Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII

by Geraldine Evans

  However strongly-felt was her desire to please her father, her desire to please Francis was clearly even stronger. Mary wondered what heartbreak lay in store for the crippled and vulnerable Claude. ‘Even so, she said gently, ‘you must take care of your health. You do not want to be unwell for the ceremonies.’ These would be an ordeal and would tax the resources of the strongest, Mary knew. She turned back to Francis and asked, ‘Do we bide here for a while, my lord?’

  Thankfully, Francis confirmed it. ‘Yes, you may rest for a few hours,’ he told her. ‘You must be fresh for the night’s dancing. I intend to claim a lot of dances.’

  Mary laughed and turned to Claude, ‘Your husband is very gallant, is he not, Claude?’ She called to mind her own gouty and black-toothed husband, and added enviously, ‘You are fortunate to have such an entertaining husband.’

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ Claude answered uncertainly.

  ‘Oh Claude doesn’t find me amusing at all,’ Francis told Mary. ‘She thinks I am wicked and blasphemous. Claude is very religious,’ he explained to Mary. ‘And spends a lot of time on her knees—doubtless praying for me.’

  Mary smiled. Francis certainly offered light relief after thoughts of Louis. She had but a few days before she must endure more than sickening kisses from her husband. Her sad thoughts must have shown on her face, for Francis was instantly attentive.

  ‘Such sad looks, my pretty Mother. Why so?’

  Unable to explain they were caused by distaste for her husband, Mary merely smiled. But even the demands of diplomacy allowed a young girl a few pangs of homesickness and she was able to excuse her sad looks by expressing wonder as to whether she would ever see England again.

  ‘We must make her forget that damp country, Claude,’ Francis instructed, mock-sternly. ‘I will consider it my duty to help you achieve the necessary amnesia, Mary, if thoughts of England make you sad. France is your home now,’ he reminded her, ‘and we your family.’ He drew her to him and kissed both her cheeks, then insisted his young wife do the same. ‘Now it is my turn to look sad,’ he said, ‘for I must leave you to rest. Till this evening, my Mother. Claude.’ Francis swept low and backed out of the room.

  Mary, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry at his departure, smiled at her daughter-in-law in and said, ‘Come along, Claude, ladies. Let us relax for a while. I shall want plenty of energy for the ball tonight.’

  Once in the bedchamber, Claude, Mary and their ladies quickly undressed one another and spread themselves around the room to rest. The streets were still noisy from the shouts of the excited populace, however, and sleep was impossible. They chatted desultorily, Mary taking the time to learn more of her new family. The young Madame Claude was rather shy and Mary worked at drawing her out. Claude still looked far from well and Mary asked her, ‘What ails you, Madame?’

  ‘I get pains in my stomach and legs that make me feel sick, Your Grace,’ Claude explained. ‘The physicians are reluctant to put a name to this illness.’

  Lady Guildford snorted at this. ‘They usually are,’ she commented dryly. ‘When I was last ill, they clucked around me like a bunch of old hens. They bled me here and bled me there, till they thought me sufficiently weakened to put up with more of their torture. But I rallied despite them and cleared them all out and cured myself with herbal concoctions. I’ve not been ill since,’ she added with satisfaction.

  ‘Tis a pity we do not all have your constitution, Mother,’ said Mary, with a wry smile at Claude. ‘Perhaps you could make up a potion to help Madame Claude.’

  Lady Guildford glanced at this young lady’s overweight body and pale face and said forthrightly, ‘What Madame Claude needs is fresh air, exercise and some good, plain food. Rich cooking is not good for young people.’ Having given her opinion, Lady Guildford leaned complacently back against her pillows.

  ‘Take no notice, Claude, ‘Mary whispered to the embarrassed-looking Claude. ‘My Mother Guildford is not nearly as fierce as she sounds.’

  Claude smiled uncertainly at this and ventured a comment. ‘My father must be very happy in his choice of bride, Your Grace. You’re very beautiful.’

  Mary was touched. She felt honour-bound to find a compliment in return. ‘You’re very kind. The King, your father, was most gracious when we met on the road and gave me a hearty greeting.’ Mary’s lips curled at the memory, but she forced herself on. ‘You give me courage for all the ceremonies that lie ahead. I fear they will be an ordeal, especially as my French is not as practised as I could wish.’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry, Your Grace,’ Claude told her. ‘You can’t fail to please the court and the people. I’m sure you already please my father. You will find him a kind and generous husband, I’m sure. He and my mother were very happy together.’ Claude’s voice trembled, though whether this was caused by the loss of her mother or her anxieties about her own marriage, Mary couldn’t tell.

  She assumed the former and tried to comfort her. ‘I, too, lost my mother young. I wasn’t quite seven, but I can still just remember her gentleness. We can be as sisters,’ Mary told her. ‘There are only a few years between us, after all.’ Mary’s curiosity got the better of her and she tried to draw Claude out further. ‘Have you been married long, Claude? You are still very young.’

  ‘Oh, no, Madame. Francis and I were married in May, though we were betrothed at my father’s wish, long ago, when I was seven and he twelve.’

  ‘Don’t you think it strange, Claude—here we are, both new brides, made kin by my marriage to your father, and yet we were both, in turn, promised to the young Prince of Castile? Indeed, I was to have been finally married to him this year.’

  ‘Yes, Madame. It was my mother’s desire that I should marry Castile’s prince, but as my parents had no son the people were against it. They didn’t wish their princess to be married out of the realm. So when my mother died, my father pushed through the marriage to Francis.’

  Their dishabille and enforced intimacy had loosened the bounds of formality and Mary found herself asking, ‘Are you happy with Francis? Is he a kind husband?’

  Claude’s reply was sadly revealing and uncharacteristically worldly. ‘He is as kind as most husbands, Madame. I’ve become very fond of him, though with his charm he could have married any. I was fortunate he wasn’t a stranger. If God had granted my father sons, I would have been married far from my home.’

  ‘Like me.’ Mary wasn’t aware she had uttered her sad thought aloud, till Claude moved closer, took her hand and smiled sympathetically. ‘Don’t be sad, Your Grace. I know my father is very aged, but I promise you he will love you. Indeed, I’m sure he must be delighted with you and eager for the nuptials.’

  Mary wished she were half as eager as her bridegroom. But she forced the thought down and said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, ‘I’m sure we can get to love one another as husband and wife should.’ She told Claude about the cumbersome gown etiquette demanded and how sympathetic Louis had been. ‘I was grateful for his kindness. It is a marvellous thing in a husband.’

  Claude nodded as though Mary had revealed a great truth. They fell silent after that. Outside, the noise seemed to have dimmed. Perhaps the citizens had shouted themselves hoarse. Now Lady Guildford’s gentle snores could be heard. The two girls looked at one another and giggled.

  After a while, Claude excused herself. She was the hostess, as she explained, and had to go and oversee the preparations for the ball.

  A little later, Mary and her ladies bestirred themselves in turn. After being served a light meal, they called for water and scented linen and started to prepare themselves for the evening’s festivities. The indefatigable Lady Guildford bustled about in her usual efficient manner, chastising the servants and bossing the Maids of Honour, until all was done to her satisfaction. Mary knew she was determined to ensure her entrance to the ball gave the French nothing to criticise.

  Although her mirror told her she was still a little pale, Mary felt more relaxed than she
had for days and bore her ladies’ ministrations with patience. At last, dressed in a magnificent gown of white cloth of gold with matching head-dress, she slipped a simple necklet of beaten gold about her throat and gazed in the glass at Lady Guildford. ‘Will I please the King and his court, think you, Mother?’ she asked, anxious now that the moment of her presentation was at hand.

  ‘The more fool them if you don’t,’ Mother Guildford retorted. ‘Though your jewellery is too plain. We would not wish the French to think us paupers.’ She picked up a magnificent diamond and emerald necklace from the jewel casket and replaced the simple necklet. ‘Your flaxen beauty will outshine all the cloth of gold in the place, child.’ Lady Guildford’s face shone with proprietary pride as she studied Mary. ‘Are you ready, Your Grace?’

  Mary straightened. She held her head high and nodded.

  The ball was a glittering affair. The nobles of France had turned out in force to see her. And as Francis escorted her up and down the lines of nobles waiting to greet her, she was vain enough to be pleased at their response. Each glance told Mary she looked beautiful. The knowledge put a becoming colour in her cheeks and a new-found confidence in her step.

  The courtiers, elegant in their brocades, silks and cloth of gold, made a shimmering spectacle in the candlelight. And as the flames flickered over the fire and ice of rubies and diamonds Mary was glad Lady Guildford had made her replace the simple necklet. The scene brought a poignant reminder to Mary of her last nights in England, but she forced such thoughts aside. She couldn’t lose herself in memories tonight. She came to herself just as Francis led her up to yet another dazzling courtier. She smiled as she recognised San Severino who had accompanied Francis when he had met her on the road. San Severino’s costume of cloth of gold lined with superb sables outshone everyone in the room. He told her of the difficulties such elegance had put him through. The material had only arrived from Florence the day before, he explained. The tailors had had to toil all night to finish, but he had been so determined to impress her that he had begged, pleaded and finally bullied the tailors till it was ready.

  Mary laughed at his delight and knew she had gained another admirer. She finally came to the end of the long line of courtiers. Francis led her to the top of the hall to the king. Seated on a great chair of state, he greeted Mary warmly before signalling for the musicians to strike up. The crowd moved to the edges of the room as Francis led Mary on to the floor to start the ball. Louis led Claude and soon the room was filled with colourful dancing figures.

  Francis, as Mary had expected, danced with ease and grace. She couldn’t help but compare him with Louis, whose dancing days were over, even though he stepped out bravely enough with his daughter, as eager to shine in her eyes as any even though his gouty limbs made him ill-equipped for the task. Bravely, masking whatever pain he felt, he took to the floor twice with Mary. But it was quickly apparent what this exercise cost him. She was thankful, for his sake, when with a pretended unwillingness, he gave leave to his young nobles to claim her hand so that he could retire to his chair to rest.

  Mary had felt it kinder to dance very sedately with Louis out of consideration for his gouty limbs. But she loved to dance and once her hand was claimed by one after another of Louis’ young nobles, she began to enjoy herself. Francis claimed many dances, whispering compliments all the while. The hall was hot and Mary had drunk more wine than usual in an attempt to drown the thought that on the morrow she would be wedded and bedded with Louis. The hateful thought made her reckless. She smiled at Francis’ compliments, laughed gaily at his risqué sallies and danced more dances with him than a modest bride should. But tonight, she didn’t care. She ignored her Mother Guildford’s admonishing eye. Determined to forget what awaited her, if only for one night, she responded flirtatiously to Francis’ blandishments.

  Encouraged by Mary’s wine-heady gaiety, Francis became bolder, touching her whenever he had occasion during the dance, searing her with heated glances from his glittering dark eyes all the while. Mary, her head turned by all the admiration she had received, far from home and separated from the man she loved, was filled with an even greater recklessness and encouraged Francis’ attentions all the more. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself before Louis claimed her for himself? she thought. Francis was young, like her, outrageous and amusing. He took her mind off the many things she did not wish to think about. She felt drunk not only with the wine, but also with the many conquests she knew she had made that night.

  She was conscious of her aged bridegroom; his dull, yellowed eyes watched her all the while. She shivered and flung herself with even more abandon into dancing and enjoying herself, ignoring the tiny voice of caution that warned she might pay for her recklessness. Tonight she didn’t care. She didn’t care, either, to remember Lady Guildford’s advice that she should be careful of Francis. He might be only twenty, she had said, but he was already an accomplished seducer.

  Mary had scoffed at this, saying that Francis wouldn’t dare to try to seduce her. Was she not the Queen of France and his mother-in-law?

  Lady Guildford had replied that Francis was a young man who would dare much, especially for such a conquest as Mary. That she was his Queen and married to King Louis would be more likely to spur him on than otherwise.

  Mary forgot Lady Guildford’s counsel and the eyes full of reproof each time she danced past. She had been forced to sacrifice the love of her life, so why shouldn’t she console herself in pleasurable dancing? The admiration she had received had gone a long way to bolstering her confidence and had resigned her a little more to the French marriage. She let herself hope that a Louis so easily tired by a few dances would be happy just to have her as a companion. He might even be relieved that his young bride expected nothing more from him. The sight of him looking so old and worn encouraged this hope.

  The evening’s gaiety continued far into the night, lit by the flames from the candles and the fire they sparked from Francis’ eyes.

  Across the river, in the poorer quarters of the town, other flames were flickering, concealed from the court by the thickly curtained windows. A small fire had started in one of the many wooden hovels. Increasingly high winds fanned the flames till they had consumed a large part of the district. The flames spread with terrifying speed and the people ran about hysterically hither and thither in their panic to escape the all-devouring flames. Their homes destroyed, many were lucky to escape with their lives and the rags on their backs.

  Others weren’t so fortunate. Their cries for help went unheard. The King’s pleasures were not to be disturbed, so the tocsins were forbidden to ring to summon the desperately-needed help. Mary danced on, happily unaware of this latest tragedy her arrival in France had brought.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mary opened her eyes to greet her wedding day. The ball and its pleasures forgotten, she remembered only the importance of her new role. As her brother and Wolsey had impressed on her, not only was she now Queen of France, she was the first English princess to carry the title since the Norman Conquest over four hundred years before. That she was to be married on the day of St Denis, France’s patron saint, imbued the day not only with an historical significance, but a saintly one, also, and added to the weight of expectations of her.

  Nervously conscious of what would be expected of her, her anxieties weren’t helped by the fact that her limbs felt heavy and reluctant and that her head swam from the quantity of wine she had unwisely drunk the night before. Mary consoled herself with the thought that she was unlikely to be the first Queen of France to greet her formal wedding day suffering from a gueule de bois after drinking too much wine.

  There was no escaping it now. The day had already begun. Mary forced herself from the bed as she heard muffled whisperings beyond the bed-curtains. It was still early, but the day was bright and made her blink. Now, with the realisation of the onerous ceremonies the day would bring, and the reckoning for the previous night’s pleasures called in, she wished her dancing
had been a little less abandoned, her drinking more abstemious. But the ball had gone on till late and yesterday, she had been only too willing to give herself to its pleasures. No doubt Lady Guildford would tell her such regrets were the result of foolish self-indulgence and that if she had paid heed to her wise words yesterday she would have retired earlier to be fresh for today. It didn’t help that the lady would have the right of it.

  Mary and her party had been lodged on the corner of the street leading from the Castle of Ponthieu to the Rue St Giles. A temporary gallery had been made to connect it to the Hotel Gruthuse, the king’s quarters. But as Mary glanced out of the window, she saw that a pall of dark smoke hung in the sky across the river. On questioning her ladies, she was appalled to learn that a small fire started during the previous night’s ball had spread rapidly, fanned by strong winds. And when she asked why she had heard no warning tocsins, she learned that the king had given orders that nothing was to disturb the ball in her honour. This second bad omen cast an even darker pall over her wedding day than had the smoke from the fire. Mary gazed at the blackened and gutted buildings, whose skeletal fingers seemed to point accusingly at her. ‘You mean I danced whilst others were dying?’ Like Nero and his fiddle, she thought. Twice now, people had died because of this marriage; once by water in the shipwreck of The ‘Great Elizabeth’ and this time by fire. Mary wondered, if a third tragedy occurred, what force of nature would bring it about? Should she expect an earthquake next? Some dreadful disease? Fearing the answers should she pose these questions, she forced herself to ask another. ‘How many were killed in the fire?’

  ‘Not many. Most escaped,’ Lady Guildford assured her, before she added, less reassuringly, ‘but a few unfortunate babes and children lost their lives.’

  Mary was beginning to think her marriage to Louis was truly cursed. How could it be otherwise? she reasoned, when her arrival in France for the ceremony had brought about the loss of so much life? She repeated her previous thought aloud. ‘It is a bad omen. Another one.’