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

by Jean Plaidy

  “The Duc de Lorraine, whom my brother had in mind for you, is affianced to the daughter of the Duc de Bourbon; but Charles, Duc de Savoy, would be an excellent match. Oh, Mary, please stay with us.”

  With a gesture of affection Marguerite had thrown her arms about Mary. Were those caressing hands trying to discover whether there was any thickening of the girlish figure?

  Mary returned the embrace but continued to look mysterious.

  “I can decide nothing … yet,” she said.

  “But your brother, I have heard, is sending an embassy to France. I think his wish is that you should return to England with it.”

  “An English embassy! I wonder whom he will send.”

  “I do know that it will be led by the Duke of Suffolk.”

  All melancholy was replaced by joy. If Henry was sending Charles, it could mean that he remembered his promise. Was Henry saying: Now it is up to you!

  This changed everything. Charles was coming. Nothing in the world could have made her happier.

  She must hide her joy. Marguerite was too watchful; and a little sly, she had to admit, for Marguerite, while posing as her friend, was in truth her brother’s spy.

  She knew full well that although Marguerite expressed her friendship and François constantly hinted that a closer relationship would please him, they were her enemies—in so much as they would not help her to marry Charles Brandon.

  She was not so simple that she did not know the reason for François’s desire for a French marriage. He wanted to keep her dowry.

  But Charles was coming! And this time she would not be cheated.

  She walked to her couch and lay down on it.

  “I feel a little tired,” she told Marguerite. “I think I shall have to rest a little more frequently … now.”

  “You mean … ?”

  “Just that I do seem to be in need of this rest, my dear Marguerite. Thank you for coming to see me.”

  She turned her face away and Marguerite must leave her, bewildered, frustrated, as deep in that dreadful uncertainty as she had been before her visit.

  It was unseemly for a widow to be so happy. She could not help it. When she rose she wanted to sing: “Charles is coming to France.” It was her last thought before retiring each night.

  Every day she waited for news of the English embassy. She would say to herself: “This very day he may come walking into the apartment.” She knew what she would say to him when he did come. “Charles, Charles, now. No delay. We must take no more chances. I have waited too long and will wait no longer. Take me now, for I am yours and you are mine for as long as we both shall live.”

  Still he did not come. But she was not in despair. Perhaps he was waiting at Dover now. Perhaps the gales were too fierce. Oh, the perils of the sea! They alarmed her; they frightened her. But he would come through them safely. She was certain.

  “Soon, my love. Soon I shall be in your arms,” she murmured.

  And meanwhile the trinity were watching for signs of her pregnancy, and they would try to prevent her marriage to Charles Brandon, she knew, because their plan was to force her into marriage with Charles of Savoy.

  I’d die rather, Mary told herself.

  She was burning with impatience. She could scarcely endure the days, and life was so dull and dreary in the mourning chamber while she was waiting for Charles that she must try to infuse a little gaiety into her life.

  She kept little Anne Boleyn at her side. The girl was discreet, she was sure; moreover she was English.

  “Soon,” Mary told Anne, “we shall be going to England. I shall never marry here.”

  Then she was afraid that she had been indiscreet and, taking the girl by her long black hair, warned her of the horrors which would befall her if she ever repeated what she had heard.

  The serene black eyes were untroubled; Mary knew she could rely on the child, who was wise beyond her years.

  She would have only Anne to help her dress and insisted that together they spoke English. And if Anne was astonished at the petticoats Mary insisted on wearing she gave no sign.

  “There!” cried Mary. “How do I look?”

  Anne put her head on one side, her black eyes disapproving. She was already fastidious about her dress, and a very fashionable young lady who could always be relied on to bring out the ornaments which looked best on certain gowns.

  “Too fat, Madame,” said Anne.

  Then Mary laughed and taking the girl by the hands danced round the room with her.

  “So I look fat, do I? So would you, Mistress Anne, if you were as petticoated as I am. And I will tell you something; tomorrow I shall wear yet another petticoat; and I want you to find some quilting.”

  “Quilting, Madame?”

  “I said quilting. Those black eyes are very inquisitive. Never mind, little Anne. You shall discover. In the meantime not a word … not a word to anyone of petticoats or quilting. You understand me?”

  “Yes, Madame.” The black eyes were demure, the lips turned up at the corners. The girl had wit enough to enjoy the joke.

  Each day Mary was visited at the Hôtel de Clugny by Louise, Marguerite or François.

  Daily her body seemed to grow thicker and each day as they left her they were in greater despair.

  Mary’s eyes, sparkling with excitement, would be watchful. They knew that she guarded some secret, which gave her the utmost pleasure.

  “There can be no doubt about it,” said Louise in despair. “Louis has left her pregnant.”

  François beat his fist against his knee. “Months of waiting … then the birth. And if it is a boy … Foi de gentilhomme, why is Fate so cruel!”

  Louise paced up and down her apartment.

  “That it should have come to this. All the years and now … this. Who would have thought Louis capable!”

  Only Marguerite had comfort to offer. “It may be a girl,” she said.

  But even so there would be the months of uncertainty.

  Mary had shut the door of her chamber and taken little Anne by the hands. She danced with her round and round until they were both breathless.

  “Anne, did you see her face? Marguerite’s, I mean. Poor Marguerite! It is a shame. She has been a good friend to me.”

  “She has been a better one to her brother, Madame.”

  “Well, Anne, that is natural. As for Louise, I believe she would like to kill me.”

  “And would do, Madame, if it were possible for the deed not to be discovered.”

  “I know it well. That is perhaps why I enjoy my little joke.”

  “The quilting has slipped, Madame.”

  “I find it rather hot, Anne. Perhaps I will wear fewer petticoats tomorrow.”

  “You must not grow smaller, Madame.”

  “Not until the time is ripe,” was the answer. “Have you heard any rumors about the embassy from England?”

  “No, Madame, only that the King has chosen the Duke of Suffolk to lead it.”

  Mary clasped her hands together.

  “My Charles, soon he will be with me.” She began to dance once more round the room, her arms held out as though to a partner. She stopped suddenly. “I should be mourning Louis. Poor Louis who was always kind to me. But I cannot pretend, Anne. How can I mourn when Charles is coming to me? And when he comes, this time I shall never let him go.”

  Anne had run to her and was picking up the quilting which had fallen from her skirts.

  Mary snatched it from her and threw it high into the air.

  “When he is here, the joke will be over. I would not have him see me ungainly, I do assure you.”

  Then she laughed and wept a little while Anne watched her with solemn eyes.

  Marguerite, her eyes wide, her face pale, burst into her mother’s apartment.

  “What is it, my dear?” demanded Louise, and François, who was with his mother, came swiftly to his sister’s side.

  “I have just left the Queen,” stammered Margaret.

&nbs
p; “And she has told you …,” began François.

  Marguerite shook her head. “I can’t believe it, and yet …”

  “My dearest, it is unlike you to be incoherent,” François murmured.

  “Come, come,” put in Louise impatiently. “What is it?”

  “I was studying her figure and thinking that it had thickened even since yesterday. She was seated and suddenly rose; I am sure my eyes did not deceive me, but it seemed that something beneath her gown moved.”

  “Is it so far gone then!” cried Louise in panic. She began counting on her fingers. “They were married in October. Could it have happened then? Impossible. Old Louis would have been so proud, he would never have kept the secret.”

  “Not a child,” said Marguerite slowly, “definitely not a child. It was as though something … slipped.”

  The three looked at each other.

  Louise spoke first. “It’s impossible. Would she attempt to trick us? For what purpose? What can she hope to gain from it?”

  “Some amusement,” suggested François, and he began to laugh, partly with relief. For if what had entered his mind were indeed true then he would be a very happy man.

  “We must find out,” declared Louise.

  “How?” asked Marguerite.

  “How, my dear! I shall go to her apartments. I shall see what it is she wears beneath her garments.”

  “You cannot mean, Maman,” protested Marguerite, “that you will go to the Queen’s chamber and ask to see what she wears beneath her gown! Remember she is still the Queen of France.”

  “My dear Marguerite, if your eyes have not deceived you as that girl is trying to deceive us, I am—at this moment—the mother of the King of France. I fancy my son would allow no one to criticize my actions. Is that not so, Sire?”

  “Mother, if I ever forget what I owe to you I should never deserve to wear the crown.”

  “Then I shall take this chance. Come with me, Marguerite. But wait awhile. We will prepare her for our meeting. Go, my dear, and send one of the pages to the Hôtel de Clugny to tell the Queen that we beg leave to call on her.”

  Mary patted her body affectionately. A visit from Louise and Marguerite! When the former came she could always be sure of some amusement; she never felt ashamed of duping her, as she did Marguerite.

  “How do I look, Anne?”

  “Very enceinte, Madame.”

  “What would you say, my child? Three months?”

  Laughter bubbled to Anne’s lips. “It would seem, Madame, that you carry a large and healthy boy and have been doing so for more than three months.”

  “And if I look larger than other women that is natural, Mistress Anne. Do I not carry a little king? Do I carry him high? They tell me that that is a sign of a boy.”

  “Oh yes, Madame. But you are far too large.”

  “We will leave it now, Anne. I shall remain thus until the English embassy arrives. See who is at the door.”

  Anne came back, her eyes sparkling. “Madame d’Alençon with her mother, Madame.”

  Mary went to her couch and reclined there, looking wan.

  “How is that, Anne?”

  “Excellent, Madame.”

  “Bring them in. And then go discreetly into the corner and sit there with your needlework. You must look very serious. Remember that you are in a chamber of mourning.”

  Mary might have been warned by the militant glare in Louise’s eyes, but she scarcely looked at her.

  She smiled wanly and held out her hand.

  “Welcome,” she said in a quiet voice. “It does me so much good to see you here. And Marguerite also. Welcome too, my dear.”

  “We have been hearing accounts of your health which give us some concern,” Marguerite told her.

  “My health? You must not be so anxious on my behalf. It is all so natural.”

  “And how are you feeling, now, Madame?”

  “A little tired. A little sick now and then. With diminished appetite, and now and then a fancy for some odd thing.”

  “I trust your servants are taking good care of you.”

  “The utmost care. The little Boleyn is a treasure.”

  “I would,” said Marguerite, “that you would allow me to be with you more frequently.”

  “At such a time I am happy to be with little Boleyn. I am in no mood even for your sparkling conversation.”

  Louise had spoken little, but her sharp eyes never left the Queen’s reclining figure for one moment.

  She came close to the couch and two spots of color burned in her cheeks, as she said: “I trust, Madame, that you did not catch the King’s complaint when you nursed him so carefully.”

  “The King’s complaint?”

  “Gout!” hissed Louise, as with a swift movement she leaned over the couch and touched that spot where the padding beneath Mary’s gown was thickest.

  “Madame!” Mary began indignantly, leaping from the couch as she spoke.

  Louise, so triumphant, so conscious of the fact that as privileged mother of the King she was in a position to act as familiarly as she cared to with the Dowager Queen, jerked up the Queen’s gown, exposing the layers of petticoats; and not content with that she probed further until she was able to pull at the padding.

  Mary shrieked her protest but Louise was in command now.

  “A new fashion perchance from England?” asked Marguerite, and there was laughter in her voice.

  “Exactly so,” answered Mary. “Did you not like it?”

  “It gave you the appearance of a pregnant woman,” went on Marguerite, for she saw that her mother was struck speechless by the mingling of delight and fury.

  “Is that so?” replied Mary calmly. “Then that must have pleased some, while it displeased others.”

  “Your royal body is more charming in its natural state,” went on Marguerite.

  Mary sighed and put her hands on her hips. “I feel you may be right.”

  By this time Louise had recovered her speech, and all the anxiety of years was slipping from her. But she had to make sure. She took Mary by the arm and shook her.

  “You will tell me,” she said, “that you are not with child.”

  Mary’s mischievous eyes looked straight into Louise’s. The little game was over. She had to tell them the truth.

  “Madame,” she said, “I am not with child. I trust that ere long I may have the pleasure of greeting the King and saying, as all his subjects will wish to: ‘Vive François Premier.’ ”

  Triumph of the Queen

  HE SAT OPPOSITE HER in the mourning chamber. He was at his most handsome and insouciant. The anxiety was over; moreover it was a thing of the past because it had gone forever.

  He was jaunty, sitting there, his long, elegant legs crossed, studying her with smiling eyes.

  “I am honored,” she told him demurely, “to be visited by the King of France.”

  “It is a marvelous thing,” he replied, “that I should have been a King before I was aware of it.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  He laughed suddenly. Then he said: “I trust you enjoyed the game.”

  “It was the greatest fun,” she answered frankly.

  “It gave my mother and sister much anxiety.”

  “And you, I fear.”

  “It would seem to me that you are a little méchant, ma belle-mère.”

  “It is why I have always felt drawn toward you, mon beau-fils. We are alike in some ways.”

  “All those weeks of uncertainty! I should have been crowned at Rheims by now.”

  “But that is to come, Sire.”

  “You should be trembling, so to have duped the King and his family.”

  “So should I, did I not know that the King loves a joke—even against himself—as well as I do.”

  “Nevertheless, this was beyond a joke.”

  “Then, Sire, you are indeed angry. But I do not believe it. You still look at me with such friendship.”

&nbs
p; François began to laugh and she joined in; she was thinking of young Anne, carefully padding her, and the expression on Louise’s face when she had studied her thickened figure.

  “’Twas a good joke, Sire,” she said between her gusts of laughter. “You will admit that.”

  “It did not seem so then,” he said, trying to look solemn; but he could not set his face into severe lines, and he was thinking: Why was I not given this girl instead of Claude? He was speculating too. He would marry her to Savoy and she and her husband should be at Court. He would carry on his flirtation with her and, when he was King and she was Duchess of Savoy, there was every hope of their little affair reaching its culmination. He might come to an arrangement with Savoy that the marriage should be one of convenience. Savoy need never be a husband to her and she could be the maîtresse-en-titre of the King of France. It was not difficult for a king to arrange such matters.

  He could see a very pleasant future ahead of them, so how could he be angry with her?

  “If you were not so beautiful,” he said, “I might decide you should be punished in some way.”

  “Then I thank the saints for giving me a face that pleases the King of France—and a body too … although that did not once please him so well.”

  “So,” went on François, “instead of sending my guards to arrest you and take you to some dark dungeon, I will tell you of the future I have planned for you. I shall never allow you to leave France, you know.”

  All the gaiety left her face; she was alert now.

  “My home is in England,” she began. “Now that I no longer have a French husband I should return to my native land.”

  “My dearest belle-mère, we will find you a husband who will please you. In fact I have someone in mind for you.”

  “The Duke of Savoy by any chance?”

  “So you already had your eye on him. He will be a good husband to you.”

  “When I marry, Sire, I should like to be the one who had decided on my partner.”

  François slowly uncrossed his legs. He rose and came to her chair. There he stood smiling down at her.

  “You are fully aware of my feelings toward you.”

  “Oh yes. You forgive me my follies because you like my face and now my figure.”