by Jean Plaidy
He explained how the King was waiting for her in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse which would be his residence during his stay in that town. The people of Abbeville were so honored that the official meeting between the King and his bride should take place in their town that they had decorated the streets and were preparing to show her their pleasure in the union.
“You have ridden far,” he said tenderly, “and this has been a great ordeal for you. Would you care to enter the town in your litter?”
Mary was grateful for the suggestion. In the litter she would feel less exposed; and it was true that she was tired.
“I will ride beside the litter,” François told her with a smile. “So you will not have lost your … protector.”
“Why, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she replied, “the people of France have shown me such courtesy that I do not feel in need of a protector.”
He grimaced in a manner which was charming. “I pray you do not rob me of my role for I have rarely found one more to my taste.”
He turned away to call a halt, when the litter was brought forward and Mary entered it. She made a charming picture sitting there, for the litter was a thing of beauty, being covered with cloth of gold on which was embroidered the golden lilies.
“We must have it open,” François pointed out. “The people will want to see their Queen.”
So, riding in the open litter, Mary came into Abbeville, and when those watching from the city walls witnessed the approach of the party, the order was given for a hundred trumpets and clarions to sound, that their joyous greeting might fill the air. But to Mary they sounded like the notes of doom.
She saw the excited people who called out to her that she was beautiful. Long life to her, the Queen of France. She looked so young sitting there, the cloth of silver falling gracefully about her, her golden hair showing under the jeweled coif. She was more than a beautiful Queen. Recently there had been war with her people; but that was done with, and this lovely young girl was a symbol of the peaceful days ahead.
Through the triumphal arches they went, Mary turning this way and that to acknowledge the greetings, to express wonder at the tableau which the people of Abbeville had erected for her pleasure.
At last they came to the Church of St. Wulfran, where the Queen was helped from her litter that she might be led to the altar in order to adore the host.
She lingered; there was panic within her which forced her to make everything that preceded her meeting with the King to last as long as she could make it.
François was close.
“The King will be impatient,” he whispered. “He is awaiting your coming at the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.”
She nodded pathetically and allowed herself to be led back to her litter, and the journey continued.
The Duke of Norfolk had now taken the place of the Dauphin; he it was whose duty it was to lead her to the King and make the formal introduction. Mary did not like Norfolk because she believed he was no friend of Charles’s. He was a man who was so proud of his rank that he resented it when other men were lifted up to be set on an equal footing with him. He was Norfolk. Why should a man who had nothing—except a handsome face and skill in sport—be given honors so that he could stand as an equal against men who had been born to dignity? Moreover he knew that the Princess Mary had fancied Suffolk, and he believed the fellow had entertained a secret hope that he might marry her. It gave Norfolk grim pleasure that both the Princess and Suffolk had been robbed of that satisfaction.
He would conduct this girl, who had so far forgotten the dignity of her position, to the King of France with the utmost pleasure.
Mary was aware of his sentiments and she felt more desolate than ever. She must face the truth that no one or no thing could save her from her imminent marriage.
Into the great reception hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse Norfolk led the Princess to the King who was waiting to receive her.
With Louis were the highest ranking nobles of France, the Dauphin prominent among them.
Louis embraced his bride and welcomed her to France. He wanted her to know that all those assembled wished to pay her the homage due to her.
He then presented the Dukes of Alençon, Albany and Longueville, with, among others, the Prince of Naples and de la Roche-sur-Ion.
The next stage of the ceremony was a banquet followed by a ball. Louis kept his bride beside him during the former, and when the dancing began he said that he knew she was longing to dance and he was eager to see her do so. It was a matter of chagrin that he himself was unable to do more than open the ball with her and dance a few steps. François was hovering, ready to do his duty as Dauphin; and Louis sadly watched the young pair dancing together. They were a little apart from the others—the most distinguished pair in the ballroom. Never had François looked so kingly; never had Louis felt so envious of the one whom he had come to think of as the Big Boy.
When the ball was over, Mary was taken to the apartment which had been prepared for her; and as, until she had actually undergone the ceremony, it was deemed unfitting that she should sleep under the same roof as the King, she was conducted along a gallery—erected for this purpose—to a house which had been made ready for her and which was on the corner of the street leading to the Rue St. Gilles.
Here Lady Guildford helped her to disrobe. When the jeweled coif was taken from her head, she shook her golden curls about her shoulders, and the robe of cloth of silver fell at her feet; she looked so young and desolate that Lady Guildford had to turn away to hide her emotion.
“So it is to be tomorrow,” said Mary.
“You did not think it could be very long delayed?”
“But tomorrow … it seems so near! Oh, Guildford, what can happen between now and tomorrow?”
“You can get a good night’s sleep, which is what you will need. You will be exhausted if you do not. You cannot hide anything from me, you know; and you have been sleeping badly since this journey began.”
“I want to feel exhausted. I want to be so tired that when I lie down I shall sleep. You see, then I do not have to lie and think.”
“All this honor for you and yet …”
“And yet I am not satisfied. No, I am not. I am most dissatisfied, Guildford. How much do all these jewels cost … all this feasting … all these ceremonies? They are extravagant, are they not? And they are all to honor me, perforce to give me pleasure. Yet how happy I could have been with none of them. What I asked would have cost them so little. Guildford, it makes me laugh.”
“No, no, my dearest. Be calm. We are here, and tomorrow you will marry the King. He seemed to be so kindly, and he loves you already.”
“He loves this face, this body, because it is young and he is old. Yet what does he know of me, Guildford? If he could look into my heart he would hate me, for I …”
Lady Guildford had put her hand over Mary’s lips.
“Hush! You do not know who listens.”
Mary laughed bitterly. “I am guilty of treason,” she whispered. “Treason to the King of France. What then? Shall I be thrown into a dungeon? Let it be. I’d as lief find myself in one of his dungeons as in his bed.”
She covered her face with her hands.
“Oh Guildford, I had hoped … I had never thought it would come to this. How can I bear it? You understand, do you not? There is Charles in England, you see, and here am I in France.”
“Others have borne it before you, my dearest.”
“Others have not loved Charles. If I had never seen him, if I had never known him … then perhaps it would have been easier to face this. But I have seen him. I love him, Guildford, and tomorrow night …”
“Hush, my lady. Hush!”
“Hush! Hush!” cried Mary. “That is all you can say? How can I expect comfort from you! What do you know of love? If you understood, you would find some way of helping me. I hate everyone and everything that keeps me from Charles. I should be going to him tomorrow. Do you not understand? Are you so blind, s
o deaf, so stupid, that you cannot comprehend one little bit of what it means to love as I love him … and to be given to this old man?”
“Come to bed. You need your strength for the morrow.”
“My strength.” She was laughing again, wildly, alarmingly. “I need my strength to face … that. You are right, Guildford.”
“Come, say your prayers. You should be asleep by now.”
“I’ll say my prayers, Guildford. And do you know for what I pray? I pray for a miracle which will prevent my having to go through that ceremony tomorrow, or when I have gone through it, will prevent my being with him through the night. That is what I shall pray for, Guildford. Now you are looking shocked … frightened too. I am weary of pretense and subterfuge. Guildford, you fool, do not pretend you do not know what I pray for is to be made a widow.”
It was Lady Guildford’s turn to cover her face with her hands, to stop up her ears, suddenly to run to the door to make sure none lurked outside, to ask herself in desperation if ever a woman had undertaken such a delicate and dangerous task as conducting this Princess to her husband.
Her terror sobered Mary.
“Be still, Guildford,” she said; “it would seem it is I who must care for you. Come, help me to my bed. I am fainting with weariness.”
“It is for this reason that you talk so wildly. You are overwrought. It has been such a long day.”
“Stop talking nonsense. I am not weary of the saddle, or the litter. I am weary of my fate. That is very different, Guildford. It is not physical weariness that exhausts me. I love and I hate and so fiercely do I both love and hate that I am weary. Come to bed.”
“And to sleep, my love.”
She lay in the bed, and Lady Guildford drew the coverlet over her. She herself would sleep in the same chamber. She was glad that she had dismissed the other attendants; it would have been dangerous for any of them to have witnessed such a scene. Fortunately she, who knew her Princess so well, had seen that coming; that was why she had dismissed them.
Poor sad little Princess—jewels without price were hers; lavish entertainments had been devised in her honor; few could have been fêted as she was; but few could have been more unhappy than she was that night. Yet a simple ceremony in an English church, with no jewels, no brilliant company, no crown, could have made her the happiest woman in the world, providing the right man had shared that ceremony with her.
But she asks the impossible, mused Lady Guildford, which was characteristic of her. She knew that Mary had gone on believing—in the face of circumstances—that this marriage would not take place; that a miracle would happen and that the man who stood beside her and spoke his marriage vows would be Charles Brandon.
Mary had preserved a childlike faith in her destiny; she knew what she wanted; and Lady Guildford was aware that when she achieved it she would be content. But how could she achieve the impossible? How could a royal Princess hope to marry the man of her choice when he was not of royal blood?
And because Mary had believed it possible, because she was capable of enjoying great happiness and knew so unswervingly what she wanted, tomorrow’s wedding would be all the more tragic.
Lady Guildford lay in her bed at the foot of the Princess’s, thinking of these things.
And when she rose to take a look at her charge who lay very still, she saw that she was asleep and that there was a solitary tear on her cheek.
Poor sad little Princess, thought Lady Guildford, so tragically sad, on this night before her wedding.
She was composed on the morrow. She had awakened to the melancholy knowledge that no miracle could happen now; and because she was a princess she must do her duty.
Lady Guildford was greatly relieved by her demeanor; she had had alarming dreams during the night that the Princess stubbornly refused to go through with the ceremony. Now here was the girl, subdued but resigned; and so young and lovely that sorrow had not set its mark on her; it merely seemed to change her personality, and as the King of France had never seen the gay young girl who had lived at her brother’s Court he would not marvel at the difference in this quiet young beauty who was preparing to take her vows with him.
In spite of her sadness, rarely had Mary looked as beautiful as she did in her wedding gown, which was cut in the French fashion and made of cloth of gold edged with ermine. Diamonds had been chosen to decorate it and she seemed ablaze with their fire and sparkle. Her long golden curls had been released from restriction and hung about her shoulders reaching past her waist, and on her head was a coronet made entirely of jewels.
Her attendants who clustered around her, themselves splendidly clad, could not take their eyes from her. Only Mary herself, when she was implored to look at her reflection, did so with blank indifference.
“The time has come,” said Lady Guildford apprehensively, scarcely daring to look at Mary lest she saw the resentment flaring up again.
But Mary only said quietly: “Then we should go.”
From her apartments she walked to the temporary gallery where her white palfrey was waiting for her; and with it were the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquis of Dorset.
She mounted the palfrey and Norfolk and Dorset walked, one on each side of her, as she rode along the gallery to the door of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse. There she dismounted and was led into the hôtel by the two English noblemen.
The ceremony was to take place in the great hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse, an impressive chamber made even more so for this occasion. Tapestries had been hung on the walls and the hangings were of cloth of gold; costly furniture had been brought in for the ceremony; and there was a lovely light which came from the colored windows on which were depicted the exploits of the town’s patron saint, Wulfran.
Slowly Mary made her way across the mosaic floor to where Louis awaited her. He looked well; there was a faint color in his face which was unusual with him, and her first thought was: He will live for years.
Then she was ashamed of the thought, for he was smiling so kindly and she was aware that he had great tenderness for her.
The Cardinal de Brie was waiting to perform the ceremony and two brilliantly attired French nobles advanced with the royal canopy, which they proceeded to hold over Louis and his bride. One of these was the Duc d’Alençon, and the other was François the Dauphin.
The vows were made, Louis had put the nuptial ring on her finger and the nuptial kiss on her lips. She was now his wife and Queen of France.
It was time to celebrate Mass and make their offering, but the King and Queen could not do this last in person; and it was the duty of the first nobleman of the land and the first lady—next to the King and Mary—to perform this on their behalf.
François made the King’s offering. Mary watched him on his knees, and she felt a faint pleasure that he was there because he seemed like a friend. Then her attention was drawn to the lady who made the offering on her behalf—a pale woman, who limped a little and appeared to be slightly deformed. Surely not the Dauphin’s wife! The woman rose, in somewhat ungainly fashion, and as she did so she looked at the new Queen of France. It was not exactly hatred that Mary saw in that face; it was too mild for that. Was it resentment?
Doubtless, thought Mary, married to that gay young man she has cause to be resentful. It is unlikely that he is a faithful husband. But that was no reason why she should resent Mary.
Mary had too many anxieties of her own to consider for very long those of Claude, Princess of France and wife of the Dauphin.
The sounds of trumpets rang through the halls of Hôtel de la Gruthuse. The solemnity was over; and the King was now ready to lead his bride to the banquet.
He took her hand gently, almost as though he believed she was a precious piece of porcelain that would break with rough handling. Seated beside him at the center table she partook very moderately of the food which was offered, and the King was concerned about her lack of appetite.
It was clear to all those present that the King was delighted with
his bride. They had not for years seen him looking so young or so full of vigor.
There was the long day to live through, for the marriage had been performed at nine in the morning; and in accordance with the etiquette of France Mary retired after the banquet to apartments which had been prepared for her personal use, and there she entertained the Princesses of France, and ladies of the nobility.
Now she had an opportunity of making closer acquaintance with Claude and her young sister, Renée. The latter was pleasant enough and inclined to be excited by all the pageantry which had taken place; but the melancholy of Claude, which held a hint of reproach, was disturbing.
“It is my Father’s command,” Claude told her, “that I discover your needs and supply them.”
“There is nothing I need ask for,” Mary replied, “though I thank you.”
And in that moment Mary forgot her own troubles because she was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for this poor, plain girl, who was married to that extremely attractive young man.
She smiled, wanting to show this girl that she was ready to be friendly with her, and laying a hand on her arm said: “I am your mother now. It may be that we can be friends.”
Claude drew back as though she had been struck. “My mother is dead. It is not a year since they laid her in her tomb. No one else could ever take her place.”
She limped away, ugly color in her face and neck.
Someone else was at Mary’s side—a very beautiful, composed young woman a few years older than herself.
“Madame Claude still mourns her mother,” said the newcomer in a low and charming voice. “I also have tried to comfort her. At this stage it is useless.”
“They were devoted to one another?”
“They were. And the Princess is so like her mother in many ways. Queen Anne thought it was sinful to enjoy life, and brought her daughter up to think the same. A sad philosophy, do you not think so, Madame; and an unwise one?”
“I agree.”