The weather hadn’t improved. The rain made the ground dangerous to man and beast, notwithstanding the daily, generously-sprinkled sand. The cloying mud caused many a fall, but the contest continued unabated with more and more victories going to the English. In the royal stand, beside the supine Louis, Mary stood, clutching the rail, her cheeks flushed, her eyes fever-bright. The clash of lance on armour, sword on sword, reverberated around the arena. Mary cheered till she was hoarse as another Frenchman was knocked senseless. Even the French crowd, witnessing the undoubted superiority of Mary’s countrymen, began to desert their favourites. Their cheers rang out for the English nobles, as time and again, French courtiers fell from their mounts to bury their dignity in the mud. Now their magnificent finery brought not admiration but shouted insults which implied that if they had paid more attention to the martial and less to the sartorial arts they might have put up a better showing.
Mary swelled with pride as she watched Charles, whose crest, rather aptly, was a bull’s head, and her cousin, Dorset, hold the lists against all comers. The humiliation of the French was complete. In spite of her still-lingering fears for Charles’s safety, Mary wanted Charles to know how proud she was of him. She forgot discretion and shouted his name for all to hear. The passions of the crowd had infected her, and made her reckless; as she shouted, her love for the tall and victorious Englishman was beyond concealment. Mary ignored the stares and the comments, amused or condemning of her behaviour, and shouted all the more. Her shame that, earlier, she had doubted the strength of Charles’s love for her, made her shouts ring out the more defiantly, past caring if the entire world knew of her passion for him. Let them all know that the brave and handsome Duke of Suffolk was her love. And for all that people whispered about his lowly birth, with his fine physique, he stood head and shoulders above most of the French nobles. Mary felt that his was the true manliness. Not for him, the endless, meaningless gallantries of the French, with their excessive, promiscuous flirtations. Never had Mary felt her love for Charles so strongly. She would marry him somehow, sometime, on that she was determined. How could she bear to lose him again?
So strong was her pride and love that Mary didn’t conceal her amusement when Francis retired from the lists with a slight injury to his hand, a mere nothing, which sent his mother into hysterics with fear. After what Francis had put her through, after his boasts of the valiant feats he would perform in the lists and after listening to his mother’s boasts about how magnificent was her son, Mary was unable to suppress the glance of scorn she directed at Louise of Savoy. Francis had shown himself in his true colours, her glance said; he was very brave when relentlessly pursuing an unprotected woman, strange then, that this mighty warrior should be so quick to abandon the pursuit of battle when he merely grazed his hand. Mary felt she could be forgiven her thoughts. For once it was good to put aside her worries and give her feelings of love and pride full rein.
By now, there were many injured men. The surgeons were kept busy attending to them. Mary gazed at Charles’s broad back as he temporarily retired from the lists. He had defeated all comers. There were no more noblemen left to be put against him, or, if there were, they had slunk out of sight lest they, too, shared the shaming of their fellows. Exhausted, Mary collapsed into her chair while she awaited Charles’s return to the lists. Her throat was sore from shouting encouragement and she reached gratefully for the cooling wine that Louis handed her.
‘Your countrymen are tremendous fighters, Mary,’ he congratulated her. ‘You must be proud of them.’
Mary held her head high. ‘Yes, they’re fine men,’ she told Louis. Forgetting her queenliness, she demanded eagerly, ‘Did you notice how even your subjects cheered them? But no one could blame them for their desertion of their own nobles.’
Louis pulled a rueful face. ‘Alas, I fear you are right. My countrymen are more partial to the gallantries of the bedchamber than of the lists. Perhaps, after this debacle, they will put aside their swords of passion for those of steel.’
Mary was unable to prevent a comment about Francis’ less than impressive showing. ‘I was surprised to see Francis give up so easily. To retire from the lists with such a tiny scratch. After all his boasting, too.’
Louis gave a sad little nod. ‘He was ever more keen on cutting a fine figure for the ladies than in the joust itself. It has now been brought home to him that clothes alone do not the man make. He and his friends have let your Englishmen bring shame on France.’ To Mary’s secret amusement, Louis’ puny chest swelled and he boasted, ‘They wouldn’t have achieved such an easy victory in my young day. We Frenchmen knew how to fight then.’
Their conversation lapsed as the fighting began again. Mary stood up eagerly as Charles returned to the lists, this time to begin fighting on foot. Her knuckles clenched tightly on the rail as she realised that Francis had, indeed been plotting to harm Charles. Frustrated by Charles’s overwhelming superiority Francis had apparently decided to cut him down to size by sending in an opponent so enormous he dwarfed even Charles’s great height. Desperately afraid that Francis’ guile would succeed in killing Charles where his feat of arms had failed, Mary beseeched Louis to stop the contest. But he would not. Mary could only stand, fearfully clutching the rail with white-knuckled hands as she awaited Charles’s fall.
Charles seized the giant by the neck and gave him a hefty blow. Mary gasped as the giant retorted in kind with an even fiercer blow that sent Charles staggering backwards. Terrified that Charles had been seriously injured, Mary cried out, but Charles climbed to his feet and rushed so swiftly at the giant that his weight carried them both to the ground. Sensing what was behind this battle royal, the shouts of the crowd died away and were replaced by an eerie silence. Mary felt many searching glances in her direction at this reversal of Charles Brandon’s fortune. Pale and trembling, she was beyond concealing her distress and could only watch as blow succeeded blow. Her heart rose in her breast till she thought it would choke her.
It was clear that both men were tiring. But fortunately, Charles found his second wind first and gave his opponent another mighty blow. It signalled the end. The now blood-soaked and battered giant beat a hasty retreat.
Mary collapsed in her seat as a great roar rose up from the crowded stands for the victorious Englishman. Mary, knowing that against such an opponent, her love wouldn’t have got away unscathed, no longer felt like shouting. She wanted only to tend his wounds and check for herself that he wasn’t grievously hurt. For a brief moment, she was tempted to flout convention and go to him. But then common sense prevailed. The courtiers would be outraged if she were to do so. What remained of her reputation would be destroyed by such a revealing action.
So she stayed by Louis’ side, her pretended indifference to Charles’s fate a thing of mere gossamer, as the many knowing glances made clear. Louis, at least, was kindly and magnanimous in defeat. He congratulated her again on the skill and valour of her countrymen. And as the rumours circulated that the giant was no French noble at all, but a German wearing disguise at Francis’ bidding in order to humiliate Charles, he criticised Francis for his unsportsmanlike and cowardly behaviour.
Angered by Francis’ low trickery, Mary resolved to have as little to do with him as possible. Had he not, by insinuating the common German giant into the nobles’ lists, offended against all the laws of chivalry? Mary heard the muttered comments that Francis’ actions had lost him much prestige and was glad. Louis agreed that Francis’ behaviour had shamed all France. And coming from the heir-presumptive, who should guard his country’s honour, made it even more shaming.
As they and the courtiers made their way back to the palace, it became clear the whole court shared their feelings. Even the supremely confident Francis was unable to ignore the murmurs and he slunk off to one of his mistresses to lick the wounds to his pride in private.
After the excitements of the joust, when it ended the court seemed slunk in torpor. And from the heady witnessing of Charle
s’s triumph, Mary was brought down with a bump when Louis, in spite of entreaties from Henry and Wolsey, refused to countenance Lady Guildford’s return to court. But, although disappointed, Mary was surprised to discover that Louis had been right when he had claimed that she would come to enjoy being her own governess. Perhaps she had grown up a little in the interval, for although she missed Lady Guildford’s wise counsel, she missed her stern remonstrances not at all. Now that Francis had been persuaded not to persist in his pursuit of her, Mary found she was beginning to enjoy being her own woman, and the freedoms the situation brought.
Secretly a little ashamed that she was being disloyal, Mary was glad she had ordered such costly gifts of jewellery for her dismissed train. She had been forced to buy the jewellery on credit as her income from her demesne lands had not yet started to come in. It was partly to sort out these matters of her income that Charles and his fellow ambassadors had remained in France after their glorious showing at the joust. Mary thanked God for such problems; they meant her love remained close at hand.
Francis, after his ignominious showing at the joust, was consulted no more by Louis. Instead, it was Mary who sat beside him as he transacted business in his bedchamber. It gave her the opportunity to feast her eyes on Charles.
The court retired to St Germain-En-Laye. Here, Mary and Louis followed a quiet and domestic routine. But for Louis, this peace looked to have come too late. His health had deteriorated alarmingly after he had forced his body through the ceremonies and banquets following their wedding and Mary’s coronation. Mary watched over him anxiously. Although she longed for her freedom so she could marry Charles, she feared what would become of her if - when Louis died. Would Francis, determined to enjoy his kingly power to the full, recommence his pursuit of her? And, with the crown safely on his head, how likely was it that he would be prepared to take no for an answer?
From the way Francis had taken to watching her, from the way he had set his spies over Louis’ bedchamber in order to gain daily reports about his health, it was clear that Francis was convinced the final, ultimate victory would soon be his. Mary’s only consolation was that Charles was still at court. She was pleased that Louis made much of him and insisted on his frequent attendance in the bedchamber. As Mary was also required to spend much of her time with Louis it enabled her to see more of Charles. It also meant that she avoided hearing much of the gossip that circulated about her behaviour at the joust. Now, in place of her name being joined with that of Francis, to her dishonour, it was Charles’s name that was bandied about.
How could it be otherwise? She had been unable to conceal her obvious love for him during the days of the jousting. And while her love for Charles was clean, honest, true, the courtiers raked over it with a salaciousness that further dishonoured her. It pained her that she should be spoken of in the same breath as the wanton Mary Boleyn. The situation did nothing to ease her position or her worries and she feared that now her love for Charles was out in the open some vindictive person would find a way of damaging it beyond repair. That was why, even though she would miss him sorely, Mary felt not a little relief when Charles at last departed for England, even though he carried with him the news of Louis’ still-declining health, which - assuming he hadn’t done so already - seemed likely to prompt Henry to make plans for her future that she would find extremely unwelcome.
Mary found herself watching Louis nervously. He was now her only stay in this foreign land of meaningless gallantry and only too meaningful spite. She had begun to dread his dying, even though she would be free. Free for what? was the question with which she frequently tormented herself. Her position in the immediate aftermath of such an event would be intolerable. With Francis in power and herself at his mercy, protected only by the self-interested protectiveness of his not over-friendly mother, Mary felt like a wounded doe, running from a hunter. In such a situation there could only be one ending.
December wore on, with Christmas being celebrated very quietly. Louis was sinking fast. Mary did her best to comfort him. Somehow he found the strength to jokingly console her that he was about to give her the best present yet—his death.
Exhausted by nervous strain and her almost constant attendance at Louis’ sick-bed, Mary retired to bed on New Year’s Eve. But she was unable to sleep. Full of dark forebodings, she lay in bed listening to the gathering storm and the wind that seemed to howl with a banshee wail through the very rafters of the palace. Finally, towards morning, she fell into an uneasy doze only to waken and sit up in sudden fright when a loud banging resounded on the door of her bedchamber. Francis’ voice called out to her, entreating her to let him enter.
Panicking, believing that her worst nightmare was about to be realised, Mary screamed and leapt from her bed, convinced Francis had come to seduce her at last.
CHAPTER TEN
Common sense quickly asserted itself. Surely even Francis wouldn’t attempt to ravish her in the presence of her Maids of Honour? Gathering her addled wits, Mary fastened a robe about her and bid her ladies open the door.
Of course, Francis hadn’t come to seduce her. He had come – as Mary would have realised if her nerves and wits hadn’t been in shreds – to tell her that her husband was dead and that he, Francis, was now King of France. And although their roles were now reversed Francis went down on his knees to give her queen-ship one last benediction. When he rose to his full height, he looked a king in truth. Strength and power seemed to radiate from him and in a matter of hours he had grown into the role. Mary could see no trace of that meanness of spirit that had led him to attempt to do Charles an injury.
The years of waiting were over for Francis. Now he could afford to be magnanimous. He consoled Mary on her loss as though he meant every word. ‘It was a happy release for him, Mary,’ he told her. ‘Louis had suffered much. It’s a marvel he lasted so long. You must have put new zest into him, for last January, after Queen Anne died, he looked to have little life left in him.’
‘When did he die, my lord?’ Mary, nervous of the swift change in Francis and uncertain how to react to it, kept her distance. Now Francis was king she felt the need for such caution had doubled. And although Louis had done his best to claim it, Mary still retained her virginity—a rare and precious commodity at the promiscuous French court. Now she clung to it as to a talisman, determined that having retained it for so long it should be Charles’s prize and none other’s.
‘He died in the early hours of this morning. One moment he was here, though drifting, the next he was gone.’
‘Why was I not called to attend him, my lord? My duties as his wife—’
Mary had forgotten to call him by his new rank, but Francis made no comment on that. Instead, he smoothly interrupted her. ‘There was no time for it. He passed away so quickly.’ Francis shrugged and told her softly, ‘He hadn’t looked any worse than before, there seemed no need to disturb you.’
His soft tone increased Mary’s wariness. For Francis must now be feeling his power. He was a young man in his prime, the glories of kingship were only just beginning for him. Mary was convinced such an intoxicating elevation would surely go straight to his head - via his loins. She had never felt so alone. Sudden anguish caused her to cry out. ‘What am I to do? Please advise me, my lord, for I know not what is required of me.’ To her surprise, Francis restrained any temptation to lover-like impulses and behaved almost fatherly towards her.
‘Calm yourself, my little Mother,’ he told her. ‘You need do nothing. As your widowhood has commenced you will be required to confine yourself to a darkened room, that is all.’
Mary misunderstood him. ‘You mean to shut me away?’ Alone in a darkened room, she knew she would be truly at his mercy. ‘Have I not withstood enough?’ Mary could hear the hysterical note in her voice, but felt unable to calm herself. The few remaining English Maids in her train tried to soothe her, but they were as young and frightened as she and infected by her hysteria. Never was the wisdom and experience of Lady Guild
ford more needed.
Francis broke through the anxious voices of her ladies. ‘It is nothing to fret about, Mary. It is merely a custom of France and will be only for a short time. It is simply that, once before, a Dowager-Queen gave birth after the death of her husband, so, ever since, to be certain such an eventuality hasn’t occurred, a newly-widowed queen is required to retire for six weeks till it is clear she is not with child. It’s a safeguard, nothing more. You will enjoy the peace and quiet of seclusion after so many excitements. You will not be alone. My mother will be with you.’
The prospect of the antagonistic Louise of Savoy sharing her secluded sojourn did little to comfort Mary. Nor did Francis’ next words.
‘And I will take the time to visit you and try to cheer you.’
Mary shrank at that. She felt she could guess what form his cheering would take. The thought of such seclusion with only his mother for company and the unwelcome visits of Francis to break the monotony was likely to send her mad. She longed for home, but that, too, had its perils. For all that he loved her, Mary knew her brother was more than capable of forgetting his ready promise if it suited him.
Indeed, she feared he had already done so and that once her six weeks’ retirement was over and she had returned home he would swiftly pack her back across the Channel to some other royal marriage and she would suffer the same misery all over again.
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 14