As well as his impeccable French, he was an experienced commander and proving to be a skilled negotiator and diplomat.
Mary steadied her horse as the king approached, not sure if she should remain in the saddle or dismount. At last, after all the waiting, she would meet her new husband. She took a deep breath and attempted a smile, then on an impulse raised her hand to her mouth and blew him a kiss, as she’d done to greet her father so many years ago.
The king seemed confused for a moment, then grinned and raised his hand to blow her a kiss in return, before riding up to her and bowing his head. ‘We welcome you to France, my queen.’ He spoke in French, with a cultured accent, and his blue eyes fixed her with an intense, piercing stare.
As she feared, Mary found herself unable to recall her rehearsed words of greeting. King Louis had a deeply lined face and looked older than she’d imagined. Although not as pockmarked as she’d heard, she found herself wondering why he chose to remain clean-shaven when a beard would hide the disfiguring scars.
A large fly buzzed noisily around her horse’s head, breaking the silence. She swallowed hard and returned his bow.
‘My husband. I have waited so long for this moment.’ It was true.
Louis smiled, revealing a few blackened teeth and reminding Mary of her father. ‘You are more beautiful than I hoped, my lady. I give thanks to God for your safe arrival.’ He urged his horse closer as he spoke, then leaned across and embraced her, placing a kiss on her lips.
‘I feared for your safety in the storm. There were reports of shipwrecks.’ He remained close as he spoke, his sharp eyes appraising her as if she were some precious jewel offered for sale.
Mary struggled to compose herself. ‘Two of our ships were lost, Your Grace.’
Louis nodded. ‘We trusted in the Lord to deliver you to us – and now we must be married in the sight of God.’ He raised a hand and beckoned one of his followers.
Mary was surprised to see Duke Francis ride forward. He seemed less arrogant in the presence of the king and acted more like his servant than the heir presumptive. Again, the duke bowed his head to her but this time there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke in accented English.
‘King Louis has given me the great honour of escorting you to Abbeville, my lady.’
Mary returned his smile. Despite Catherine’s warning, she saw Duke Francis as a useful ally in this strange land. ‘Thank you, my lord duke,’ she replied in English. ‘I shall be glad of your company.’
King Louis bowed once more and returned to his hunting party, which rode off as quickly as they’d arrived. Mary turned to Lady Guildford and saw her nod of approval. The first test had been passed. Now she must learn to become a queen.
* * *
Sir Thomas Howard brought Mary’s entourage to a halt a short way from the gates of Abbeville. ‘Curse this rain, will it never stop?’
Mary knew she wasn’t intended to hear but looked up to the brooding skies. There was no break in the rainclouds and she shivered in a chill breeze. Jane Popincourt often told her how she missed the French sunshine but there was little enough sign of it now.
Henry’s plan to provide the French with an impressive show of wealth would be undermined by the rain, which ruined silk dresses and meant misery to those caught without shelter. Mary had intended to ride in her litter, decorated with gold lilies and Tudor roses. Instead, a canopy of cloth of gold was raised on long poles and held high over her head.
They entered Abbeville to a noisy fanfare of her eight trumpeters and the discordant clanging of church bells. Musicians competed with pipes and lutes, drums and songs, creating an atmosphere of celebration, despite the rain.
The procession was led by the town mayor and local dignitaries, followed by the escort of the king’s guard. Behind them marched the captain of the town with two hundred scarlet-clad French soldiers carrying muskets and bows, then Mary’s squires and heralds in green-and-white Tudor livery.
Mary rode her white palfrey, caparisoned with cloth of gold, under her high canopy, supported by four stalwart local men. Duke Francis rode at her side and they were followed by thirty of her ladies-in-waiting, riding in pairs.
Then came the ambassadors, knights of the realm and noble lords, all wearing gleaming chains of gold. The endless line of horse-drawn wagons was followed by the servants of Mary’s household. Two hundred liveried archers, each carrying a longbow and quiver of arrows, marched in pairs at the rear of the procession. Henry would have his show of strength after all.
Mary turned to Duke Francis. ‘The people of the town have turned out in great numbers.’
The duke grinned and replied in English. ‘They’ve been preparing for weeks, my lady. It will take more than a rain shower to stop them having sight of their beautiful new queen.’
Mary carried a white sceptre in her left hand and raised her right, with the loose gold ring on her fourth finger, in acknowledgement to the crowd. Her reward was a rousing cheer, which echoed through the streets. She felt a million miles away from Westminster, the ghosts of Richmond or the scheming of men such as Wolsey.
Her only wish was that the charming, handsome young man now riding at her side was her king, and not the strange man, three times her age, who’d surprised her with his stolen kiss.
8
October 1514
Bright sunlight shone through unshuttered windows and the tuneful dawn chorus of songbirds greeted Mary as she woke. She lay back in her sumptuous feather bed and stared at her unfamiliar surroundings – the grand apartments of the King of France.
Exhausted from her long journey, she’d done her best to remain attentive at the state banquet hosted by Louis. It seemed he wished to impress, with too many courses and overlong speeches which Mary struggled to follow. Then he surprised her by apologising for retiring early and asking Duke Francis to escort her at the evening entertainments.
The ball went on long into the night, an extravagance of music and dancing, fine wine and so many people whose names she would never remember. She smiled to herself at how Duke Francis flattered her with compliments and danced as if they were lovers.
Not yet sixteen, Princess Claude, the duke’s wife seemed oblivious to her husband’s flirtations. Shorter than Mary and a little overweight, the king’s eldest daughter proved understanding and helped her with introductions, explaining and translating for her when she struggled to understand.
Countess Louise of Savoy, the formidable mother of Duke Francis, could not be more different. Mary sensed she could be a threat as soon as their eyes met. The countess spoke in sophisticated French which put Mary at a disadvantage. There was an edge to her words as she wished Mary a long and happy marriage, as if she had good reason to doubt it.
‘I’m afraid you must be dressed now, my lady.’ Her cheerful young maid of honour, Anne Boleyn, e
ntered carrying Mary’s voluminous wedding gown. A fluent French speaker, thirteen-year-old Anne had been sent from the court of Margaret, Duchess of Savoy.
‘Have I overslept?’ Mary rubbed her eyes.
Anne placed the gown on the bed and smoothed it out to prevent creases. ‘We have a little time yet, my lady, although I wonder why your service has been set so early. I’ve never before heard of a wedding taking place at nine in the morning.’
Mary guessed the reason might be her husband’s eagerness but decided to keep it to herself. ‘I heard quite a commotion in the night.’
Anne took her bridal chemise and petticoats and satin sleeves from an oak chest. ‘There was a fire in the town, my lady.’
Mary sat up in bed. ‘Was anyone killed? Were we in danger?’
Anne shook her head. ‘Not that I know of, my lady. The fire was on the other side of the Somme, in the poor quarter.’ She lowered her voice. ‘A maid in the kitchens said half of Abbeville is burned to the ground. It’s a miracle the people escaped.’
‘We must thank the Lord we were all spared, Anne, although I worry they’ll see it as a bad omen.’ Mary looked across at her. ‘Do you think the French are as superstitious as the English?’
‘Let us hope they are not, my lady,’ she held up the fine linen chemise while Mary slipped it over her head, ‘although I think we are more the same than most people would imagine.’
She helped Mary put on a pair of long white stockings and silk slippers embroidered with gold thread, then the white satin petticoats and kirtle, before dressing her in the heavy gown of gold brocade trimmed with ermine. Lacing it at the forebody with a spiral of gold ribbon, Anne tied the satin sleeves into place and stood back to admire the results of her work.
‘It is truly a gown fit for a queen.’ She smiled as she unplaited Mary’s long hair and began to comb it over her shoulders. ‘I feared this day would be ruined by more rain – thank the Lord I was mistaken!’