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

by Jean Plaidy

  François himself was now old enough to feel apprehension. Life at Court suited him well. He was the darling of his set; and he accepted their adulation as gracefully as he had accepted that of his mother and sister. Not only had he good looks and charm but he was the Dauphin—the most important man at Court next to the King, and the King was old and ailing.

  He had discovered too what he believed from now on would be the greatest of all pleasures: making love to women.

  He did not want any change. To be Dauphin at the Court of France was a wonderful life.

  One bright day Louise’s anxieties were miraculously swept away. The Queen had given birth to a child who lived, but the child was a girl and little Princess Renée could present no threat to François the Dauphin.

  “And this must be the last,” Louise told Jeanne. “She can never manage it again.”

  François pursued his way at Court, charming all. Marguerite was now married to the Duc d’Alençon. Poor Marguerite, she was a most reluctant bride; but she had been brought up to do her duty and, although she suffered so intensely that it was feared she might die of melancholy, she went through with the marriage.

  François, to whom she confided all things, wept with her, for her sorrows would always be his. She was seventeen, François fifteen; and he was angry with himself because he was powerless to help her.

  There was little point, he said, in being Dauphin if one could not have one’s way. He wanted to go out and kill Alençon so that the man could not marry his sister.

  Marguerite, who had declared that she would rather be dead than have to live with the man whom they had chosen for her husband, forgot her own grief when she saw how upset her brother was.

  “Why, my dearest,” she said, “I would marry ten such men rather than that you should be unhappy on my account. Smile, François. What does it matter whom I marry? I shall love one man until I die, and that is you, my brother.”

  They embraced; they kissed; they mingled their tears.

  “And you know, Marguerite, my pearl of pearls, I shall never love a woman as I love you.”

  “I know it, for we are as one, beloved. We are part of that trinity to which I am honored to belong, while feeling myself unworthy.”

  François assured her that she and their mother were the most wonderful of women, and when he was King of France he would do all in his power to make her the happiest woman alive. She should leave her husband; she should come to Court; they would be together always.

  Marguerite was comforted. “No world could ever be desolate which contained my beloved brother,” she told him.

  The Court was at Blois and François was in love.

  He had seen the girl on her way to church; she was demure, keeping her eyes downcast and he had followed her. He did not want her to know that he was Dauphin; he wanted her to love him for himself alone, and he had come to suspect that many of the women at Court showed a preference for him partly because of his rank.

  This girl was different. She was not of the Court. He did not know who she was, but he suspected she was the daughter of some not very prominent citizen.

  After church he followed her to a house in the town; it was a humble enough dwelling from his viewpoint and he was only the more enchanted by this; it seemed incredible that one so fair and dainty could live in such a place.

  For days he watched for the girl. He hung about near the house; and one day when she was going to church he waylaid her as she crossed the churchyard.

  “I beg of you,” he said humbly, “stay awhile. I would speak with you.”

  She turned and faced him. She was very young, and more beautiful seen closely than from afar. He was filled with happiness because he noticed that her gown, though tastefully made, was of simple material, and very different from the garments worn by Court ladies.

  “What have you to say to me?” she asked.

  “That you are beautiful and I have long desired to tell you so.”

  She sighed. “Well, now ’tis done,” she said, and turned away.

  He laid a hand on her arm, but she shook her head. “I know that you are the Dauphin,” she said. “It is not fitting that you should be my friend.”

  “How did you know who I am? And I tell you it seems very fitting to me, because I am eager to be your friend.”

  “I should always know you,” she replied. “You have changed very little. You don’t remember me though.”

  “Pray tell me your name.”

  “It is Françoise,” she said.

  “Françoise!” He took her by the shoulders and peered into her face. Then he laughed aloud with pleasure. “Little Françoise! Our baby … grown into a beautiful girl … the most beautiful girl in France.”

  Françoise lowered her eyes. He thought he had discovered her afresh; but she had seen him many times when he rode with the King or members of the royal party. She had thought him the most handsome, charming creature in the world, and when she had seen the women clustering round him, a great sadness had touched her. She had longed then to be young again—a baby whom he held in his arms. She had felt it was the greatest sadness in her life that he should be the Dauphin of France and she a humble maiden. If he had been a shepherd, or a lackey of the Court, how happy she could have been!

  “Look at me, Françoise,” he commanded, and she obeyed. She saw the desire in his eyes, as he took her hands in his and pressed burning kisses on them.

  But Françoise was frightened; she withdrew her hands and ran away.

  François stood looking after her. He was smiling in a dazed fashion.

  He was in love for the first time in his life.

  He sought out Marguerite; he was so excited because he had found their little Françoise again.

  “Dearest, do you remember our baby?” he cried. “Do you remember little Françoise? I have met her again and she is beautiful … the most beautiful girl in the world, except yourself. I am in love with her.”

  Marguerite smiled at him indulgently. “I am glad, beloved, that you are in love. It is so good for you. Lust without love is a poor pastime. And you have found Françoise. I knew that she was here, because one of my servants is married to her sister. She lives with her family in the town. It is rather charming that you should love our baby.”

  “Marguerite, tell me what I should do. She was a little afraid of me, I think. I spoke to her in the churchyard and she ran away.”

  “Next time do not allow her to run away. Tell her of your feelings. She will be your mistress, and it is good for you to have a mistress. And Françoise is a good girl … a virgin, I promise you. I am delighted that this has happened.”

  “You think that she will be my mistress?”

  Marguerite laughed aloud. “Any woman in France would be honored to be your mistress.”

  “You say that, who love me.”

  “Beloved, you have all the gifts. You are young; you are charming, witty, and handsome. And you are the Dauphin of France. My love, you look to me like a king already. No woman would resist you.”

  But Françoise, it seemed, was the one woman in France who would not become his mistress.

  She avoided him, and again and again he was disappointed. She no longer walked across the churchyard, and it took him some time to discover that she now went to another church. When he had traced her, he told how hurt he was, but to his consternation Françoise implored him to leave her alone.

  Disconcerted, he once more consulted Marguerite who herself went to Françoise to find out the real cause of her reluctance.

  Françoise broke into bitter weeping when questioned by Marguerite. Indeed she loved François; she had loved him since she was a baby. Through her life she had gathered all the news she could about him. She would always love François.

  “And he loves you too. How happy you will be,” said Marguerite.

  But Françoise shook her head. “I cannot meet the Dauphin,” she said. “We are too far apart, and I would die rather than commit the sin of b
ecoming a man’s mistress, whoever that man might be.”

  Marguerite pointed out that this was folly. It was good to be virtuous, but to be the mistress of a king—and the Dauphin would one day be King—was not a disgrace but an honor.

  “Madame,” answered Françoise, “to me it seems a sin whether it be a dauphin or a beggar.”

  Marguerite shrugged her shoulders and went back to François.

  “The girl adores you,” she told him, “and so she should. She talks of sin. You must have her abducted, seduce her, and then I’ll swear she will forget all about sin and you will both be as happy as you were intended to be.”

  François was happy again. He could trust Marguerite to find the solution to all his problems.

  They had brought her to him; she was pale and trembling. François was afraid they had hurt her. He had ordered them to be gentle, but she had obviously struggled.

  She looked at him, and he felt that he would never be able to forget the reproach in those brown eyes.

  “So,” she said, “you have trapped me.”

  “But Françoise,” he replied, “it is only because I love you so much.”

  She shook her head, and he saw the tears on her lashes.

  He went to her then and took her roughly in his arms. She was small and he was so strong. He knew that he could subdue her.

  “Now,” he demanded, “are you not happy because they brought you to me?”

  “François,” she answered earnestly, “if you harm me, this will be something which your conscience will never let you forget.”

  “Oh come, Françoise. You have been brought up too simply. At the Court people make love and do not call it a sin.”

  “I know what is in my heart, François.”

  “Do you hate me then?”

  “I have confessed to your sister that I love you.”

  “Why then …”

  But she covered her face with her hands.

  He put his hand on her breast and felt the tremor run through her body. She stood rigid, and he thought suddenly: But she means it. She calls it sin.

  “Françoise,” he said. “Little Françoise, you must not be afraid of me. When we are lovers in truth you will understand that I would not hurt you for the world. Please, Françoise, smile and be happy.”

  “I am in your power,” she said, and shivered.

  He was angry and an impulse came to him to force her to do his will. Was he not the Dauphin? Had not Marguerite said that any woman would be honored to be his mistress? Any woman … except Françoise, the one he wanted.

  He caught at the bodice of her dress. In a second he would have ripped it from her shoulders. But he did not do so. He thought of little Françoise, the helpless baby; she was as helpless now.

  He loved her—not as he loved his sister and mother for he would never love any with that deep abiding emotion. But he wanted to protect her, never to hurt her, and he could not bear to see her frightened and to know that he was the cause of her fear.

  “Oh Françoise,” he said, “do not tremble. I would not harm you. I love you too well. You shall go to your home now. Have no fear. You will be safe.”

  She knelt down suddenly and kissed his hand; her tears were warm and they moved him deeply.

  He laid his hand on her hair, and he felt grown up … no longer a boy, but a man.

  And although he had lost Françoise, because he knew that to see her again would be to put a temptation in his way which he might not be able to resist, he was happier than he would have been if he had seduced her.

  “I shall never forget you, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she said. “I shall never forget you … my King.”

  “Nor shall I forget you, Françoise,” he told her.

  She left him and, true to his word, he did not see her for some years, although he never forgot her and often made inquiries as to her well-being.

  When he told Marguerite what had happened she was as pleased as he was by the outcome and said that he had acted with his usual wisdom. She had believed that Françoise would have been delighted by her seduction; but Françoise, it seemed, was an unusually virtuous girl; and by renouncing her he had acted like the perfect knight he was.

  She was proud of her darling, as always.

  Christmas at Court lacked its usual gaiety. There had been a humiliating skirmish with the English and, although the French had not taken the boastful Henry VIII and his army seriously, the result had been the Battle of the Spurs, and the border towns of Thérouanne and Tournay had been lost. The King of England had taken a few prisoners, among them the Duc de Longueville. It was rather depressing, particularly as Louis was in great pain with his gout, and his Queen was in an even more sorry state.

  Anne had suffered a great deal since her confinements, and the fact that they had brought her but two girls made her very melancholy. She now had to accept the fact that she could not prevent Louise’s boy ascending the throne, and when she recalled that he was betrothed to her own Claude she was apprehensive.

  “What sort of life will our delicate child have with him?” she demanded of Louis. “Already one hears constant talk of his conquests. And he affianced to the daughter of the King! My poor Claude! I fear for her. Would that I had my way and she had married the Archduke Charles who is, by all accounts, a gentle person. But this François has too much energy. He is too lusty. He is horribly spoiled. And this is the Dauphin! This is the husband-to-be of my poor Claude!”

  Louis tried to soothe her. “He is a fascinating young fellow. Claude will be the envy of all the women. He’ll be a good husband.”

  “A good and faithful husband,” said Anne sardonically.

  “He’s too young for fidelity, but when he mellows he’ll be a good King, never fear.”

  “But I do fear,” insisted Anne. “I fear for my delicate daughter.”

  She persisted in her melancholy; and since the King retired to bed early and could eat nothing but boiled meat, it fell to the lot of the Dauphin to make a merry Christmas.

  This he did with little effort, and already men and women of the Court were beginning to look forward to the day when the King of France would be young François Premier instead of old Louis the Twelfth.

  Shortly after the New Year the Queen took to her bed; she suffered great pain and Louis, summoning the best physicians to her bedside, found that instead she needed the priests.

  When, on a cold January day, Anne of Brittany died, Louis was distraught. He had been in awe of her; there had been times when he had had to resort to subterfuge in order to go against her wishes; but he had loved her and respected her. She had been such a contrast to poor Jeanne, his first wife; and because, when he had married her he had been past his youth and in far from good health, he had counted himself fortunate, in an age of profligacy, to have a faithful wife on whose honor he could absolutely rely.

  He wept bitterly at her bedside.

  “Soon,” he said, “I shall be lying beside her in the tomb.”

  But the bereaved husband was still the King of France. He sent for his ministers. “The marriage of my daughter to the Dauphin must take place without delay,” he said. “Even the fact that we are in mourning for the Queen must not delay that. I do not think I am long for this world; I must see my daughter married before I leave it.”

  So François was to prepare himself for marriage, and Louise, hearing the news, made ready to join her son.

  “Ah, Jeanne,” she cried, “what happiness! My enemy is no more and I have heard that, by the looks of the King, he will not be long in following her. Then the glorious day will be with us. Caesar will come into his own.”

  Even Jeanne de Polignac believed now that no more obstacles could stand in their way.

  The two women embraced. Anne of Brittany could no longer produce an heir. The way to the throne was wide open and no one stood in the way of François.

  Louise laughed in her glee. “All these years I have feared and suffered such agonies! Why, Jeanne, I need nev
er have worried. All her efforts came to naught; and now my beloved is at Court and no one dares dispute his claim. How long has Louis left, do you think? I hear that the death of Anne upset him so much that he had to keep to his bed for a week. Well, Louis has had his day.”

  They were joyful as they prepared to go to Court.

  “But,” Jeanne warned her friend, “be careful not to show your elation. Remember we are supposed to be mourning for the Queen.”

  “Louis knows too well how matters stood between us to expect much mourning from me. Louis is no fool, Jeanne.”

  “Still, for the sake of appearances …”

  “I will play my part. What care I? All our anxieties are over. The crown is safe for Caesar.”

  François stood beside his bride, and all who had gathered to witness this royal marriage were struck by the contrast between them. François, tall, glowing with health, handsome and upright. Poor little Claude, who dragged one foot slightly as she walked, who was short, and now that she was in her adolescence beginning to be over-fat in an unhealthy way. François was gay; Claude, who had been brought up by her mother, was deeply religious. An incongruous marriage in some ways; but in others so suitable. It was understandable that the King, seeing another man’s son ready to take his crown, should want his daughter to share it.

  François played his part well, and if he regarded his bride with repugnance, none noticed it; he smiled at her, took her hand, did all that was required of him as though he believed her to be the most beautiful lady in the land.

  Claude adored him; and it was pathetic to note the way her eyes followed him.

  All who had gathered in those apartments at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the Royal wedding wondered what the future would hold for those two. Would Claude be able to give France heirs? There was no doubt that François would; but it took two to make a child.