A true innocent abroad, Mary had been astonished to find how full of intrigues and love affairs was the court of France. The younger courtiers followed Francis’ lead and indulged in wild, passionate affairs right under Louis’ nose. It was only Anne of France’s vicious insults at the banquet that followed the French marriage ceremony that made Mary realise she was suspected of following their example with Francis, suspicions further encouraged by Francis’ ungallant failure to deny they were having an affair.
With Louis so ill and retiring Francis had taken more to himself the mantle of kingship. His behaviour was making her increasingly nervous. What had begun light-heartedly enough for Mary, had, for Francis, turned into a deep and abiding passion which no words of hers had been able to cool. And although she tried to keep him at arm’s length, Francis was unused to rejection and simply ignored her pleas that he stop.
He openly caressed her in public and was extremely blatant about his feelings for her, brushing aside her protests with the ease of long practice. His attitude made it clear that - with her protectors gone from the court and her elderly husband so sickly and retiring - he felt there were now none to say him nay. Wherever she went, he pursued her. He would back her against a wall, a pillar or a tree and force kisses on her, his hands fondling her all the while. In spite of his youth, his experienced love-making left her breathless. Mary knew he had mistresses and was determined not to become one of them. Thus far he had stopped short of forcing himself on her. Mary suspected this was simply because Francis’ pride in his lover’s skills would want her willing. But how long he would hold off before he had her, willing or no…
She was only saved from his ardent pursuit by Louis’ desire that she spend much of her time at his side. He liked her to play the lute and sing for him. Mary was glad to do this. At least in Louis’ presence she was safe from Francis’ ardor. She found herself often wishing that Louis’ health would hurry up and improve, for on days when he felt well he would rise and sit late at the supper table to watch her dance with his nobles. He was doing this increasingly, whether he felt well or ill, which only increased the courtiers’ hostility and Mary’s guilt. But whatever she said, Louis was determined, with his later and later hours, to prove to himself, his courtiers and to Mary herself that he was worthy of her, even though he should really be taking it easy and convalescing after his latest attack of gout. She wondered if his determination was sparked by rumours of Francis’ behaviour towards her?
Whether it was or not, at least it seemed unlikely that he believed the gossip circulating in the court concerning her morals, for he continued to shower her with jewels as though convinced they would make up to her for his lack as a husband. Rich rubies, diamonds, emeralds and sapphires went to join the pearls and the Miroir in her jewel-boxes. Never a day went by when he didn’t give her several costly gifts. Mary accepted them in the spirit in which they were given. She felt they were her reward for what she had already lost and for what she was now forced to endure. For not only had she to suffer Francis’ intolerable familiarity and the gossip of the rest of the court, she had also to be in constant attendance on her husband. It was her distasteful task to apply ointments of Deadly Nightshade or Hemlock to his limbs to try to reduce the inflammation. Louis would allow none but her to do this. He claimed no one was as gentle as she, so it became her regular task. He would lie quietly as she rubbed the foul stuff into his misshapen feet, doing her best to hide her revulsion. Louis at least, thought well of her. He was grateful for her ministrations and would frequently declare that no one had such a kind and loving wife as he.
At least no one could say she failed in this wifely duty. For at last, her care of him seemed to have the desired effect. Everything was finally set in motion for the court’s removal to St Denis and her long-delayed coronation.
The courtly train moved slowly, in deference to Louis’ recent travails. They eventually reached Beauvais on their way to St Denis, where they remained for several days for Louis to gather strength for the remainder of the journey. Mary was in attendance on him as usual, when he casually mentioned something that made her catch her breath.
‘We are to have a visitor, my dear,’ he told her. ‘Someone from England. I am sure he will have much news for you from your brother’s court. It will make a pleasant change for you from these onerous nursing duties I put on you.’
‘What is the gentleman’s name, Louis?’ Mary asked. She was increasingly desperate for news from home. Louis told her. Mary’s heart lurched. She couldn’t believe it at first. But when Louis repeated the name, she realised there was no mistake. Charles, her lost love, was coming here. Her first instinct was to rejoice that he would save her from Francis’ intolerable behaviour. But then, as reality hit, her rush of joy drained away. She could never let anyone suspect her feelings for Charles. How she would manage to conceal them from the sharp eyes of Louis’ courtiers, she knew not. She would worry about that later. For now, all that mattered was that she would see him again. It might be her last chance.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since learning that her brother was sending Charles to the French court to speak to Louis about her dismissed English train and other matters, Mary had become very emotional, prone to bursting into tears at the least thing. So as she watched the door open and Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk and the Marquis of Dorset enter Louis’ bed-chamber, Mary was torn between bursting into tears or leaping for joy.
But she could afford neither emotion. She was able to gain some control as they walked to Louis and knelt to pay homage. Louis made much of them, warmly embracing them and bidding them a hearty welcome. She scarcely dared to look at Charles, much less catch his eye. All she could do was glance at him under her lashes, marvel anew at his height and breadth and compare him to the poor aged and gouty husband who had once again taken to his bed.
‘How goes my brother, King Henry, my lord?’ Louis asked Charles. ‘He is well, I trust?’
‘Aye, your Grace. The king is in robust health.’
Mary bit back a fond smile at Charles’s less-than-diplomatic response to her ailing husband. But then he had never had Francis’ smooth courtly skills. Mary thought the better of him for it.
Charles hastened to make good his error. ‘King Henry sends his regards and his thanks for the love you show his sister.’
Even to hear his voice, so strong and manly was like a balm to the sore-pressed Mary. Charles’s gaze had strayed in Mary’s direction as he spoke of her and their eyes locked. Mary looked hastily away. Thankfully, Louis appeared to notice nothing amiss. His next words showed he was more interested in topping Henry’s gracious good wishes than aught else.
‘My Lord of Suffolk, I promise you that if there is anything I can do for my good brother’s pleasure, I shall not spare myself till it is done. Has he not given me the greatest jewel in his kingdom? What more could one prince give another?’
When Louis bade his visitors rise from their knees and greet her Mary sat hardly daring to move a muscle in case it betrayed her. But as Charles repeated Henry’s loving messages, she felt herself blush. To hear words of love on Charles’s lips, even if he was delivering them from another, was something she had feared she would never hear again. It was too much and she swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Daring her emotions to do their worst, she extended her hand for a kiss. Heat raced up her arm as his firm lips brushed her hand.
‘Are you to stay for the joust, my lords?’ Mary asked. She had herself under control now and the tremor in her voice was barely noticeable. ‘I believe it is to be a great spectacle, many of our countrymen are expected to attend.’ Her glance up at Charles was her undoing. Her heart, its feelings concealed for so long, gave a lurch. How handsome he looked. As tall and broad as Henry himself, he towered above her. His manliness made her feel weak and it was as well she was seated or her knees might have buckled under the weight of her feelings.
Still apparently oblivious to the wild tumult of her emotions, Lou
is added his urgings to Mary’s, before beckoning over a page and sending him off with a message for Francis.
Francis was at his most charming when he arrived and assured the English visitors he would be delighted to have them as his Aides for the joust. Ruefully, he said, ‘Her Majesty has told me of the valour of her brother’s nobles and their skill on the field. She thinks I am full of conceit of myself, is that no so Ma Mère?’ Francis raised a reproachful eyebrow at Mary.
She didn’t rise to his bait. ‘The joust will reveal the valour of French and English alike, my lord,’ she told him, ‘better than any protestations you or I can make. Let victory go to the man who has the strength to seize it.’ She raised her chin and gazed challengingly at Francis. But after a few seconds of meeting his gaze, she couldn’t prevent her own from sliding past him to gaze with adoring eyes on Charles. Francis - never slow in matters of the heart - intercepted her glance. His frown and quick assessment of Charles’s face and figure indicated he had guessed where Mary, with that special aura of a woman in love, intended to bestow her favour for the forthcoming joust.
Worried what the jealous Francis’ would do if he suspected the depth of her love for Charles, Mary watched anxiously as Francis took Charles’s arm in a seeming-friendly manner and bore him and Dorset off to supper. Forced to remain and play nursemaid to Louis, Mary could only wonder, as their meal was served in Louis’ chamber, what other discoveries the wily Francis might be making. And although half of her wished to be present to hear what was said, the other half felt relieved to have a few quiet hours. She needed to adjust her composure if she was to bear herself with dignity. At the moment, she knew that concealing her feelings from the intrusive eyes of the entire court would prove impossible.
Mary was saved from possible self-betrayal because Charles and the other English visitors only remained for the one day at Beauvais with the court before Francis and the other young courtiers persuaded them off on a hunting trip. She wouldn’t see Charles again till they met up with the court at Paris. And, much as she longed to see more of her love, the circumstances of the situation urged discretion. If Francis hadn’t already guessed the situation between her and Charles, his inquisitive nature would not be long in coming to the correct assessment if he saw the two of them together more frequently.
It made her angry, bitter at the fates and her brother and all that made such a mockery of their love that she must keep it not only silent but secret, as if it were something shameful. When she longed to shout about it from the rooftops.
Fortunately, Mary hadn’t time to dwell on such thoughts for Louis claimed her attention. He was excited about the joust and frequently cursed the gouty limbs that prevented him from taking part; Francis wasn’t the only one who wished to shine in her eyes. Poor Louis, he had to rely on his gifts of costly jewels to do his shining for him.
As he told Mary, all his good fortunes seemed to come too late; his kingship when too old and his beautiful wife when too sick. He felt he had never been able to properly enjoy either. Mary knew how deeply he envied her brother who, although he as yet lacked a male heir, just like Louis, had not only time enough to get one, but also had handsome looks and the vigor to enjoy his good fortune to the full.
Beside her, Louis’ sigh made Mary wonder uneasily if he was thinking of trying again to at least best Henry in one thing - the getting of a male heir. But she didn’t dare to mention the issue in case Louis felt obliged to take up the challenge. His health was a safer topic, so Mary decided to interpret his sigh as pertaining to mere mundane physical matters and asked him if he was ailing again.
He denied it. ‘I was just wishing I had my youth back again.’ He gave Mary a rueful smile. ‘I wish to impress you too, you see.’
Touched, she tried to console him with a gentle reminder. ‘But if you had your youth back you wouldn’t have me. So you wouldn’t be able to impress me - which you do, anyway, with your many kindnesses.’
‘Ah, the logic of youth. So direct and to the point. But you speak truth, ma belle. I must thank God for my many blessings, of which you are the greatest.’
For all his words about counting his blessings, Louis still sounded wistful and although Mary didn’t love Louis she had come to like him well enough and she tried again to offer some consolation. ‘Skill at the quintain and the butts aren’t the only attributes to be valued in a man,’ she told him. ‘A warm heart also has value.’
Louis smiled tenderly at this. ‘You speak kindly to an old man, little wife. But you are young and naturally admire the gifts of youth.’
Mary, thinking he, too, had correctly interpreted her glance at Charles, hurried to deny it. But Louis simply shook his head at her denials. ‘Tis the way of the world, Mary. Youth is stirred by youth. ‘Tis natural. I am not chastising you, my love. You are right to admire your friends from England. I want you to enjoy life to the full. I am an old man, I have had my life and my youth with all its joys. How could I deny you a little innocent amusement?’ He chuckled. ‘I enjoyed my youth to the full and my pleasures weren’t always very innocent.’
Startled, Mary wondered whether he was subtly giving her permission to indulge her physical passion for Charles. She didn’t know what to say, but thought it best to say nothing in case she had read his message wrongly.
‘I know it must be difficult to believe, Mary, but I, too, had my share of amours, much as Francis does now, in his youth.’ Louis gazed fondly at her. ‘I hope he isn’t too gallant with you, my dear. I’ve noticed him looking at you and have to admire his taste. My poor little daughter, Claude, has nothing to offer a man like Francis; only the wealth she shall inherit when I die. Unlucky girl, neither of her parents was blessed with beauty.’
‘But Claude has many good qualities, Louis. She is kind and loving, like her father and she has the sweetest disposition.’ Too sweet for her own good, Mary thought. Poor Claude, to be married to a man like Francis. And even though their marriage, like her own, had been made for reasons of state, poor fat, plain, deformed Claude loved her philandering husband deeply. It was too cruel. Claude had the man she loved but he didn’t love her and Mary loved a man she couldn’t have. Mary was only sorry that her own thoughtless behaviour and Francis’ passion for her should cause Claude more heartache.
Since Louis had mentioned Francis’ interest in her, Mary seized the opportunity to confide in him and get him to put a stop to it and thereby save both Claude and herself from further distress. But after a few faltering sentences, she realised that Louis hadn’t intended to invite her confidences or complaints, much less put a stop to Francis’ pursuit of her. It was clear he didn’t really want to be bothered. His poor health gave him no energy for anger or jealous passion. Anyway, she knew that any emotional upset had a detrimental effect on his health. He had spoken earlier about getting up from his sick bed; she didn’t want to be the cause of setting back his recovery. If she did it would mean she would once more be at Francis’ mercy and be on the receiving end of more acid criticism from the courtiers.
As though to console her for failing to champion her, Louis reached for a box at his bedside and proceeded to shower her with yet more gifts. ‘At least, in this, I can beat Francis,’ he told her. ‘He is not in a position to shower anyone with jewellery. His mother holds the purse strings. He has little money of his own; nor will he have till I oblige him by dying.’
But it seemed that, for the time being at least, Louis had put aside thoughts of death. He kissed and caressed her and took his pleasure on her as much as his ailing manhood would allow. Mary bore his roaming hands with as much stoicism as she could muster, shutting out Louis’ face and replacing it with that of Charles. Though she couldn’t help but wonder how much longer the situation would endure and whether one day soon Louis would regain his manhood and set seriously about getting himself a male heir. Or whether the demanding and increasingly reckless Francis would force himself on her and beat Louis to it, as his mother feared.
Travelling i
n easy stages, the court finally arrived at St Denis at the end of October. Louis recalled the English ambassadors and was closeted with them for hours.
Mary knew that Louis and Henry were planning a meeting and the details were still being haggled over. She was excluded from their meetings and had, instead, a far more daunting task; that of greeting Francis’ mother, Louise of Savoy, who had returned to court to witness Mary’s coronation. Francis had told her that his mother had retired from the court because in her ambitions for him she couldn’t bear to watch the way he pursued Mary, thereby risking his own future as well as that of his family.
At thirty-eight, Louis of Savoy still retained her youthful good looks and the light auburn of her hair. Slim, in spite of her pregnancies, unlike Henry’s poor Catherine, she carried herself proudly and wore an air of gravity, which Mary tried hard to emulate. Although she greeted Mary politely and made homage to her as queen, Mary was conscious of her slate-blue eyes as they rested on her belly and the snap of satisfaction they wore as she studied its flatness.
Louise of Savoy was gracious, but Mary sensed the undercurrents, knowing their cause only too well. How could Louise not feel antagonistic towards her when any pregnancy of Mary’s could oust her beloved Francis from the succession? Her spies, too, would have informed her that Francis still continued his dangerous and foolhardy wooing. Mary could guess at what Louise would feel should Francis press his intentions to the ultimate and succeed only in costing himself the throne.
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 11