Jean Plaidy - Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII
Marguerite, being fully aware of her mother’s chagrin, told her that the Queen had been enlivened with the company of François during her journey and Louise’s smile illuminated her face as she said: “He is at the right hand of the King. So occupied that his mother sees little of him nowadays. Not that I do not hear his name constantly mentioned. Who can be surprised at that?”
“I am sure,” said Mary, “that he is successful in all he undertakes.”
Other ladies were waiting to be presented to the Queen, and Marguerite and her mother moved away.
Keeping her hand on her mother’s elbow Marguerite piloted Louise out of the main salon into a small room. There she shut the door and said: “Maman, I fear you may betray your feelings.”
“That girl!” said Louise.
Marguerite looked over her shoulder significantly.
“That girl!” whispered Louise. “She is so young … and she’s beautiful too. They say Louis can scarce wait for the night and the blessing of the nuptial bed. How can you look so calm, Marguerite, when this very night our hopes may be blighted.”
“Louis is old, Maman.”
“He has taken a new lease on life.”
“It only appears so. The flush on his cheeks is not good health but excitement.” Marguerite took her mother by the shoulder, drew her close and whispered in her ear: “And excitement could be harmful to him.”
“He could die tonight … and the damage could already be done.”
“Dearest Maman, we have to be careful, not only of our words but our looks. Infatuated as Louis is becoming, he could be very susceptible to our slightest mood.”
“Oh, Marguerite,” sighed Louise, “you who have suffered so much with me must understand my feelings this night.”
“I understand absolutely, Maman, and my feelings are yours. We must pray and hope …”
“And watch. Watch the girl, Marguerite, and see that, when we cannot do so, those whom we can trust carry out our wishes. An alarming thought has occurred to me.”
“Yes, Maman?”
“Louis, as you suggest, may be incapable of getting her with child …”
Marguerite’s eyes were full of warning.
Louise hissed: “She is very desirable, that girl. She seems full of dignity but there is a smoldering fire within her.”
“I noticed it,” said Marguerite.
“So if Louis should fail, there might be others to … to …”
Marguerite closed her eyes; there was an expression of fear in her face, and Louise’s own fears were but increased to know that Marguerite shared them.
The King might be too old to provide the heir to France; but what if the young Queen took a lover, and what if he were young enough … virile enough … ? A bastard could inherit the throne, and none be sure that he was a bastard. A bastard to appear at the eleventh hour and oust François from what should be his!
It was unbearable, the greatest of tragedies.
I never suffered quite so much through all the years of anxiety as I do at this moment, thought Louise.
The beautiful young Mary Tudor could cause her greater concern than Anne of Brittany had ever done.
The nuptial bed was being blessed, and the night which Mary had dreaded for so long was about to begin. She listened to the words of benediction. They were sprinkling holy water on the bed while they prayed that she might be fruitful.
She looked at the great bed with its canopy of velvet embroidered with the gold lilies of France. The silken counterpane had been drawn back; her women had undressed her and she was naked beneath the robe which enveloped her.
She thought of that other ceremony when she had lain on a couch and the Duc de Longueville had removed his boot and touched her bare leg with his bare foot. This would be very different.
Louis in his disarray looked older than he had at the marriage ceremony; she could see how swollen his neck was; it hung over the collar of his gown; there was still a faint color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright as they met hers.
In what a different mood from hers did he approach this nuptial bed; it was clear that he was growing impatient of the ceremony while she wished it would go on and on through the night. He was longing for that moment which she so dreaded.
And now it had come. They were in the bed together and one by one those who assisted at the ceremony departed from the room.
Mary lay in the nuptial bed. It was over, and it had been less horrifying than she had believed it would be. Louis was no monster. He had begged her not to be afraid of him; he told her that she enchanted him; that he had never seen anyone as beautiful; he loved her dearly already and it would be his pleasure to show her how deep went his devotion.
He must seem very old to her; he understood that. It was inevitable since she was so young. He could imagine how sad she must be to leave her brother’s Court and come to a strange land to be with strangers. But she would find here the best friend she had ever had in her life—her husband.
It was a comfort to discover that he was so kind. Had she been of a meek nature she would have been very grateful to him, and could have given him some mild affection. But Charles’s image never left her. She longed for Charles; she was capable of strong passion, but only for Charles. He did not know, this kind old man, how he was making her suffer. If he would be good to her there was only one course of action he could take: Leave her alone and then, as soon as possible, die and make her a widow.
But this was something which even she, who sometimes thought that she could endure her lot better if she could be perfectly honest and say what was in her mind, could not betray. She must be submissive; she must pretend that she was shocked by the consummation of the marriage because of her innocence and not because she longed for another man.
She could rejoice at the King’s infirmity when he lay beside her, exhausted.
“You are delightful,” he told her. “Would that you had come to me twenty years ago.”
That was an apology for his weakness. He need not have apologized. She loved his weakness.
And now he slept, and she lay wide awake, saying to herself: If it does not last too long, I can bear it.
The Queen and the Dauphin
BUT NEXT MORNING when the King had risen and she was with her attendants, she thought of Charles and wondered if he were thinking of her this day. Then it seemed to her that she was defiled, and a great melancholy came over her.
She whispered to Lady Guildford: “Send the others away.”
Lady Guildford did so, and when they had gone she took Mary into her arms and rocked her to and fro as she used to when Mary was a child and had needed comfort.
“My dearest Princess,” she murmured. “Tell Guildford.”
“Guildford, it is over.”
“And you are very unhappy?”
Mary nodded. “Because of Charles.”
“Tush!” said Lady Guildford. “And do you think he is weeping at this moment because of you?”
“He is very sad because of me, Guildford.”
“But the King was kind?”
“He is kind. If he were not I should doubtless kill him. And he is very old. He was soon asleep. But I did not sleep, Guildford. I lay there, thinking. …”
“And you are reconciled. I can sense it, dearest. I know you so well.”
“It won’t last, Guildford. That’s why.”
Then suddenly she threw her arms about Lady Guildford’s neck. It was the first time she had given way to such tempestuous weeping.
The King came in. He saw the tears; he saw the embrace.
Mary started to her feet, while Guildford rose and curtsied deeply.
Louis was smiling. “Leave us,” he said to Lady Guildford; and she went.
Mary, her cheeks wet, stood waiting for her husband to ask the reason for her tears; but he did not. She was to learn that it was a point of etiquette at the French Court to avoid seeing or talking of anything that might prove embarrassing.
“My love,” said Louis, taking her hands and kissing them, “I came to give you this.”
He took from his pocket a ring in which was set one of the largest rubies Mary had ever seen.
“Thank you,” she said. “It is very beautiful.”
“Let us try it on your finger.”
He put it on and held her hand admiringly.
“You do not like jewels, my little Queen?” he asked.
“They are very beautiful,” she answered.
“You must learn to love jewels. They become you so.”
He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it affectionately.
“They are planning a ball for this day,” he told her. “I shall enjoy seeing you dance. Why, you are as light as thistledown and as lovely as a spring day.”
The morning was over when Lady Guildford was able to visit her mistress. Mary took one look at her faithful governess and was alarmed, for Lady Guildford was no longer her calm self; her eyes were wild and there was a hot flush in her cheeks.
She embraced Mary as though she would never let her go.
“Guildford, what is it?” demanded Mary.
“It is goodbye, my dearest.”
“Goodbye!”
“I have had orders to leave for England at once.”
“But you cannot. I need you here.”
“The King does not think so.”
“You mean he has told you that you must go!”
“Not the King in person. But his wishes have been made clear to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He feels I have too much influence over you. He wants you to become wholly French. He saw you with me this morning, dearest. He did not like to see you crying in my arms.”
“I must speak to him. I won’t let you go.”
“He has made up his mind.”
“But we have been together since …”
“Since you were a baby, yes. But you are in no need of a governess now. You are a queen and a wife.”
“I won’t have it, Guildford. I tell you I won’t.”
Mary hurried to the door.
“Where are you going?” Lady Guildford cried in alarm.
Mary turned, her eyes blazing. “I am going to tell the King that I shall choose my own attendants.”
“Dearest, I beg of you, have a care. You will do no good to either of us.”
Mary ignored her and, with blazing eyes and flaming cheeks, ran from the room.
It seemed accidental, but it might not have been, that Marguerite, Duchesse d’Alençon, was in the anteroom through which Mary had to pass on her way to the King’s apartments.
“Madame,” cried Marguerite in alarm, “something is amiss?”
“My attendants are being dismissed,” cried Mary. “Lady Guildford, who has been with me all my life, is being sent back to England.”
“I am so sorry.”
Mary would have passed on, but Marguerite said: “Madame, I should like to help you if you would allow me.”
“Help me?”
“Yes. You are going to the King, are you not?”
“Certainly I am going to the King.”
“I beg of you, do not act rashly. The King appears to be mild but, when he has made up his mind, is very determined.”
“If he has made up his mind on this matter he must unmake it.”
“Madame, forgive me, but you have little experience of our Court. The King has already given orders that your retinue is to be reduced. If you asked him to allow your attendants to remain, he could not grant your wishes because he has already given this order. It would grieve all your friends that your first request to the King should be refused—but refused it would be.”
“I have found the King kind,” retorted Mary; and she went on her way.
The Dauphin and the Duc d’Alençon were with the King when Mary burst in on them. The three men looked surprised, for it seemed that the Queen was ignorant of French etiquette, since she came in thus, unannounced.
François was secretly amused and delighted to see her, as he told himself he always would be. She would have to learn the importance of etiquette at the French Court; doubtless in her brother’s, gracious manners were not of such importance as they were here.
Louis came to her and gently took her hand.
“I want Lady Guildford to remain with me,” she said.
“Lady Guildford?” Louis repeated gently.
“She has been my governess since I was a child. And now she is being sent away, and she tells me that others are going back to England with her.”
“Ah, yes,” said Louis quietly. “I live simply here, and you must perforce do the same. You will not need all the attendants and servants whom you have brought with you. So they must go back to their native land.”
“But …”
She looked from Louis to François, who had raised his eyebrows and was shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
She wanted to tell them that she cared nothing for their French manners. She was angry; she was desolate and she would let them know it.
“The arrangements have been made,” went on Louis, and although he smiled and spoke with the utmost gentleness she saw the purpose in his eyes.
“I was not consulted,” Mary complained.
“My dear little Queen, we did not wish to disturb you with such matters, and it is my custom to decide who shall remain at my Court.”
“Lady Guildford …”
The King said to François, “Have my daughter and your sister brought here. They will look after the Queen and show her that she has new friends to replace those who are going.”
“But I want …”
“You want these ladies to be brought to you? It shall be done.”
Mary suddenly felt gauche, young and helpless. She saw that Marguerite d’Alençon was right. She had been foolish to rush in in this way. She should have waited until she was alone with the King and then tried to persuade him. Now she had spoiled everything.
François, who had returned to the King’s side, was giving her a look which was both tender and a warning; and she warmed toward him because she believed that he was trying to help her.
Almost immediately the page was announcing the arrival of Claude and Marguerite. Claude looked sullen, Marguerite lovely and eager.
“My dears,” said Louis affably, “the Queen is feeling a little unhappy because some of her English friends have to leave for their home. I want you two to look after her, to take their places.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Marguerite, while Claude mumbled inaudibly.
“Go with the Queen back to her apartments and explain to her how useful you intend to make yourselves.”
Feeling foolish and frustrated, Mary left the King’s presence with her two new attendants.
Louis’s delight in his bride grew stronger, and, because he wished to compensate her for the loss of her English attendants, the next day he gave her a tablet covered in diamonds and a pendant of pearls.
Mary accepted the gifts with thanks but inward indifference. She had written at once to Henry and Wolsey telling them of her indignation over the dismissal of her friends, and imploring them to take up this matter with her husband.
But as those days passed she became slightly reconciled for two reasons. The first was that Marguerite had become her friend, and Marguerite was, in truth, much more interesting and entertaining than dear old Lady Guildford could ever be. Marguerite’s mother, Louise of Savoy, was also making herself agreeable and, as the Dauphin sought every opportunity of being in her company, she found that this fascinating trio were helping her through the difficult days.
