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

“You are now truly Queen of France, my dear,” he said. “And it gave me great pleasure to witness your coronation.”

“It was an impressive ceremony, and I trust I did all that was expected of me.”

“You acted with perfect composure as you always do.”

She was momentarily moved because of his pride in her; and she was ashamed because of the many times she had wished him dead. She still did, but she was sorry that it had to be; and she had an impulse then to throw herself on to her knees before him and beg him to understand the motive behind her desires. She wanted to explain: It is not you personally, Louis, for you have shown me nothing but goodness; it is simply that, having been forced to marry when I love elsewhere, I cannot live without hope that I may one day be free.

He was shrewd, she knew; and often she wondered whether he understood more than he let her believe. Had he noticed the change in her since the arrival of the English party? Others had—Marguerite for instance. Marguerite was clever, yet like most people had her blind spot, and that was where her brother was concerned. She thought that every woman must be in love with him and ready to follow when he beckoned; and he had certainly beckoned to Mary.

Life was too complicated; and she was simple in her desires. She knew what she wanted—so few people did that—and when one knew so certainly, it was possible to make a straight path toward it. She was as certain of this as she was of being alive: one day she would marry Charles, because Louis must die sooner or later and, when he did so, she had her brother’s permission to marry where she would. It was this knowledge which helped her to live through these days.

She wished it were possible to explain all this to this kind, tired old man; but of course it was not. Louis was tolerant and indulgent—but not to the extent he would need to be to accept such a situation.

When they retired she said: “I am so tired tonight.”

“My dear,” he replied, stroking the long golden curls, “it has been an exhausting day for you.”

She lay down and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. He bent over her and kissed her forehead gently before lying down beside her.

Perhaps he was relieved; for he too was very tired. He was asleep almost at once. She was not. She lay breathing as quietly as she could, trying to propel herself into the future, reminding herself that every hour that passed was bringing her nearer and nearer to her heart’s desire.

And in the morning Louis left for Paris. He wanted to be there to receive her when she made her ceremonial entry into his capital.

The grand procession was moving toward Paris, led by a guard of Swiss archers, the heralds of France and England, and the peers of France. The noblemen themselves followed with the Princes of the Blood Royal leading; and it seemed that each had endeavored to outdo all others by the splendor of his equipage.

Mary herself rode in her litter; she was dressed in cloth of gold and on her head was her glittering crown; with her hair falling about her shoulders she looked like a fairy queen. Beside the litter, mounted on a magnificent charger, himself a-glitter with jewels, rode the Dauphin.

He chatted lightly with her as they rode along, but behind his conversation was the urgency of his desire. He told her that there had never been a queen or a woman in the world to compare with her; and she listened complacently, all the time wondering whether she would see Charles at the banquet and whether she could arrange to have him beside her.

“Since you have come to France you are more beautiful than ever,” he told her. “I ask myself why this should be.”

She smiled absentmindedly and he went on: “I think I know. You have become happier, since you have been in France, than you were when you arrived.”

“That may be so.”

“And that is due to some of us … or one of us?”

She smiled at the group of people who were calling greetings to her.

“When we are in Paris,” went on François, “it will be easier for us to meet.”

“In Paris?” she repeated idly.

“You shall see.”

“I shall see,” she echoed, and the Dauphin was satisfied.

They had reached the Porte St. Dennis on which a tableau had been set up, and there was a halt to admire it. It represented a ship in which were sailors who chanted a welcome to the beautiful Queen.

This was the first of the tableaux and what were called mysteries; at several points in the city they had been set up and at each of them the cavalcade must stop while praises were sung to the Queen. Thus the journey to Notre Dame was punctuated by many halts; and when the cathedral was reached and Mary was received there, and had attended the service in her honor, she was beginning to feel tired because it was nearly six o’clock. But the long day was by no means over. She would have supper at the Palais de la Cité, but this she must do in public and during the meal she would be the center of attention. She dared not show how weary she was. She must continue to smile; and all the time she was watchful because she knew that somewhere among the crowds who stared at her was Charles Brandon, and she would certainly see him at the joust, which would take place within a few days’ time, to celebrate her coronation.

Always the Dauphin was at her side; continually he whispered to her, waiting for her to give him that encouragement for which he sought and which he was certain he would soon be given.

Louis had taken up his residence at the Hôtel des Tournelles so that, he had said, all the attention should be concentrated on the Queen. Mary wondered whether he was glad to escape the ceremonies. At the Tournelles he would be resting in his apartment, eating simple food which had been specially prepared for him, and going to bed early, so that when she joined him he would be ready, as he said and as she dreaded, to be a good husband to her.

In the meantime she had some respite, and she strove to forget what the future held for her. Tonight she would be alone.

In the grande salle of the Palais de la Cité, Mary took her seat which had been placed on that tablet of marble from which proclamations were made. The room—which was two hundred and twenty-two feet in length—was hung with rich tapestry; and round the walls were effigies of the Kings of France, from Pharamond, that Knight of the Round Table who was said to have been the first King of France and reigned in the fifth century, to Louis XII himself.

Mary’s attendants were headed by Claude and Marguerite, and she was conscious of their watchful eyes, particularly when François was near. She felt sorry for poor Claude and wanted to tell her that she need have no fear, and that she herself had no intention of becoming François’s mistress. Not that that would prevent him from giving the poor creature cause for jealousy.

How different it will be when Charles and I are married! sighed Mary.

She was thankful on account of her good health that day, for it had been a long and trying ordeal; and as she sat in that magnificent hall she suddenly saw the English party among the diners, and with them Charles.

Across the assembly their eyes met, conveying messages of love and longing.

Mary was no longer weary; and none who had not witnessed the day’s pageantry would have guessed that she had been the center of it; she was gay, fresh and sparkling.

Many people watching her said to themselves: “The Queen is in love.” And because the Dauphin was never far from her side, because he too was unable to hide his feelings, it was whispered that a delicate contretemps was brewing.

“Watch the Dauphin and the Queen!” was the whisper that passed round the hall.

Death of a King

A HIGH STAGE had been erected in the park of the Hôtel des Tournelles and on this had been put a couch, for the King’s gout was troubling him again and he was too indisposed to be able to sit in one position for long at a time. Yet he must be present on this occasion, because the English had come over specially to test their skill in the joust against the French champions, and already the excited people of Paris were crowding into the Rue St. Antoine which adjoined the Park of Les Tournelles where the lists had been set up.

The noise was great as people wagered as to who would be the victor. The fame of the English Duke of Suffolk had been discussed and it was believed that he would challenge the Dauphin himself.

The people were jubilantly sure of the outcome for they did not believe there was an Englishman living who could rival the Dauphin.

The sound of trumpets announced the arrival of the royal party, and the King, looking very ill, mounted the stage with great difficulty. It was pleasing to see how solicitous the lovely young Queen could be with her husband. She was attended by the most noble of the ladies; and what a contrast she made with poor insignificant Claude. Marguerite, the Dauphin’s sister, was a real beauty, but it was the Queen with her wonderful golden hair and bright complexion who attracted the attention of everyone.

Louis lay on his couch smiling rather wanly as he acknowledged the acclaim of his people. The more sober ones were depressed by the sick looks of the Father of his People, reminding themselves that he had been a good King to them and life in France had been the better for his rule. The young ones, though, could not take their eyes from François, who was every man’s ideal.

Some studied the Queen’s trim yet voluptuous figure. It was too early yet to show any signs of pregnancy, but it was possible that she was in that state. Then the dazzling François would never reach the throne. It was an intriguing situation; and because of it the people’s interest in the royal family was even greater than usual.

Louis wanted to close his eyes. The shouting of the people, the blare of the trumpets tired him. What would he not have given for the quiet apartment, the hangings shutting out the light, the comfort of his bed … sleep.

But he must be present on this occasion; so he took pleasure in watching the excitement of his Queen.

He had come to believe that there was much he had to learn of her. He did not really know his Mary. She had been shy and shrinking as one must expect a virgin to be and she had remained so. He had thought that in time he might rouse her to passion for he sensed passion in her, latent, unawakened. Yet recently he had been aware of a change in her. There had been a suppressed excitement and she had seemed a different girl from the one he had known in the first days of their marriage.

He was not unaware of François’s greedy eyes which rested too frequently on her. Could it be? He could not be surprised if it were, nor could he blame Mary. He knew François’s reputation. But François would not be so foolish. The Big Boy might philander when and wherever he had a chance, but he would not be such a fool as to engage in a love affair with the Queen.

And yet … there had been that change.

Now the English party were riding into the arena, led by their champions, the Duke of Suffolk and the Marquis of Dorset. Suffolk was a fine figure of a man—as tall as François and broader. To see those two together would be worth a little discomfort.

The Queen had clasped her hands and was watching the riders who bowed on their horses as they passed the royal gallery, the plumes in their helmets touching their horses’ heads as they did so.

Her gaze was on the Duke of Suffolk; the King noticed how her eyes followed him round the arena.

Now it was the turn of the French who had been challenged, and they rode in, led by the Dauphin.

To be as young as that! thought Louis. To hear the applause of the people in one’s ears and to know it was because one was young and strong, a dashing, reckless hero. François doubtless had his trials to come, but Louis would have given a great deal to be the man in that glittering armor on that day.

And the Queen; she was applauded with the rest. It was strange that her eyes did not follow the French knights as they did the English.

She is hoping that her own countrymen are going to win the championship, thought Louis indulgently. It is natural.

Yet if she were attracted by François she must admire him more than ever in such a role as he now played.

Unless of course she was being cautious. But one did not connect caution with Mary.

She is young and innocent, he thought. She is unaware of François and, like a child, she wants her own countrymen to win.

Loudly the crowd applauded. They had to concede that the English were very skillful and even François could not quite match the tall Englishman who jousted as though he were inspired.

The Queen sat forward watching, the color in her cheeks heightened.

Of all the pageants I have had arranged for her, thought Louis, whose eyes rarely left her, none has pleased as this has.

She caught her breath with the thrill of the joust; once, when it seemed the tall Englishman was about to be thrown from his horse, she shut her eyes and shuddered. But all was well; it was only a feint and the man was once more victorious.

It was inevitable that the Duke of Suffolk should challenge the Dauphin, and when these two tilted against each other, Mary was clearly apprehensive.

There was, indeed, an atmosphere of tension not only on the royal stage but throughout the crowd, because thousands of Frenchmen wanted to see the Dauphin win.

Louis watched the Dauphin’s mother and sister and saw them craning forward, watched their apprehension—which was no greater than the Queen’s.

Sardonically Louis thought of the years when Louise had suffered every time his late wife had promised to bring an heir to the throne of France. What anxiety those ambitious women had endured on the Big Boy’s account; and still did. He could not take part in a game without their making a drama of it.

There was a sudden murmur of horror; Mary had risen to her feet and Marguerite and Louise were staring at the arena in dismay.

Louis wished his eyes were better. “What has happened?” he demanded, and for a few seconds those about him ignored him, forgetting that it was the King who had spoken, so intent were they on what was happening in the arena.

“François,” cried Louise. “My son … my son!”

François had been wounded in the hand and this was a blow to French hopes. Suffolk was about to prove himself the champion, and the honors were going to the English. That was the result of the first day’s joust. But there were more to come.

François appeared at the banquet which followed, with his hand in a bandage; ruefully he confessed that he would be unable to hold a lance, so was out of the tournament.

He talked to the Queen as they supped in the grande salle.

“Your Englishman took me off my guard,” he told her.

“Was that not what you would have expected him to do?”

“So you favor the English?”

“I lived all but the last few weeks of my life among them, remember.”

“Shame! I thought you had become one of us.” He leaned toward her. “’Twas my own fault. I was thinking of you when I should have been concentrating on my opponent.”