‘Are you sure, Louis? So soon? Are you quite well enough yet?’
Mary’s anxious, wifely questions seemed to startle Louis. But he immediately reassured her. ‘But yes, ma Cherie. Thank you for your solicitude, but we must get you crowned, little wife, must we not, Francis?’ Louis gave his son-in-law a sly look that indicated he was not unaware of Francis’ gallantries towards Mary, but which said equally clearly that Louis and not he, was in possession.
Francis seemed to take no umbrage at Louis’ sly look. Time was on his side, after all, not the king’s. Lady Guildford had told Mary that his mother’s spies had soon discovered Louis’ lack as a husband, so he could afford to be patient.
‘But of course, your Grace,’ Francis said. ‘It would be a shame to delay. The Queen’s beauty will grace the crown. The Parisians will go wild when they see her.’
Louis looked satisfied and took Mary’s hand. ‘He is right, of course. They will think me a lucky dog.’ He patted her hand. ‘I have a present for you, Mary.’
‘Another present, Louis? You will spoil me, I fear.’
‘You should be spoiled and cherished and spoiled some more,’ he told her gruffly. ‘I know I’m a sick and gouty old man and people think us ill-matched, but you make me very happy, my dear.’
‘I’m glad, Louis.’ Mary squeezed his hand and was rather startled to find that she meant what she had said. Of course, she could never love him as she loved Charles, that would be impossible. But she was becoming fond of him. She would try to make him happy for the short time his poor health looked likely to leave him.
‘Fetch me the box by the window, please, my dear. The silver one,’ Louis instructed. When she had done so, he lifted the lid and removed a long rope of breath-taking pearls, lustrous and beautifully matched. Louis held them against Mary’s skin and told her, ‘Aye, they like you, ma Cherie. They glow more beautifully already. Pearls pine and lose their sheen if they are not worn by a young and beautiful woman.’ He fastened them round Mary’s neck, then looked at her expectantly. ‘Do you like them, Mary?’
‘How could I not, Louis?’ she asked him. ‘They are delightful. Thank you. I shall treasure them.’ Gently, she kissed his leathery cheek. ‘You are good to me.’
‘How could I be otherwise?’ He lowered his voice for her ears alone. ‘I was denied beauty in a wife all my young years and now I have the beauty when I am too old to please her with my body. So I must please her in other ways. It is ironic, is it not? The good Lord must have his little joke, alas.’ Louis chuckled ruefully, gave her cheek a fond pinch and asked her to play for him again.
Mary bowed her head, picked up her lute and began to play as Louis’ gentlemen came in to light the candles. And whilst Mary’s voice and music once more lulled her sickly husband into a restful sleep, she was tautly conscious of Francis’ close proximity, his ardent gaze and the way his hands stroked hers, as he pretended to help her pluck the new French tunes from her lute.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The horses stamped their hooves in the chill morning air as the trunks and boxes of Mary’s ladies and gentlemen were loaded on to the wagons. Louis had wasted no time in ordering their departure, thought Mary, though in spite of his demand that Francis organise the court’s move to Paris it was still at Abbeville; Louis having to to retire to his bed again after an over-hasty rising. Mary suspected his relapse was at least partly politic. He was scared her tears would weaken his resolve to be rid of Lady Guildford and the rest.
Louis wasn’t alone in being hurt by his own orders. All the upset seemed to have aged her Mother Guildford also. She felt her dismissal keenly, regarding it as a disgrace. After her angry tirade against Louis had run its course she had taken to sitting quietly ruminating, no longer even rebuking the chattering young Maids in her previous imperious manner. Mary had never seen her so withdrawn. She had already said her goodbyes to the rest of her dismissed attendants and they had tactfully left the chamber, so Mary and Lady Guildford could make their goodbyes in private.
Mary gave her old guardian a loving hug and said as optimistically as she could manage, ‘Cheer up, Mother. You may return to me yet. I’m still working on Louis and we have yet to hear from my brother and Wolsey.’
‘Nay, child. King Louis will not change his mind. He has taken a dislike to me.’ With a brief spark of her previous spirit, she added, ‘but not nearly as great as the dislike I’ve taken to him, for the gouty old fool that he is - king or no king.’
Mary, glad to see a little of her Mother’s verve return, but anxious that Lady Guildford’s comments were not reported back to Louis, warned, ‘Hush, now, Mother. You know royal palaces have ears.’
‘Bah, what does it matter now if he knows my mind? He’s too fond of you, for all that he has dismissed me and the rest, to wish to cause you more hurt and I’m returning to your brother’s dominions, out of reach of any punishment. It’s King Henry’s wrath I fear, not the French King’s.’
Astonished to discover this previously concealed worry, Mary said, ‘Henry wouldn’t do anything to harm you, Mother. He knows how close I am to you. Anyway, if he’s received my letter he should be in no doubt as to where to lay the blame and it will not be on your head. Will you believe me on this?’
Lady Guildford nodded. ‘Aye, child, I’ll believe you, but mayhap you ought to write another letter lest the first needs a friend to support it.’ Lady Guildford’s eyes managed a little twinkle of mischief and although they laughed the laughter of both was very close to tears and they were soon serious once more.
‘Tis a shame you won’t be here for my coronation, Mother and the joust which the Duc de Valois is arranging. He told me there are likely to be many English arriving shortly.’
‘Then it’s to be hoped that popinjay, de Valois gets a sound thrashing from our lords. His opinion of himself is a deal too high for me.’
Mary, whose relationship with Francis involved a fine balancing act of, on the one hand, needing to retain his much-needed friendship at a hostile court and on the other, rebuffing his continued attempts to seduce her, felt compelled to defend him. ‘He has been very kind to me, wondrously kind when you consider that he could with justification consider me the enemy. With Louis always so sick the court would be dull indeed if Francis wasn’t here.’
‘All the same, my lady, you want to be careful of that young man. If Louis succeeds in his duty and gets a son from you, the child would stand between Francis and the throne. A dangerous position for a vulnerable infant - and his mother.’
Shocked, Mary said, ‘Francis would be incapable of doing me or any babe I might have any hurt.’
‘Maybe. But his mother would not be. Louise of Savoy would let nothing come between her only son and the throne of France. Just be on your guard, child.’
The warning sent a shiver down Mary’s spine, but she managed to shake it off. After all, as she told her Mother, she was unlikely to get any sons from Louis. Since his exertions on their wedding night he had been too sickly to attempt anything. ‘I’ve had my flux since so I’m doubly sure I’ve no heir in my belly.’
‘Just as well then, for I fear Louis would be unable to protect you. Francis seems to rule here now. The court looks to be just waiting for Louis to die in fact.
He’s already all but dead in reality. He looks a little sicker each day. I’ve said it to you before, lady, now I say it again - get yourself crowned as quickly as possible. Then, if Louis dies you won’t be dependent on your brother. As a crowned Dowager-Queen, you’ll have a large enough income to be independent of him.’
Lady Guildford was full of doom-laden warnings and Mary told her so. ‘It’s sad enough that you are all going home to England and leaving me here. Don’t, I pray you, leave me with fears and suspicions for company instead.’
‘I was but warning you, child. You are a deal too trusting. But you are right to chastise me. Come, give me a kiss before I go.’
After their embrace, she rose straight-backed from her
seat and strode to the window. ‘We should have got moving long before this. Half the day’s gone already.’
In spite of her imminent departure, Mary was pleased to note that Lady Guildford retained enough vigor to criticise French incompetence. But it was a half-hearted criticism, voiced, Mary suspected, only to conceal other emotions. Mary’s emotions were not so easily concealed and now the time for parting had finally arrived, she was overcome with a sense of loss. She flung herself into Lady Guildford’s arms and gave herself up to a storm of weeping. Her mother’s warnings had brought home to her how vulnerable she would be. Strangely, she hasn’t realised quite how much she had depended upon Lady Guildford’s calm, authoritative presence till she was about to lose it.
Lady Guildford made her dry her tears. ‘You don’t want all the court to see you in such a taking. As your gouty husband says, you’re a woman now and a Queen and must behave as such. Always remember the duty due to your rank. The less emotion you show the world the stronger you will appear.’ Lady Guildford tutted, ‘but there, you were always a headstrong, emotional child. Promise me, Mary, you’ll restrain any impetuous actions should aught befall Louis.’
Her Mother’s concern brought a fresh flow of tears from Mary. She clung to Lady Guildford as if she would never let her go.
But Lady Guildford was made of sterner stuff. She pushed Mary from her, gathered the last of her possessions and walked to the door. When Mary made to follow her, she stopped her. ‘We’ve said our goodbyes, my lady. You don’t want the entire court to see your red eyes. You can watch our departing from the window.’ Lady Guildford paused at the door to add a blessing, ‘May God watch over you. Goodbye, child,’ before she went out, closing the door firmly behind her.
Bereft, Mary remained where she stood. She felt the urge to run after her, but knew Lady Guildford was right. The court knew how distressed she was at this parting, why display first-hand evidence of it? Instead, Mary raced to the window and was just in time to see Lady Guildford climb into her litter. Mary waved frantically. She felt desolate and terribly alone as the head of the train moved off, the rest slowly following in its wake. All too soon, the last wagon disappeared from sight. Her Mother Guildford was gone. Apart from the youngest Maids of Honour and the few English diplomats she was now all but alone in France.
Mary never knew how she got through the next few days. They passed in a misty blur. But then, emotionally exhausted, she finally slept soundly and when she woke on the third morning she felt calmer, determined to behave with dignity as her mother had bade her. She called her remaining ladies to her and spoke to them. She had only young girls left to her out of the large retinue of titled ladies who had accompanied her to France. Not one of them was old enough to have acquired Lady Guildford’s wisdom and Mary surveyed them sadly; the ladies Mary and Anne Boleyn, the latter having joined her from Margaret of Austria’s court, Anne Grey and Elizabeth Grey, Mary Fenes and Mistress Anne Jerningham, her Femme de Chambre and Jean Barnes her Chamberiere. Few enough indeed, and lacking experience, but they were all she had so she must make the best of them.
Falteringly, Mary began to address them. ‘Ladies, we are now on our own. ‘It’s sad, but it would have happened some time, so we must all learn self-reliance.’
‘Will Lady Guildford not be returning, then, your Grace?’ asked Mary Boleyn, the bolder of the two Boleyn sisters. ‘I thought—’
‘Tis unlikely,’ Mary replied. ‘So we must all help and support each other. You older girls must look to the younger and restrain any foolishness. The court will be watching us to see how we conduct ourselves.’ Mary smiled at Anne Boleyn, the baby of the group. She was young to be away from home, but Anne’s father was over-ambitious for his children and at an age when she should still have been with her family, he had despatched her to foreign courts to learn some polish and make her more marriageable. In this, Mary thought Anne would need all the help she could get. As thin as a stick and with unfashionable dark looks, Anne’s chances of finding a husband weren’t great and were not improved by her shabby gown. Gently, Mary upbraided her. ‘Anne, your gown looks too short for you. You must change it before we dine.’
Anne’s sallow skin blushed unbecomingly and the other Maids giggled.
Mary Fenes explained the girl’s discomfiture. ‘Please Madam,’ she said. ‘All Anne’s other gowns are the same. She has grown too fast for her them and is unlikely to get more.’
The other girls giggled again. The awkward and gangly Anne looked as if she wanted the floor to open and swallow her.
Mary felt guilty that, with her other concerns, she had failed to notice Anne’s want of suitable gowns till now. She took pity on the girl. ‘Never mind, Anne. I have a number of gowns of the plainer sort. Perhaps you can make some over to fit you. Come, let us see what there is.’
Without Lady Guildford to rebuke them, Mary’s Maids turned out her trunks and boxes with a girlish enthusiasm and soon the floor and the bed were buried under a multi-coloured pile of silks, rich brocades and cloth of gold and silver as well as gowns made of other, less costly stuff. Finally, three of Mary’s less grand gowns were found that, with some small alterations, would fit the girl reasonably well. Mary was pleased, though she noticed that Anne, although she accepted Mary’s cast-offs readily enough, was looking decidedly stiff-necked. Mary put it down to the unkind teasing of the other Maids and thought no more of it. Anne, she had noticed before, had a tendency to keep herself aloof, probably in humiliated reaction to the far from aloof behaviour of her elder sister. For all of Lady Guildford’s rebukes, Mary Boleyn had already gained a wanton’s reputation at the French court. The younger girl was shy, too, conscious of her immaturity and lack of the pink and white skin that commanded universal admiration. Still, Mary consoled herself, the gowns would look well on her and be a vast improvement on the chit’s own clothes.
Mary left the Maids to tidy her gowns away and wandered to the window. As she gazed out on the bleak winter’s day, she found herself again envying the Anne Boleyn whose only worry was the fit of her gowns. Mary had so many other things with which to concern herself. Louis’ health had taken a turn for the worst since their marriage and she knew the courtiers blamed her for it. Had he not taken up a young man’s customs as he had said he would? His previous early hours replaced by late ones in order to please her.
It was unfair that she should be blamed for this. Did they expect her to retire to bed at six of the evening as had previously been Louis’ custom? Perhaps they did, for she had heard it whispered about the court that the King of England had sent his sister to the King of France the more speedily and gently to carry him to Heaven or Hell. It was a wicked slander and made her sound like some kind of angel of death.
She had been deprived of her love, deprived of the familiar faces of her older ladies and now blamed for Louis’ weakened health. Had ever a young girl come more swiftly than she to a realisation of the cares of a queen? Francis was just one of these cares. He had become bolder since Lady Guildford’s departure. Before, he had been satisfied with mildly amusing flirtation. But now, his gallantries were daily becoming more risqué and his fondling touch was less easily fended off. She had seen him and de Longueville whispering conspiratorially together, as though plotting some intrigue and from the glances they had directed at her as she had entered the room, she had felt convinced their plotting involved her. It made her uneasy. An uneasiness made worse by the behaviour of the rest of the courtiers who were prone to whispering together and casting speculative, side-long glances at her. It seemed only she and Louis were ignorant of what they discussed, though Mary thought she could guess well enough the subject of the conversations.
Had not Lady Guildford wisely bid her to behave with modesty at the French court? Mary wished she had followed this stricture when she had first arrived. For her innocent amusement at Francis’ witty gallantries had only served to encourage him. Daily she endured the humiliating gossip concerning her and Francis. And daily, Fran
cis compounded the gossip. Only this morning he had pursued her into the gardens where she had gone in desperation to gain some peace from all the gossiping lips and prying eyes. She had slipped out of a side door, unseen, she had thought, and found a bench in a quiet, deserted little arbor. It was quite sheltered. The relentless rain had stopped for several hours. The sun had even come out and warmed her face and she had leant back and closed her eyes. Only to have them fly open again seconds later, as, from above her, two muscular arms embraced her and lips swooped down hard and possessive on hers.
Even upside-down, Francis’ saturnine face was unmistakable. He had her trapped. She couldn’t move. She could only sit and struggle as his lips moved to her throat, to her bosom as it strained from her gown. She had told him to stop. Demanded he let her go. ‘You must not—’
For a moment she had thought he was about to obey her, for he released her arms. But it was only so that he could embrace her closer still. He vaulted over the back of the bench and sat down beside her, pressing her against the wooden arm.
‘Oh, but I must, ma Cherie. I surely must.’ He kissed her again and buried his head in her bosom. His hand followed the trail of kisses. Soon, it was deep inside her bodice and beginning to explore.
Mary grabbed his wrist and tried to pull his hand away. To her surprise, she succeeded. But it was only because he had another target in mind. He dragged her skirts above her knees. She felt his hand slide along her thigh.
For a brief moment, she was free of his restraining arm. She took the opportunity to break away from him. She leapt from her seat, straightening her gown as she did so. She didn’t linger to give him the chance to reach for her again, but picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could for the safety of Louis’ bed-chamber.
How strange it was, Mary thought later as she was dressing for supper, the sharp voices of her French ladies clucking, ignored around her. The one man she wanted to make passionate love to her did not dare. While Francis would dare anything, even the risk of fathering his own usurper. Of course, he was in his own country, which would probably, quite soon, literally be his own country. In truth, he dared little in his demanding clamour to possess her - only her shame and possibly war over her honour if Henry should hear of his doings. But then, as Francis seemed as lusty over the thought of war as he was over her, such a possibility was no deterrent.
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