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

He loved her—not as he loved his sister and mother for he would never love any with that deep abiding emotion. But he wanted to protect her, never to hurt her, and he could not bear to see her frightened and to know that he was the cause of her fear.

“Oh Françoise,” he said, “do not tremble. I would not harm you. I love you too well. You shall go to your home now. Have no fear. You will be safe.”

She knelt down suddenly and kissed his hand; her tears were warm and they moved him deeply.

He laid his hand on her hair, and he felt grown up … no longer a boy, but a man.

And although he had lost Françoise, because he knew that to see her again would be to put a temptation in his way which he might not be able to resist, he was happier than he would have been if he had seduced her.

“I shall never forget you, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she said. “I shall never forget you … my King.”

“Nor shall I forget you, Françoise,” he told her.

She left him and, true to his word, he did not see her for some years, although he never forgot her and often made inquiries as to her well-being.

When he told Marguerite what had happened she was as pleased as he was by the outcome and said that he had acted with his usual wisdom. She had believed that Françoise would have been delighted by her seduction; but Françoise, it seemed, was an unusually virtuous girl; and by renouncing her he had acted like the perfect knight he was.

She was proud of her darling, as always.

Christmas at Court lacked its usual gaiety. There had been a humiliating skirmish with the English and, although the French had not taken the boastful Henry VIII and his army seriously, the result had been the Battle of the Spurs, and the border towns of Thérouanne and Tournay had been lost. The King of England had taken a few prisoners, among them the Duc de Longueville. It was rather depressing, particularly as Louis was in great pain with his gout, and his Queen was in an even more sorry state.

Anne had suffered a great deal since her confinements, and the fact that they had brought her but two girls made her very melancholy. She now had to accept the fact that she could not prevent Louise’s boy ascending the throne, and when she recalled that he was betrothed to her own Claude she was apprehensive.

“What sort of life will our delicate child have with him?” she demanded of Louis. “Already one hears constant talk of his conquests. And he affianced to the daughter of the King! My poor Claude! I fear for her. Would that I had my way and she had married the Archduke Charles who is, by all accounts, a gentle person. But this François has too much energy. He is too lusty. He is horribly spoiled. And this is the Dauphin! This is the husband-to-be of my poor Claude!”

Louis tried to soothe her. “He is a fascinating young fellow. Claude will be the envy of all the women. He’ll be a good husband.”

“A good and faithful husband,” said Anne sardonically.

“He’s too young for fidelity, but when he mellows he’ll be a good King, never fear.”

“But I do fear,” insisted Anne. “I fear for my delicate daughter.”

She persisted in her melancholy; and since the King retired to bed early and could eat nothing but boiled meat, it fell to the lot of the Dauphin to make a merry Christmas.

This he did with little effort, and already men and women of the Court were beginning to look forward to the day when the King of France would be young François Premier instead of old Louis the Twelfth.

Shortly after the New Year the Queen took to her bed; she suffered great pain and Louis, summoning the best physicians to her bedside, found that instead she needed the priests.

When, on a cold January day, Anne of Brittany died, Louis was distraught. He had been in awe of her; there had been times when he had had to resort to subterfuge in order to go against her wishes; but he had loved her and respected her. She had been such a contrast to poor Jeanne, his first wife; and because, when he had married her he had been past his youth and in far from good health, he had counted himself fortunate, in an age of profligacy, to have a faithful wife on whose honor he could absolutely rely.

He wept bitterly at her bedside.

“Soon,” he said, “I shall be lying beside her in the tomb.”

But the bereaved husband was still the King of France. He sent for his ministers. “The marriage of my daughter to the Dauphin must take place without delay,” he said. “Even the fact that we are in mourning for the Queen must not delay that. I do not think I am long for this world; I must see my daughter married before I leave it.”

So François was to prepare himself for marriage, and Louise, hearing the news, made ready to join her son.

“Ah, Jeanne,” she cried, “what happiness! My enemy is no more and I have heard that, by the looks of the King, he will not be long in following her. Then the glorious day will be with us. Caesar will come into his own.”

Even Jeanne de Polignac believed now that no more obstacles could stand in their way.

The two women embraced. Anne of Brittany could no longer produce an heir. The way to the throne was wide open and no one stood in the way of François.

Louise laughed in her glee. “All these years I have feared and suffered such agonies! Why, Jeanne, I need never have worried. All her efforts came to naught; and now my beloved is at Court and no one dares dispute his claim. How long has Louis left, do you think? I hear that the death of Anne upset him so much that he had to keep to his bed for a week. Well, Louis has had his day.”

They were joyful as they prepared to go to Court.

“But,” Jeanne warned her friend, “be careful not to show your elation. Remember we are supposed to be mourning for the Queen.”

“Louis knows too well how matters stood between us to expect much mourning from me. Louis is no fool, Jeanne.”

“Still, for the sake of appearances …”

“I will play my part. What care I? All our anxieties are over. The crown is safe for Caesar.”

François stood beside his bride, and all who had gathered to witness this royal marriage were struck by the contrast between them. François, tall, glowing with health, handsome and upright. Poor little Claude, who dragged one foot slightly as she walked, who was short, and now that she was in her adolescence beginning to be over-fat in an unhealthy way. François was gay; Claude, who had been brought up by her mother, was deeply religious. An incongruous marriage in some ways; but in others so suitable. It was understandable that the King, seeing another man’s son ready to take his crown, should want his daughter to share it.

François played his part well, and if he regarded his bride with repugnance, none noticed it; he smiled at her, took her hand, did all that was required of him as though he believed her to be the most beautiful lady in the land.

Claude adored him; and it was pathetic to note the way her eyes followed him.

All who had gathered in those apartments at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the Royal wedding wondered what the future would hold for those two. Would Claude be able to give France heirs? There was no doubt that François would; but it took two to make a child.

There was an atmosphere of foreboding in that chamber hung with cloth of gold and silver, with the golden lilies of France prominently displayed. But then the Court was still in mourning—and the bride particularly—for the recently dead Queen.

Louis felt a great relief once the marriage ceremony was over; and much as he mourned Anne he found life more restful without her. He was living very quietly and was discovering that he felt better than he had for some time.

The Dauphin was becoming more and more important at the Court. Often Louis from a window would watch the young man with his companions. Claude was never one of them. François was showing a certain ostentation. For so many years he had lived in the shadow of doubt and now that it was removed he had become almost hilariously gay, which was scarcely becoming while the King still lived. He was most elegantly attired and wore many jewels.

On trust? Louis wondered. Is he borrowing against the time when he inherits what I have? Who would not be ready to let the future King have all the credit he asked for?

Louis liked his heir’s robust looks but he would have preferred him to be less high-spirited, less gorgeously attired, less obviously enjoying his position, more serious.

He thought of all the benefits he had brought to France, and he said to his ministers: “It may be that we have labored in vain. That big boy will spoil everything for us.”

His ministers replied: “Sire, he may not come to the throne yet, for you might marry again. And if your bride were young and healthy, why should you not give France an heir?”

Louis was thoughtful. He had been receiving information from his kinsman, the Duc de Longueville, whom Henry VIII had taken as a prisoner into England. The King had a sister—a vivacious and lovely girl. If France made an alliance with England, why should there not be a marriage between the two countries? Circumstances were auspicious. The King of France had become a widower; the King of England had a marriageable sister. Moreover, Henry of England was disgusted with the Emperor, to whose grandson his sister had been betrothed for years. Henry was hot tempered; he was young enough to enjoy acting rashly. He wanted now to show the Emperor and Ferdinand of Aragon that he was snapping his fingers at their grandson. Nothing could do that more effectively than a French alliance.

The more Louis thought of the idea, the more he liked it. A young girl, and an exceptionally beautiful one. If she were malleable—and she should be, for she was so young—he could perhaps delude himself that he was young again … for the time that was left to him.

The thought of having a son was exhilarating.

Louis rose from his bed and called for a mirror.

I am not so old that I am finished with life, he told himself.

He thought of his first wife, Jeanne—poor crippled ugly Jeanne! What sort of a marriage had that been? And Anne? He had loved Anne, admired her greatly and had been desolate when she died. But she had been a dominating woman. Why should he not start afresh with this gay young foreign girl? That would be an entirely different sort of marriage.

Besides, it was politically wise.

He called his ministers and his secretaries, and in a few days a message was dispatched to the Court of England.

Louise was in despair; Marguerite was horrified; as for François, for once he was completely bewildered.

The future was no longer secure. The King, who had appeared to be on his deathbed, had now revived; he was almost young in his enthusiasm for a new marriage. And a young girl was coming from England to share the throne with him.

Louise, tight-lipped, white-faced, shut herself in her apartments with Jeanne de Polignac because she dared not risk betraying her feelings outside those walls.

“So it is to begin again. And I thought it was over. Louis … to marry again, and this young girl who, by all accounts is strong and marriageable! Jeanne, if aught should go wrong now …”

Jeanne once more tried to soothe her as she had over the last twenty years. But it was not easy. Louis was fifty-two, still able to beget children; and a young girl was coming from England.

François was aware of the sympathy of his friends; the certainty had become a grave doubt. If he should fail to reach the throne now it would be the greatest tragedy of his life, and how near he was to that tragedy!

The King was looking younger every day; and a few months previously people were prophesying that he would be dead before the year was out.

Fate was cruel. To hold out the glittering prize so close and, when he felt his fingers touching it, to snatch it away!

“He’ll never get a son,” said François vehemently.

And how he wished he could believe it!

Louis was sending gifts to the Court of England every day. He could scarcely wait to see his bride. He was like a young man again as he listened delightedly to reports of the young woman’s charm and beauty.

The treaties were signed; a marriage ceremony had taken place at Greenwich with the Duc de Longueville acting as proxy for Louis; and the Earl of Worcester had arrived in France that a marriage by proxy should take place there. This had been celebrated in the Church of the Celestines and, although the Earl of Worcester spoke the bridal vows for Mary, Louis looked almost like a young bridegroom as he made his responses.

Marguerite, only less distracted than her mother because of her natural serenity, whispered that the bride had yet to cross the Channel. That stormy strip of water could present many hazards.

How they clutched at fragile hopes! Suppose her fleet was wrecked. Suppose she perished in a gale.

“It would kill Louis,” said Louise, her eyes glistening with hope.

But in spite of bad weather Mary reached Boulogne, and the King had had new clothes made, less somber than he usually wore. All who saw him declared that he looked younger than he had for many years.

He summoned François to his presence.

“It is fitting,” he said, “that my bride, the Queen of France, should be greeted by the highest in the land. I have already sent off Vendôme and de la Tremouille. Aleçon will be following. But you, François, must be the one who brings my bride to me.”

Thus it was that François rode off to Abbeville to greet Mary Tudor.

The French SCENE II

The Unwilling Bride

DRESSED IN A GOWN of white cloth of silver, her coif set with jewels, the Queen of France rode toward Abbeville. She sat on her white palfrey, which was magnificently caparisoned, looking like a figure from some fairy legend, and Lady Guildford, who had looked after her since her babyhood, thought she seemed like a different person from that gay, laughing girl whom she had known at the English Court. Mary Tudor had become a tragedienne in the drama which was going on around them; yet the change of role had not detracted from her beauty.

Such glittering magnificence to be the background for such sorrow! thought Lady Guildford. But she will get over it. Would she? Was that not rather a glib solution inspired by hope?

Had there ever been a young woman as single-minded as Mary Tudor? And had she not for years decided that the only man she could happily accept as her husband was Charles Brandon?

Her ladies—there were thirty of them—presented a contrast to their mistress. They were looking forward eagerly to life at the Court of France. Pretty creatures in their crimson velvet and jewels—ay and merry, a colorful foil for the white-clad Queen.

Several hundred English horsemen and archers rode on ahead of them, for although they came in friendship, Henry had declared that it was well to let the French know the mettle of English warriors. Following these were English noblemen, and side by side with them rode Frenchmen of similar rank. A pleasant sight for the people who had come out to watch the cavalcade and were more accustomed to seeing men march to war.