Charles looked alarmed at this unlooked for confidence. ‘He knows then, of our love? How can this be? I have done nor said anything to rouse his suspicions.’
Mary regretted her latest confidence. She hastened to put matters right. ‘Don’t worry, Charles. He knows nothing. He suspects a great deal, Francis being Francis, but suspicions prove nothing. You will find that little escapes his notice and what he misses his mother or their spies catch between them. He has probably set a few spies on you, too. Have you noticed anyone?’
Charles shook his head, but it was clear the possibility alarmed him and he glanced over his shoulder.
Mary laughed. ‘You are safe enough here,’ she told him. ‘Even Francis would be unable to conceal a spy here.’
Shamefaced, he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject by enquiring after Louis. ‘Does his health improve?’
‘Nay. He weakens every day. The physicians cannot help him. What will become of me should Louis die, I daren’t think.’ Mary bit off any further words. She had forgotten, for Charles’s benefit, that she had minimised Francis’ pursuit of her.
Fortunately, Charles only looked puzzled by her words. ‘What should become of you? You would merely remain in France a little longer before King Henry sent for you. He wouldn’t leave you in France unless you wished it.’
‘He may bring me home, but home for what purpose? Another foreign marriage for the sake of an alliance?’
‘Tis not like you to be so suspicious,’ Charles told her. ‘You have his promise, Mary. Did you not tell me he had agreed to your choosing a second husband yourself should aught befall King Louis? Why should you doubt him now?’
Why indeed? thought Mary. But her time in France had educated her in unlooked for ways on the natures of kings and would-be kings. It seemed they all pursued their own desires. Why should Henry prove the exception? Mary gazed thoughtfully at Charles and asked, ‘Has Henry said anything about it to you?’
Charles had the grace to look uncomfortable as he admitted, ‘Well, he did speak to me privately ‘ere I left England and asked me to promise that I would not seek to wed you should King Louis die while I was here. But that proves nothing.’
‘You think not?’ It was now Mary’s turn to be alarmed. For Charles’s revelation gave a clear indication that, in spite of his solemn promise, Henry had other plans for her. Why else would he extract such a vow?
‘You’re making too much of it. King Henry has much on his mind at the moment. He is anxious about the queen and her coming confinement. You know how he is when she is with child.’
‘Perhaps.’ But Mary wasn’t convinced by Charles’s argument. Why should she be when it was she, not Henry or Charles, who would be packed off to some other foreign court in another state marriage? And as they re-joined the other English ambassadors, Mary’s troubled thoughts were on her future and what Henry might be planning for her.
CHAPTER NINE
At nine the next morning, still troubled by what her brother might, even now, be organising for her future, Mary set off in her golden chaise for Paris, two hours later than Louis, to make her formal entry. She was accompanied by the usual procession. They made a merry throng. Some of the minstrels strummed their instruments as they rode along and a few voices joined in the melody. Mary’s wasn’t amongst them. She was worried by Charles’s revelation that Henry had extracted a promise that he wouldn’t marry her if she became free to wed again. If Henry meant to keep his promise to her, he wouldn’t have extracted such an oath from Charles. Charles’s attempts to smooth over this question was another anxiety. She had been ready to give up a grand marriage, a grand title, everything that the world regarded as important. Yet Charles would not even ask Henry to keep the promise he had made to her.
To her annoyance, Francis again attached himself to her side - this, in spite of the ‘words’ Charles had had with him and, in spite also of his mother’s rebuke. His persistence made Mary wonder if they had made a mistake in all the ceremonies and it was Francis, not Louis, who had married her.
She tried to ignore the many speculative glances she and Francis attracted, but, though she pretended to ignore the watching eyes, it seemed that even her thoughts must be spied upon, for as the procession made its bumpy way over the treacherous wintry roads, Francis kept begging them from her, doubtless hoping he would be favourably mentioned in them. She couldn’t escape him. It seemed nothing would deter him, not even the threat of what Charles would do to him if he didn’t stop. Impervious to threats, insults, rejection, he carried on regardless. And although he attempted to hide his jealousy of Charles, it was clear from the way he kept asking about their friendship that this jealousy existed.
‘I understand the Duke of Suffolk is great friends with King Henry,’ he probed. ‘Tis said they are more like brothers than king and subject.’
Mary nodded. She hoped such a friendship would protect Charles should Francis seek to injure him. ‘Henry and he are bosom friends, my lord. He was brought up with my brothers when his father died in battle defending our father from Richard Crookback,’ Mary told him. ‘My family owe his family a lot.’
‘Just so. But I thought we had settled on my name, Mary. Why am I suddenly ‘my lord’ this and ‘my lord’ that? ‘Tis scarcely friendly.’ Francis pulled a sad face and stroked Mary’s arm through the curtain of the chaise.
Mary drew her arm back and attempted a rebuke. ‘My lord, you must hear the shameful rumours circulating at the court concerning us. If they should come to the ears of my husband, the king, I know not what would be the outcome.’
This provoked laughter from Francis. ‘King Louis has always had the ability not to hear that which he likes not,’ he told her. ‘You will learn that in time, Mary.’
‘Surely, he must listen to that which concerns his honour and mine?’
Francis recommenced his arm-stroking. ‘I do not wish to dishonour you, Mary. I love you too much for that. I would marry you if I could.’
Francis’ easy protestations didn’t impress Mary. ‘But you cannot, Francis,’ she reminded him. ‘That is the dishonour. And what of Claude, your wife? Have you no love for her? She pines for want of your affection, my lord, did you not know?’
Francis’ shoulders shrugged aside his pining wife. ‘Claude and I understand each other. We married for reasons of state, not love. She has her religion to console her. I’m fond of her, she is a sweet-tempered child, but how could I love her with the passion I feel for you when she is as she is? You and I would make a perfect pair.’
‘But we are not a pair. We are each part of separate pairs. Your pursuit dishonours me and reduces my standing at the court. What if Louis were to die? You would have my character so stained, I would never be able to marry again, even should I wish it. It is an odd way to show this love you claim to have for me.’
Mary’s rebuke subdued the normally ebullient Francis. After giving her a solemn, mocking bow, he left her side and rode off to join the other courtiers.
Mary sat back against the cushions of the chaise and wrapped the fur coverlet closer against the winter’s chill. Her upbringing had ill-prepared her for coping with someone like Francis or his unwelcome ardor. But then, who could have known that she would be placed in such a situation?
The long procession reached the gates of St Denis. Mary fixed on a bright smile and pretended a keen interest in everything. As the citizens praised her in song she leaned forward and listened with a show of attention:
“Wake, wake, ye hearts asleep!
All ye allied to English Powers,
Sing Ave Maria.
The fleece of gold, the purple towers,
The eagles, and the lily flowers,
Rejoice in Dame Maria.
Reveillez-vous!
Joy to Lady Maria.”
Mary interpreted the allusions; the fleece of gold was Prince Charles, the heir to Burgundy and the low Countries; the purple towers referred to the arms of Castile; the eagles referre
d to the Emperor’s German banner and the lily flowers were the emblem of Louis, her husband.
She dutifully admired the many pageants as she had at Abbeville. Twilight had fallen before she had viewed them all and made her offering at the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame. By now thoroughly bone weary and chilled, with her breath steaming around her on the November air, Mary would gladly have retired to bed. Instead, she was led by torchlight along the quays of the river to the palace of St Louis. Even here, she knew she would have little respite. As queen, she was as much an exhibit as the banners that welcomed her. Happy or sad, lively or weary, she must act the part demanded of her. She was escorted to her chambers where her ladies fussed around her, readying her for the evening’s banquet where she must sup in public at a great marble table.
As she entered the hall – the Grand Salle – with its huge double nave, reputed to be fully 70 metres long, Mary gazed around her. She saw the many statues of previous kings of France which stood on the eight central pillars and on the responds on either side. Louis had told her of the tradition that these statues of the kings were portrayed with their hands held high if they had been considered kings of valour and with their hands by their sides if their reigns had been undistinguished. Ruefully, he had speculated as to how he would be depicted.
Music from clarion and trumpet had sprung up at her entrance. She was led past the gilded figure of an immense stag to the high table of black, Alsation marble at the west end of the room. It was mounted on a dais of three steps and occupied nearly the entire width of the hall. She was joined by Francis’ mother and sister and the other noble ladies. Once again she was separated from the familiar faces of her now tiny English train. Mary hoped that Anne of France didn’t intend to again publicly attack her as she had after her wedding ceremony and was relieved to discover that, on this occasion, she was saved from the woman’s vitriol as Anne of France was seated too far from her to easily offer more insults.
Fatigued as she was, Mary didn’t have to feign astonishment at the wonders of the cooks’ labours. Course after course was brought to the table and presented to her; a phoenix battered its wings till consumed by fire; a cock and hen jousted and a St George on horseback led La Pucelle against the English. Around her, the French ladies made polite conversation. Louise of Savoy had regained her composure and displayed so little of what must be her true feelings that Mary wondered if she had imagined the look of hatred she had intercepted before. There was certainly no sign of it now as she chatted to Mary of Francis, her beloved son. It was clear his mother and sister were both proud of him; the conversation rarely strayed far from the subject of Francis; his height, his strength, his cultured taste, were all to be gone over and wondered at.
He sounded godlike indeed, Mary thought, to hear his family speak of him. She knew another Francis. And although his sister, Marguerite, naturally shared her mother’s hopes for a still more glorious future for Francis, Mary felt a degree more affinity with her. For Marguerite, too, had lost the love of her life, the gallant young general, Gaston de Foix, who had died bravely at Navarra two years earlier. Marguerite was now unhappily married to the Due d’Alencon; for her there was no hope that she might rekindle her love at some future date. Surprised in view of such a tragic loss, that Marguerite had many amusing views on marriage and its woes, Mary warmed to her.
The interminable evening wore on, but finally, the ingenuity of the cooks ran its course and Mary was able to retire to her chamber. She slept soundly till morning much to her surprise as she was acutely conscious that not one of her difficulties had been resolved.
After Mass, Mary rode to the Hotel des Tournelles, where she was reunited with Louis. They spent the next week receiving the gifts of the guilds of the city of Paris; Mary, always emotional and now living very much on her nerves, struggled to conceal the woman beneath the public face of the queen.
Excitement at court mounted steadily during the following week as the long-awaited joust approached. Even Mary managed to thrust aside her troubles. She looked forward to watching Charles as he took on the pride of the French: Bourbon, Lorraine, St Pol, Aragon The Bastard, Lautrec, Bayard and the rest. Maybe he would be matched with Francis and give him the thrashing he thoroughly deserved.
She knew Charles was keen to meet him in the lists; he had no high opinion of Francis’ abilities, thought him a conceited fool with an overly-indulgent mother.
Whether Charles was right about Francis’ jousting abilities Mary had to concede that he had done a good job organising all the ceremonies, in spite of the appalling weather which threatened to make a damp squib of his efforts. Mary had never seen such a place for rain as Paris and hoped it wouldn’t stop the spectacle. But Francis seemed determined that the weather was not going to wreck all his arrangements and he ordered the floor of the lists to be strewn with sand.
Gold and silver, flowing like a sparkling torrent, changed hands as fast as the rain came down. The armourers and tailors and other tradesmen could scarcely count their money it came in so fast. Each contestant was determined to outdo the rest and some were so determined on this they all but bankrupted themselves. Francis seemed more determined in this than any. Mary guessed he must be deeply in debt to the money-lenders - or his mother - as his garments were magnificent: cloth of gold covered with cloth of silver, with trappings of cloth of gold and crimson satin for his horses. Mary was upset to see that he flaunted the white and green Tudor colours, as though determined to further arm the scurrilous tongues of the gossips. Charles, at least, had shown discretion and like the other English jousters wore the red cross of St George over his armour.
Louis, although his health was poorer than ever, insisted on being carried out to watch the jousting, his expensive silks sagging on his bony frame and causing more hostile, accusing gazes to be directed Mary’s way.
Beside Louis under the canopy as they waited for the jousting to begin, Mary bit back a sigh. What did people expect of her? Did they think she should adopt Louis’s previous habit of early retirement? She was eighteen, not eighty, it was unreasonable to expect her to retire to bed at six of the evening. Besides, she needed to tire herself out in order to sleep, otherwise she would toss and turn half the night, weighed down by all her worries about what future her brother was planning for her. It wasn’t even as if she had any say about the banqueting and festivities; the same demanding schedule of ceremonies would be required whatever the identity of the woman crowned Queen of France. Charles and the other ambassadors had comforted her with the reminder that time itself would call a halt to the late nights. Once the joust was over all the formal coronation ceremonies and celebrations would largely come to an end, life would become quieter and Louis could once again take to his bed at a reasonable hour.
Mary, too, would be glad of some quiet time. Perhaps when the joust ended she and Louis could retire to some peaceful chateau to rest and recover. The only drawback to such a plan from Mary’s point of view was that the rest might strengthen Louis’s body sufficiently to encourage him to seek her bed once more. Mary was dragged from this unappealing prospect by a fanfare of trumpets so loud it even drowned the noise of the partisan crowd as the joust competitors assembled.
The atmosphere was thick with antagonism between the French and English, an antagonism undiminished by the supposedly friendly nature of the contest. Mary, as the newly-crowned Queen of France, knew her behaviour would be scrutinised even more – for partisanship now – as well as for all the other reasons. She was thankful that, even if his passion for her had in no way diminished, Francis’s persistent attentions to her had ceased. And although he defiantly wore the Tudor colours, it seemed he had finally paid heed to the wise counsel of his mother, Charles and others, though it didn’t prevent his jealous looks whenever she gazed at Charles in all the splendour of his manhood.
Francis’ simmering antagonism brought a growing feeling of unease. Had he hatched some plot to injure her love to punish him for the sin of having her l
ove? Mary wanted to shout a warning to Charles, but she knew he would never hear her above all the tumult. She just had to sit and wait with the rest, tending patiently to the invalid Louis’ demands for her attention, while worrying about what Francis might have planned.
Her tension increased as the noise from the crowd of onlookers grew. Everyone, it seemed had their own favourite and shouted their preference at the top of their voice. Mary’s head began to hammer. She began to feel a little sick. And as she took in the brightly-coloured banners, limp from the rain, her dread of the outcome tightened her throat till she could barely swallow.
No one else seemed concerned as to whether murder might be done. Even the wretched weather hadn’t dampened the crowds’ appetite for blood. Charles, of course, was in the thick of it. And as each day passed, Mary’s pride in his feats of arms battled with her fear that some harm would come to him. Each time he entered the lists she feared it would be his last. Each time he acknowledged the cheers of the crowd as he gained yet another victory, Mary worried that his triumphs would only earn him more of Francis’ enmity.
She remembered how she had boasted of the valour of her countrymen to Francis. Now she wished she had not. Because she had been thinking of Charles’s valour. Francis would be in no doubt about that by now. What must he be thinking as, with each succeeding hour, each succeeding day, of the three-day contest, her countrymen proved their overwhelming superiority? The atmosphere had grown increasingly tense, the antagonism in the lists fiercer and more vicious as each participant remembered old scores to be settled for family, honour and country. One Frenchman had already been slain and countless horses. Another Frenchman had been mortally wounded and looked likely to die, though as he had near killed one of the English lords, Mary couldn’t feel too distressed about it. She had forgotten her earlier determination to show no partisanship. Queen of France she might be, but her cheers now rung out loudly for her homeland and her love.
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 13