One by one the Princess’s stricken ladies recovered their composure and set about repairing both their mistress’s ravaged looks and their own. When eventually the captain knocked at her door, all within were almost themselves again, if a little rumpled. Looking slightly apprehensive at entering this female stronghold, the captain approached the Princess and bowed low “Highness, the storm scattered all your ships so I set for the first French port we sighted, to save you ladies any further distress”. He finished his speech rather lamely, for casting his eyes around the cabin, he could see that the ladies looked not at all distressed.
The Princess rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. “We thank you for your concern captain” she replied. “So at which port are we?”
“Boulogne, Highness”.
“Boulogne. And are we ready to go ashore?”
“The water is too shallow for us to sail right into the harbour, Highness. However, we have been sighted and recognised, so row boats will take us ashore”.
Smiling, the Princess dismissed him, saying “In that case, we will make ready”.
However, reaching the shore was not without complication. The sea, even close to the harbour walls, still churned relentlessly and no matter how hard the oarsmen tried, they could not manoeuvre the boat close enough to the jetty for their royal passenger to disembark without becoming soaked in sea water. After several fruitless attempts, one of Mary’s attending gentlemen leapt gallantly into the water and lifted her to safety as the salt water lapped around his thighs and soaked her trailing skirts.
This method had to be adopted for all the ladies in the retinue, and there were no shortage of volunteers for the task. Mary and Anne Boleyn thought it huge fun to be bodily lifted over the churning water to safety; Mary in particular more than happy to find strong male arms wrapped around her.
Shortly afterwards, the Princess and all her ladies stood on French soil for the first time, their dignities somewhat ruffled by a landing almost as rough and uncertain as the voyage. They were immediately escorted to a nearby dwelling where they ate and rested, then progressed to the small town of Montreuil where Mary Tudor was able to finally discard her dishevelled travelling clothes and be reunited with the huge chest containing the gown in which she intended to greet her future husband.
Princess Mary soon recovered her high spirits. She was young, beautiful, and by the way the French had received her even in her bedraggled state, she was going to be popular with the people. With so many things in life going her way, she felt that she could overlook the handicap of bedding with an ancient husband.
Within three days the Princess felt able to continue with her journey, and so the procession formed, with her at its head, to proceed to the royal town of Abbeville, where the marriage would be celebrated.
Anne, riding pillion behind Mary about a quarter of the way down the procession, was almost delirious with delight. It was all so unlike anything she had ever experienced before. There was colourful bunting and banners all along the route, musicians playing and hundreds upon hundreds of cheering, waving people.
About ten miles outside Abbeville, a party of horsemen were sighted galloping towards them. The Princess’s French escort brought his horse alongside hers and said “The King approaches, Your Grace”.
Frantically the Princess dusted off her clothing and tucked some stray strands of hair back beneath her hood. Then she straightened her back, lifted her chin, composed her features and prepared to meet the man who would shortly become her husband.
As the riders came closer, the Princess and her entourage halted. The small party stopped some distance away, and then a lone horse and rider detached themselves and approached her.
Louis XII of France, gorgeously attired in crimson and cloth of gold, pulled up alongside his English bride and swept his velvet cap from his thinning grey hair with a courtly flourish. “Welcome to France, Madame”.
Mary, thinking that he looked a good deal older than she had even feared, smiled graciously, murmured her thanks and held out her hand for him to kiss. As he leaned closer she saw his pale wrinkled skin and tried not to wince as his dry lips brushed the back of her hand. As he straightened and looked into her face, Mary diligently searched his features for some trace of the young man he had once been and finding nothing, mentally prayed for strength.
But now she must smile and be charming for he was presenting the other members of his party, mostly close relatives and friends. Mary was interested to meet the people who, up to now, had just been names on official documents. In particular Francis of Angouleme; for if Mary bore no heir to the throne, he would succeed to the crown. Mary suddenly thought how amusing it would be to provide Louis’s heir and put Francis’s extremely long nose out of joint. For Francis’s part he was looking at her with open admiration. Truly a Tudor rose, he thought. If old Louis can stir himself to get a child on any woman, this is the one!
Louis explained to Mary that he had been on a hawking trip and that he had sighted her party quite by chance. Mary smiled prettily and expressed regret that he had been waylaid from his purpose, although she was in truth fully aware that the whole thing had been staged. After being introduced to the leading nobles of her party, the King continued on his way with his hawks, leaving Francis and a full company of Swiss guard and French nobility to escort his bride to the town of Abbeville, where the marriage would be celebrated the following day.
Within sight of Abbeville, Mary was able to change her gown ahead of the grand entry in a convenient tent erected for that purpose at the side of the road. Once attired in her gown of white and gold brocade, she emerged to be presented with Louis’s gift of a beautiful white palfrey which stood waiting for her underneath a large white satin canopy embroidered with the arms of England and France, held aloft by four stout valets.
The enormous procession proceeded to Abbeville where the people gave their new Queen and her attendants a noisy and joyous welcome; marvelling at the rich apparel and jewels of the English nobility. After a mass of thanksgiving at the church of St Vulfran, the party joined the King for a state reception.
The very next day, Mary and Louis rode together in yet another procession, the most important yet, to the great cathedral to celebrate their marriage. There, amid great pomp and ceremony, the English Princess became the wife of the French King.
Other than witnessing the event, the Boleyn girls had no parts to play in any of the ceremonies. They watched as their Princess, sumptuously gowned in gold brocade trimmed with ermine, a coronet set with flashing colourful jewels confining her blonde hair as it rippled over her shoulders, played her part impeccably. As Louis clasped a costly ruby and pearl necklace about her neck as they stood before the altar, Anne wondered at her mistress’s serene expression, realising how much her heart must be crying out for Charles Brandon to be beside her.
Expensive and impressive celebrations continued for the rest of the day and half the night, the King surprising his new wife and all those present by his energetic participation in the festivities. Finally the newly married pair were solemnly lighted to bed and as the chamber door closed, the last face Mary saw was that of an anguished Francis of Angouleme; he who feared to be cheated of his inheritance.
With great determination Mary turned over in the great bed to face Louis. Neither spoke as they lay looking into each other’s eyes. After only a moment’s hesitation, Mary held out her arms. It was time to do her duty.
Chapter 4 – Maid of Honour
The wedding celebrations were barely over before Louis approached his new Queen and announced that he was sending all her English ladies home and replacing them with those of her adopted country.
Shocked and tearful the Queen begged him to allow her to keep at least Lady Guildford and a few other senior women, but Louis stood firm. He told her that he was not happy with the influence the older ladies had with her and felt that she should begin to renounce her English ways and settle to her new role as Queen of France.
&nb
sp; So Lady Guildford and her contempories were packed home on the next ship, although to compensate his wife for the loss of her greatest friend Louis did allow a few of the younger maids to stay. Mary and Anne Boleyn were amongst those few, considered by Louis to be of no influence and little importance.
To cheer herself and take her thoughts away from what she felt was an unkind and thoughtless move by her husband, Mary absorbed herself with re-establishing the court of France as the brightest in Europe. Night after night she devised plays, masques, moonlight banquets and every other possible entertainment she could think of. She encouraged her husband to join in all the activities and was heard to remark wryly to her maids on more than one occasion that whilst he threw himself so wholeheartedly into day and evening pursuits there was little chance, if any, for the hoped-for heir.
Louis made no secret of his delight and contentment with his new wife, showering her daily with luxurious gifts and fine jewels; declaring loudly to any within earshot how marriage with his beautiful Queen had rejuvenated him. Francis tried to avoid being nearby on such occasions; it wasn’t so much the revelations of what occurred behind the royal bed curtains which disturbed him, but the possible outcome of such passion.
The court began its progress towards Paris, stopping at St Denis so that the new Queen could be crowned on 5th November. Not only did ancient custom dictate that no monarch could officially enter Paris until crowned, Louis wanted all of France to know of his marital bliss and dedication to his bride. Unsurprisingly after all his efforts and exertions, not long after their arrival in Paris, Louis complained of feeling weak and unwell. However he encouraged his Queen to continue with her gaiety and on many occasions she found herself partnered in the frolics by Francis, the heir presumptive.
Francis had a reputation as a tireless womaniser, an expert in the chase and a connoisseur in the arts of love. Although only a little older than Mary herself, he was a man and therefore his behaviour was not only condoned, but expected. A woman who behaved openly thus, even at the liberal court of France, would be condemned as a whore.
One evening during the dance when Francis was holding her just a little more closely than etiquette demanded, Mary murmured “My Lord, I beg you release me a little lest my husband should become suspicious as to your intentions”.
Making no attempt to relinquish his hold on her, in fact tightening it, he replied ardently “I would you were not the Queen for I feel you and I would complement each other perfectly in a little affaire”
They parted, she pirouetted twice as the dance demanded, then came back into his arms laughing lightly as she said, with an innocence which her seductive gaze belied “I am sure you are correct in your assumption my Lord, but think how galling it would be if you were denied the succession by your own son!”
He could not hide his look of horror as he bowed with a flourish at the end of the dance. She curtsied with the merest bob, refusing to meet his eyes, then walked sedately back to the dais and her husband.
The King was slumped in his chair, his face as grey as his hair, his trembling hands gripping the ornately carved arms with such force that his knuckles were white. She knelt beside him, at once full of genuine concern. “My Lord?” she whispered “You should retire to your chamber; you do no good by staying here. Come….”
Louis heaved himself to his feet with difficulty, then leaning on his Queen, shuffled across the banqueting hall towards their privy staircase. The assembled company swept bows and curtseys as the royal couple departed, a barely imperceptible nod of Mary’s head summoning her ladies and the King’s gentlemen to follow them.
During the night, the King’s condition worsened. His physicians could not say exactly what it was which ailed him; although they did suggest hesitantly that his condition could have been brought on by undue exertion.
During the early hours of January 1st, the Queen was woken and summoned urgently to the King’s bedside. His physicians explained in hushed voices that there was nothing more to be done for him and that he should receive the last rites. White faced, Mary nodded and with a single motion of her head indicated to the attending priest that he should set about his duty. Shortly afterwards, Louis lapsed into unconsciousness, slipping quietly away scarcely an hour later.
As she prayed with the priests for her husband’s soul, Mary found herself weeping, although she was shocked to realise that her tears were more for the solemnity of the occasion than for her husband’s passing.
After she had returned to her chamber leaving her husband’s body for the embalmers to do their work, she found she had a visitor. Francis’s mother, Louise of Savoy was waiting to see her, ostensibly to advise the Queen Dowager on her period of mourning. Mary knew that such advice was necessary as she was not yet fully familiar with the rituals of the French court, but was well aware also that the woman’s eyes were furtively assessing her body, terrified that she sheltered a Dauphin within who would deny her Francis the throne.
As custom demanded, Mary retired to the Hotel de Cluny to mourn her husband for the statutory six weeks, dressed entirely in white. This period was calculated specifically to ascertain whether a posthumous heir was expected. During those six weeks Mary was allowed only to receive visits from her physicians and members of the royal family. Needless to say, Louise and Francis insisted on calling on her almost every day, officially to help her bear her grief, but using that excuse merely to reassure themselves of her true condition.
The mourning period was barely three weeks old when Francis one day visited without his overbearing mother. At his request Mary dismissed her attendants, for he said he wished to speak with her privately.
As the door closed behind the last of her maids, Mary, noticing the smug expression he wore upon his face, decided to give him the shock of his life. With a smile she advanced towards him, holding out her hands in greeting, then whilst still a few feet away suddenly stopped and closed her eyes. Putting a hand to her forehead, she swayed slightly.
In a trice he was at her side, ushering her to a chair and only leaving her briefly to pour a goblet of wine which he insisted she drink before even attempting to talk. Moments later, she managed a tremulous smile. “You are recovered Madame?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so” she replied in a weak voice, after a pause. “I think I must have caught a chill… this dizziness has assailed me several times over the past few days”.
“Marry me Mary!” he said suddenly, desperately.
She was genuinely taken aback at his plea but assumed that he had been taken in by her little ruse and thought her with child. If he could marry her quickly enough, he could claim the child as his.
Tempting though it was to torture him for longer, she dropped her pretence. “I am not with child Francis, if that is what you think”.
An expression of utter relief flashed across his face as he knelt by her chair. “Even so” he said quietly “I still want you for my wife. It was because I wished to ask you this that I came alone”.
She hesitated, trying to wipe the thought of Charles Brandon from her mind. As Francis’s wife she would live a good life, her sons would rule and she would be revered as the mother of France. But Charles Brandon would not go away; neither would her thoughts of England, which she missed more than she had ever expected.
At length she looked into Francis’s eyes and replied “I am sorry, I cannot marry you. There are many reasons; for one, I do not love you”.
In answer he pulled her roughly to her feet and enfolded her in his arms. His face close to hers he whispered “Love will come, in time”.
“No!” she struggled to free herself and amazed that he could not charm her, he let her go.
“Give me another reason!” he snarled.
Moving away from him, agitatedly smoothing her veil, she replied “You are betrothed to your cousin Claude”.
“No problem. Betrothals can be broken just like that!” He snapped his fingers dismissively as he spoke.
“I lo
ve another”.
His face betrayed his shock at her candid statement but before he could speak there was a knock at the door. Relieved, Mary called “Enter!”
Anne Boleyn, in her eighth year, dipped a sedate curtsey to Mary and made a deep obeisance to Francis, whom all France regarded as King even though he was yet to be proclaimed. She turned to Mary “Madame, a messenger from England has arrived and desires an audience”.
Glad of the welcome interlude, Mary asked “His name?”
“Sir Charles Brandon, Madame”.
At once, fresh colour flew into Mary’s cheeks and she swayed once more, genuinely this time, and would have fallen were it not for Francis’s fast reaction. “My rival no doubt” he said quietly, not without a spark of amusement.
Imperiously Mary turned to him. “I would be alone with my brother’s messenger” she told him, giving him no option but to take his leave. Gracious to the end, even in defeat, Francis paused in the audience chamber and warmly greeted a surprised Brandon, the lucky man who was the object of Mary Tudor’s affections.
Three weeks later, very early in the morning, Anne Boleyn as Mary’s favourite maid of honour was sole attendant at her mistress’s secret wedding with Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. As the ceremony ended, Mary threw herself into Brandon’s arms and declared “I fancy I much prefer to be Duchess of Suffolk than Queen of France!”
Moth To The Flame Page 3