Lady Guildford turned her back on their goings-on and said to Mary. ‘That young man is very insolent, taking you off like that alone. I’m sure King Louis will not like it when he hears.’ Testily, she enquired. ‘And what was this great secret that he had to tell you, my lady, that he could not disclose in front of your guardian?’
‘Nothing of any great moment, Mother.’ Mary told her what Francis had said about Louis intending to ‘accidentally’ meet her on the road. Although Mary felt that Francis could be a dangerous young man, his arrival had unaccountably cheered her. Unfortunately, it had done little for Lady Guildford’s peace of mind.
‘Of no moment,’ she now exclaimed. ‘Of no moment, you say, Madam? It’s a good thing I’m here, my little queen. I had half expected some such foolishness. These men and their games. They don’t realise the trouble they cause. Come, my lady, get into the litter. You must change into a more suitable gown for this ‘surprise’ meeting.’
Mary allowed herself to be chivvied back to the litter, stripped in its cramped confines and dressed in a gown of cloth of gold on crimson so heavily plated with goldsmith’s work that she could hardly move. Imprisoned in such an armour-like outfit, with a shaggy hat of crimson silk perched in a jaunty manner over one eye, as she was assisted with difficulty onto her white palfrey, Mary felt more as if she was about to ride into battle than to meet her new/old bridegroom. The animal, unaccustomed to bearing such weight, staggered awhile till he adjusted himself to his suddenly burdensome mistress. Then the party set off again.
The Maids of Honour were becoming more excited. Mary could hear their chatter behind her and knew that Francis had won at least one heart. Now, they all craned their necks for the first sight of the royal ‘hunting’ party. However, it wasn’t till the Duke of Norfolk, back in his earlier role of guide, told them they were approaching the Forest of Ardres, that they encountered King Louis. As the king and his party approached over a wide plain, Mary discovered Francis at her side once more. In between increasingly intimate sallies that wholly ignored etiquette and completely discomfited Mary, he identified each of the king’s companions for her. She struggled to concentrate as she tried to commit the names to memory.
As was the fashion when kings and queens appeared in public together, King Louis was dressed in a short riding dress of the same stuff as Mary and looked even more burdened than she by the weight of it.
Expected to dismount and pay homage, Mary struggled to get herself and her cumbersome gown to the ground. Louis, seeing her rising embarrassment, begged her to remain mounted. Mary, only too glad to obey him, doffed her hat and kissed her hand at the king, supposing the equally encumbered Louis must sympathise with her plight.
Louis must have taken this for encouragement for he brought his gleaming Spanish mount with its barb of cloth of gold and black satin in chequers close up to Mary on her palfrey. She almost backed away, but then, remembered this was her husband and she must not. He had the right to do whatever he pleased. After a few whispered words spoken so softly that she failed to understand them and was unable to give an appropriate response, Louis threw his arm around her neck and kissed her soundly. Startled, conscious of the sardonic looks of Francis, Mary blushed, which brought a delighted laugh from Louis.
He turned to his noble companions and cried, ‘Well, my lords, what think you of our new Queen? Is she not exquisite?’
Although the cardinals of Auch and Bayeux kept their expressions pious, the admiring stares of de Vendôme, the Duke of Albany, the Count Galeazzo di San Severino and the rest of the nobles echoed their enthusiastic words for Mary’s delicate skin and golden hair. And as they gazed from her back to the gouty Louis, Mary could imagine the ribald comments they would exchange in private as they speculated whether the king’s manhood would be up to the challenge she represented. Louis’ lustful expression warned her that he intended to do his best to rise to the occasion. It was not a pleasant thought.
Louis turned back to Mary, grasped her hand and kissed it. She could feel drool on her skin and had to force herself not to snatch her hand back.
‘Lucky for me, my beautiful Mary, that I happened to be out this way hunting. To think I might have taken a different route and missed you.’ Louis shook his head in wonder at the fates’ sudden kindness and smiled at her.
In her dream, Mary remembered, Louis had been toothless. In reality, he was not entirely so, but what few he had were black with decay. She suppressed a shudder at his remembered kiss and just stopped herself from wiping a hand across her lips. She was Queen now. Louis’ Queen. She must, somehow, find the strength to endure his embrace.
‘I feel, my lady, you and I shall be happy together. Do you not agree?’
What could she say? Bemused, Mary surveyed her decaying and creaking bridegroom. Louis was bent over slightly in the saddle, as if his heavy robes were altogether too much for him. Perhaps they were, for he looked sick unto death. His face was pasty, his lips gummy. ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she murmured, forcing the unpalatable words past suddenly dry lips. Mary glued a smile on her face and assured him. ‘I’m sure we shall.’
Louis seemed satisfied by her stilted reply, for he bowed and after exchanging a few more pleasantries with her, he turned and greeted the Duke of Norfolk, Dorset, Surrey, Ruthall, Lord Herbert and Docwra, the Prior of St John of Jerusalem. Mary took the opportunity to unglue the forced smile and find a more natural expression.
Louis and his party left them shortly after. Mary was relieved, for her new husband’s appearance had shocked her. She had rather taken it for granted that the tales of Louis’ ill-health had been exaggerated by Henry to encourage her to agree to the marriage. He seemed like a corpse already. Spiders seemed to have crawled under her skin and set to weaving their webs, as she thought of bedding with him. How could her brother have done this to her?
Francis rode up to her. His expression more sardonic than ever, he seemed amused at her barely concealed distaste. He enquired familiarly, ‘So, what do you think of your husband, Mother? Do you like his handsome looks?’
Mary hid her distress as best she could, looked him boldly in the eye and said she liked them well enough.
Francis studied her with a gleam in his eyes and set about interrogating her. ‘Are you not curious about your bridegroom? Do you truly have no loving bride’s questions to ask about him? His likes? His dislikes? His little foibles? Surely there must be something you wish to ask, Mother?’
Mary realised her lack of questions had been more revealing of her true feelings than any words. But she was determined not to satisfy Francis’ seeming desire to obtain some foolish indiscretion from her. She temporised by asking, ‘I understand from the Duc de Longueville that the King is not robust and keeps early hours. Is that so?’
Francis nodded. ‘The king’s health has been poor for a long time. He’s been near death several times, but has always somehow pulled through.’ His expression rueful, Francis went on. ‘But even before his ill-health, the court of King Louis has always been on the dull side. And then, with the death of Queen Anne, court mourning made it even more so.’ He gazed at her with that unconcealed admiration that was beginning to unnerve Mary and added, ‘But now that you are here, my pretty Mother, I will do my best to enliven it. You’ll not want to spend half your time sewing with the late Queen’s ladies. You’ll want to be gay and with your beauty, the king will be able to deny you nothing.’ Francis smiled roguishly. ‘The court is certainly going to be more interesting than it was.’
Mary felt her delicate skin flush, which only seemed to amuse him more. He noticed Lady Guildford approaching, pulled a face at Mary, bowed and made his escape.
‘What a to-do, my lady,’ said Lady Guildford as she came up. ‘I’ve been trying to get your Maids of Honour in their places so we can move off, but it’s a hopeless task, I vow. Let’s get you settled back in line and it might bring the rest to order.’
As they rode back to the procession, Lady Guildford must have no
ted Mary’s gaze follow the departing Francis because she asked, ‘What’s the matter? What did his insolent young lordship want with you this time? Not more important secrets?’
‘Nay, mother,’ said Mary as she quietened her palfrey and watched her esquires organise themselves at the head of the procession, followed, two by two, by the Duke of Norfolk, ambassadors and other noblemen all wearing their enormous costly gold chains. After the nobles came Garter King at Arms and Richmond Herald with eight trumpeters in crimson damask and macers with gilt maces surmounted by a royal crown to remind the world, and Mary, who scarcely needed reminding, of her raised status. ‘He was simply telling me about the court. King Louis’ health is worse than we had expected. Indeed, he looked sick unto death, do you not think?’
Lady Guildford’s features took on a more downward caste. ‘He’s not long for this world, my lady, mark my words. We must hope there’s no delay in getting you crowned.’
Mary concentrated on the still-forming processing, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or sorry at the news that she might emulate Catherine by becoming a widow shortly after becoming a bride. In front of her the two grooms in their short doublets of cloth of gold and black velvet each led a palfrey, followed by two other palfreys ridden by pages. Mary waited till these last had settled in line before she said, ‘Perhaps he’s not as sick as he looks? He kissed me heartily enough, I’ll trow.’ A shiver ran through her at the memory. ‘He must be able to do his husbandly duty else why trouble to marry me at all?’
As Mary’s running footmen fell into line at their side and the pages on the two large horses that bore her litter, drew up behind, Lady Guildford warned, ‘Just let the king cause no delay in the ceremonies, or it’s his funeral and not his official wedding we’ll be attending. And yes, Louis may have kissed you heartily enough, but I saw the effort it cost him. It looked to me that it was only the weight of his garments that kept him on his horse. And for such an ‘ardent’ groom, he didn’t linger long. I don’t suppose he dared in case he outraged the conventions and fell at your feet — not with love, but sickness.’
CHAPTER FOUR
When the procession eventually got moving. Francis again attached himself to Mary, etiquette forcing Lady Guildford to retire and join the other ladies behind Mary’s empty litter. As though determined to disconcert her, Francis charmed Mary anew so that she forgot the anxiety his frank appraisal had caused her earlier.
‘How many broken hearts did you leave behind you in England, ma petite mère?’ he asked. ‘Such beauty as yours makes men mad.’
Mary, having failed to lure her love, Charles Brandon, from the paths of sanity and caution, forced a lightness into her voice lest the teasing Francis should suspect her secret. ‘Why should I have left any broken hearts behind me, Francis? It is Frenchmen who are famed for their love of romance. The men of England pursue worldly ambition with greater zeal than affairs of the heart.’
‘Then that cold and wet island of yours must surely have weakened their manhood. They should be ashamed to leave such a lovely lady without amusement. We will have fun together, you and I,’ he promised. ‘Now you are truly French, we must teach these churlish English the importance of l’amour.’
As he said this, Francis grasped her hand and kissed her palm with such a lover-like intimacy that Mary drew back in alarm. Francis’ expression hinted at feelings far deeper than his playful words implied. But he was French, she reminded herself. Such gallant, but meaningless flirtations came as naturally to them as breathing. He was young , simply testing how far she would allow his familiarities to go. It was up to her to set the boundaries. Perhaps the sternly moral court of her father and grandmother had made her prudish. She shouldn’t take his gallantries seriously. He was amusing and would make her sojourn in France – however long it turned out to be – seem shorter. He would help the days go by till she could be with her love once again. With these thoughts to encourage her, it wasn’t long before she forgot her qualms and he had her laughing again.
About half-a-mile outside Abbeville the procession was again halted as the chief men of the town, followed by a great crowd of other citizens, archers, musketeers and the captain of the town with about thirty liveried men, came out to greet her. Mary, her confidence growing, greeted them graciously and was pleased to see their approval. They fell in at the head of the now considerably swollen procession and escorted her the rest of the way.
At last, they came to the walls of Abbeville, where again the train was halted so that Mary could prepare for her entry. She had dismounted to enter Notre Dame de la Chapelle to greet the waiting clergy when the heavens opened. Francis, blasphemous as before, whispered in her ear as he rushed her to shelter that the priests’ fine garments must have displeased the Almighty.
Mary stifled an unseemly desire to giggle. For the sudden downpour that made the magnificently-clad clergy so bedraggled certainly signaled omniscient disapproval of their failure to wholeheartedly embrace poverty. Fearing she would breach etiquette and scandalize the citizens of the town, Mary begged him to be silent. But Lady Guildford almost proved her undoing. For her Mother hadn’t been quick enough to dismount and seek shelter. Drenched and fuming, she scowled as her limp, wet hat feathers drooped forlornly over one eye. Francis’ conspiratorial wink at Mary forced her to bite down hard on her lip. When she was able, she quietly reproved him. ‘It isn’t seemly to laugh so at my Mother Guildford, Francis. She must be very vexed.’
‘The trick with wearing such fine feathers, pretty Mary, is to have a fleet turn of foot,’ he told her. ‘That way, the weather can’t make a fool of you.’ Needless to say, Francis had ensured his own, and Mary’s, fine feathers remained intact.
‘Poor Mother. Could you not have assisted her, Francis? She’s no longer young.’
‘But I have devoted myself to you, ma mère,’ he protested. ‘That way, when you need me, I shall be available. How can I spare aught of my help for others?’
‘So you would leave my Mother Guildford to slip in the mud? For shame, Francis. Your gallantry is very selective, I fear.’
‘Tis true. I confess it. Would you have me a faithless churl so soon to abandon you to the tender mercies of other men? Nay, I’ll not do it. Let your haughty Duke of Norfolk see to her.’ Francis gave a graceful bow. ‘You are now my Queen and I must look after you.’
The rain was still falling when the party emerged from the church. The horses’ hooves had churned up the mud into a quagmire. For her entry into Abbeville, Mary had changed her garments yet again and was now dressed in gold brocade with a white gown made in the English fashion, with tight sleeves, decorated with jewels and more heavy goldsmith’s work – ‘tout or et diamants – all gold and diamonds as Francis admiringly commented. Surrounded by her running footmen and the Scots Guards, Mary rode under a canopy of white satin embroidered by roses which the clergy had prepared for her. Borne by the officers of the town, it helped to protect her from the rain. By now it was around four o’clock in the afternoon and Mary was tired after being the centre of so much formal ceremonial. But, well-schooled in what to expect, she knew it would be some time before she could retire for an hour, climb out of her weighty clothing and relax.
As the procession entered the town, Mary was welcomed with bells, trumpets and artillery, all vying together to give her the greatest welcome. The noise was tremendous and made her ears ring. It didn’t seem to disconcert the towns-people who stood in the rain paying it no heed at all in their eagerness to see and greet their new Queen. Their exuberant cries of ‘Vive la Reine’ added to the cacophony, but their obvious delight warmed Mary’s heart. Still a little pale, being but recently plucked from the ocean’s icy clutches, she smiled and waved all the while and was outwardly as enthusiastic as any. The fleeting thought that her brother – who had always known how to appeal to a crowd – would be proud of her made her smile even more. Now Mary, too, was learning that she had the gift of pleasing the people. It was a heady gift.
> Surrounded by her jostling new subjects, she rode through the Porte Marcade and down the Chausée. Francis told her the name of each location and pointed out the tapestries which hung down from every available pole and window, billowing in the breeze. He explained the intricacies of the mystery plays that were enacted on every corner, leaning close beside her so she could hear above the noise.
They arrived at the Church of St Wolfran, the patron saint of the town and Mary dismounted to give thanks. She went once more through the noisily shouting populace and she and her ladies were at last conducted to their lodgings, where Mary met the fifteen-year-old Madam Claude, Francis’ wife and King Louis’ eldest daughter. With difficulty, Claude, who was very fat, sank into a deep courtesy. Claude’s pallor reminded Mary that she had but recently risen from her sick-bed and she bade her rise and commiserated with her over the recent loss of her mother. Gently, she chided the wan face before her. ‘You should really have remained in bed. We could have greeted one another just the same.’ Mary studied the girl’s white face with concern. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling quite well?’
Francis interposed. ‘She could not remain in bed whilst your Majesty attended on her. It wouldn’t be right.’
Mary was saddened to note that Francis’ young wife received none of the gallantry he had shown her. Clearly, this was no love match, at least not on Francis’ side, though poor Claude’s sad gaze seemed to follow her husband about with mute adoration. But Mary couldn’t expect the tall, elegant and witty Francis to adore his frumpy little wife even though she would, in time, bring him great riches.
As though he sensed Mary’s thoughts and wanted her to think well of him, with every appearance of husbandly solicitude, Francis enquired of Claude, ‘You’re well enough now, Claude, are you not?’
‘Yes, my lord. Francis is right, Your Grace,’ she told Mary. ‘It would not be seemly for me to abide in bed for your greeting. My father would be most displeased.’
Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII Page 5
