by Tony Riches
Mary agreed. ‘My prayers have been answered, in that regard at least.’
Woken in the night by the clanging of distant church bells she’d lain awake wondering what had become of Charles Brandon. She’d hoped he would somehow confirm his feelings for her, yet she’d not seen or heard from him since her betrothal at Greenwich.
‘My lady?’ Anne interrupted her thoughts. ‘Are you ready for your jewels now?’
Mary nodded and watched as Anne left the room to return with Lady Guildford and Sir Thomas Howard, followed by a burly soldier carrying her strongbox. Lady Guildford wore her best gown, with an English hood. Sir Thomas wore a doublet of black velvet with his heavy gold chain of office as the king’s representative. The badge of the Order of the Garter shone on his shoulder and a gold-handled sword hung from his belt.
Sir Thomas stood for a moment, taking in Mary’s long red-gold hair and golden gown, then bowed. ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
Lady Guildford smiled. ‘You look beautiful, Your Grace. I know your father would have been so proud of you.’
Mary nodded. ‘This was not his plan – but he would have approved anything which preserves the peace.’ She regretted the note of sadness in her voice but knew she was among friends who would understand.
Sir Thomas took a key and unlocked the strongbox to reveal Mary’s glittering jewels. He handed her gold coronet, sparkling with precious diamonds, to Lady Guildford, who placed it with great care on Mary’s head. Then she fastened a gold necklace studded with diamonds and rubies around Mary’s neck.
‘Your escort is waiting, Your Grace. It is time.’
Mary took a deep breath to compose herself as Sir Thomas opened the door and led them out into the courtyard, where her knights and ladies, heralds and musicians waited for the grand procession the short distance to the Church of Notre-Dame.
King Louis grinned as he greeted Mary. He made a great fuss of fastening a necklace with a large pointed diamond and the biggest ruby Mary had ever seen around her neck before Cardinal de Prie, Bishop of Bayeux, could begin the formal ceremony of the Nuptial Mass.
The words seemed meaningless to Mary, still tired from the exhaustions of the previous day, yet she was ready for her cue to repeat her much-practised vows. The bishop gave them his blessing and King Louis took the opportunity to seal their marriage with a lingering kiss.
The banquet lasted until the early evening, when at last Louis loudly announced his intention to consummate his marriage. Mary blushed when she understood his public declaration, unsure if it was another French tradition or simply the king’s way.
She retired to her chambers with her ladies, led by Princess Claude, who helped her remove her jewels and change into her new nightdress. They combed her long hair until it shone in the light of a dozen tall candles, and perfumed the linen bedclothes with lavender. Laughing, they scattered symbolic red and white rose petals before withdrawing to leave Mary alone.
Mary stood at the side of her bed, unsure if she should lie down or wait for Louis. A memory flashed into her mind, of praying while the charming Duke of Longueville placed his bared leg against hers. That seemed long ago now, and Greenwich so far away.
She wished she could return to the familiar peace of Richmond Palace. Tears formed in her eyes at the overwhelming sense of loss and longing for her previous life, so simple and free of care. Picking up a handful of red and white rose petals, Mary let them fall through her fingers. She doubted Henry would concern himself to maintain her mother’s rose gardens.
The door opened and Louis stood looking at her for a moment. ‘My beautiful queen.’ He crossed the room and kissed her with great tenderness on the cheek, then pulled back the covers and gestured for her to lie down. ‘I’ve told them we are not to be disturbed – even if the rest of Abbeville burns to the ground!’ He chuckled at his own joke as he removed his robe and joined her in the bed.
Mary had reflected on this moment many times on the long journey from Dover. In the absence of her mother, Jane Popincourt once explained what to expect. She’d laughed at the sight of Mary’s wide-eyed and open-mouthed reaction.
‘Even you can’t be that innocent – surely you must know? Have you not seen horses in the fields?’
‘I have wondered,’ Mary admitted, ‘although I somehow imagined it would be different.’
Jane studied her face for a moment, then nodded. ‘You are right.’ She reached out and took Mary’s hand in hers. ‘You must not let any man treat you as if you are nothing more than a brood mare. You are a Tudor, the daughter of one great king and sister to another.’
‘What do I do?’ Mary thought she knew but needed to hear it from Jane.
Jane Popincourt smiled knowingly. ‘The secret is to show him how wonderful he is. No man can resist – and he will treat you well as your reward.’
Mary pressed Jane for details and they had laughed together at how easily a woman could rule any man, yet now it seemed quite different. Mary stiffened as Louis climbed on top of her, first kissing her on the mouth, then on her breasts. She knew she must surrender to her husband’s will.
With a grunt he rolled back off her and lay at her side in silence. Alarmed, Mary saw a tear glint in the corner of his eye in the candlelight. He stared up at the high ceiling in silence.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was a nervous whisper. ‘I want to be a good wife for you, Louis.’ She wiped the tear from his cheek. ‘I will do my best to give you a son, the next King of France.’
Louis reached out and took Mary’s slender fingers in his mottled hand. ‘You’ve heard stories about my past?’ He nodded knowingly when she hesitated to answer. ‘Permit me to tell you something of the truth.’ He took a deep breath, as if what he was about to tell her would open old wounds.
‘I was perhaps even handsome, when I was fourteen years old and my bride half that when they insisted on a travesty of a marriage. My first wife, my cousin Jeanne, was so deformed with disease the people could not look upon her.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and turned to Mary. ‘When her feeble brother became king I foolishly challenged him.’ He paused for a moment, lost in his memories. ‘I ended up in a foul, rat-infested dungeon, where I lost my mind.’
Mary pulled him closer and he lay his head on her breast, like a child. His words carried such torment she was overcome with compassion for the real man behind the facade of kingship.
‘Why did they make you marry her?’ She spoke softly.
‘For the same reasons they made you marry me. To safeguard their own power – and take revenge on others.’ He cursed. ‘They knew poor Jeanne could never conceive a child, so it was all a cruel trick.’
Mary was tempted to deny her brother’s motives but knew Louis spoke the truth. She could imagine how his treatment would have turned him from an ambitious young man into a suspicious king, more than a match for her brother Henry, King Ferdinand or Emperor Maximilian.
‘How long did they keep you in that prison?’ She caressed his hair with her free hand.
‘Three years, perhaps four. My time there left its mark on me.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘When I became king the first thing I did was divorce my poor wife.’
‘And then you married your cousin’s widow, Queen Anne of Brittany?’ She felt Louis tense at the mention of Anne’s name.
‘I needed her. She was loved by the people – and in the end by me too.’
Mary struggled to reconcile his story with the scandalous tales Jane Popincourt regaled her with. Then it began to make sense. She could understand why he would seek solace with mistresses.
Louis sounded tired now. ‘She gave me two daughters, yet no son. When she died...’ His voice tailed off and he lay in her arms in silence.
Mary realised from his slow and steady breathing that her husband had fallen asleep. She lay awake for hours, despite her tiredness, thinking about what he’d told her, and knew what she must do to protect his reputation.
* * *
Lady Guildford brought troubling news to Mary the day after her wedding. ‘We are all ordered to return to England, Your Grace.’
‘By whose orders?’ She heard the amazement in her voice.
‘King Louis requires us to be on the next available ship.’
‘He said nothing of this to me.’
Mary struggled to think how she’d offended Louis. She’d remained silent when she heard how he’d bragged of his prowess on his wedding night. She’d begun to understand his quirky ways and even to see the good qualities of the man behind the rugged face.
‘What reason was given?’
‘The king does not need to give a reason, Your Grace.’
‘Surely I deserve an explanation before I allow all my trusted companions to abandon me?’
‘I would advise against it, Your Grace. I understand he is concerned to see so many English nobles at his court.’
‘The knights and lords are due to depart within the week. I could ask him to allow me my ladies?’
Lady Guildford shook her head. ‘I think you no longer need my services as chaperone.’ There was an edge to her voice.
Mary sat back in her chair. ‘You are the one person I can confide in, Mother Guildford. I shall write to Henry that you at least are allowed to remain – and Wolsey has influence with Louis, perhaps...’
‘This must be handled with care, Your Grace. There will be consequences if King Henry regards it as an insult.’
Louis permitted Mary to retain six ladies of her bedchamber. These included her chamberer, Mistress Anne Jerningham, and young Anne Boleyn. It was some consolation to Mary that Louis appointed his daughter, Princess Claude, as her companion. The duke’s mother, Countess Louise, also imposed herself on Mary and wasted no opportunity to promote the interests of her son.
Mary was allowed to keep her secretary, John Palsgrave, as well as a skilled physician and scholar named James Denton, who advised her he’d observed the king suffered with a recurrence of gout. ‘The disease is progressive and will make the king’s joints feel tender, Your Grace, to the point of being unable to bear anything touching him.’
‘Are you certain there is no cure, Master Denton?’
‘His case is too severe to be cured by a tea of meadowsweet, my lady. You will recall your father suffered with the affliction, which hastened his demise at the same age King Louis is now?’
Mary understood. Her physician was suggesting she should prepare herself. When she departed from Dover, she’d known her new husband would not have long to live, yet now she knew it was her duty to care for him, as she had for her father.
As soon as he seemed well enough they began the journey to Paris for Mary’s coronation. After some sixty miles they stopped for Louis to rest at the bishop’s palace in Beauvais. Mary was sitting at his bedside when Louis woke.
‘Is it day or night, my queen?’ He looked around the room and seemed pleased to note they were alone.
‘It’s late afternoon, Louis. Would you wish me to send for your servants? You will feel better if you eat.’
Louis held up a frail hand to silence her. ‘Not yet. I wish to spend a little time with you before we leave for Paris.’ He managed a smile. ‘Did you know that an uncrowned queen is not allowed into the city?’
Mary nodded. ‘My secretary is well advised of your customs, and Princess Claude said by tradition I am to be crowned at the abbey church, on the outskirts of the city.’
A flicker of a smile crossed his tired face. ‘Listen to Claude, she is wise beyond her years, although she deserved a better husband than my cousin Francis.’ He winced with pain then continued. ‘Watch for his mother. I would have her burned as a witch!’
He coughed, reminding Mary of her ailing father, then fixed her with a questioning stare. ‘Did you wonder how I managed to win you from under the noses of those scheming scoundrels Ferdinand and Maximilian?’ He raised an eyebrow at her look of surprise. ‘You didn’t know both grandfathers of your young prince tried to secure you as a wife?’
‘No, I did not.’ She wondered how innocent she could be of such a thing and why no one thought to mention it while she was in England.
‘No matter,’ he grinned, ‘it’s too late for them both now. I was going to tell you.’ He grimaced in pain again then composed himself. ‘I promised Wolsey I would use my influence to secure him a cardinal’s hat.’
Mary nodded. ‘I thought Wolsey had a hand in this.’
‘You must tell no one, Mary. Thomas Wolsey would make a dangerous enemy if crossed.’
A knock sounded at the door before she could answer and a servant spoke rapidly in formal French. Mary understood only that a visitor of some importance had arrived. She was surprised to see Louis sit up in his bed and ask the servant to arrange his pillows.
‘You need rest, Louis.’ Mary frowned. ‘Are you sure you feel well enough to receive a visitor, however important?’
He gave her a wry look. ‘This visitor is the envoy of your own brother, the King of England. I sent for him as soon as I was informed of his arrival in France.’ Louis forced a smile. ‘Would you now have me send him away?’
‘No, you must see him now.’
Mary sat back in her chair and wondered what her brother was up to as the servant left, to return shortly afterwards followed by a tall man, made to look even larger by the rich furs he wore against the wintry chill. She gasped as she looked into the blue-grey eyes of the last person she expected to see.
‘Sir Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, Your Grace. It is an honour to meet you,’ he addressed Louis in passable French, bowed deeply then turned to Mary, ‘and to see you again, my lady.’
9
November 1514
It proved easier than Mary expected to arrange to be alone with Charles Brandon. The bishop’s palace in Beauvais had extensive grounds, so she asked her secretary, John Palsgrave, to let him know when she would be taking her walk. Although her ladies were in attendance, they kept a discreet distance when Brandon contrived his chance meeting.
He stood in silence for a moment, as if trying to read her intention, then smiled. ‘You’ve become a beautiful woman, Mary. The air in France must suit you.’
Mary blushed at his informality. His compliments gave her hope despite the mischievous twinkle in his eye. He’d changed in some subtle way. He had new authority and dressed like an ambassador, in rich furs with a heavy gold chain. His hair looked a little longer and his dark beard showed the first traces of grey.
‘It’s good to see a friend from England.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve missed you, Charles.’ Her words carried a deeper significance she hoped he’d understand.
‘You’ve been always in my thoughts.’ He glanced back at her ladies-in-waiting and lowered his voice. ‘I thought it best to keep my distance.’
Mary understood. ‘What brings you here now?’ She studied his face. ‘Not only the prospect of taking part in my coronation joust?’
‘King Louis seems pleased enough I’m here – and someone has to represent England.’
‘What was your true reason, Charles?’ She moved closer and her white-gloved hand touched his arm.
‘Henry wishes me to secure a new treaty with the French.’ He spoke in a low voice. ‘We had reports of the king’s illness. He needed to know you are being treated well.’
‘I was saddened when so many members of my household were sent away but Louis shows me great kindness. As for the treaty, do we not already have one?’
Brandon hesitated to reply. ‘Henry is concerned about what will happen if King Louis dies.’ His voice became serious. ‘I haven’t come here alone. We stand ready to return you to England if the worst happens.’
With a jolt Mary realised how foolish she’d been. He’d not come to declare his love for her but as her brother’s spy. She remembered John Palsgrave’s words, that in most cases men believe what they wish. It didn’t apply only to men. She’d been more than ready to believe what she w
ished to hear.
Escorted by Duke Francis, Mary noted the absence of cheering crowds as she made her way to the old abbey chapel. The clanging bells had a mournful note and she shivered in the cold as ominous slate-grey clouds gathered overhead.
Once inside she was reassured to see a full congregation, although the contrast with her recollection of Henry and Catherine’s coronation could not have been more marked. While they had more bishops than she could count, she had only the same glum-faced Bishop de Prie of Bayeux, who’d officiated at her wedding in Abbeville.
Every noble worthy of note witnessed Henry and Catherine’s coronation, while she recognised few who’d troubled to make the long journey. She looked around for Brandon and frowned that he’d chosen not to attend, although she knew he was in Paris for the joust. Then she spotted him talking to Sir Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, who’d returned with him on the pretext of also taking part in the jousting. He didn’t look in her direction.
Charles Brandon had every chance to show his hand at Beauvais yet gave no sign of feelings for her. She glanced at the handsome Duke Francis at her side, magnificently dressed in glittering cloth of gold with a silver sword at his belt. Although married to Princess Claude, he’d made his desire for her evident. If she failed to provide Louis a son the duke would be the next King of France.
Her coronation ceremony, conducted in French and Latin, seemed interminable and the jewelled gold crown felt heavy on her head. Duke Francis gallantly supported it while the bishop anointed her and said the long Mass before giving her his blessing.
At last she was Queen of France, one of the most powerful women in the world. The income from her dower lands also made her one of the wealthiest. She owned more jewels than any woman could wish for – yet the celebrations had a hollow feel.
Rumours of the king’s failing health spread through Paris, casting an ominous shadow over her coronation. She could imagine the conversations behind her back, people asking if there was any point in her being crowned. Despite her warm welcome, Mary knew the French had good reason to resent an English queen.
