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

Lady Guildford felt a little uneasy when the young man on his spirited charger drew in close to Mary’s palfrey. This man had made her uneasy from the moment she had set eyes on him. One could not deny his undoubted attractions. He sat his horse as though he were part of it; and it was splendid enough to be. He was elegantly dressed; his was the type of face that impressed itself on the memory; it might have been the alert, humorous eyes, or that extremely long nose, which for some reason added to his charm.

What was going on behind that elegant and quite fascinating exterior? What could be going on in the mind of a man who must be ambitious, who had believed himself to be within a step of the throne and now saw, in the person of this exquisite, though somewhat melancholy girl, the frustration of all his hopes?

He must hate her.

If he did, he certainly managed to disguise his feelings; his dark eyes caressed her in a manner which, according to Lady Guildford, was most unseemly. He was reckless; that much was obvious. It would be interesting to see how far he dared go when the King arrived on the scene.

François, holding his horse in check, smiled at Mary.

“I could not resist the pleasure of riding beside you.”

“How good you are to me!”

“I would I had an opportunity to show you how good I could be to you.”

“I have been learning to speak the French language and to understand the ways of the French,” Mary replied with meaning.

She saw the smile curve his lips. He knew she was telling him that she was prepared for extravagant compliments and would give them only the attention they deserved.

“I will tell you a secret,” he said. “Since I heard we were to have an English Princess for our Queen I have been thinking a great deal about the English.”

“Then we do not meet as strangers,” she replied.

“That makes me happy. I should be desolate if I were anything but a dear friend to one who is surely the loveliest lady in the world.”

“You have traveled throughout the world?”

“One does not need to travel to recognize perfection.”

“Nor to flatter, it seems.”

“Madame la Reine, it would be impossible to flatter you, for if you were addressed in what appeared to be the limit of hyperbole, it would still not exaggerate your charms.”

Mary laughed for the first time since she had arrived in France.

“It is well that I am prepared,” she said. “Tell me, when shall I meet the King?”

“It has been planned that you shall do so in his town of Abbeville, but I’ll swear he will be too impatient to wait for you to arrive. Do you know, it would not surprise me if suddenly we saw a group of horsemen riding toward us, headed by an impatient bridegroom who could no longer wait for a glimpse of his bride.”

“If you should see such a party, I pray you give me warning.”

“You would not need it. You would hear the people cheering themselves hoarse for the Father of his People.”

“The King is well loved in France?”

“Well loved he is,” said François. “He has had a great many years in which to win his people’s affection.”

She looked at him sharply. His tone was bitter. Small wonder. He was certainly an ambitious man. Holy Mother, thought Mary, how he must hate me when my very presence here threatens his hopes.

To be hated by such a man would be stimulating; and for all his flattering talk he must hate her.

It was strange that contemplating his feelings for her made her feel more interested in life than she had since she had known she could not escape this French marriage.

At least, she thought, I should be thankful to him for adding a little zest to my melancholy existence.

François was not hating her; far from it. He was too gallant to hate a woman who was so beautiful; and she had spirit too; he sensed that; and she was far from happy at the prospect of marriage with old Louis. That was not surprising. How different it would have been had she arrived in France to marry another king. A king of her own age! What an ironic fate which had given this lovely, vital girl to sickly old Louis, and himself the weakling Claude.

What a pair we should have made! thought François. Life was a mischievous old sprite who loved to taunt and tease.

He continued to talk to her, telling her about the manners and customs of the French Court, asking her questions about those of England. His gaiety was infectious, and Lady Guildford was a little disturbed to hear Mary laughing again. She had wanted to hear that sound, but that it should be inspired by this dangerous young man could be significant. Not that Mary would be affected by his charm. There was some good coming out of her devotion to Charles Brandon. She would be faithful to her love for him, which meant that no Frenchman, however charming, however gallant, would be able to wean her from her duty to the King.

François, sensing her underlying melancholy, had managed to infuse the same quality into his own demeanor. He was implying that although it gave him the utmost pleasure to be in her company he could not forget that she was the bride of another man.

Lady Guildford made up her mind that at the first opportunity she must warn Mary that the French had a way of implying that their emotions were deeply engaged, when they were only mildly so.

The party was within two kilometers of Abbeville when, as François had prophesied, a party of horsemen came galloping toward them.

Mary felt her body numb with apprehension, for she knew that the moment had come when she was to be brought face-to-face with her husband.

“The King!” She heard the cry about her, and the horses were immediately brought to a standstill while Louis rode ahead of his friends and came to his bride.

Fearfully she shot her first quick glance and discovered a face that was not unkindly although its eagerness at this moment alarmed her. The eyes were too prominent, the lips thick and dry; and she noticed with repulsion the swollen neck.

She prayed silently for courage, coupled with the ability to hide her feelings, and prepared to dismount that she might kneel before the King of France.

“No, no,” he cried, “it is I who should do homage to so much beauty.” He left his horse and came to her side, walking rather stiffly. The Dauphin had dismounted and was standing at attention; and Mary knew that the young man was watching them, aware of every emotion which showed itself in their faces.

“God help me,” prayed Mary. “Do not let me betray my feelings.”

The King had taken her hand in his; she felt his kisses on her skin and steeled herself not to shrink. Now those prominent eyes were studying her face beneath the coif of jewels, her young yet voluptuous figure in the cloth of silver.

“So young,” murmured Louis. “So beautiful. They did not lie to me then.”

He seemed to sense the fear in her, for he pressed her hand firmly and said: “Be at peace, my little bride. There is nothing to fear, you know.”

“I know, Sire.”

“The people are lining the road between here and Abbeville,” he told her, “so eager are they to see their Queen.”

“The people have been kind,” she answered, “since I set foot in France.”

“Who could be anything else to one so lovely?” The King seemed to be suddenly aware of François. “And the Duc de Valois, I trust, looks after you in my name?”

“None could have cared more for my comfort.”

For a moment Louis turned his eyes on that tall, elegant figure, and he felt that he would willingly have given half his kingdom if he could have borrowed his youth and vigor. It was only now, when he was face-to-face with this beautiful girl, that he longed so desperately for his youth. And François, standing there, too sly, too clever, might well interpret his thoughts.

“That is well,” said Louis briskly. “I left Abbeville this day, telling my friends that I wanted to hunt. That was not true. My intention was to catch a glimpse of my bride, so great was my impatience. So I rode this way. But this is an informal meeting and I am going to leave you now because, when you ride on your way, I do not want my people to think they must cheer the King. I want their cheers to be for you alone.”

“You are so kind to me,” she murmured.

“Know that it shall be my chief task in the future to look to your comfort and pleasure.”

He mounted, then took off his hat and bowed his head; he seemed loth to turn away because that would mean taking his eyes from her.

The King and his horsemen rode off with a clatter of hooves; the Dauphin had leaped in the saddle and the cavalcade was ready to go forward.

“The King is enchanted,” murmured François, “as he could not fail to be.”

Mary was silent; her limbs were trembling so much that she feared it would be noticeable. She wanted to cry out: How much happier I should be if he had shown me indifference.

She could not forget those prominent eyes alight with desire for her. How far off was the marriage ceremony with the shadow of the nuptial bed hanging over it? One day? Two days? Could some miracle happen to save her even now?

In that moment she could almost wish that she had gone to Flanders, because she had heard that Charles was rather a simple-minded boy, a boy whom she might have been able to command; he would have been shy and inexperienced. But this old man who was her husband would never be shy; he was far from inexperienced; and his intentions regarding her had been apparent in his looks and gestures; even in that short time they had been together.

He looked ill. What was the swelling at his neck? She shivered. When he had ridden up he had not looked as though he were near death, decrepit and diseased as he was. Holy Mother, she thought, he could live for years. Years with those dry hot hands making free with her body … years of longing for the handsome virility of Charles.

She wanted to cry out her defiance; and she believed that she was saved from doing so by the sight of that tall figure beside her, whose alert eyes missed little and who, she was sure, knew exactly how she was feeling now. What was it he was attempting to offer? Commiseration? Consolation?

The town of Abbeville lay ahead. Mary felt exhausted, not with the physical exertion of the ride but with mental agitation.

The Dauphin was still talking; he did not wait for her answers; it was as though he understood her feelings perfectly—and was telling her: I chatter merely to give those about us the impression that all is well with you.

He explained how the King was waiting for her in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse which would be his residence during his stay in that town. The people of Abbeville were so honored that the official meeting between the King and his bride should take place in their town that they had decorated the streets and were preparing to show her their pleasure in the union.

“You have ridden far,” he said tenderly, “and this has been a great ordeal for you. Would you care to enter the town in your litter?”

Mary was grateful for the suggestion. In the litter she would feel less exposed; and it was true that she was tired.

“I will ride beside the litter,” François told her with a smile. “So you will not have lost your … protector.”

“Why, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she replied, “the people of France have shown me such courtesy that I do not feel in need of a protector.”

He grimaced in a manner which was charming. “I pray you do not rob me of my role for I have rarely found one more to my taste.”

He turned away to call a halt, when the litter was brought forward and Mary entered it. She made a charming picture sitting there, for the litter was a thing of beauty, being covered with cloth of gold on which was embroidered the golden lilies.

“We must have it open,” François pointed out. “The people will want to see their Queen.”

So, riding in the open litter, Mary came into Abbeville, and when those watching from the city walls witnessed the approach of the party, the order was given for a hundred trumpets and clarions to sound, that their joyous greeting might fill the air. But to Mary they sounded like the notes of doom.

She saw the excited people who called out to her that she was beautiful. Long life to her, the Queen of France. She looked so young sitting there, the cloth of silver falling gracefully about her, her golden hair showing under the jeweled coif. She was more than a beautiful Queen. Recently there had been war with her people; but that was done with, and this lovely young girl was a symbol of the peaceful days ahead.

Through the triumphal arches they went, Mary turning this way and that to acknowledge the greetings, to express wonder at the tableau which the people of Abbeville had erected for her pleasure.

At last they came to the Church of St. Wulfran, where the Queen was helped from her litter that she might be led to the altar in order to adore the host.

She lingered; there was panic within her which forced her to make everything that preceded her meeting with the King to last as long as she could make it.

François was close.

“The King will be impatient,” he whispered. “He is awaiting your coming at the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.”

She nodded pathetically and allowed herself to be led back to her litter, and the journey continued.

The Duke of Norfolk had now taken the place of the Dauphin; he it was whose duty it was to lead her to the King and make the formal introduction. Mary did not like Norfolk because she believed he was no friend of Charles’s. He was a man who was so proud of his rank that he resented it when other men were lifted up to be set on an equal footing with him. He was Norfolk. Why should a man who had nothing—except a handsome face and skill in sport—be given honors so that he could stand as an equal against men who had been born to dignity? Moreover he knew that the Princess Mary had fancied Suffolk, and he believed the fellow had entertained a secret hope that he might marry her. It gave Norfolk grim pleasure that both the Princess and Suffolk had been robbed of that satisfaction.

He would conduct this girl, who had so far forgotten the dignity of her position, to the King of France with the utmost pleasure.

Mary was aware of his sentiments and she felt more desolate than ever. She must face the truth that no one or no thing could save her from her imminent marriage.

Into the great reception hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse Norfolk led the Princess to the King who was waiting to receive her.

With Louis were the highest ranking nobles of France, the Dauphin prominent among them.

Louis embraced his bride and welcomed her to France. He wanted her to know that all those assembled wished to pay her the homage due to her.

He then presented the Dukes of Alençon, Albany and Longueville, with, among others, the Prince of Naples and de la Roche-sur-Ion.

The next stage of the ceremony was a banquet followed by a ball. Louis kept his bride beside him during the former, and when the dancing began he said that he knew she was longing to dance and he was eager to see her do so. It was a matter of chagrin that he himself was unable to do more than open the ball with her and dance a few steps. François was hovering, ready to do his duty as Dauphin; and Louis sadly watched the young pair dancing together. They were a little apart from the others—the most distinguished pair in the ballroom. Never had François looked so kingly; never had Louis felt so envious of the one whom he had come to think of as the Big Boy.