by Tony Riches
Duke Francis made no secret of the fact he saw the celebratory jousting as an opportunity to make his name. He would show the people he was young and athletic, virile and successful, everything Louis failed to be. At the coronation banquet he’d once again stood in for the king and gave an eloquent speech which made no mention of his cousin Louis.
A rousing cheer and fanfares of trumpets greeted his parade down the Parc des Tournelles. Marching men carrying the banners of the noble houses of France led the procession and the duke rode at the head of the French knights on their magnificent warhorses. Behind him rode the duke’s brother-in-law, Charles, Duke of Alençon and Governor of Normandy.
The spectacle of the tournament seemed to have attracted most of the people of Paris, as well as many of the outlying districts. Mary had never seen so many gathered in one place and only now understood that Paris was more than five times the size of London.
The duke wore shining silver armour with gold fleur-de-lis on the breastplate, a helmet plumed with red-dyed ostrich feathers, and a flowing cape of azure blue. He raised a gauntleted hand in the air and bowed his head as he drew level with the royal podium where King Louis sat with Mary. She saw him smile at her as the king returned his salute.
Next came the English knights, led by Charles Brandon in armour of burnished gold, carrying Henry’s royal standard of three lions quartered with the flag of France. It crossed Mary’s mind that it was not beyond Henry to risk attending as an anonymous knight. She studied each of the Englishmen, looking for his familiar face but their helmets made it impossible to be certain.
Overcome with loyalty for her countrymen, Mary stood up as they drew level with her. She saw a nod of acknowledgement from Brandon, then someone in the crowd yelled out something anti-English, to ribald laughter and cheering from the other Frenchmen. Mary remembered they had been mortal enemies only six months before.
Louis, now so troubled by his gout he rested on a gilded couch, reached out and took Mary’s hand in his. ‘High spirits!’ He gave her a wry smile as some of the crowd began to sing a patriotic French song. ‘It seems my cousin Francis has made this personal.’
Mary returned her ailing husband’s smile yet knew he was right. After drinking more than he should at her coronation banquet, Francis bragged he’d had the grandstands built high to give the nobles of France the best view of the lists. With sudden insight she realised he planned to ride against Charles Brandon. From what she knew of both men, neither would submit without a fight.
She studied the overcast sky as the first heavy drops of rain began to patter to the already wet ground. The royal podium had the benefit of a canopy suspended on gilded wooden poles. Mary smiled to herself as she realised the partisan French nobles crowding the stands would have their jeering rewarded by a good soaking.
A sharp blast of trumpets announced the start of the contest, with a flamboyant French knight promptly being unhorsed and crashing into the mud. Time and again the English proved superior, to the increasing disappointment of the crowd.
Charles Brandon seemed like an invincible force, unseating two more Frenchmen and scoring the highest number of points. Charles, Duke of Alençon, struck him on the helmet, winning a roar of approval from the watching nobles. Mary held her breath as Brandon took a moment to recover, then raised a hand to show he could continue.
After many clashes between French and English, the time came at last for the confrontation Mary dreaded. Brandon’s distinctive armour glinted in the driving rain as he charged towards the duke, both of them shattering their lances with brutal force. On the second pass Duke Francis suffered an injury to his hand but, after discussion, the Master of the Joust declared the contest a draw.
The jousting continued for the rest of the afternoon, with Brandon emerging as equal champion with his long-time sparring partner Sir Thomas Grey. The heavy rain turned the Parc des Tournelles to mud, yet Brandon managed a grin as he rode to salute the king.
Louis called out his congratulations in French, so everyone within earshot could understand. He turned to Mary as Brandon rode off. ‘I’d have enjoyed seeing your countryman unhorse my scheming cousin!’ He chuckled at the thought. ‘You know he’s been saying I’m incapable of fathering a son?’
Mary pretended to be shocked at the suggestion yet could easily believe it. She’d been amused by the duke’s flattery before feeling sorry for Princess Claude. Francis was always at her side, her over-attentive escort while Louis remained in his bed, behaviour which would fan the smouldering embers of inevitable rumours at court.
She played along with his games, for now, as she did with Louis. Laughing at the duke’s witty remarks was a small price to pay for her future security if he became king. Sleeping in the king’s bed while he snored at her side also seemed little hardship if it kept the myth of their happy marriage alive.
Duke Francis planned a shock for the English on the second day of the tournament. The Master of the Joust announced in French that Sir Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Sir Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, as joint champions, would take on all comers in courses on foot.
Mary turned to Louis in protest. ‘This is unfair! Their skill is at the joust, not the melee.’
Louis lay propped up on cushions, no longer caring what his subjects might think. His red-rimmed eyes studied Mary’s concerned face. ‘Would you have me put a stop to it?’ His voice sounded strained, as if even talking was now an effort.
She looked out into the field, churned to mud with the hooves of heavy warhorses, and knew she had no choice. One of the Frenchmen died fighting on foot the previous day and she was certain many more had been injured, including Duke Francis. Louis said the wound to the duke’s hand was a sprain to his little finger, yet he’d decided to withdraw. Now, it seemed, he’d devised his revenge on Brandon.
Mary said a silent prayer as she watched Brandon and Thomas draw their heavy swords and stand back to back. They reminded her of stories her Latin tutors told her of the gladiators of Rome. There was a cheer as a dozen Frenchmen marched into the arena and began to surround the two English knights.
With surprising swiftness, Brandon swung his sword in a vicious arc, causing the nearest Frenchmen to spring back in alarm. Reversing the weapon in a fluid motion, he used the heavy pommel as a club to fell one of the men with a crushing blow to the helmet. Another took the opportunity to try to push him off balance into the slippery mud.
This time Thomas Grey parried the blow and forced the man back with the blunted tip of his sword. Mary knew they wore protective armour yet it was easy to be injured in close fighting. Working together, Charles and Thomas stood their ground, defending each other and defeating their attackers one by one.
French nobles called out to rally their countrymen and cheered as a thickset man, even taller than Brandon, entered the arena. Duke Francis had been keeping him back for his grand finale. Brandon didn’t hesitate, sidestepping the newcomer’s swinging blade and smashing his gauntleted fist into the man’s face, breaking his nose.
With a surprised howl, the large man dropped his sword to the mud and fell to his knees. If it had been a real battle he would soon be dead. The French court rose as one and applauded as Charles Brandon raised his sword in victory.
* * *
Louis opened his eyes and stared at Mary, as if surprised to see she still sat at his bedside. Mary closed the velvet-bound book of poetry she’d been reading and smoothed his brow. ‘How are you feeling, my king?’
Louis grimaced. ‘I fear I pay the price for my indulgence.’ He attempted a weak smile.
She understood his joke. Her ladies shared the gossip from chattering French courtiers. ‘They are saying I’ve worn out the king with my excessive lovemaking!’
Louis grinned as if he approved of the idea. ‘My physicians advise me to abstain.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘They suspect a plot by King Henry to destroy France through his sister’s unrelenting passion.’
Mary knew she should be ou
traged yet smiled at the thought. Nothing could be further from the truth. The only way to deal with rumours was to ignore them.
‘Will you play for me?’
‘I have some French music. Jane Popincourt—’
Louis cursed. ‘Don’t mention that woman!’ His voice rasped like old parchment.
Mary shook her head at the unfairness of it and went to find her lute. Christmastide had passed without celebration and it seemed her first New Year’s Eve as queen would be the same. Louis remained in a temperamental mood. His physicians were at a loss to know what to do and their attempted cures with fat leeches, bleeding, and foul-smelling potions made him worse.
She’d seen little of Paris, which seemed a city of dungheaps and danger, as she spent every waking moment at his bedside. She entertained Louis, reading and singing to him, telling him stories of life at Richmond Palace. He laughed for the first time in ages at her tale of the time her father’s pet monkey tore up his precious diaries.
She carried her lute back to his room and improved the tuning before she began to play. She chose a slow English melody she’d played as a young girl at Eltham Palace, so long ago. The soft music brightened the king’s eyes but he held up a hand to interrupt her.
‘Will you play my favourite, Mary?’
She smiled at how the relationship between them had shifted since he’d become bedridden. She nursed him as she had her father, who’d been the same age as Louis when he died a painful death of the quinsy. Now Louis had come to depend on her. Even a king was at the mercy of those who cared for him.
‘Sweet pretty lady?’ She knew yet waited for his answer.
Louis nodded. ‘Je t’aime, mon ange.’
He lay his head back on his satin pillows in expectation, the faintest smile on his face. She picked the notes of the introduction with the nails of her right hand, kept long for the purpose, and began to sing in French, her voice echoing in the stillness of the room.
‘Douce dame jolie, pour Dieu ne pensés mie, que nulle ait signorie, seur moy fors vous seulement.’
She saw he’d closed his eyes again and sang the second verse more softly, this time in English. ‘Sweet pretty lady...’ She heard him snore.
Her dreams were interrupted by Marguerite de Valois, one of the ladies of her bedchamber appointed by Louis after her own staff were sent home. A distant relation of Mary’s Valois great-grandmother, Marguerite spoke English with a strong French accent.
‘You must wake, Your Grace, it is most urgent.’
Mary sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘What’s going on at such an early hour?’
Marguerite bit her lip as she hesitated. ‘I regret to say, Your Grace, the king has died in the night.’
Mary stared at her in disbelief. ‘He’s dead?’ The shock of grief mixed with the pang of guilty relief. It took a moment for the consequences to dawn on her. ‘I was with him a short time ago. He seemed no worse than usual – in fact he was in good spirits.’
Marguerite shook her head. ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace. You must be dressed please. Duke Francis wishes to speak with you.’
Mary stood while Marguerite helped her out of her long silk nightdress. Her mind began to focus as she struggled to understand. ‘The duke is also here?’ She’d not seen Francis since the sombre Christmas service. He’d barely spoken to her.
‘Duke Francis was visiting the king.’
Something in the way she said it triggered a suspicion in Mary’s mind. ‘He was alone with the king when he died?’
Marguerite shrugged. ‘I only know he demands to see you.’ Her voice softened a little. ‘I am sorry for your sad loss, Your Grace.’
Mary’s mind raced with questions while Marguerite laced the bindings on her bodice, tied her sleeves in place and fixed her long hair under her coif with silver pins. She felt torn between the need to escape France while she could and her duty as queen, even if now she was only the dowager queen.
Duke Francis waited for her with his dark-eyed brother-in-law, Charles, Duke of Alençon, at his side. They both stood as she entered. ‘I’m sorry to tell you King Louis passed away while you were sleeping, on the first day of this new year.’ Francis shook his head. ‘You can of course depend on our support during what will be a difficult time for you.’
Mary looked at their too innocent faces, trying to decide what to do. She had to play their game and thank her husband’s murderers. Her instinct told her it could be dangerous not to. As soon as she could, she would share her suspicions with Charles Brandon, who would know exactly what to do.
‘I am grateful to you.’ She sat in the chair opposite them, still trying to comprehend such a sudden turn of events.
Francis nodded. ‘My mother will act as regent while we wait to see if you are with child.’ The coldness in his voice gave it a sinister edge.
Mary felt her face redden as she looked into his calculating eyes. ‘I assure you, sir, I am not.’
Duke Charles answered. ‘We must be certain, before the arrangements can be made for Duke Francis to become king.’ He saw Mary’s frown and added. ‘It is the custom in France.’
Mary struggled to remain composed. ‘First we must grieve, then my husband must have a state funeral.’ She tried her best to sound firm. ‘Only then will we talk of coronations.’ Her words echoed in the empty room with the weight of a new widow’s grief.
Francis placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I will ensure my good cousin Louis is buried with the full honours due to him.’
If his hand was intended to feel comforting it did not. Mary resisted the urge to shrug it off, to spit in his face, to call for the palace guards. She had no proof he’d been responsible for the death of Louis and was certain none would be found.
Mary noted the look of disdain from Countess Louise. Dressed in white mourning clothes, she’d wasted no time in taking control. The whole of Paris came to a standstill as the grand procession made its way to Notre-Dame, where Louis was laid to rest with undue haste at the side of Anne of Brittany.
‘You must retire now to your mourning chapel, as is our custom.’ It sounded like an order to a disobedient child.
Mary stared at Countess Louise. She had little time for French customs. ‘For how long?’ She tried to sound assertive yet it sounded petulant.
‘Until it can be established that you are not with child.’ Her tone suggested she doubted it. ‘One month or two.’
‘I refuse to be shut away. I must write to my brother the king, there is too much to do.’
‘You cannot refuse,’ Louise’s voice sounded harsher now, ‘and King Henry has of course been informed.’
Mary realised she could make a dangerous enemy by resisting the will of the countess. ‘I agree on condition my secretary is permitted to see me to take letters to England.’
The countess gave a curt nod. ‘I am pleased you respect our customs. You are the Dowager Queen of France and will want for nothing while you are in mourning.’ She softened a little for the first time. ‘You might pray for my son, that he will be a wise and noble king.’
Mary agreed. She had no choice. She entered the darkened rooms of Cluny Palace, overlooking the Seine, and heard the door close behind her with a thump. Looking around she saw an altar with a blue-robed statue of the Virgin and a few prayer books. Worst of all, the windows and walls and even her bed were hung with heavy black cloth, blocking the light.
She shivered in the cold, turned back and tried to open the door. It rattled in the frame as she shook the handle, realising it had been locked from the outside. She called out but heard no reply.
She’d been tricked. The duke’s scheming mother had made sure nothing would stand in the way of her son’s coronation. Even a king who clung to the last of his life despite his pain. Mary crossed to the altar and kneeled before it. Taking a taper, she lit it from the solitary candle and lit a second for Louis. As she watched the yellow flame take hold she recalled the last words Louis said to her, ‘Je t’aime mon ange,’ and wept.
10
January 1515
Mary felt another stab of pain from her aching tooth, which seemed to be growing worse. She tried to put her father’s smile of blackened teeth from her mind as she listened. Her secretary, John Palsgrave, read the long letter to Henry back to her. She’d no wish to compromise her position if the letter fell into the wrong hands.
Satisfied with the wording, she signed her name at the bottom and watched as Palsgrave folded the stiff new parchment. Melting a stick of dark sealing wax with the candle, he allowed it to drip on to the folded letter before pressing in her silver seal.
‘I also wish you to take a message to Sir Charles Brandon. I need to see him before he leaves Paris.’
Palsgrave looked up from his work in surprise. ‘The Duke of Suffolk left for England before Christmas, Your Grace.’
She bit her lip to conceal her disappointment. Brandon hadn’t troubled to say farewell yet she realised there was no reason why he should. His work in Paris done, he would of course return home to report to her brother in person. She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath, determined to compose herself. She had important work to do.
Duke Francis visited every day now to enquire about her health. She understood his impatience, with the crown of France so close yet remaining out of reach of his grasping hands. She must put his mind at rest, so he could become king and she would be released from her dark confinement.
‘What message would you have me give the Duke of Suffolk, Your Grace?’ Palsgrave waited for her answer.
She looked into her secretary’s hazel eyes and saw the questioning intelligence there. Duke Francis appointed Marie d’Albret, Countess of Nevers, to keep her company but Mary guessed the talkative countess was his spy, reporting back her every word. John Palsgrave was the only one of her original staff allowed to see her. She decided to trust him with her future plans.
