Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

by Jean Plaidy

  There Mary was waiting to receive them. She looked more than beautiful on that day; she was regal; she had put on a purple cloak which was lined with ermine, and standing on the dais she greeted them with the utmost formality.

  When she had spoken to each singly, she begged them to be seated, while she addressed them.

  She spoke in her high clear voice and, although now and then during her discourse her eyes fell on Charles, she gave no suggestion that she regarded him in any special light; and the impression she gave was that he was there because he was the Duke of Suffolk and for no other reason.

  “My lords,” she said, “I have assembled you here to speak of a matter which touches my royal dignity, and I look to your loyalty to the Crown to support me. I know I can rely on you. It has been brought to my ears that the Prince of Castile and his family continually conspire against my brother and this realm. I am, therefore, resolved never to fulfill my contract with him.”

  There was silence among the assembly, but there was one among them whose eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Wolsey had risen high in the King’s favor since the war, and he saw himself rising still higher. He had long doubted the sincerity of the Emperor, and that the alliance with the Prince of Castile should be abandoned suited his plans.

  Mary continued: “I beg of you all to plead my cause with the King, my brother, who may well be displeased with me for summoning you hither.”

  Charles watching her thought: How wonderful she is! There is no one like her. Who else, but eighteen years old, would have dared summon her brother’s ministers to her presence and make her will known?

  He was exultant because he was beginning to believe that she must achieve her desires—and hers were his.

  When Mary rode back with her attendants to Greenwich, the people came out to cheer her; they marveled at her appearance for, on this occasion with the certainty of victory in her eyes, she was so beautiful.

  She had not been so happy since she had realized the difficulties which stood between her and the man she so ardently loved, and one of the reasons for her elation was that Thomas Wolsey had spoken to her when taking his leave.

  “My lady,” he had said, “you may rely on me to do my utmost with the King to have you released from this match which is repugnant to you.”

  Mary recognized in that man a spirit similar to her own.

  “Wolsey is on my side,” she told herself.

  Henry no longer had any doubt of the perfidy of the Emperor.

  Envoys from France had arrived at Greenwich, ostensibly to make terms for the return of the Duc de Longueville and other prisoners whom Henry had taken at Thérouanne; in fact they came to bring a message from the King of France which was for Henry’s ears alone, and as he listened to it the veins stood out at his temples. Not only had Ferdinand renewed his alliance with France but the Emperor Maximilian was his ally in this and—behind the back of his comrade-in-arms, Henry of England—had made his peace with the French. It was however the wish of the King of France to make friends with England; and if His Grace would summon the Duc de Longueville to his presence, the Duke would lay before him a proposition from the King of France.

  Henry summoned the Duke to his presence, and with him that minister on whom he had come to rely, Thomas Wolsey; and when the King heard what the Duc de Longueville had to say his eyes glistened with something like delight. By God, he thought, here is a way of avenging myself on that pair of rascals. Foxy Ferdinand and Imperial Perfidy will dance with rage when they hear of this.

  The matter was settled and it only remained for the principal person concerned to be informed. Henry sent for his sister, the Princess Mary.

  When she came to his presence Thomas Wolsey was with the King, and her warm smile included them both, for she believed Wolsey to be her friend.

  Henry embraced her.

  “News, sister, which will be most welcome to you.”

  Her smile was dazzling in its satisfaction.

  “We are breaking off relations with Maximilian, and a marriage between you and his grandson is now impossible.”

  She clasped her hands together. Gratitude filled her heart, to Providence, to Henry, to Wolsey, to the Emperor for his perfidy. Her prayers were answered. She was free and in a short time she would cajole Henry into letting her have her way.

  “Therefore,” went on Henry, “you should no longer consider yourself under contract to the Prince of Castile.”

  “Most joyfully,” she answered.

  “Do not think though that we have not your future at heart, dear sister. We have a dazzling proposition to put before you, for Monsieur de Longueville has brought us an offer from his master. What would you say if I were to tell you that within a few months you will be Queen of France?”

  “Queen of France! But I do not understand …”

  “Then let me explain. Louis XII, King of France, recently widowed, seeks a new bride. He has heard glowing accounts of your beauty and virtue and he offers you his hand and crown.”

  She had turned pale; her blue eyes seemed suddenly dark. “No!” she whispered.

  Henry came and put an arm about her. “Dearest sister, you are astonished. It is indeed a dazzling prospect. Louis is our friend now; he has shown us who our enemies are. Not for you the pallid Prince of Castile with the mad mother, but the great King of France. You will be crowned in Paris. Mary, you cannot understand yet what honors are about to be laid at your feet.”

  Still she did not speak. She could not believe it. It was a nightmare. She had longed so fervently for her freedom, had prayed so vehemently for it, and she must wake in a moment, for this simply could not be true.

  “He is driving a bargain, this King of France,” went on Henry with a laugh. “Have no fear. I can provide you with a dowry rich enough to please even him. Mary, you will be the means of cementing this bond which friend Wolsey here agrees with me, is of the utmost importance to our country.”

  She spoke then. “I won’t do it. I won’t. I have been tormented with the Prince of Castile. I’ll marry where I will.”

  “Why, sweetheart,” said Henry, “when you have heard what this means, you will be as eager for this marriage as we are. Queen of France! Think of that.”

  “I’ll not think of it. I do not want this marriage. I do not want to leave you and England.”

  “There, my dearest sister, partings are sad, we know well. But you’ll not be far away. I shall visit you and you shall visit us. We shall be rivals in splendor, for when you come to see us I shall have made ready for your entertainment such masques …”

  “Stop! Stop! I cannot bear it!”

  She turned and ran from the room.

  She lay on her bed; she did not weep; this was a matter too tragic for tears. She stared blankly before her and refused to eat.

  Lady Guildford and those of her women who loved her—and many did, for impetuous and hot tempered as she could be, she was a generous and goodhearted mistress—were afraid for her.

  Henry was perplexed. He had expected a little resistance but he had not thought she would be so unreasonable. Had she not seen similar situations rising around her? Margaret had had to go to Scotland to marry a man whom she had never seen. Her own father had married her mother that the houses of York and Lancaster should be united. Did she not understand that, for all their wealth and privilege, they themselves had their duty to perform?

  He went to her room and sat by her bed. Gently he talked to her, pointing out her duty. He would have saved her from this marriage if he could, but the personal desires of Princes must always be set aside for matters of state.

  She burst out: “He is fifty-two and I am eighteen. He has had two wives and I have never had a husband.”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “So you hold against him the fact that he has had two wives. I did not think you would do that.”

  They did not mention Brandon’s name, but she understood the reference; for had not Charles himself had two wives and was he not even now
contracted to a third?

  “He is ancient,” she cried. “He is ugly and I do not want him.”

  “Sister, be calm. Be reasonable.”

  “I hate him,” she cried.

  “How can you hate one whom you have never seen?”

  “Because he will be the means of taking me from all I love.”

  And as she lay on her bed, suddenly the tears started to flow down her cheeks. She did not weep noisily, nor sob, but just lay quietly there; and the sight so unnerved Henry that he turned aside, blinking away his own tears.

  I have indulged her over much, he thought. I have loved her so well. I shall miss her as she will miss me. By God, were it not that so much was at stake. I would give her Brandon just for the sake of seeing her happy.

  Then another thought occurred to him. “Why, Mary,” he said, “your bridegroom, as you say, will be an old man. I hear that he suffers much from the gout.”

  “And for these reasons should I be doubly glad to marry him?” she cried angrily.

  He put his face close to hers and whispered: “Why yes, sweetheart. He lives but quietly, retiring to bed early; he eats frugally; it is necessary for his health. When he sees his young and beautiful bride he will be excited, depend upon it. He is in a fever of impatience to see you. I hear that in his youth he lived well and was very fond of women.”

  “You do not make him any more attractive to me.”

  “Do I not? That is because you stubbornly refuse to grasp my meaning. Sister, if you become the wife of the King of France and so serve your country, I do not think it will be long before you are the widow of the King of France.”

  She caught her breath. “And then … ?” she asked.

  “And then … you will be mistress of yourself, sister.”

  She sat up in bed and caught at his coat with impatient fingers.

  “Henry, if I marry the King of France to please you, will you, when I am a widow and free, let me marry where I please?”

  He saw the hope in her face and it pleased him. He had to rouse her from her melancholy, for if he did not he would have a sick sister who would be unfit for any marriage at all.

  “I promise,” he said.

  Her arms were about his neck. “Swear, Henry. Swear solemnly.”

  He stroked her hair with great tenderness. “I give you my word,” he assured her.

  After that interview with her brother, Mary’s manner had changed. She rose from her bed; she ate a little; it was true she remained melancholy but those about her noticed that she had become resigned.

  She had realized that as a princess she had her duty and must needs perform it.

  She did not see Charles, whom Henry had sent from Court for a while because he knew that to allow them to be together at such a time might be like putting flame to gunpowder.

  If only Mary would continue in this state of resignation until the nuptials were completed he would feel at peace.

  Charles spent the days of his absence staying at the home of his ward.

  Elizabeth had heard a great deal of gossip about him and at one time had thought he would be the wife of Margaret of Savoy.

  She had never greatly desired to marry him but since that day when he had rescued the child from the river she had viewed their future union without the distaste she had first felt for it. She had come to believe that since she must marry she might as well marry Charles Brandon as any.

  But when she had learned that he had gone to Flanders as Lord Lisle—the title he had taken through his connection with her—and using it had attempted to woo Margaret, her pride revolted; and when he arrived at the manor she greeted him without much warmth.

  Charles was too immersed in his own problems to notice this in the beginning.

  He was thinking along the same lines as those which Henry had put before Mary. Louis was an old man and it might well be that he would not live long; indeed marriage to a young and beautiful and vital girl would not help him to longevity. Could it be that it was only a matter of waiting?

  To imagine Mary in the bed of Louis was revolting; but he would try to think beyond it. Their position had been extremely dangerous; they could not expect to have their desires fulfilled without facing bitter trial beforehand.

  In time, he thought, we shall marry. It is only a matter of waiting and enduring for a while.

  Elizabeth said to him one day when they rode together: “You have been thoughtful, my lord Duke, since you came here.”

  He admitted he had much on his mind.

  “I think I know what it is that makes you moody.”

  He turned to smile at her.

  “Why, my lord,” she said, “you are now the Duke of Suffolk and as such have no need of the title which you took from me. It was useful for a while when you paid court to the Lady of the Netherlands. Now, of course, as a noble Duke you need not concern yourself with the daughter of a viscount.”

  He was silent, not really paying attention to her because he could not stop thinking of Mary, going to France, being crowned there, her meeting with Louis.

  Elizabeth sensed his lack of attention. She said angrily: “Have no fear, my lord Duke. I have no intention of holding you to your promise. Let me tell you this: I have no intention of marrying you. Nothing would induce me to.”

  He turned and looked blankly at her. Piqued and angry, for she sensed he was still not paying full attention to what she said, she whipped her horse and rode on because she was afraid he would see the tears which had started to her eyes.

  Charles looked after her retreating figure. He did not pursue her.

  She had spoken in childish anger, but he must accept her refusal, because he, like Mary, must be free for whatever good fortune could befall them.

  He would return to Court in due course and, when an opportunity offered itself, he would tell Henry that Elizabeth Grey had rejected him and thus he was released from his contract to marry her.

  The ceremony took place in the state apartments of Greenwich. Mary was solemn in her wedding robes. At her side was Louis d’Orléans, that Duc de Longueville who had played such a big part in arranging the match, and who on this occasion was acting as proxy for his master, King Louis XII of France.

  As he took her cold hand and slipped on it the nuptial ring, as he put his lips on hers for the nuptial kiss, she was thinking: It will not be for long. I could not endure it if it were. What sort of a marriage is this, where the wife can only endure it because she hopes her husband cannot live long? What sort of a person have they turned me into, that I can long for the death of a man I have never seen, and that man my own husband?

  She went through the ceremony mechanically, repeating words that she was asked to repeat, without thinking of their meaning; she only knew that, in place of the slack-mouthed boy, she had been given to an old man, and the only change for the better was that in the ordinary course of life the latter must die before the former.

  The King of France had expressed the wish that the ceremony should be conducted with realism. “Having heard of the beauty of his bride,” the Duc de Longueville had confided to the King, “he can scarce wait to receive her.” Therefore he wished the marriage to be consummated symbolically.

  It was a trying ordeal to be divested of her court gown by her women and put into her magnificent sleeping robes. With her golden hair falling about her shoulders, the robe about her naked body, her feet bare, she looked very appealing, particularly because she was so unnaturally subdued and there was a look of fear and resignation in her eyes.

  As she lay down on what was called the nuptial couch, she saw her brother smiling at her encouragingly. Beside him was his Queen. Katharine, who understood, was trying not to weep in sympathy. And there was one other there. Suffolk had recently returned from the country, free of his engagement with Elizabeth Grey; he could not look at her, nor dared she look at him.

  The Duc de Longueville approached the couch and, sitting down on it, gazed at the Princess; then he took off one of
the red riding boots he was wearing; and, that all present might see, he lay down on the couch beside the Princess and touched her bare leg with his bare foot.

  Symbolically the marriage had been consummated, and the Princess Mary was now the Queen of France.

  The whole Court was talking of the impatience of King Louis. And who could blame him? He was an old man and he could not have many years left to him. He had a young bride, notoriously beautiful; it was natural that he should want her to be with him without delay.

  Couriers were arriving at Greenwich every day, bringing gifts from the King of France. There were jewels and trinkets at which all those who knew the King marveled, because he was not noted for his extravagance; but so eager was he to show his bride the affectionate greeting which was awaiting her, that for once he forgot to calculate the cost.

  Mary declared her intention to learn French; she had, of course, studied that language but she did not feel as yet proficient enough. “I should prefer not to disappoint my husband,” she said demurely. Henry knew that she was seeking to delay her departure by every possible means. She feigned great interest in a grammar which her French master, John Palsgrave—a Londoner who had graduated in Paris and spoke French like a Frenchman—was compiling for her. He must write the book for her, she said; for how could she perfect her knowledge of the French language without such a book? John Palsgrave worked too hard for her at his task, and she was not pleased when he told her delightedly that he had been writing the book for some time and would be able to present it to her in a week. This he did; it was called Éclaircissement de la Langue Française.

  There was her trousseau to be prepared and it was decided that some of her dresses should be made in the French style out of compliment to her husband.

  “My dressmakers should go to Paris to study the dressmakers there,” she suggested. “They should make absolutely certain that there is no mistake.”

  But her brother knew, and Wolsey knew, that her great wish was to delay her departure; and, as theirs was to expedite it, her case was hopeless for they were more powerful than she.