Mary was determined she would not endure such a marriage a second time. Then she remembered the rumours doing the rounds about her elder sister, Margaret. The rumours said that Margaret had secretly married the Earl of Angus. Mary believed them, for although she barely knew her only sister, she remembered enough to know she had earned her reputation for being headstrong and wilful. If Margaret could choose her second husband herself, why shouldn’t I? Mary thought. The thought gave her courage. Come what may, she resolved that Henry would keep his promise, whether he meant to or no. He and Margaret were not the only ones with lusty Tudor blood in their veins.
Mary lay back in the canopied bed. The dark circles under her eyes caused by sleepless nights were enhanced by a few candles. Otherwise, the room was gloomy, for her widowed seclusion had begun and, although it was still daytime, the windows of the Hotel de Cluny to where she had been removed, were covered.
The dark circles camouflaged her silent determination that she would, somehow, defy Henry and choose her own second husband. Her courage wavered a little as she remembered that Francis had said she must endure six weeks of this imprisonment. How could it not, when she must lie in a darkened room, secluded from reality and with Francis’ hostile mother as her gaoler?
Her imprisonment was made all the more wretched, as daily, she waited for Francis’ next promised visit. Her anxiety had invaded the nerves of her teeth and the pain she suffered made her even more wretched as her mind and body united to torment her. She tensed as a knock came at the door. It was a knock she had become increasingly familiar with. She sat up in the bed as Francis entered, his mother, the newly-created Duchess of Angouleme and Anjou following on his heels.
He approached the bed and sat down on the edge. He took Mary’s reluctant hand in his and kissed it, lover-like. Snatching her hand back, Mary hid both hands under the bedcovers. She flinched as Francis traced the tracks of tears on her cheeks with his long, slender fingers.
‘So many tears, Mary? Why so?’ he asked her softly. ‘I know Louis was kindly, but he was scarcely a true husband for you to grieve so strongly.’
Mary lay silent. Out of sight, her hands clutched each other. Why would they not go away and leave her be?
But Francis had no intention of leaving it seemed. ‘Perhaps it is not Louis’ departure you grieve over, hmm?’ Francis dark eyes stared hypnotically into hers, as though he would gain the answers he sought by sheer force of personality. ‘Could it be that you grieve for another’s leaving you?’
He stroked her arm through her thin, white gown and Mary shivered, conscious that his eyes never left her face. A sudden spurt of pain shot through Mary’s clenched jaw and she groaned, dragged her hand from under the covers and clutched at her face while fresh tears flowed.
Suddenly, Francis was all sympathy. He wiped her tears away with his fingers and asked her, ‘What ails you, Mary? You are as white as your gown.’
His sympathetic tone brought from her a fresh storm of weeping. She hugged her hand to her throbbing cheek and groaned as the pain took hold.
Louise came over towards the bed. ‘She has the toothache, my son,’ she told Francis. Her next words made clear she had extended no sympathy to Mary. ‘It is nothing of much consequence. I know not why she makes such a fuss.’
Francis was immediately all solicitude. ‘Toothache can be very painful, Ma Mère. Has Mary seen a physician? Poor lady, to be reduced to such a state.’
Louise unbent enough to say, ‘A physician has arrived from England, from King Henry’s court. I suppose he could see her. She’ll see no one I recommend.’
Francis made no comment as his mother’s words revealed how matters stood between the two women. But his gaze was thoughtful as he turned back to Mary and took her hand again. ‘Do you hear, Mary?’ he asked. ‘A physician from your homeland has arrived, from your brother’s court. Will you see him?’
Although every movement brought fresh agony, Mary nodded. She felt grateful for his kindness, grateful for any kindness after his mother’s cold indifference. She thanked him with a tremulous smile.
His manner now hearty, Francis said, ‘Brave girl. I’m sure he’ll have something to soothe you. I’ll get one of your ladies to fetch him to you.’ After patting her hand with a return to the fatherly affection he had shown her immediately after her widowhood, Francis left the chamber.
After Francis had departed, Louise came over and stood looking down at Mary. Her expression as cold as her voice, she said curtly, ‘Such a great fuss over so little, Madam. Think you my son hasn’t enough to do now he’s king, without dancing attendance on you and your little ailments?’
Angered by Louise’s unfairness, Mary forgot her toothache sufficiently to retort, ‘I did not ask the king to come to see me. I have never asked for his attentions, whatever you may think. Indeed, I’d rather he didn’t visit me. It is not seemly, with us both of an age and I so recently widowed. Perhaps you should use your much-renowned influence to persuade him not to come here again. I have no desire to take him from his duties.’
Louise flashed a look of hatred at this. ‘I am only his mother. How could I stop him when you flash your wanton’s eyes at him? You are the scandal of the court, leading him on the way you do.’ Louise’s gaze narrowed. ‘Think you I don’t realise your intentions? You’ll not regain your queenship by enticing my son into your bed. We want none of your bastards here, Madam.’
Mary gasped at this, then her anger flared. ‘You are impertinent, Madam. It is your son who has done the pursuing, which you would realise if you weren’t wilfully blind.’ Now it was Mary’s turn to make accusations. ‘Which do you love more, I wonder? Power? Or Francis? How fortunate that you gain the first through the second. Would you claim such fondness for him if he had no title to kingship?’
Mary’s words had penetrated Louise’s strongly-erected defences. For a moment she feared the woman would strike her. But then, Louise gathered herself together and without another word, stalked from the chamber.
Mary sank back against the pillows. During the confrontation with Louise, anger had deadened the pain in her jaw. But now the pain returned in all its jaw-clenching misery. She prayed the physician would hurry and that he knew what he was about when he arrived.
Thankfully, the physician was skilled at his craft. Soon after he had left with his bagful of concoctions, the pain began to ease. Mary felt weak with relief and was grateful to Francis, so, it was that when he returned to see how she was, he entered to a smile of welcome rather than a frown.
It was all the encouragement Francis needed – not that he had ever needed any, of course. As she looked at him, she could almost see when his sympathy turned to an altogether warmer emotion. His smile had something of calculation in it as he stared at her. Too late, Mary realised that her hair had partially escaped its concealing covering and gleamed with the soft sheen of gold in the candlelight. She wondered that Louise, her determined guardian, should have so neglected her guard duty as to risk her son’s solitary visit.
Francis again sat on the edge of the bed. When she tried to tuck her hair away out of sight, he stopped her, telling her to leave it, before playfully pulling more and more of her shining fair hair from its bounds till it lay shimmering about her. Then, he pulled her nightcap away, too.
Mary saw her gold and white reflection in his eyes. Mesmerised, she could only stare as those self-same eyes, dark with passion, seemed about to devour her. She blinked and the spell was broken. She edged away from him. ‘Pray, do not look at me like that, Francis,’ she said.
‘How can I help it?’ Francis demanded. ‘Your beauty torments me.’
Indeed, he did look tormented. Mary wondered that she, who had no such desire, should have such power over him.
He snatched her hand and held it to his brow. ‘Feel my brow, it is on fire.’ After forcing her hand against his forehead he brought it to his lips and kissed her palm, her wrist, each finger, one by one.
Mary’s heart leapt
in her breast. There was something strangely intoxicating in the situation, something strangely erotic. For all her innocence, Mary was enough of a woman for the power of Francis’ passion to touch her also. He looked darkly-handsome in the candlelight with the candles matching the fiery heat in his gaze. Almost, Mary felt herself carried away, before she brought herself back to reality with a jolt and demanded. ‘Where has your mother gone?’
‘She is lying down. Something upset her. She wouldn’t tell me what.’
Mary knew what - or rather who – had upset Louise. It had been Mary herself. Her successful penetration of Louise’s steely defences had succeeded only in removing the guard between herself and Francis’ passion. A pyrrhic victory indeed.
‘Still,’ Francis went on, ‘I am here to tend you, Mary. We can let my mother rest.’ His gaze traced the length of her slender body through the bedclothes. Mary shrank back against the pillows and brought her hands up in an involuntary attempt to restrain him. Unfortunately, Francis seemed to find such maidenly defences exciting, for he grasped her wrists and rained hot kisses on her throat and bosom. Mary tried desperately to push him away, but all self-control had deserted him. The weight of his body pressed her down on the bed and his lips kissed hers bruisingly.
Suddenly, he stood up. Mary thought for a moment he must have come to his senses and realised what he was risking. But instead of muttering apologies and fleeing from temptation, he bent and with one hand, wrenched back the bedclothes.
Too shocked to move, Mary froze, even though, as she unlocked her gaze from his, she saw that her gown had rucked up and revealed her legs to the thigh.
For a few seconds, the air was thick with tension, as Francis stood, drinking her in. Then he returned to the bed. Pressing her down once again, he opened her thin gown, pulling it from her shoulders. Her breasts tumbled from their confinement, their white softness gleaming in the flickering flames of the candles and Francis reached for them. His fondling hands moved down to stroke her from ankle to rounded buttock, whilst his lips began to explore her throat, her mouth, her breasts. As he drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked it with a devouring hunger, Mary felt a matching heat course through her. She fought it, tried to voice a protest and though pinned down by his weight, she began to struggle.
But her struggles served only to inflame him further. He stopped her mouth with his tongue while his hands explored some more.
Unwillingly, Mary felt her own passions begin to stir again. Although he was only two years her senior, Francis had, she knew, been in many beds and well knew how to give a woman pleasure. She heard a moan escape her lips as her body flooded with heat at his caresses. All at once, Mary no longer cared that her gown had rucked up even higher. She was now fully exposed to his gaze, his lips, his tongue. She felt a shudder course through him. He lowered his head, his mouth seeking to increase the pleasure she could no longer hide.
But once his hypnotic gaze no longer enthralled her, the face of Charles, her real love, floated in front of her and she froze. What was she doing? How could she play the wanton for Francis when Charles was her only, her true love? The thought gave Mary a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. She managed to wrench herself from Francis’ embrace and leap from the tangled bedclothes.
Francis looked stunned. For once, he was lost for words and could only stare unbelievingly at her as Mary adjusted her dress. Used to easy conquests, it was clear that Francis was at a loss in the face of her rejection. He had pursued her for months, flirting with her, caressing her, never could he have felt the need for such a long wooing as she had received. She wondered what he would do now and glanced anxiously at the closed door, thinking to make a bolt for it. But the anguish in Francis’ voice when he finally found his tongue, kept her rooted to the spot.
‘Do not stop me, Mary,’ he pleaded. ‘You know I love you, desire you, more than I have ever desired any woman. Have you no pity? ‘Tis unfair that such warm beauty should have such a cold, unfeeling heart. You know you want me as I want you. I could sense your passion stirring under me, so why did you stop me?’
He rose from the bed and came towards her. He stood in front of her, dwarfing her with his great height and reached for the bodice of her gown. For the second time he freed her breasts. Cupping her bosom and kneading her soft flesh, he whispered in her ear, ‘I can feel the wild beating of your heart, Mary. You cage it, yet it wants to be free.’
He bent his head to kiss her again, but Mary spoke sharply to him, as afraid of her own passion as she was of his. ‘Leave me be, Francis. Stop this love-making or I’ll call your mother. She’ll stop you, for all she accuses me of leading you on.’
The determination in her voice stayed him and he looked sorrowfully at her. ‘It is cruel of you, Mary. I may now be a king, but I am a man as well, as weak and human as any, for all the kingly anointing I shall soon receive.’ His voice sounded ragged as did his breathing. ‘You leave me wretched. I ask little of you, only your love. Is it so much to give?’
Hastily, Mary pulled her gown closed. ‘You ask for my honour, also, sir,’ she reminded him softly. ‘I am Dowager-Queen of France, not a camp-follower and would be treated as such.’
A dangerous humour now glinted in Francis’ eye. ‘I can treat you right royally, ma Cherie,’ he assured her. ‘Louis isn’t the only one able to shower you with jewels. Just let this secluded widowhood of yours end and I can arrange matters.’
Mary didn’t doubt it. She did her best to quash the lingering hope she heard in his voice. ‘We can end my seclusion now, this minute,’ she told him. ‘Its purpose is served. I carry no heir for Louis, as you surely know. I’ve had so many spies about me from the day I was wed. You can proclaim yourself king in deed. You shall have no challenge to the throne from me. But nor will you have anything else.’
It was clear that she meant what she said. Francis had finally got his passion under control. He even managed a mocking smile. ‘I am grateful to you, Mary, for that at least. My poor mother had such fears when you arrived, young and beautiful as you are. You put such life into the old king, even I began to have my doubts. Now we need worry no more.’ He kissed her hand in a brotherly fashion. ‘I’m sorry, ma Cherie. If I could free you from your seclusion, I would.’ He shrugged again. The action was very French, very Francis, who was inclined to shrug a shoulder at the entire world. ‘It is the custom. Even a king dare not challenge the practice.’ He smiled as he added, ‘especially this king, who might be thought by the world to have something to hide.’
He bowed to her then. ‘I will leave you, my pretty, virginal Mary. But I leave you my heart. Pray guard it well, for it is in torment.’
Briefly, Mary closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he had gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mary’s toothache had returned. But now, all the efforts of Master John, her brother’s physician, did little to relieve the pain which would retreat for a while before returning with increased ferocity. Mary’s nerves were in shreds; daily, she expected another visit from a Francis more forceful, more determined.
Francis’ mother was another torment. With Francis king, Louise was feeling her power, her hatred of Mary no longer concealed. Feeling increasingly trapped, caught between the spiteful, hating mother and the passionate, loving son, Mary’s only hope of escape was a return to England, her brother and whatever schemes he might have for her future. Her worries on this score increased with the visit of two friars from England. At first, she had been glad to see chaste, holy men after Francis’ unholy passion. They had been friendly enough at first, but when, unwisely, Mary revealed her fears about what might await her in England, their attitude changed. They became impatient and brusquely informed her that she was to be married into Flanders, into another loveless state marriage with a stranger. Their stern rebukes at her protests angered her and she stormed at them.
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll not do it again, not to please my brother the king, or anyone else. He cannot ask
it of me, it is unfair.’ How dare Henry think he could do this to her a second time?
Father Langley gazed frigidly at her. ‘Is this how a dutiful sister behaves towards her king? For shame, Madam, your brother has been too lenient with you. He should have you whipped for such disobedience.’
‘How dare you speak to me thus? By what right? I have my brother’s promise that I may marry the next time where I wish, not from any demands of state. Who are you to tell me of my duty?’
‘I come from the King’s Council, Madam, and am a man of God. As such I cannot lie.’ Father Langley’s face became even more austere and self-righteous. ‘You think to marry that upstart, Suffolk, do you not?’
Dismayed, Mary stared at him. How did this hateful creature know what was in her heart? Unless Henry...? But she didn’t have time to pursue this line of thought, as Father Langley told her scornfully.
‘You needn’t look so startled. Your folly is the gossip of the court at home. I tell you plain, Madam, for the sister of King Harry to marry someone so low-born, even if he is now raised to a dukedom, would not be tolerated. The Duke of Suffolk is coming to France,’ he told her. ‘But not to marry you. He will, if necessary with soft words and endearments, escort you out of this realm. But it will not be to England that he will take you, but to Flanders, to marry the young Prince Charles.’
‘You lie.’ Mary shouted back. ‘Prince Charles doesn’t want me. We were betrothed once and he spurned me, so it cannot be true.’
Father Langley’s lips compressed at this naive foolishness. Mary recognised her error. As, loftily, Father Langley now told her, matters of state could change in a trice. She, of all people, should recognise the truth of that.
‘It seems the Prince’s grandsire wishes for the match. His grandson won’t go against him. The marriage will go through whether you wish it or no, you need have no doubt of that. You should remember the path of duty, Madam and set your feet upon it. It would seem King Louis was as indulgent as your brother. ‘Tis soft-hearted foolishness so to treat a princess.’ He came closer as though the better to impress her duty on her. ‘You are a tool, Madam, nothing more. And if you are needed to repair an alliance, you will be so used.’
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