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

by Jean Plaidy

  “But you should rest more,” said Mary. “I am your wife and I shall insist that you do.”

  He was touched that she could be so concerned for his health, and Mary was quick to seize the advantage. She took on the role of a charming little nurse and gave orders in the King’s apartment.

  “This afternoon you shall rest on your couch and I will sit beside you and talk to you if you wish. Or I can be silent.”

  What an enchanting creature she was—so young and yet willing to forgo the pleasures of the hunt or the banquet for the sake of her husband.

  He told her this, taking her hand and kissing it as he did so; and when she sensed that he was inclined to become amorous she raised a finger and put on a stern expression.

  “I am going to command you in this matter. You are to rest; and there must be no excitements.”

  He allowed her to take charge. He found it very pleasant to lie back on his couch, the delightful creature beside him, listening to her quaint accent which he found quite fascinating, while she occasionally soothed his hot brow with sweet unguents; and although she allowed him to stroke her arms she was very insistent that caresses should stop there.

  “I have to consider what is good for you,” said the charming child.

  It was so comforting to realize that she was young and inexperienced, that she accepted his shortcomings as a lover; indeed insisted that he should not exert himself.

  Each day he gave her a jewel. He had put several trinkets aside for her, and he doled them out one by one—partly because he was a man who always liked to get the utmost return for what he paid out; partly because she expressed as much pleasure over one small jewel as she would have done over twenty.

  He contemplated that rarely had he been so contented in his life, and his greatest regret was that when he had married Mary Tudor he was fifty-two instead of twenty-two.

  He did not wish, of course, to allow life to become dull for her. He had dismissed her English attendants because he believed they had too much influence over her, and when she was upset he did not want her to cry in the arms of Lady Guildford but in his. That little disturbance was now settled, thanks to Marguerite de Valois who was as scintillating a companion as anyone could have.

  He sent for the Dauphin. François came at once to his couch. Louis was not so pleased with François; there was something sly about the Big Boy. Outwardly he was too gay, and he could not be feeling gay. If Mary gave birth to a son—not an impossibility—that would be the end of François’s hopes; so what had he to be gay about?

  Definitely the boy was sly. Now he was doubtless amused because an old man had become too excited over his marriage to a beautiful young girl and consequently had to take to his couch for a few days.

  “My boy,” he said, “I have decided to delay leaving Abbeville for a few days. The gout is troubling me and my physicians say I need rest. I cannot therefore escort the Queen as I would like to, and I do not wish that all the balls and banquets should be canceled. As the nobleman of highest rank you should take my place at the Queen’s side.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “The Queen understands. In fact she is most charmingly solicitous of my health. I shall be present at the festivities, but you must lead the Queen in the dance and talk to her when I am weary.”

  François bowed his head. It was duty he could contemplate with the utmost pleasure.

  François was in love. This was not an infrequent occurrence, but in this case the situation held a certain piquancy.

  He loved her golden hair and her perfectly formed body; he loved her English accent; but what appealed to him more than anything was that latent fire which he sensed within her. When aroused she would be a passionate creature, and François longed to be the one to arouse her. The fact that she was recently married to the King brought such an element of danger into the relationship as to make it absolutely irresistible to one of François’s temperament.

  He had received no greater blow to his hopes than when the King had married; he had even felt—rare for him—depressed. He needed some glorious adventure to give life a new zest. A love affair in itself would not have been enough—he had had so many of them already; but a love affair with the recently married Queen, which could place them both in jeopardy, would give life the excitement which at this time he greatly needed.

  He was constantly at the Queen’s side. A little touch of the hand, a burning intensity in the eyes, the caressing note in his voice, the words which were full of a hidden meaning … surely they were enough to tell Mary the state of his feelings?

  She pretended not to understand these indications; and he was sure it was pretense. She was not as innocent as she would have them all believe. And the fact that he was not quite sure what was going on behind those beautiful blue eyes only added to her fascination.

  He became angry if anyone else attempted to dance with her; he made it clear that, while the King was indisposed, it was the task and privilege of the Dauphin to entertain the Queen.

  Mary was fully aware of his feelings, and she was grateful to him as she was finding these days at Abbeville so wretched on account of her longing for Charles; François’s attempt to involve her in an intrigue enlivened the days, particularly as she had no intention of becoming involved, while at the same time it was amusing not to let him know this.

  She enjoyed showing wide-eyed innocence, as though his innuendoes passed over her head. She did not for one moment believe that the Dauphin’s feelings were deeply involved. They both needed excitement at this time; she because she was an unwilling bride; he because the marriage which had proved such a tragedy for her was one for him also. She could see that ambition was strong behind the insouciant manner and witty frivolity. François wanted to take revenge on Louis for marrying again, by making love to Louis’s wife.

  Thus she was being caught up in an intrigue which amused her; and desperately she needed to be amused.

  Louise sought out Marguerite. Louise was very apprehensive, and Marguerite mildly so.

  “Marguerite,” cried Louise, “François is constantly with the Queen.”

  “The King being indisposed, it is the place of the Dauphin to look after her.”

  “I know my son well. He is becoming enamored of that English girl.”

  “She is very beautiful,” Marguerite agreed.

  “Have you considered what might come out of this?”

  “Thoughts have entered my head.”

  “Louis will never get a healthy son. But if those two were lovers … why, Marguerite, can you doubt what the result would be? It would be inevitable. And she would pass it off as Louis’s.”

  “You mean your grandson and my nephew would take the throne from his father.”

  “Unacknowledged! It would be a tragedy.”

  “Maman, this is wildest imagination.”

  “It could be fact. Admit it, Marguerite. François, bless him, is virile, as he should be. He is in love with the Queen, and can you doubt the Queen’s feelings for him! She pretends that she is unmoved. My dear Marguerite, could any woman remain unmoved by François? I tell you our beloved is in danger of losing the throne … not through Louis—poor impotent old man … but by his own actions.”

  “Our François is no fool, Maman.”

  “He is brilliant, I grant you. His wit sparkles and makes the Court a gay place. But his emotions are strong, as is natural in all young men. Let the Queen succumb … and how can she help it? … and we shall be hearing that she is pregnant. Louis, the old fool, will be beside himself with glee and within a year there will be a little dauphin in the royal nurseries. I tell you we are in danger … the utmost danger.”

  “What do you propose to do, Maman? Point out the danger to François?”

  “François has realized the danger. He must have. Do you remember how he always courted danger? He is daring—and I would not have him otherwise—but daring in this case could be fatal to his future. I remember the time when as a boy he let a b
ull loose in the courtyards of Amboise. He himself slew it … but he was risking his life and knew it. He loves risks. They are the salt of life to him. And now he is ready to take this one. I see it in his face. I know my François.”

  “Maman, should we speak to him?”

  “I am uncertain, daughter. He is no longer a boy. I know that he likes to make his own decisions and, although he would listen to us courteously as he always has, yet by pointing out the hazards we might increase the enchantment.”

  “We must watch this affair closely,” Marguerite murmured.

  “And you are near the Queen. You must take an opportunity of pointing out the dangers to her.”

  Marguerite was thoughtful. But there was no denying that she was as anxious as her mother.

  Mary had been riding and as she went up to her apartment Marguerite intimated that she wished to be alone with her, and the other attendants were dismissed.

  “My poor little sister-in-law is not very happy,” Marguerite began. “It is sad for her that she is so different from my brother. They are not well matched. Do you agree, Madame?”

  “They are not alike in temperament, but I have heard that people of different types are often attracted to each other.”

  “Poor Claude! I fear it is inevitable that she should be a little jealous.”

  “Is she of a jealous nature?”

  “I believe that, like most of us, if she thought she had reason to be jealous, she could be so.”

  “And has she reason?”

  “Having recently acquired such a beautiful stepmother, only a year or so older than herself, must necessarily accentuate her own ungainliness, particularly when …,” Marguerite hesitated and Mary raised her eyebrows enquiringly, “… when her husband seems so very much aware of that stepmother’s charm.”

  “You are telling me that Claude is jealous … on my account!” Mary’s surprise was clearly feigned, and she meant Marguerite to know that it was.

  “François is so clearly attracted to you.”

  “Then should you not speak to him? I can assure you that I have done nothing to make Claude jealous.”

  “He is impetuous and reckless.”

  “I see.” Mary turned her clear gaze on Marguerite. “I certainly think you should warn him in that case.”

  Marguerite laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “If the King were to be aware of this …”

  Mary said coolly: “I can set your mind at rest. There is nothing in the matter that I am aware of which could give the King the slightest cause for displeasure.”

  She was reminding Marguerite that she was the Queen of France, and that she had no wish to discuss the matter further; but secretly she was amused because she had learned a great deal about the relationships of that family. Louise of Savoy had been tortured all through her life by fear that a son of Louis might follow his father to the throne. And now they had actually gone so far as to believe that she might be François’s lover and have a child which she would pretend was Louis’s.

  In her present position it was good to have something to laugh at. François greatly desired the crown and yet the need to satisfy his sexual impulses was so demanding that he was prepared to risk the first in order to assuage the second! And the devoted mother and sister were fearfully looking on.

  She might have said to them: François shall never be my lover. There is only one who could be that, and he is in England.

  But the knowledge of intrigue around her was helping her through these melancholy days.

  The royal party had been at Abbeville for almost a fortnight, and Louis was showing signs of recovery. Mary, still acting as nurse, watched him uneasily as she sat by his couch.

  He took her hand and said: “Thanks to our ministrations I am beginning to recover.”

  “You must be very careful not to exert yourself too much,” said Mary quickly.

  “Have no fear. I think we shall be able to leave here within a few days, and our first stop shall be at Beauvais. I have a surprise for you.”

  Mary opened her eyes wide in an endeavor to express excitement. A ruby? A diamond? She knew what his surprises usually were and she was beginning to dread them because she must pretend to show enthusiasm which she could not possibly feel.

  “We shall have a joust to celebrate your coronation, and I thought that it would please you if we made it a contest between the country of your birth and your adopted one. It would be a symbol of the friendship between us. The people will remember that not long ago we were fighting each other in a real war. Now we will have a mock-battle and see who is the more skilled in the joust.”

  “There are few Englishmen here who would be able to give a good account of themselves.”

  “I know, and this must be a fair contest. So I thought it would please you if I wrote to your brother and asked him to send over some of his most skilled knights to challenge ours. This I have done.”

  For a moment she found speech impossible. She was asking herself: Whom will Henry send?

  “I can see that the thought of this match between the two countries please you more than jewels. I am content.”

  “You are very good to me,” murmured Mary.

  He laughed. “Remember though that you are a Frenchwoman now. You must support us, you know.”

  “We shall see,” she answered.

  They left Abbeville for Beauvais and as she rode beside the King, acknowledging the cheers of the people, Mary was asking herself the question: Is it possible? Would Henry send Charles?

  Louis had said that he was asking that the most skilled men might be sent. In that case Charles must come. For the honor of England he must come. Henry would see to that. Yet, knowing the state of her feelings, would Henry consider it unwise to send Charles?

  Rarely had she looked so beautiful as she did then; there was a suppressed excitement in her eyes which did not pass unnoticed by Marguerite.

  The Queen is in love? she thought. Has it gone as far as that? Oh, François, beloved, have a care.

  It was a golden October day when they rode into Beauvais; and as they reached the mansion where they were to stay for the night, Mary was alert for a sign of the English party.

  A banquet had been prepared in the great hall, and she had taken her place at the center table, when the news was brought to the King that the English knights had arrived.

  “Have them brought in at once,” was Louis’s answer. “We must give them a good welcome, for they come on behalf of my good brother, the King of England.”

  And so the doors were thrown open and as the Englishmen came in, Mary caught her breath with wonder; for they were led—as was only natural that they should be—by Charles Brandon. And there he was coming to the center table, his eyes on the King, betraying only by a twitch of a muscle that all his thoughts were for the young woman who sat silently there, her cheeks aflame, her eyes sparkling as no one in France had seen them sparkle yet.

  She must see him. Who would help her now? If only Lady Guildford were with her! But Louis had artfully removed all her English attendants except little Anne Boleyn who, he considered, was too young to influence her.

  She dared confide in no one. Marguerite was a friend—up to a point—but only when by being so she could do no harm to her brother. And if she told Marguerite that the man she loved was in Beauvais and she must have an interview with him alone, Marguerite would immediately suspect that Charles might take the place of François in that wild drama she and her mother had conjured up. Therefore, Marguerite would never help her arrange a meeting with her lover—in fact, for the sake of François, might even betray her to Louis.

  Perhaps it was natural that she should wish to receive the party from her brother’s Court. If they came to her she could flash a message to Charles who would be ready for it.

  This was what she did when, headed by Charles, the Englishmen came to her apartment. Of course her French attendants were present. Nevertheless she must do the best she could.

  How ha
ppy she was to see him kneeling before her, taking her hand in his, putting his lips to it. She was trying to communicate all her feelings to him, and she knew by the pressure of his hand that he understood.

  “It pleases me to see you here,” she said.

  He told her that her brother sent her affectionate messages and there were letters which he would bring to her.

  “Yes … yes,” she answered.

  She must receive the others; she must murmur platitudes to them. She must tell them how excited she was at the thought of the coming joust, and she hoped they would conduct themselves with honor for England.

  Oh Charles, she thought, stay near me.

  He understood. He was by her side. He said quietly: “Are you happy?”

  “What do you think?” Her voice was sharp and bitter.

  “You are more beautiful than ever.”

  “I must see you alone,” she said. Then added hastily: “Come back in five minutes’ time after the party have gone. I will endeavor to be alone except for young Anne Boleyn.”

  He bowed his head and she turned away lest Norfolk, who was with the party, should be suspicious.

  Now she was impatient for them to be gone, and afraid that if they lingered much longer the King would come to her apartments.

  But at last they went, and she dismissed her attendants, saying that she was going to rest for an hour; and to avoid suspicion kept little Anne with her.

  He came back, as they had arranged; and she commanded little Anne to sit on the stool near the door of the main apartment while she drew Charles into a small adjoining chamber. If anyone came to the door, Anne was to tell them her mistress was resting.

  It was dangerous, but Mary was ready to take risks. An interview alone with Charles was worth anything she might be asked to pay for it.

  They embraced hungrily.

  “My love,” said Charles, “I have lived it all with you.”

  “Oh, Charles!” She was half laughing, half crying, as she touched his face with her fingers. “I can’t believe it, you see. I have to keep assuring myself that you are here.”