by Jean Plaidy
“But if my Lord Suffolk has promised…”
“I have been promised. My brother has promised me that, if I married for state reasons, the next time I should have freedom of choice.”
I could understand her feelings. She was ready to brave her brother's wrath; she was his beloved sister, but Suffolk, whatever the friendship between himself and the King, was only a subject.
Then something happened which upset her a great deal, not because of what actually took place but because it was an indication of the power of those who were working against her marriage.
Her confessor came to her and told her that a certain Friar Langley had arrived from England and it was imperative that he have speech with her immediately.
I was with her when he was brought in.
I curtsied and was about to leave when she said to me: “No. You may stay.”
The friar looked at me with displeasure but he seemed to come to the conclusion that my presence was of no importance. I had always been allowed to witness a great deal because of my youth.
Mary said haughtily: “What is it you have to say to me?”
“I have come to warn Your Grace.”
“To warn me? Of what?”
“Of one who has come hither in an embassy.”
“I do not understand you, Friar.”
“I have come to tell you the truth about the Duke of Suffolk.”
The color flamed into Mary's face. “What of the Duke of Suffolk?” she asked haughtily.
“I believe Your Grace has been deceived by this man and has shown him much favor. It has been impressed on me that I should come here to warn you that he traffics with the Devil.”
She was seething with rage and controlling it with more success than she usually displayed.
“And who, may I ask, has done this impressing?”
He was evasive, evidently wary of betraying those who had sent him.
“All know that Sir William Compton—a rival with the Duke for the King's favor—suffers from a virulent ulcer of the leg,” he said.
“I fail to see what connection this has with the Duke of Suffolk.”
“The King has made an ointment which is a cure for ulcers. It fails to work on Sir William.”
“Is that so?” Her voice was dangerously calm. I thought: In a moment she will fly at him. Clearly he did not know her temper.
The friar lowered his voice. “The Duke of Suffolk is a friend of Wolsey and it is well known that he is one of the Devil's disciples. How could a butcher's son rise to such greatness?”
“By shrewdness, wit and very special qualities which others have not.”
“No, Madame. Through the Devil.”
“Sir Friar, you should be careful how you speak of my friends.”
“It is because I fear for your safety that I have come here to warn you.”
She went close to him. “Go back to your friends,” she said in a low voice, “and tell them I know their motives well. Tell them this: I shall make sure that when I return to England the King is informed of your perfidy toward those he loves… and if you have any sense in your addled pate, you will get out of my sight at once. I never wish to look on your sly and silly face again. And if you pass on any of these lies which you have uttered to me, I'll have you in the Tower and there they will discover who it was who led you to this act of folly.”
“Madame…”
“Go,” she cried.
He went.
She looked at me and said: “You see, I have my enemies. They will do everything they can to prevent my marriage. They would destroy my happiness…if they could. But they are not going to.”
Nor did they. Fortunately for Mary, François had decided to help. Looking back, I think he was rather pleased to do this—not because of his affection for her. François's feelings toward her were entirely lustful. He might have been piqued because she preferred someone else, but I think he rather admired her tenacity. He was romantic at heart; at least, at times, it pleased him to see himself as such. One could never be sure of François; but I certainly think he took a pleasure in flouting the King of England.
There was a rivalry between them which was intensified because they were of a kind—both young, handsome, both following serious predecessors who had lived without pomp. It must have amused François, who would surmise that Henry would be obliged outwardly to disapprove of the marriage of his sister to a man who had come from a comparatively humble background because it would annoy the great families of England whose favors he could not afford to lose.
So, with François's help, Mary was married with great secrecy in the chapel at the Hôtel de Clugny.
I saw her briefly after the ceremony. Worried as I was about what would now become of me, I could not help but rejoice in her happiness. She was radiant with joy—there in her simple gown, so different from the gloriously appareled young woman who had been married such a short time before in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.
Only ten people were present in the little chapel, but one of them was the King of France himself.
It was a daring act, but characteristic of Mary. I believed that without her determination it would not have taken place, for Suffolk knew the hostility it would arouse.
The King of England was most displeased and for a time they were afraid to return to England.
But I learned something of the King's nature much later, when I went to England. He was very sentimental and he truly loved his sister. He liked Suffolk, too, and it was not long before a compromise was arranged. For such a flagrant act of disobedience they could not go unpunished, so the King would take possession of Mary's plate and jewels; for he had incurred great expense in sending her to France in the appropriate manner and he wished to be reimbursed for that. They were to pay him yearly installments of £24,000 and naturally they would not be able to come to Court for a while.
It seemed harsh punishment, but Mary did not seem to mind. She was so deliriously happy that I supposed Suffolk was all she had believed him to be.
“We shall be poor,” she said, “living in the country. How I shall love that! I am heartily sick of courts. I shall have my Charles and we shall be a country gentleman and his lady. It is what I have wanted more than anything in the world and now it is mine.”
Queen Claude sent for me.
She was very gentle and kind—not like a queen at all. She was surrounded by ladies just like herself. They spent most of their days doing good works, like sewing for the poor and visiting convents; they prayed a good deal. She was such a contrast to her flamboyant husband that it was amazing that theirs should be—after a fashion—a successful marriage, perhaps due to that realistic view of life which is characteristic of the French.
“Come here, Anne,” she said. “I have some news for you.”
I waited in trepidation, certain that she was going to tell me to prepare to leave for home.
She smiled her very gentle smile and said: “I have had word from your father. He trusts that you have given satisfaction during your stay at our Court. I think Queen Mary would agree that you have, for she has kept you close to her.”
I was silent but my heart was beginning to beat very fast.
“Your father thinks that a stay at our Court is good for you…for your education and all you have to learn besides. He therefore asks me if I can find a place for you here so that you may remain when the Queen-Duchess returns to England, which she will shortly be doing. And I have decided that I will take you into my household.”
I was so delighted that I must have shown it, for she seemed pleased and patted my head.
“One of the ladies will tell you where you will sleep and explain your duties to you. They may be a little different from those you did with the Queen-Duchess.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
She smiled and nodded, and I left her in a daze.
I was reprieved.
So, with the coming of April, I joined Queen Claude's household; and Mary and her
husband went back to England.
Life changed a great deal for me. Attendance on Queen Claude was indeed very different from waiting on my previous, volatile mistress. Claude always seemed surrounded by quietness; she was so kind and fundamentally good that while one admired her one felt a certain resentment of such virtues, perhaps because it seemed a reproach to one's own less than perfect nature. I learned how to do the finest embroidery; my French improved; and although I was one of the Queen's attendants, I did know what went on beyond our circle.
The Court was, as ever, dominated by François. In every field he distinguished himself. He was always champion of the jousts; he was the most skillful swordsman in the country; in wrestling none could overthrow him. Perhaps royalty came to his aid on one or two occasions but it was never obvious; I do not think he would have resented a rival in those arts but welcomed him. King Henry seemed a boy set side by side with the King of France. François had been born with wisdom, it seemed; but perhaps he had learned that at the side of his sister, who must surely be the cleverest person at Court, male or female. Not only was François the leading sportsman, he was the arbiter of elegance. He set the fashion which always tended to show off his own perfections. He was quite dazzling. It seemed that he had all the outward gifts of sovereignty. The French could not fail to be pleased with their monarch.
His love affairs were numerous. Love was the great theme of the Court at that time. Poets wrote of it; musicians sang of it; courtiers talked of it. François was always gallant and charming; and he gathered about him men of similar tastes. It was said that if a man did not have a mistress he regarded him with suspicion. He liked to talk of women with other men and to hear how their love affairs were progressing; he would press for intimate details, and yet he could get angry if he considered any did not pay due respect to women.
To my mind it was all rather puzzling; but I did realize later how important my upbringing was in making me the sort of person I became.
In spite of his notorious infidelity to my mistress Claude, François was always gallant to her and showed her the respect due to a queen. She was constantly pregnant. I believe he delighted to see her in that condition for then he need not spend his nights with her until after the child was born and the time came for him to father another. It was really very decadent and the greatest offense was not wickedness but vulgarity. It was quite different from the Court of England of which I was to learn so much later.
Queen Claude herself took an interest in my education and very soon I was immersed in my quiet life. Those months which I had spent with Queen Mary seemed very far away. I often thought of her; and I heard that she was indeed living quietly in the country, for the Court was too expensive for her and her husband in view of their debts. I thought the King must soon free her of that obligation, for she would surely add to the brightness of his Court. I did hear also that she was deeply contented and I rejoiced with her. It seemed to be one of the few marriages which were truly happy.
As for myself, perhaps because of my youth, I was able to settle into the new life with the utmost ease. Not long after I joined Queen Claude's household, the King left to go to war. He wanted to prove to his subjects that besides being a handsome gallant he could be a conqueror. I heard these matters discussed and I was alert for what I could discover. Thus I learned that François was determined to bring conquests to France. He was gathering an army together on the pretext that he wished to make Burgundy secure against attacks from the Swiss, but it was believed—and this appeared to be the truth—that he was contemplating an invasion of the Italian States. Ferdinand of Spain was urging the Pope, the Swiss, the Emperor Maximilian and the Duke of Milan, Maximilian Sforza, to join a league for the defense of Italy. The Pope, however, refused to join, declaring himself, as Pope, to be father of them all.
The conquest of Italy had been the policy of the last two Kings of France and François was determined to continue in this. He appointed his mother Regent of France and went to war.
Soon we had news of his great victory at Melegnano over the Swiss. François had done all his country expected of him. In a short engagement he had beaten the Swiss, disconcerted his enemies and entered Milan in triumph. Maximilian Sforza, after taking refuge in the castle there, surrendered and agreed to retire to France with a pension. The Pope, seeing the way in which events had gone, invited François to meet him at Bologna, where they could discuss the future as the good friends the Pope and the Most Christian King must be.
I did not understand all this at the time, but it fell into place later and when I look back I see clearly how these events shaped my future.
François became enchanted by the art of Italy and grew much attached to Pope Leo. Leo was a most cultivated man, which might be expected of the son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Intellectual, witty in conversation, astute in matters of state and a patron of the arts, he had all the gifts which would appeal to François. He was fond of music and enchanted by theatrical performances; he encouraged writers and artists as his father had done. It was small wonder that François was only too ready to dally at the Papal Court; he was in his element surrounded by works of art; and he found the women of Italy beautiful and gave his rapt attention to all.
Ferdinand of Spain had control of Naples, on which François had set his heart. Ferdinand was getting old and was ailing, Leo pointed out. He could not live long, so would it not be wise to postpone the attempt to take it and wait a while for Ferdinand's death, when it might be quite easy for François to attain his desire without going to war?
Having proved his military skill, François was ready to take that advice; and when he returned to France, he brought the great artist Leonardo da Vinci with him; he was so enamored of his work that he wanted him to work for him. He gave Leonardo the Château Cloux in Touraine, near Amboise, as his home. Unfortunately the great man did not enjoy it for long and died four years later in 1519, which was perhaps not unexpected as he was in his sixty-seventh year. François had the utmost respect for artists of all kinds. Once he said: “Men can make kings, but only God can make an artist.”
During the years that followed, I became so much a part of the French Court that I forgot I was English. I was growing up and very different from the seven-year-old who had arrived. I enjoyed looking on at the Court without being an actual part of it. It was like watching through a window. I was rather relieved about this in a way. I could see how easy it would be to be caught up in actions which might prove detrimental to one's dignity. I was very much aware of dignity. But perhaps I came to that state later, after what happened to my sister Mary. Looking back, it is not always easy to remember when one began to change.
I really enjoyed my role of observer. I felt I was being prepared for the day when I must emerge and take part in the scene. The King's favorite mistress at that time was Françoise de Foix, one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. Many envied her her place at Court; they said François was her slave and he certainly acted as though he adored her; but he was not faithful to her and it all seemed to me like a masque without reality. I thought I would not care to be Françoise de Foix for all the adulation which came her way. Tomorrow it would all be gone. It all depended on the fickle King and he was playing a game most of the time. But it was interesting to watch.
François had come to the throne in a haze of glory; he had appeared to have all the kingly qualities, but his extravagances had to be paid for, and the time must come when the people realized that a monarch who was as handsome as a god and amused them with his outrageous adventures might not bring them so much comfort as a sick old man who had the welfare of his people at heart. Under Louis life might have been dull for the citizens of Paris, but the streets were quiet; following the example of the King, the people had retired early, and if any had reason to be out late, they went without fear. That had changed. Bands of roistering young men roamed the streets. It had long been the law that anyone out after dark should carry a little hand-lantern, and these wer
e maliciously knocked out of their owners’ hands; dissolute young men humiliated the women, taking liberties with them during these drunken brawls. There had been occasions when the mischief-makers were revealed and seen among them were noblemen; and there had been seen the most familiar face of all—the long-nosed, handsome, sardonic features of the Most Christian King.
The sober citizens were shocked; they were disillusioned; they began to talk nostalgically of the good old days.
A party of players had roamed the country, amusing the people with their comedies; and in the past they had often performed their little playlets at Court. A feature of these was the satirizing of well-known figures. The late Louis had often watched them and been amused to see himself portrayed not always flatteringly, counting his money, the parsimonious monarch who liked to keep the Treasury at a high level—for they all knew that this was not for himself but for the country's needs.
Now they were bringing into the sketches a new monarch—a figure of elegance to whom the cut of a coat was of the utmost importance, who flitted from one amour to another; it could only be a parody of François. But it was not the portrayal of François which was so disconcerting as that of his mother, the Duchess Louise. The people had to have a scape-goat and François, being young and charming, could be forgiven for his foibles. “High spirits. Youth,” said the people indulgently. The extravagances necessary to placate these high spirits were laid at the door of the Duchess Louise, who had taken charge of affairs to such a great extent since her regency that the people complained that she ruled the country. In the play she was Mère Sotte and was seen plundering the Treasury and leading her youthful son astray.
François might have shrugged this off—not so Louise. She was incensed. The criticism was directed against her and she wanted revenge. This was a blatant example of lèse majesté and, she declared, punishable by law.