‘Never. Not again.’ Mary had had enough of these men and their cold talk of duty. ‘I’ll not listen to any more of this. Get you gone, get you gone, you and your evil tales.’ Taken-aback by her vehemence they retreated to the door. Mary pursued them. ‘Get out. Get out. I want no more of you.’
They left, muttering together at her wilfulness. Barely had the door shut behind them than Mary collapsed. It was as she had feared. Henry had betrayed her and broken his promise. Was there no one she could trust any more?
Each evening now, Francis visited her and resumed his love-making, Mary felt so cornered that she even considered giving into his demands. Perhaps if she did so, she might lose her attractions for him. After learning that Louis’s end was near, Wolsey had written to her, advising her to give no hearing to any ideas of marriage that others might put to her. Mary had laughed bitterly at this. Was my Lord Archbishop mad? To advise her against a second foreign marriage when he knew she never wanted the first.
Henry, too, had written to her. His letters had been very loving and Mary had allowed tremulous hope to rise. Maybe, in spite of her fears and suspicions, her dreams would be answered. Henry had promised, after all, never mind that the two stern-faced friars had contradicted Henry’s solemn vow to her. But whatever she might feel about the odious Father Langley, he had been right when he had told her she was a tool. She was indeed a tool, a sorely abused one. Never had she felt more abandoned. Even Lady Guildford had left Boulogne for England. And although Charles would be returning to the French court Mary knew he wouldn’t come till after Francis’ coronation. With Louis’ death the difficulty of her situation had increased rather than diminished. Perhaps, if she were kindly treated she wouldn’t feel so desperate, so very much at the mercy of Francis, his mother, Henry and the gossiping courtiers of both countries. But all she longed for were far away in England, too far to offer any comfort or ease of mind.
Mary tossed and turned in a light, troubled sleep, only to be woken by a kiss. She opened her eyes to find Francis’ face inches from hers. His lips descended again and Mary cried out in alarm. Dear God, not again.
He stroked her cheek and asked, ‘How are you this evening, little nymph?’ He kissed her hand and she struggled to sit up. Her toothache had eased for now. ‘You are quiet today, Mary. Of what do you think? Is it that you come round to my thoughts at last?’ Francis’ eyes searched hers. Not finding what he sought, he resumed his stroking, his long fingers working to unlock the key to her heart.
Mary protested. His lips cut her protest short. He was strong from many years of jousting and sports. Her struggles ceased and she lay supine under his caresses, hoping that if she made no response at all he would be disconcerted and stop.
It seemed to work. For he raised his lips from hers and although his gaze seared her and told her how much he wanted her, his expression was puzzled and revealed that he still wanted her willing, even eager. He reminded her of her likely fate. ‘Why do you spurn me, Mary? I would help you if you would only be kind to me. You know if you return to your brother he will pack you off to Flanders and young Prince Charles.’ He spoke condescendingly of his young rival.
His words revealed his hope that fear would instil desire where his passion had failed. Vehemently, Mary told him that she would rather enter a convent than entertain such a marriage a second time.
Francis soothed her. ‘Why return to England at all? You could stay in France. You have seen but little of it yet. I could arrange a suitable match for you.’ Although Mary shook her head at this, he pressed her. ‘Why not? There is nothing in England for you, you know it well. The Duke of Savoy is looking for a wife. If you married him we could remain friends, perhaps deepen our relationship.’
And join a cast of hundreds of discarded mistresses, thought Mary. Such a fate held no more appeal than the one the friars had told her about. Besides, if she did as he suggested, her income as Dowager-Queen would go straight to his mother’s family. Mary saw no reason to enrich the coffers of Louise of Savoy - or Angouleme as she now was. She refused to entertain the idea.
Francis suggested other possible suitors. Mary, with her heart set on Charles Brandon far away in England, refused all of them. But Francis hadn’t yet exhausted his ideas’ fund. ‘Marry me, then Mary.’
She stared at him. How could she marry him? ‘But you have a wife, Francis,’ she reminded him. ‘Even a king may not have two at the same time.’
‘That could soon be remedied. Louis is not the only one able to obtain a divorce from a malformed and ugly wife.’ He smiled, delighted with his idea. It was as if he believed there was no way she could refuse such an offer. ‘I will make you Queen of France once again, Mary. Does the thought not please you?’
Mary stared at him, mesmerised. How could she reject his proposal without angering him? She could give Francis no reasonable reason for refusing his offer. Nothing that would satisfy him - if indeed, there was any explanation that was capable of satisfying her rejection of him. The only thing that might do it was if she were to reveal the secret of her heart to him. But perhaps that would leave her even more at his mercy. He was staring at her, eagerly awaiting her response and seemingly in no doubt as to what her response would be.
Mary knew she must say something. Better to just blurt out her refusal than have his hopes grow with each second she remained silent. ‘I cannot marry you, Francis,’ she told him. ‘It would be unfair to young Claude. She loves you dearly.’
Francis’ lips pursed at what he must regard as her perversity. That his wife loved him was, for Francis, clearly no reason at all for Mary’s refusal. But before he could speak, Mary made up her mind that she must confide her secret love to him. Maybe such a confidence would convince him that he would never win her love and he would then leave her in peace.
‘I beg of you Francis, speak no more of this matter, for I can never marry you. But if you will promise me, on your honour as a king, to keep my counsel, I will tell you truly why I must refuse you.’
Although sulky, Francis placed his hand over his heart and promised.
Tremulously at first, nervous of rousing his anger and not totally convinced of the wisdom of placing her trust in him, Mary told him, ‘This long time now, my heart has not been free for any man to capture, no matter how ardent his wooing.’ She gave him the consolation of her smile. ‘I am honoured that you should wish to marry me, Francis, but you are too late. I love another.’
‘Suffolk.’
Mary nodded. ‘Yes. The Duke of Suffolk is the man I would marry. My brother gave me his promise on it before ever I left England.’ She sighed. ‘But there are so many obstacles in the way that I sometimes fear it will never be. So you see, Francis, it is not your wooing that lacked ardor. That was persuasive enough for any,’ she now admitted. ‘Who knows, but if my heart had been free I might have given in ere this.’ Mary hoped this last admission, revealing as it was, would soften his heart. No man likes to be spurned, least of all a king. She hoped that her cautious flattery would cushion his hurt pride and make him kind.
She waited for his reaction. But for some seconds, he said nothing and Mary, fearing her future hovered on the brink of disaster, hurriedly appealed to his chivalry. ‘Please, Francis, I beg of you, help us. I’m sure my brother will honour his promise if you only ally your persuasion to mine. Henry has long known of the love Charles and I share. His heart can sometimes be tender with lovers.’
Mary gave a sad smile as she spoke of her love for Charles. She would have preferred to hug such thoughts to herself, but it was essential to have Francis on her side. He could make all the difference when it came to getting Henry to keep his promise. She must hold nothing back if she wished for his help. ‘We had a language of love, Charles and I. Secret words known only to we two.’ Mary’s whisper confided the words she and Charles had used to signal their love. She watched as Francis’ jealousy of his rival battled with his honour as a king. Watched as he began to accept that she would never be his
and started to look for compensations.
Francis’ lashes lowered concealingly. Mary guessed he was weighing the benefits to France should she be unavailable for use in the marriage market. With her sister, Margaret’s secret marriage to the Earl of Angus, if Mary, too, was unavailable the childless Henry’s alliance box would be empty of marital tools, which would weaken his bargaining position to Francis’ advantage. But Mary, having been used once as one of her brother’s tools, didn’t care. If Henry was unable to make an alliance with Flanders by marrying her to Prince Charles, he would make another.
Francis’ satisfied smile confirmed her guess as to his thinking had been correct. His words confirmed it. ‘Of course I will help you, little mother. How could I refuse? You have moved me with your pretty pleading. You will find me a strong champion,’ he boasted. ‘I, too, you see, have a tender heart for lovers.’
He kissed her hand with a flourish and bowed himself out of the room, leaving Mary to stare after him. In the midst of the preparations for his coronation Francis had given her his solemn promise to help. She could only hope and pray that his promise proved of sturdier mettle than her brother’s.
In the trail of all the joyous Coronation celebrations, Charles Brandon returned to France.
Francis gave no hint that Mary had revealed their secrets to him. He greeted Brandon with a show of affection at the public audience, amused to see that Brandon was taken-aback at his loving greeting when, at the joust but a short time before, Francis had done his best to injure him. The man was no dissembler, it was clear.
After a few moments’ silence, Brandon managed to convey his sovereign’s congratulations to his brother king and his thanks for the comfort he had given Mary in her bereavement.
Francis, never one to resist temptation, gave in to the desire to tease his rival. Straight faced, he told Mary’s would-be lover, ‘I am sure the Dowager-Queen will tell you how lovingly I have conducted myself to her.’
It was obvious, from the way Brandon’s gaze narrowed at this artful shot, that Mary had already done just that. Francis saw a shaft of pure venom beam from Brandon’s eye. For a brief, delicious second, Francis thought Brandon would commit an act of lése-majesty. But Brandon, though his lips tightened at the taunt, and his clenched fists whitened, had the sense to say or do nothing.
Francis smiled to himself, aware of Brandon’s fury that he was in no position to remonstrate with him on his ‘loving’ behaviour to Mary. Brandon’s open countenance, ill-made for concealment of the emotions, revealed clearly that he desired nothing as much as to punch away Francis’ complacent smile.
Later that day, the king saw Brandon in his bedchamber and decided to continue his teasing with the mock-stern accusation, ‘You are come to marry the Queen, your master’s sister.’
Taken aback Brandon could only bluster. ‘I assure you, your Grace, I would not be so daring. Such a thing would be folly. I—’
Francis cut his protestations short. He wanted to see Brandon squirm. ‘As you will not be plain with me, my lord, I shall be plain with you. Have you heard this word before?’ Francis stepped forward, and into Brandon’s ear he whispered a word from the lovers’ secret language. He felt Brandon’s body tense in recognition. When Francis stood back, Brandon’s face was crimson, in his eyes there flickered fear that Francis’s retribution for a man of low birth who dared to love a queen would be swift and brutal. Brandon looked all but ready to flee.
But Brandon made poor sport and Francis tired of the game. Where was the fun when the prey was so lacking in defences? Now Francis held out a friendly hand to the disconcerted Brandon and told him, ‘I give you my word as a king that I shall try to help in this matter between you and the Queen.’ It was clear at first that Brandon didn’t believe him. But gradually, Francis got under Brandon’s weak armour of bluff denial and teased the admission from him that he feared King Henry might not prove quite so understanding.
Guilt and fear were sharply etched as he blurted his worries to Francis. ‘If this matter comes to the ear of my master, I am likely to be undone. I swore a solemn oath to King Henry not to pursue my love for the queen.’
With a wave of his arm, Francis swept Brandon’s anxieties aside. ‘Leave King Henry to me. Queen Claude and I shall both write letters to your master, in the best manner that can be devised. I feel sure we can sway him in your favour.’
Looking scarce able to believe his ears - and who could blame him for that? Brandon stammered out his thanks and bent to kiss Francis’ hand.
Francis, enjoying his magnanimity, basked in the warm glow of his good deed. But beneath the surface show, he admired his own cleverness. Mary would perhaps, with his help, gain a low-born husband, if such was truly her desire. But France would gain so much more if he managed to bring this marriage off. With the beautiful Mary removed from the marriage market it would be difficult for Henry to make a swift Flemish alliance. And should Henry decide to break with France, Mary’s revenues as Dowager-Queen could be suspended. Quite a coup for a newly-anointed king, Francis told himself in self-admiration. He could scarcely wait to confide his achievement to his mother.
Charles Brandon entered the Hotel de Cluny and was ushered into Mary’s darkened chamber by one of her ladies. He hadn’t expected to gain admission so easily, but Francis must have cleared the lovers’ way by telling his mother of the recent turn of events. She, in turn, made no difficulty and seemed only too happy to smooth their path.
Still bemused, but grateful not to have been clapped in a French dungeon, Brandon groped his way in the unaccustomed gloom of Mary’s chamber and reached her bed. He frowned when he saw that for some reason, Mary’s eyes were tight shut.
Mary’s eyes flew open as he uttered her name. ‘I thought you were Madam Louise come to torment me again,’ she told him as she stretched out her hand in delight, drew him down on to the bed and embraced him. ‘How is my brother? Has he said anything about our marriage? When can I go home?’ Anxiously, the questions tumbled from her lips as she searched his face for answers. When he failed to answer her barrage of questions quickly enough, Mary frowned and asked. ‘You are come to take me home, Charles, are you not?’
Charles’s response came more swiftly this time, but it wasn’t swift enough to reassure her. Dolefully, she told him, ‘I have been told I am destined for Flanders. Father Langley and another visited me here and told me it was so. They seemed so sure of their facts. They told me you were part of a plot with my brother to entice me into Flanders for marriage with their Prince.’ She stared searchingly at him and beseeched, ‘Tell me it is not true Charles. Pray you tell me plain.’
His faltering reply that she was to return to England and her brother was scarcely reassuring. All her suspicions gushed like a river in flood, and she turned on him. ‘Yes, but for how long? One month? Two? How long before my brother fixes another alliance?’ Fear turned to anger at his betrayal of their love and she shouted at him, ‘Are you not supposed to utter soft and loving words to me, my lord? That is what the friars told me. Come, soothe my foolish fears with some honeyed words. Make a few careless promises, Charles, as did my brother. You follow him in all else, why balk at this?’ Tears welled in her eyes and she stormed at him, ‘Marry me now, Charles, or if I come in to England, you’ll never have me.’
‘You say that but to prove me withal. You cannot mean to marry me here.’
But Mary had decided on her course and would not be swayed by Charles’s insulting lack of lover-like ardor. Stubbornly, she told him, ‘Mean it I do. King Francis has also been with me here. He told me what I might expect. He said I am destined for Flanders. Why should he and the two friars have the same tale if it’s not true?’ Mary raised her fists and beat him on the manly chest she had so admired and told him, ‘I’ll not go. I’d rather be torn in pieces.’ She began to weep in earnest.
Through her tears, she watched Charles wring his hands, before it finally occurred to him that he could make better use of them. He put them
round her and tried to comfort her. ‘Sweetheart, calm yourself. You’ll make yourself ill with such passion. It is not true, my love, you are not for Flanders. Please believe me. I have it from King Henry himself.’
Mary didn’t believe him. She continued to sob and ignored Charles’s pleas that she stop weeping. But tears were the only weapon at her command.
‘What can I do?’ he asked her, helplessly. ‘What can I say? How can I marry you now? You know I promised the king, your brother, not to further aught between us till we were both home.’ Mary only shook her head and wept some more. ‘Write to the king,’ Charles pleaded. ‘Obtain his good will and I’ll wed you, right gladly.’
Only too aware that if she did not sway him now there would be no future for them, Mary was determined not to be so lightly fobbed off. Between sobs, she reminded him, ‘My brother has consented to our marriage. Have I not his promise? He gave me his word before ever I left England that I could choose my next husband when Louis died. You know this well. King Louis is dead. I choose you. The King of France is happy to give his consent, why should we wait? Why should my brother want us to wait unless he means to betray my trust?’
Bitter at his lack of lover-like resolve, she demanded ‘Is the agreement of two kings not enough for you? Perhaps Francis and the friars spoke truth after all. Confess it,’ she screamed at him. ‘You are here for one reason only, to entice me into Flanders. I’ll never go should I die for it and so I told the French King before you came.’ She glowered at him, in her passion, she wrenched off the cap covering her hair and threw it at him. ‘If you will not marry me now as I ask, never look to have the proffer again.’ She turned away from his pleading and his outstretched hand and refused to listen to any more of his denials.
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 16