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

by Jean Plaidy

  Wolsey himself harangued the dressmakers. If they had not enough seamstresses they must find more … quickly. The sixteen dresses which comprised the Princess’s trousseau must be made in record time even though some were in the French style, some in the Italian—in order to please Louis who, as well as being King of France, was titular ruler of the Milanese. And some of the dresses must of course be of the English fashion, to remind all who saw the Princess that she was of that nation.

  Mary would stand still in silence while the dazzling materials were tried on her, showing no interest in the clothes whatsoever, and her women, watching her, were sad because they remembered how excited she had once been over her gowns and her jewels.

  As for the jewels, few of them had ever seen any collection so glorious as those which were being prepared for the Princess. Her carcanets were adorned with rubies and diamonds; there were gold bracelets set with priceless gems; there were glittering girdles and imitation flowers to be attached to her gowns—roses, marigolds (Mary’s own emblem) and fleur-de-lis decorated with every precious stone that could be imagined. Her litter was a thing of beauty adorned with the arms of her parents and her grandfather, King Edward IV. There was a canopy of a delightful shade of blue embroidered with the figure of Christ sitting on a rainbow, bearing the motto of the new Queen of France: La Volenté de Dieu me suffit.

  Mary would stand like a statue while the necklaces were placed about her neck, while the girdles encircled her waist, and her women combed out her lovely hair and set the jeweled ornaments on it.

  “Oh my lady, don’t you care that you have all these beautiful things? Does it mean nothing in the world to you that you have more honor done to you than any woman in England?”

  She answered: “I care not.”

  And she thought: “I would give up all the jewels, all the silks and velvets, if I could leave the Court this day with the man I love.”

  During those melancholy weeks she was on several occasions ready to find her way to Charles, to say to him: Let us go away from here together … anywhere. What does it matter if we abandon rank, wealth, everything? I have proved that all these things mean nothing without love.

  They would be outlaws, but what did she care?

  She smiled to think of them, living in some humble cottage. They need not starve. She would take a few jewels with her—those which were her very own—and they would sell them and live on the proceeds for the rest of their lives, humbly perhaps, but oh, how happily.

  They would never be seen at Court again.

  And if they were discovered?

  Now came the vision which made the dream impossible of fulfillment. They would take him from her. The Tower for him … perhaps for them both. She would be safe though for she knew Henry would never allow his sister to be harmed.

  But what of Charles? She could not bear it. They would take him to Tower Hill. She could see his beautiful head held high in the executioner’s bloody hand.

  “Here is the head of a traitor!”

  No, not that.

  She must go on with this. It was the only way. And each morning when she awoke the thought was in her mind: Louis cannot live long.

  The cavalcade had come to Dover Castle. In her apartments there, Mary looked across the slaty sea. She could not see the land but beyond that strip of water lay her new home, and the man who was to be her husband was waiting for her there.

  She was glad when the storm rose, because it seemed to her then that the elements were on her side and every day which passed now was a day nearer to freedom.

  There was no gaiety in her apartments, although Henry, who had accompanied her, tried to make some in the Castle. She heard the sounds of the lutes but she had no wish to join the merrymakers.

  Henry came to her apartment, unable to enjoy the dance because she was not there.

  “Come, little sister, you’ll not be so far away. Smile. Join the company.”

  “Leave me, Henry,” she said. “Go and dance and sing. There is no reason why you should share my misery.”

  He stamped his foot with rage. “If you must be such a fool, be so alone,” he said, and left her.

  But he soon came back.

  “Would we could have kept you with us, Mary.”

  She looked at him stonily. “You are the King,” she retorted.

  “It is hard for you to understand all that is involved in important State matters.”

  “It is as I thought,” she answered. “I am of no importance. Throw me to whichever dog best pleases you at the moment. The drooling young Prince of Castile today; the old man worn out by his lechery tomorrow.”

  “Your tongue is too loose, sister.”

  “Would it were looser, that I might tell you what you have done to me.”

  Then she threw herself into his arms, for it grieved her to see his lips drawn down in pain.

  He stroked her hair and soothed her, whispering: “It won’t be for long, Mary. It can’t be for long.”

  “Holy Mother,” she said, “forgive me, for I pray for his death.”

  “Hush, sister.”

  “It’s true. If I am wicked, then fate has made me so. If I could have married where I pleased I should not have had these wicked thoughts.”

  “Do not utter them.”

  “Then repeat your promise.”

  “What promise, Mary?”

  “That if I should become a widow, I marry where I like.”

  He could see that only by looking far into the future could she tolerate the present; and he repeated his promise.

  Then he left her. At the door of her apartment he saw a very young girl who was but a child. He called her because he thought that it would be safer for one so young rather than someone older to be with his sister at this time, for Mary was in a reckless mood.

  “Come here, child,” he said; and she came and curtsied prettily; then she lifted enormous, dark eyes to his face, and he was faintly amused by their lack of fear. “Are you waiting on the Queen of France?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sire,” was the answer.

  “Go to her now. Sit beside her. Comfort her. Bathe her face with scented water. Tell her the King sent you to soothe her. She is sad because she is going to leave our Court.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Stay. What is one so young doing here?”

  “I am to go to France with the Queen, Sire. I am with my father.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Sir Thomas Boleyn, Sire.”

  “And you are?”

  “Anne, Sire.”

  He patted the dark hair. “You are a good girl,” he said. “Go to, and remember what I have said.”

  She curtsied gravely. Henry was lightly amused for a moment; then he forgot the child; his concern was all for his sister Mary.

  Early in the morning of the second day of October the wind dropped, and preparations were made to sail. The ships lay in readiness; the fine garments, the precious jewels had been put on board.

  Henry took his sister’s hand and led her down to the shore. There he kissed her solemnly.

  “My beloved sister,” he said, “I give you to God, the fortune of the sea and the governance of your French husband.”

  “Henry,” she whispered, “you have not forgotten your promise to me?”

  “I do not forget,” he answered. “Be of good cheer. I’ll swear ere long you will be back with us.”

  Katharine was waiting to take her fond farewell, and Mary kissed her gentle sister-in-law with tenderness.

  Somewhere among those assembled was Charles; she dared not look at him; she was afraid that, if she did, she would cling to him and refuse to go aboard.

  The Queen’s fleet was not far out from Dover when a storm arose. Her women were terrified, but Mary remained calm.

  “If this be the end,” she said to Lady Guildford, “then I shall at least be spared the months to come.”

  “You are inviting death,” scolded her lady-governess.
<
br />   “Why not, when life has lost its savor?”

  “This is wickedness, my lady, and tempting Providence. Do you forget there are other lives in danger beside your own?”

  Then the Queen became grave; and she knelt down and prayed that they might reach the French coast in safety. The storm grew wilder, separating the ships so that many were blown in the direction of Flanders, which, had events been different, might have been their destination. Others were tossed toward Calais; and the Queen’s vessel, isolated, was brought, not without much difficulty, into the harbor of Boulogne. At the entrance of this harbor it ran ashore, and for some time it seemed as though all aboard were in the greatest danger. The people of Boulogne, who had been awaiting the arrival of the Queen’s fleet for days, attempted to send out small boats to take the passengers from the ship, but even these could not be brought onto the beach.

  Then one of Mary’s knights, a certain Sir Christopher Garnish, begged leave to carry her ashore; and he waded through the water holding her in his arms.

  Thus Mary came to France.

  Exhausted by her ordeal, Mary was lodged in Boulogne for several days; but messengers in the meantime had hastened to Paris to tell the King of her arrival. Delighted, Louis immediately sent the Ducs de Vendôme and de la Tremouille to welcome her and to bring her by degrees to Abbeville where he himself would be waiting for her.

  All along Mary had been playing a delaying action. She could not leave Boulogne; she was too weary after her sea crossing; she must wait for the rest of her fleet to arrive, for they contained her wardrobe, and her bodyguard.

  She was sorry when, sooner than she had believed possible, the missing vessels arrived in Boulogne; for then there was no longer any excuse to delay.

  The journey southward must begin, and Mary rode out of the town attended by her archers and horsemen, her baggage and her chariots.

  It seemed to her that she heard the notes of doom in the sound of the horses’ hooves for every hour now brought her nearer to the husband who could only bring her happiness by his death.

  Within a few days the cavalcade would be in Abbeville; they had rested at the mansion of a nobleman who was eager to do the Queen honor as he had been commanded by the King.

  Nothing must be spared in making her welcome, Louis had said; and he expected obedience.

  A rich apartment had been allotted to her, the walls of which were hung with tapestries and cloth of gold; and as she was being prepared for the day’s journey she heard the sounds of arrival below, and a great fear came to her. Could it be Louis, impatient to see his bride, who had ridden here? They were within a few days of Abbeville, so it was possible.

  “Holy Mother,” she prayed, “help me. Do not let me betray the loathing I know I shall feel. Let me forget for a while the beauty of my Charles, that I do not compare him with my husband.”

  “Go to the window and see who comes,” she said to her women; and it was Lady Guildford who, knowing her mistress’s feelings better than most, apprehensively obeyed.

  She stood for some seconds at the window, and Mary, suddenly impatient, joined her there.

  It was an elegant company and the center of attraction was an extremely tall man who sat his horse as though he had lived all his life in the saddle. He was laughing and, suddenly, seeming to know that he was watched, raised his eyes and saw the two at the window.

  He snatched off his hat and bowed. Mary could not take her eyes from his face because it was such an unusual one. He radiated vitality in a manner she had only seen equaled by her lover and brother; his eyes were dark as sloes, but his most arresting feature was a nose so long that it gave a humorous touch to his face.

  Mary turned away from the window because she feared she had stared too long.

  “It is not the King,” she said to Lady Guildford.

  “Some noble Duke, I’ll swear,” was the answer, “sent to welcome Your Grace.”

  The chatelâine of the mansion asked permission to enter.

  She curtsied and lifting her flushed face to Mary said: “Your Highness, the Duc de Valois is below and asking permission to be brought to you.”

  “Pray bring him to me,” said Mary.

  When they were alone, Lady Guildford said: “Do you know who this is? The Duc de Valois is also the Duc de Bretagne and Comte d’Angoulême. Moreover he is the Dauphin.”

  “I have heard much of him.”

  Lady Guildford caught her mistress’s hand. “Have a care, my dearest lady. This man could be dangerous. He will be watching you. He may well be your enemy. Do not forget the crown of France is at stake. If you give the King of France an heir, this man will no longer be the Dauphin. He stands to lose a throne.”

  There was no time for more, because the door was opened and in came François, the heir presumptive to the crown of France, his brilliant eyes amused, his long nose giving him a look of slyness, his sensuous lips curved in a smile.

  He came to Mary and knelt; then he lifted his eyes to her face and there was nothing but intense admiration in his gaze; the slightly impudent eyes, traveling over her body from head to foot, implied a knowledge of the feminine anatomy and its potentialities.

  He rose to his feet, towering above her—for he was as tall as Charles, as tall as Henry—and he said: “Madame, but you are enchanting. Rumor has not lied. The King of France is the luckiest man alive.”

  Mary had caught something of her lady-governess’s fear, but she felt suddenly alive. She did not know whether this man was going to be her bitterest enemy or not; but she did know that he had driven away her listlessness.

  François the Dauphin had entered her life, and she, like any other woman, could not be indifferent to his presence there.

  The French SCENE I

  Young François

  SOME SIXTEEN YEARS before François, the heir presumptive to the throne of France, had his first meeting with Mary Tudor, he was in the gardens surrounding the château, which was his home in Cognac, with his sister, Marguerite, who was two years older than himself.

  François, even at four, had an air of distinction. He was tall for his age, sturdy, healthy, handsome, and in addition to his physical perfections he had already shown himself to be quick-witted. He knew he was the most important person at the château; yet he did not make those about him suffer the tantrums of a spoiled child. He accepted the fact of his importance as naturally as he accepted the sun and the rain.

  This was partly due to his sister, herself as handsome and even more clever—but that might have been because she had two years’ advantage. They did not quarrel as most children do. If she thought François needed correction, Marguerite explained gravely where he was wrong, and because he knew that everything his sister or his mother did was to his advantage, he would listen with serious attention.

  Life at Cognac was quiet and well ordered, presided over by the children’s mother—good-looking, energetic and twenty-two years old. She was Louise, Duchess of Savoy, some two years a widow; her hair was of a light auburn shade, her eyes blue, her skin fair; she was not tall, as her children promised to be, but petite and dainty; she was marriageable, but so far had eluded the propositions which had been made for her. All her passion and devotion was for her children and, because one of these was a boy, because it was not inconceivable that a great future might be his, she had imbued her daughter, Marguerite, with her own enthusiasms; and the little girl was learning, as her mother did, to make the boy the center of her life.

  So now in the gardens of Cognac Marguerite sat with François under a tree and read aloud to him while he leaned against her and watched her finger as it pointed out the words she read. He was contented because he knew that when he tired of the book Marguerite would tell him stories of her own invention; and the hero of these stories, who always faced great odds and overcame them, was a man of kingly bearing, of great nobility, for whom some sort of crown was waiting—but Marguerite never explained what crown—and he was dark, and saved from being effeminat
ely beautiful by a long nose which somehow was very attractive simply because it was his. This hero had a variety of names; he might be Jean, Louis, Charles … but the boy knew that these names were disguises, and he was in truth François.

  A pleasant occupation; lying in the hot sun, watching the peasants at work in the vineyards, thinking of his pony which he could ride when he wished, although he must take a groom with him, because his mother was afraid for him to ride alone. But that was only because as yet he was four years old and one did not remain at four forever.

  Any problem, any fear he had only to take to Marguerite or his mother and they would lay aside what they were doing to put his mind at peace.

  Life was good when at four years old one was the center of it. The peasants showed their respect for him. When he went by on his little pony they shouted for Angoulême. “Now that your father is dead,” his mother told him, “you are the Comte d’Angoulême and these people look to you as their master.” But because he was clever he knew how much he depended on those two who were always at his side; so he listened to them and gave them love for love.

  There was not a happier family in France than that one at Cognac.

  From a window of the château, Louise watched her children. There could be no more lovely sight for her. Her charming daughter, with the book in her lap and her adored one leaning against his sister. She often told herself that life had begun for her with his birth, and that while she could plan and scheme for him she would find it well worth living. His childhood should be happy in every respect; it should be quite different from that which she had suffered. Although had she suffered? Not really, because she had never been one to accept defeat. She had always believed that she had had a proud destiny; and she had learned what it was: To be the mother of François.

  Now here at Cognac on a lovely spring day she thought of Amboise. There she was, a little girl walking discreetly with her governess in the grounds of the château. She could almost feel the heat of those stone walls against her back; she could clearly see the cylindrical towers and the great buttresses, the tall windows rising behind her; and, below the rocky plateau on which the château stood, the valleys of the Loire and the Amasse. She had been brought up with the Court by the eldest daughter of Louis XI, the Regent Anne of France, who ruled France until such time as her little brother Charles should be old enough to take the crown.