The Secret Bride

by Diane Haeger

  Mary squeezed his hand then, feeling another surge of genuine compassion for a man who had only the misfortune of having been born a few decades too early for the life and love he wished to have now.

  “I hope with all of my heart you do not remain angry with me for too long. I have sought to make amends, at least in part, by inviting an old friend of yours from the English court to visit with us for a while here this afternoon.”

  He could not possibly mean he was to have Charles here as a guest! Her heart began to pound until it felt as if it would come up her throat. What did Louis know? Had he heard something? She wanted desperately to see Charles, to be with him. But not here, with her husband so near, and watching.

  All of those thoughts skittered through her mind then like mice. She sat back more stiffly as Louis nodded and the liveried servants at the other end of the room drew back the carved double doors. Mary glanced up and felt her heart in her throat at the anticipation. Her husband and the love of her life in the same room, and she forced to look pleased?

  She struggled to remain calm. No matter how she had matured, composure at this moment was a challenge.

  Charles swept into the room as she knew he would, a dazzling confident smile lighting his face, and the youthful vigor in his stride restrained just enough not to insult an ailing sovereign—one who must welcome his guest lying down.

  Had Louis ever looked like that? Mary wondered as her heart pounded in her chest. Tan, lean, incredibly fit and still so unspeakably handsome?

  With Louis’ assessing eyes upon him, she could see that Charles was wise enough to spare Mary only a cursory glance before he bowed to her, then bowed deeply to the king.

  “Your Majesty, it is an honor,” he said, sweeping a hand before his doublet, and the glittering gold chest chain there.

  “I have heard much of you, Suffolk,” Louis responded, and Mary felt her pounding heart suddenly seize. Guilt made her fear the worst, and she almost could not breathe.

  “I hope what Your Majesty has heard has not been too displeasing.”

  “You were a great military leader on the battlefield against us last summer, and a loyal servant to my peer, King Henry.” He quirked a sudden smile that Mary saw from the corner of her eye. “Fortunately for you, he is now my brother-in-law. All of that is forgiven.”

  Charles bowed again. “I am greatly relieved to hear it.”

  “Military success is a thing to be respected, even in one’s enemies. I learned that well enough in my own youth. Sit down, Suffolk. You make me uncomfortable towering over me as you do.”

  As if the king had willed it by the mere mention, a chair was swiftly produced and placed beside Mary. He lowered himself onto it formally and waited to be spoken to again.

  Mary struggled for courage and for calm as she turned to Charles. “So tell me, have you a private message from my good brother?”

  “It is King Henry’s greatest wish that I return to England with an agreement that the two of you, not only your ambassadors, meet next summer, and that he will be welcomed here in France for that purpose.”

  “So long as he does not come at the head of another great army,” Louis affably parried, “the gesture is something I shall consider.”

  “His Majesty asks for no more.”

  “I am told you plan to joust for the three days of the tournament,” Louis said.

  “That is my king’s wish, Your Majesty.”

  “And you are to be matched against the duc de Valois?”

  “So I was told.”

  “He is a vicious competitor in sport, as he is with women.”

  “He has not yet been matched with me in either—respectfully, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, well, it shall make for an interesting next few days,” said the King of France, as he reached out to take Mary’s hand.

  In the vast banqueting hall, glittering with flickering light cast from huge candle chandeliers, the walls adorned with allegorical frescoes, Mary paused at the door. There was expectation, and a bit of judgment, pulsing through the room that she could feel. She was still, and always would be, English. She drew in a calming breath, tipped up her head proudly nevertheless and made her first entrance beside Louis as official Queen of France.

  Both of them wore lavish gold and white brocade, their sleeves studded with diamonds, as they nodded and smiled to the packed room. The duc de Longueville and the duc de Valois were the first in line at the head of a bevy of noble guests who had assembled there for her.

  “She still looks English, even in French clothes.” Francois grinned nastily as they watched her advance.

  “Knowing her as I do, I believe she would take that as a compliment. I think she looks amazingly confident as she is,” Longueville countered.

  A courtly galliard was begun amid the swirl of dresses, feathered hats and beaded headdresses, and the pungent mingling of ambergris and rose water.

  “Yes, well,” Francois sniffed, “I would rather she looked a bit less confident. Makes me worry there might be a little heir to be had from that old coxcomb after all.”

  “She is a beauty. If anyone could make him do it, she could,” Longueville observed as she smiled and nodded and drew steadily nearer.

  “If I had my way, she would be my mistress and then the paternity of any child she might have would assuredly be mine.”

  Charles, standing just behind them, in elegant gray velvet, heard the exchange. He fought the overwhelming urge to wrestle the arrogant bastard, future king or not, to the floor right then and there. He could not wait now to joust against him tomorrow.

  He glanced up again at Mary, whose regal countenance and serene smile surprised him. Her confidence had out-shone her beauty here in France, which seemed impossible to him not long ago. Especially when he remembered the little girl who once only eavesdropped and pouted and smiled to win her way.

  As Mary neared, nodding and greeting, the light catching the diamonds on her sleeves each time she lifted a hand, she paused very suddenly directly in front of him.

  He bowed deeply to her in response. “Your Majesty.”

  “My lord of Suffolk.” Her smile, and her nod, were restrained.

  “Your brother sends his warmest congratulations tonight,” he replied with a skilled smile, nothing at all that would ever give away what was between them.

  Charles chose not to tell her that Henry had sanctioned an embrace between them. He hoped there would be a time for that later. But all of the promise of seeing her faded beneath the reality of her duty now. He watched the king’s gnarled hand go gently to the small of Mary’s back—a controlled movement to press her forward, but an intimacy as well. Charles felt the swell of revulsion that his heart would not let him press away as she moved past him and curtsied deeply to a blinding line of French noblemen.

  The evening after that was long, the banquet hall quickly made unbearably hot by the enormous press of bodies. As Mary went around the room with the king for more introductions, he leaned a little too heavily on her for support. She surprised herself when she began to feel a proprietary concern for him take precedence over the bowing, nodding and idle chatter that filled the next hour. It was a virtual sea of dukes and lords, faces she would likely never see again, all smiling at her, all expecting her to know them, and to have something witty to say. Until she came to a couple standing a pace away from everyone else but who, by his smile at them, Louis seemed to know well. The girl was young, but beautiful in a disarming and classic way. Her hair was sleek and golden, her skin was flawless and there was a depth of experience in her crystal blue eyes for one who had not left her adolescence. She was unique enough that Mary paused of her own accord for the introduction. Like the king, the woman’s husband was much older, silver-haired, not nearly so tall as she, portly and slightly stoop-shouldered.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, speaking in a voice that was smooth and deeper than Mary had expected as she curtsied low and respectfully.

  “I am afraid you h
ave me at a disadvantage, madame,” Mary replied.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am Diane de Poitiers, comtesse de Brézé. May I present my husband, Louis, comte de Brézé?”

  Mary smiled at her then, feeling an odd instant kinship, although she had absolutely no idea why. It was definitely more than that they were both young with husbands far older than they were. “Tell me, madame, how do you find it having an English queen?”

  “Truthfully, Your Majesty, we find it refreshingly courageous of our king to cast away predictability.” She leaned forward slightly. “I am afraid you shall not hear the duc de Valois say that, however.”

  Mary would have laughed but she knew that Louis expected something more restrained from her in public. Looking at Diane de Poitiers, she thought of Jane. Last night she had dreamed yet again of her dearest friend—of skipping through the meadow out behind Eltham Palace, the two of them trying to catch butterflies. Now Charles was here, and so was this surprisingly interesting young woman who reminded her of Jane.

  “Thank you, madame. If you are to remain at court a while, I should like to invite you sit with me at the tournament tomorrow.”

  “It would be my honor, Your Majesty,” Diane replied with courtly aplomb.

  Mary felt Louis falter beside her. When she looked over, she saw that he had gone quite ashen. One glance at the servant who lingered just behind them, and he advanced, as he had been instructed to do.

  “Should you sit down?” Mary leaned in to ask in a way that no one else could hear.

  Louis tried to smile, the lines in his face seeming more deeply etched, the gray circles beneath his eyes more pronounced. “If you do not mind too much, mon amour, I believe I am going to leave you to the evening on your own.”

  “I will come with you,” she declared, meaning it.

  “Ah, no. This is your evening to shine, chérie. Please.”

  After he had been led away, Mary turned back toward the elegant, parted throngs still assembled before her in their crush of velvet and jewels, all made to bow and curtsy ceremoniously to her by even her absent glance. She bit back a smile for the first time, now knowing the power Henry felt—king, master over all he surveyed. And she was queen. A little shiver blossomed up her spine, blooming on her face. Pride made her bite back a smile as she greeted the duc de Ven-dome with skilled reserve, and she let him bow to her. No matter her heart, or the secrets she kept there, she truly was Mary, Queen of France, now, and there must be some way to make her life, and her circumstances, work to her advantage, and to make her peace about being here.

  That night, a powerfully frigid wind battered the windows and the cold it brought bled through the stone walls of the palace of Les Tournelles, as the longing moved through Charles with what felt like the same force. She had been a beautiful child who had grown into a magnificent woman. A queen. He had wanted to come to France. He believed entirely that it was the right thing to do. To be here, for Mary.

  But seeing her brought an ache, rather than reassurance. It made him question every decision he had made for a very long time. She was not his. Foolish as it sounded, even in his mind, Charles had actually questioned that before he had arrived here. But seeing the king made her loss real. He tossed and turned beneath the bedcovers, trying to remember a prayer that might bring him some sort of peace. And if not that, relief at least.

  He thought then of the true price he had paid for the reputation that his ambition and carelessness with women had brought him. Perhaps if he had led a wiser, more pious life, like Wolsey, instead of trying so hard to be Henry’s friend, he would have gained a dukedom sooner. He would have been a stronger candidate for Mary when the contract with Charles of Castile was nullified. He tossed and turned again, awash in perspiration and frustration. This was a situation of his own making. He believed that now. In life, with each gain there was a loss. Losing Mary, seeing her with the French king, protectively at his side, was like a small death. Worst of all, Louis had been genuinely welcoming to him. It made the guilt worse. Yet, God help him, it did not lessen his resolve to have Mary. That obsession now was well beyond his control.

  The tournament commenced and then continued for the next three days. Lying on a couch, the king attended the contest only briefly each day in order to make a proper appearance.

  Mary was relieved each time he retired to his apartments, since it meant she would not have to fear every noise she made or every gesture toward Brandon giving her away to a besotted husband. While she did not love Louis, nor could she, in the days since their marriage she had grown fond of him, and she had no wish to hurt him. Mary reveled in the skepticism turned to admiration of the French people. Each day before the contest began she stood to receive the welcome of the 305 challengers entering the lists as well as the thunderous applause of the crowds. Each time it happened, she thought, I am a woman in my own right now, a wife and a queen, no longer just the sister of Henry VIII. I have power . . . control, and I like it.

  On the second day of the tournament, amid air that was less frigid as it moved through the stands, the contest turned to hand combat. Francois had been injured the first day in his battle with Charles, and his pride had suffered. Today, in an attempt to impress Mary, Francois made a stylishly grand entrance, then sat near her, garbed in velvet of Tudor green and white. It irritated him the more after his defeat, that she did not even deign to acknowledge his effort. He sat now near the queen and her companion, his wife, Claude, and Madame d’Aumont and Louis de Brézé’s very young wife, Diane. Still they were not so near that they heard his exchange with the sly and discreet Claude de Lorraine.

  “There is something about Suffolk,” Francois said, with a hand casually across his mouth. “He is rather too arrogant for my taste.”

  “You say that only because he beat you in the joust yesterday. And he is rather vulgarly handsome for an Englishman.”

  “I say it because there is something I don’t trust about him, striding around like this, as if he were absolutely unbeatable in everything.”

  “Perhaps he is.”

  “Not if I have anything to say on the matter,” Francois quickly shot back, his own self-important smile beginning to broaden beneath his long, prominent nose. “Today, he shall face a challenger of my choosing and then we shall see how smugly victorious he remains.”

  From the royal viewing stands, they watched the matches silently until Charles entered the field in a flash of silver, his chest plate stamped boldly with the red cross of Saint George.

  Francois glanced at the queen and saw the same thing he always did when Suffolk appeared. A broad smile lit her face, like a spark—no more than a flash really—then she stiffened and the smile disappeared as the initial response was pressed back and well hidden. Now it was clear. The foolish chit had feelings for Suffolk!

  So that was why she so unwisely chose to rebuff his own advances. No matter, Francois arrogantly thought, touching the point of his small, neat chestnut-colored beard with thumb and jeweled forefinger. That sorry English braggart would return to England soon enough, and the old lion being helped back to his apartments now once again would be dead not long after. That scenario could not play out soon enough for Francois’ taste. Then he would see how eager the queen—widowed and replaced by Claude—was to reject the man with all the power! The vulnerable dowager queen would need him then, by God! Alone in a foreign land, and there would be no one here to rescue her when that happened!

  Down on the field today, Suffolk faced the opponent of Francois’ choosing. He was a gigantic Almain ominously garbed and hooded, in black, his clothing designed to be as intimidating as he himself was. Francois heard the crowd gasp and glanced over the row of guests beside him and could not resist a smile as he watched the queen’s face blanch.

  Sheer delight! The combatants began on horseback, but as Francois watched, it was Suffolk, not his secret giant weapon, who managed to fell his opponent quickly, strike him with the butt of his spear and begin the ferocious grou
nd combat.

  He resisted every urge in his own body to spring to his feet and shout down at the field as the opponents baited one other, then wrestled like great bears amid the wind and the fluttering banners and the deafening roar of the crowd. In a swirl of dust, loud grunts and the clink of armor, the giant Almain then grabbed a waiting blunt-edged sword and they began to trade savage blows.

  Mary glanced to the panel of judges as the two men thrust and struck, then tumbled, waiting in a panic for them to drop the rail and end the contest. But the judges sat watching in stony silence, allowing it to continue for what felt to her an eternity. The young Diane de Poitiers placed a comforting hand on Mary’s shoulder then, which brought her back to the stands.

  “The opponent may be big, but Suffolk is quick,” she said encouragingly.

  Mary could not look at her. She could not draw her eyes from Charles, who seemed now to be fighting for his life in what was meant to be a game.

  They tumbled again and struggled on. The heavy swords flashed in the daylight as they swung and thrust in a contest of sinewy muscle and glinting steel. Suddenly Charles, who had spent his youth wrestling with Henry VIII, took the advantage, grabbing the opponent by the neck and battering his head with a blinding volley of blows so savage that blood sprayed out in an arc from his nose and he collapsed onto the field, giving Suffolk the victory the dauphin had meant for the other man.

  Mary sprang to her feet, unable to resist any longer, in an ovation of her own as Charles dropped his sword, lifted his visor and strode magnificently toward the stands where she stood above him, the fur at her collar fluttering in the breeze.

  In a gesture lost to no one there, he then made her a sweeping, courtly bow and she smiled broadly at him in response.

  Francois d’Angouleme cursed beneath his breath and dashed alone out of the stands the moment he saw the exchange.