Mary shivered. Could Henry really mean to make her set sail in such weather? It seemed he did, for he strode about the quayside, issuing orders left and right. Mary picked out the tiny figure of Catherine with its precious burden thrust before her. She looked as bedraggled as Mary as she made her way towards her. They both stood, silent and watchful as the terrified horses were chivvied into the hold, their whinnying over-ridden by Henry’s furious roars as the weather once again threatened to upset his plans.
But finally, it seemed, even Henry was satisfied. He strode to where they were huddled with the Maids of Honour, his countenance plainly declaring that if Mary were to display as much reluctance to embark as the horses he would lash her up the plank as he had lashed them. But before Henry could say or do anything, Mary roused herself sufficiently to remind him once again of his promise. She knew it was her last chance to place a troublesome thorn in his ever-prickly conscience and she meant to make the most of it.
He was brusque with her. His patience, both with her and the weather, at an end. Now he wanted only to get her away. ‘Yes, yes. I gave you my promise, did I not?’ he demanded gruffly.
But Mary was determined to press him on the matter. His promise was too important for her to allow him to get away with such a testy repetition, especially since, on reflection, his original promise had seemed but lightly given. ‘Please don’t be vexed with me, Henry. This is a sad time for me. Do not make it sadder still.’
It seemed, at that moment, the fates decided to hit Henry, too, with the realisation that he might never see his little sister again. It made him tender. He clasped her in a great bear hug, gave her a loving kiss and repeated his promise solemnly enough to satisfy even Mary’s doubts.
After a little, Henry released her. Mary embraced her sister-in-law. Eleven years her senior, deprived of babes of her own, Catherine had often acted as a stand-in mother to the young Mary and they had a deep affection for one another. Now, as their eyes met, each saw sadness reflected in the other’s. They had both suffered so many partings and losses already; brothers, sisters, parents, all either dead or far distant and unlikely to be seen again, thoughts made more poignant by this latest parting. It was too much for Mary. Although she had been determined to remain dry-eyed, soon, both their faces were wet and not only with the rain. Even Henry’s eyes looked suspiciously wet.
But her brother’s sentiment concealed a stronger resolve—determination that they would not miss the tide. It was, Henry claimed, the first break the weather had shown since they had arrived in Dover. Though, as Mary gazed at the heaving seas, she failed to see any sign of the break her brother had claimed. She was about to remark on it, but he waved her words away before she could speak, as though he guessed their content. Henry threw a warning glance at his wan-faced queen and persuaded Mary into the arms of her ladies, who after guiding her up the gangplank, hustled her below. Her brother must have warned them to keep a fast hold on her. Mary could almost discern the voice of Henry at its most ferocious, warning them they would be held to account if aught went awry. Their grip as tight as a babe’s swaddling clothes, as if all feared she might yet make a bolt for it, there was no escape. The gangplank was lifted and, denied even one last glance at Dover’s familiar, towering white cliffs, Mary’s little flotilla set sail, taking her to France and her aged husband.
The ships of Mary’s escort had barely cleared the harbour before the weather closed in again. The little ships were bobbed and tossed on the angry sea like so many corks in a tub and Mary was too ill to attempt a last look at the home she was leaving behind even if the rough weather had permitted it.
The storm played with them for so many hours that Mary and her ladies, wretched with seasickness, wished only for death, their hastily-donned finery glittered incongruously in a cabin with a floor awash with seawater and vomit. Lady Elizabeth Grey, another of Mary’s cousins, started up a nerve-ragged wail that they were all going to die, until Lady Guildford staggered her way across the cabin and roundly boxed her ears. After that, the only sounds were the howl of the wind, the ominous creak of the ship’s timbers and the retching, the endless, painful retching that rendered the air of the tightly-shuttered cabin foul.
Lady Guildford set the ladies to praying for their salvation. Their voices, in between bouts of sickness, followed hers in the traditional plea of those in peril on the sea:
‘Our Lady, Virgin Mother and star of the sea,
port of our salvation, save us in this our hour of danger.’
The chanting voices went on, becoming lower and more despondent. But, at last, their prayers were answered, for not long after they finally faded, the shout: ‘Land ahoy’, filled them with joy at the realisation they would live after all.
But the joy was speedily followed by gasps of fear as the ship bumped heavily aground. A seaman, water cascading from his hair, his surely inadequate clothing plastered to his skin, staggered into the cabin and told them, ‘Ladies, we’re stuck fast on a sandbank. But we’re near the harbour mouth of Boulogne. Make your way up to the deck, if you please, and you’ll be taken off.’
Mary and her Maids needed no second bidding. Lady Guildford and Mary led them up on deck, assisted by a swarm of sailors. Behind her came Mary Boleyn and Anne Grey, Elizabeth Grey and Mary Fenes, Mistress Anne Jerningham and Jean Barnes and the rest, followed by Mary’s equally-bedraggled gentlemen. The deck settled at an odd angle and it was only with difficulty that they reached its uncertain sanctuary. The rain lashed at the decks, making the boards treacherous and Mary and her ladies clung desperately to each other and whatever other handholds they could find.
Mary learned that three of her fourteen ships had made it safely to harbour; she could see them, already at anchor. There was no sign of the rest and Mary prayed they had made it into some other port. As they watched, a flotilla of little boats set out from the harbour. Green-faced and trembling, Mary was lowered into the first of these with several of her ladies. They had reached nearly to the shore when the boat, swamped with water, threatened to capsize. Sir Christopher Garnish, one of Mary’s most gallant gentlemen, strode out from shore, in waist-high seas and plucked her from the boat. He carried her, high in his arms, till he reached the shore and could deposit her safely. Mary thanked him gravely for his courage in daring the waves to rescue her.
By this time, Mary and her ladies were in a wretched state. Their clothes were soaked with seawater and vomit, their hair hanging in rats’-tails down their backs. Mary was in no condition to meet the deputation of nobles and clerics, led by the Duke of Vendôme, who waited to receive their new queen and her train, and after a few perfunctory greetings, they were conducted to a nearby lodging where they were able to dry themselves and their belongings and rest after their terrible ordeal.
Shortly after, Mary was brought news of her flotilla. Although the rest were safe, the ‘Great Elizabeth’ had been lost at Sandgate, close to Calais, and four hundred of the ship’s complement of five hundred had perished.
Disconsolate, Mary brooded on this tragic start to her marriage. The deaths of so many with their sins unpurged, weighed heavy on her conscience. Perhaps, if she had been bolder in her resistance to Henry’s demand that she marry Louis, these men would still be alive, their widows and children not left bereft. She feared it was an ill-omen that presaged greater sorrows.
Rested and restored to health, Mary was still subdued when she set out with the rest of her party on the journey to Abbeville—and King Louis.
The weather continued damp and chill and Mary and her ladies travelled in litters and wagons. Henry had spared no expense on Mary’s litter; of cloth of gold, embroidered with gold lilies in wrought gold, it ostentatiously proclaimed that while Mary might be the new Queen of France, she was also the sister of Henry—a Henry, moreover, determined to impress others by this display of wealth. And while, on the back and front were French lilies, they shared the honours with the parti-coloured roses of York and Lancaster, the two horses which bo
re the litter trapped in like manner. Mary could only hope her behaviour, when she met King Louis and his court, would prove a match for such splendour.
In deference to their recent travails, they approached Abbeville in easy stages. The Duke of Norfolk, riding beside Mary’s litter, took it upon himself to point out places of interest along the route. And as they approached the north east of Abbeville, close to the village of Crécy-en-Ponthieu, he reminded her that, one hundred and fifty years before, her ancestor, Edward III, had defeated the French at the Battle of Crécy. And, in 1066, from the village of St Valery, the glorious conqueror, William, had sailed to invade England.
Mary, her nerves stretched taut as lute strings, had scant interest in his anecdotes. Finally, even Norfolk that bluff soldier, noticed her distraction and fell silent. Shortly after, he took himself, his battle tales and his horse back to the head of the column.
They were within a few miles of Abbeville when a party of riders approached. Norfolk rode back to tell Mary that they were led by Francis, the Duc de Valois, King Louis’ son-in-law and the heir-presumptive to the French throne.
Mary studied him with curiosity. Francis was tall like her brother, but all likeness between them ended there. The French heir-presumptive was swarthy and, given his lusty reputation, had a suitably huge priapic nose. Francis was Louise of Savoy’s only son and she was said to be very ambitious for him. They must have thought, given Louis’ increasingly poor health, that it was only a matter of time before Francis stepped into Louis’ shoes. What must they think now? For the Louis they must have thought halfway to the grave had instead climbed from his deathbed and made of himself a bridegroom. If Louis managed to father a son on her and thus destroy Francis’ hopes of succeeding... Mary shuddered at the thought and its implications for her future. How he and his mother must hate her.
Mary had naturally felt some trepidation at meeting this Valois heir-presumptive, a trepidation made worse when she remembered what her sister-in-law, Catherine had endured at the hands of the two ruthless kings: her father and father-in-law. The thought did nothing to relieve Mary’s growing anxieties. But, to her astonishment, Francis proved to be charm itself. After bowing low and trailing his expensive hat in the muddy road, he approached her and made a pretty speech welcoming her to France. Tall, dark and sardonic-looking, Francis, while far from conventionally handsome, with his long nose and devilish looks, carried himself with such a confident, rakish air, that these could be discounted. He enquired after their voyage and threw up his hands in horror to hear of their ordeals and the loss of the ‘Great Elizabeth’ and so many men.
He gazed at the golden-haired Mary in her matching golden litter, the light of admiration in his eyes and said, ‘But, Madam, surely not. You all look so blooming. How the sea dared to toss such loveliness about I can scarce comprehend.’
After her recent dalliance with a watery grave, Mary felt a little hysterical. She gave a nervous, girlish giggle. Lady Guildford, who had little time for flowerily-worded compliments, couldn’t restrain a snort.
Francis ignored her and addressed himself solely to Mary. ‘I shall expect Cardinal Bayeux to chastise such an impudent sea strongly in his next sermon.’
‘I’m sure the Almighty knows what he’s about,’ Lady Guildford told Francis, piously. ‘And we’re here now, safe enough, my lord, so there’s no need for any chastisement.’
‘Come, come, my lady,’ Francis chided, to Mary’s amusement. ‘Even the Almighty shouldn’t get away totally unscathed for such unseemly behaviour. I shall demand two such sermons from my Lord Cardinal and I’ll even listen to both of them and not sleep a wink, I promise you.’
Used to respect and deference, Lady Guildford tutted some more. Even Mary’s father, King Henry had consulted her opinion — yet here was a young man of no more than twenty summers, who looked at her with a lazy insolence and cared not a whit for her or her opinion. Mary guessed Lady Guildford feared trouble with the Maids of Honour at the French court if all the young men had such free and easy ways as Francis. She began to understand why the flighty Jane had been excluded from accompanying her.
Francis turned his attention back to Mary and begged her to walk a short way with him as he had something of importance to tell her. Mary nodded and tried to ignore the fascinated stares of her ladies, like so many inquisitive Birds of Paradise, in their bright plumage of silks and gold brocades.
After he had assisted her from the litter, Francis took her arm in a familiar fashion. At her surprised expression, he merely commented, ‘Are we not now family, Your Grace? And you my mother? We should be comfortable together. Come, let us stroll. The day has brightened somewhat and the air will put some more colour in your pretty cheeks.’
Mary blushed at this and lowered her eyes. Francis might be her new son-in-law by her marriage to King Louis, but he was over-familiar considering they were strangers. She rescued her arm from his and strolled a little way before looking back at the cavalcade. It was certainly impressive. After her ladies, some on palfreys and others in carriages covered with gold brocade, came more running footmen and yet more palfreys, all trapped in gold brocade and murrey velvet. Bringing up the rear were 200 English archers, the first division in doublets of green satin and surcoats and belts of black velvet, with shaggy red and white hats, the second division wore black doublets and shaggy white hats, while the third division wore black with grey hats. But even such a spectacle of colour was insufficient to distract Mary from Lady Guildford’s stern gaze and she knew if her behaviour was insufficiently modest she would have to endure a lecture.
Francis saw the direction of her gaze and laughed. ‘She is something of a dragon, I think, your old guardian, is she not?’
‘She can be a little stern at times’ Mary admitted. ‘But she’s fond of me and would guard me from any harm.’
‘Still, my lady mother, you are now a wife. Perhaps the time has come for the fledgling to try out her wings, hmm?’ The ardor in his gaze as it swept over her body discomfited Mary. Perhaps he noted this, for he simply took her arm again and resumed their stroll. ‘The King has planned a little surprise for you,’ he confided. ‘A silly game that men like to play on their brides. Oh, it is nothing very terrible,’ he assured Mary. ‘He merely wishes to see the bride of whom he has heard so much, without all the formality of an official meeting.’
Mary had been warned to expect this. Hadn’t Catherine been ‘surprised’ by an ‘informal’ meeting of her father and Arthur on her arrival in England as a young bride? Louis would be anxious to verify his Ambassador’s report as to her looks and figure.
‘He will ‘accidentally’ happen along whilst out, ostensibly hunting, in the best romantic tradition,’ Francis went on. A contemptuous little smile hovered over his sensuous lips as he told her, ‘Don’t be fooled. King Louis does little hunting nowadays as he suffers from the gout. You must act as if surprised to see him. It is a delightful game he plays, nothing more.’
‘I must thank you, my lord, for giving me warning of this,’ Mary replied. And although she had no interest in such foolish games, she gave the expected response. ‘I must return and make myself presentable for my husband. I would not like to meet him for the first time looking less than my best.’
‘You could never look anything but lovely,’ Francis told her. ‘I swear my father-in-law will fall in love with you at first glance. He’s already half in love with the thought of you. He’s never had a beautiful wife before. His first wife, Jeanne, was so ugly he couldn’t tolerate her near him, so he divorced her. And his second wife, Queen Anne, my late, lamented, mother-in-law, wasn’t noted for her beauty either, though at least she wasn’t a complete cripple and managed to provide him with children. Claude, my wife, is the eldest. You will meet her when we reach Abbeville. She is a trifle indisposed at the moment, but I ordered her from her bed in order to greet you.’
‘You should have left her to rest,’ Mary told him. ‘I would have come to her chamber to meet her
. I wouldn’t want to cause her distress if she is unwell.’
‘She’s well enough to leave her bed to greet her new mother,’ Francis insisted. ‘The demands of etiquette brook no other course.’
‘Even so, I hope we will become friends.’ Mary, conscious that she might need all the friends she could get at the French court, wondered how many must resent her arrival?
Claude, too, must be set on disliking her. How could she not when she would be aware of the dangers Mary posed to her and her husband’s hopes of succeeding her father?
‘You will find Claude very gentle, obedient and most loving towards you, I promise,’ Francis reassured. ‘Indeed, the whole family is ready to love you, including myself and my mother.’ Hand on heart, Francis bowed and smiled winningly at her.
‘Thank you, my lord,‘ Mary murmured, while she thought she might need some persuading of Louise of Savoy’s love for her. She must be furious at this marriage.
‘Call me Francis, please. I beg of you, let etiquette be no bar to our friendship at least.’
Mary was a little unnerved at the way Francis’ gaze kept sweeping over her body and suspected it would be wise not to be too friendly. But it would be churlish to deny him this, so she replied, ‘Very well, Francis. Now, I had better return to Lady Guildford. She will be fussing herself to distraction.’
Indeed, Lady Guildford was imperiously striding about, collecting up stray, giggling Maids of Honour and chivvying them back to the litters and wagons, lest they be guilty of any breach of French etiquette with the young noblemen accompanying Francis.
He and Mary had strolled back, and Francis said to Lady Guildford, ‘I’ve returned your chick to the coop, my lady, safe and sound and a most charming chick she is, too.’ He bowed low, then sauntered off to his companions, who greeted him uproariously.
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 4
