The Secret Bride

by Diane Haeger

  “Lift your chin, ma fille,” she heard the duc de Valois say behind her. “The king prefers an abundance of confidence in those who surround him . . . that is, in all but his heir. Me, he wants gone from his life. Ah, but then again, it is no different from what I wish of him.”

  The way he said it made her stifle a laugh. Could she have misjudged him so quickly? Could someone dripping with such arrogance possibly understand from just their brief meeting the fear she felt, the bitterly homesick sensation and the sense of longing for all that she had left behind? Dressed up, painted, full of loyalty and duty, yet still she fought the urge to turn and run from her future. The halls and corridors through which Francois led her seemed a maze and never ending. Paintings, statues, thick marble columns, frescoes and the cold echo of formality.

  Henry’s court was warm and inviting by comparison to this quiet grandeur. But perhaps that was because she had been a part of it. Queen to be or not, here she was a stranger.

  When they finally arrived in the third and last of the presence chambers, Mary felt a little intake of breath freeze her throat as she paused on the threshold of open, paneled double doors. Louis was suddenly before her, seated on a gilded throne with a thick purple silk cushion beneath him and matching tester above. His veined hands were hooked over the chair arms and he was slumped as if he were not quite conscious. He did not seem aware of her even as she approached and heard her name announced.

  Around the king hovered a collection of ambassadors, aides, gentlemen and courtiers, not one of them breaking a welcoming smile in response to her arrival. Mary thought of them then as a circle of crows on the parapets of the Tower back in London, all waiting, watching expectantly to see her show her weakness. Am I actually meant to bed with him?

  That thought had been clattering around in her mind for hours as she anticipated their meeting, yet it pressed now like a cough wanting to burst forth as Mary stood for the first time facing the stoop-shouldered man, made elderly looking by lengthy and repeated illness, she was about to marry. Even in the shimmering golden candle-and firelight his gray parchment-colored skin hung from the bones of his face and hands like paint peeling from a wall.

  Finally, Francois cleared his throat, which seemed to startle the king, who looked up and opened his eyes. “Ah. So you have arrived then.”

  His tone and lilting French were clotted and rheumy from his various illnesses, but Mary heard the definite note of sincere welcome behind it, the first since she had set foot in France. The king faltered to stand as she advanced, falling into a deep, respectful curtsy when she reached the throne.

  The censure she heard muttered behind a hand from one of the courtiers was remarkably clear.

  “For an English princess, she is actually prettier than I expected.”

  “Pretty perhaps, but for all of the extravagance and bother they used getting her here, the style of her dress tells all. English fashion is really so unrefined.”

  Entirely taken with her beauty and not the nasty exchange, Louis held out a hand that trembled slightly as he waited for Mary to take it. The odor of camphor swirled around him and she fought a grimace. A door closed and the sound echoed in the silence. More whispers followed. Louis smiled expectantly at her and Mary felt her knees weaken as she forced herself to regard the man with whom she would do her duty to link England and France. Louis XII’s patchy, untamable hair, in color, matched the long white satin shift edged in gold thread that he wore to hide the press of bones against his thin flesh.

  She had been told by Longueville that the king, once a handsome warrior who had actively fought in several battles, was now worn down by years of crippling gout, bouts of smallpox, and a debilitating heart condition, all of which had weakened him to the point of him appearing a much older man. The continuous pain from his ailments could be seen in his every move. She had been told that Louis was fifty-two, but to Mary the ravages of illness made him look as old as time.

  He was her duty, they both knew that, and duty was a powerful thing. But the French, all so smug and judgmental, had no idea yet with whom they were dealing. Determinedly, she pushed another sudden bright image of Charles from her mind. She could not have him here now. That was over. She was on her own. How she handled this meeting, and these next few days, she knew, would determine the rest of her life.

  Now, a long way from Henry or his wishes for her, Mary was absolutely determined to play this part of her life, at last, entirely by her own rules.

  “Your Majesty, it is an honor,” she said in impeccable French, slowly rising from her curtsy in a cool and dignified manner and meeting the king’s gaze.

  “I would prefer our meeting were a pleasure to my queen. But I am too old and gouty a king to expect that.”

  “I assure Your Majesty, the pleasure follows the honor closely.”

  He smiled at that and Mary saw that, in contrast to the magnificent robe edged to the floor in ermine, his teeth were brown and uneven. Still there was something eager and surprisingly boyish in the expression he made. “Are you weary from your long journey? A rest first, perhaps?”

  “Will Your Majesty walk with me?” Mary asked with a sweet smile.

  “If we walk slowly. That would indeed be my great pleasure.”

  So he appeared to be a kind and gentle man. Mary had not bargained on that, she thought as she met his dottering pace and they went outside within a little garden, where she could smell the sweet heady fragrance of roses and hear the bees as they buried themselves deep into the fat red blossoms all around her. He leaned heavily on a polished onyx-tipped stick as they walked, showing his weakened condition, and he told her of the exquisite palaces that were her many homes now, and that in each he was eager to have her feminine counsel. He wished their palaces to reflect her taste and desires as much as his own.

  “I am happy that you are here at last,” he said to her almost shyly. “And I want you to be happy in France, Mary . . . as happy as a beautiful young woman can be with an old king.”

  “You are not old,” she protested with a convincing smile as they sank together onto a stone bench. He groaned with the movement and Mary pressed a gentle hand onto his knee.

  “And you are not a consummate liar. It is all right, though.

  Really it is. Knowing one’s limitations and strengths is the mark of a good leader. Surely you learned that from your brother.”

  “We learned a great many things from one another, sire.”

  “Louis, please, when we are alone, ma chérie.” He smiled, showing his brown teeth again. He touched a strand of her hair then, as if not quite believing she was real, or that he was about to make someone so extraordinary his very own wife.

  “So beautiful . . . Ah, I wish you had known me when I was a young man. I think I might rather have pleased you then.”

  “You please me now.”

  “I have not yet,” he chuckled, which brought a little cough. “But I plan to do my best.”

  He drew forth from his robe then a diamond that was as large as an egg, set in gleaming silver. “It is called the Mirror of Naples for its size and flawlessness.”

  “It is exquisite,” Mary gasped, trying to hide behind her back the other ring that she had always thought of as a real mirror, the one in which she would forever see Charles Brandon’s face.

  “A wedding gift, my Marie,” he said, speaking her name elegantly, in the French manner. “Old men must be mindful to give beautiful young women better gifts than the handsome young men do, by half.” His self-deprecating humor softened her. There were many things she had not expected of Louis, or France. That she might not totally despise him was certainly among them.

  “When I was a young man, I still would have given this to you, but I was handsome then. And you would have flung your arms about my neck, and I would have taken you riding on a magnificent white palfrey to see all of the sights of Abbeville.” Shifting on the bench, Louis let out a low groan once again.

  “Are you all right, sire
?”

  “Dearest girl . . .” He sighed. “Nothing a few decades shaved away would not help. But tell me, does my gift please you?”

  “Like no other jewel I have ever seen,” she replied, twisting Charles Brandon’s ring around so it was hidden at that moment in the palm of her hand.

  “Then you shall make me very happy when you wear it tomorrow on our wedding day.”

  “Indeed I shall wear it proudly,” she replied, almost meaning it.

  He looked up at the sky and let out a sigh. “This court shall be a very different place now that you are here, bright and alive once again,” he said with a smile. Then, as an after-thought he added, “One other thing. I know he is far more handsome than I, and far more clever, but do take care with my daughter’s husband, Francois. He is ruthlessly ambitious and he quite believes this kingdom, and everything in it, is already his for the taking.”

  “It shall not be his at all if I give you a son,” she said, uncertain why she wanted to comfort this ill, older man who still was nearly a stranger.

  “It is that upon which I am staking my life, ma belle,” he said with an intelligent, half-rakish smile.

  There was much she had not expected here in her future husband: Louis’ genuine kindness or his sophisticated wit, his ability to make fun of his own age and infirmities. Perhaps, she thought, it just might not be so dreadful being Queen of France after all.

  Mary was glad to be shown her apartments at last, just as the sun began to set. In a dressing room facing the courtyard, she stood limp as a rag doll as she was stripped of her dress, her layers of petticoats, stockings and her linen shift. The rooms of the Hotel de la Gruthuse were grand, with soaring ceilings frescoed delicately with biblical themes, rather than beamed as so many of them were in England. The style of furnishings was delicate as well. The carpets, like the frescoes, were complex and detailed rather than bright and bold.

  She looked across the room, drawn to a sweepingly elegant gown that had been arranged on a tabletop, and a young dark-haired girl who stood combing the fur-trimmed collar with a brush. The dress was heavy gold brocade, trimmed with ermine, clearly in the French design.

  Mary realized the girl, who could not have been more than ten years old, was to be part of her court.

  “What is that?”

  “It is Your Highness’s wedding dress for tomorrow,” the girl said shyly in French, with just a telltale hint of an English accent.

  “But of course I have brought my wedding dress with me.”

  Glances were exchanged by the diverse collection of women, both French and English, who cluttered the room in a rival collection of English and French fashion. In the silence, Mary looked to Lady Guildford first, who simply shook her head, as if to say she had no idea. Then her glance moved to the plump and pretty Duchess of Norfolk, whose expression was blank. Finally, it was Claude, the king’s stocky, awkward fifteen-year-old daughter and new bride to the heir, Francois, who moved toward her. “His Majesty felt a French queen should begin her reign in French fashions.”

  “And did the king wonder perhaps what I felt on the subject? No, I see from your face he did not.” Any more than he cared what I felt about not having my dearest friend in the world here with me. Thank God I still have Lady Guildford and Lady Oxford to keep me from being too lonely, Mary thought, her newborn fondness for the king quickly evaporating in the face of these reminders of how little control she had over her own life.

  “It really is a most exquisite gown that shall be the talk of all the world,” the dark-haired girl shyly said, yet with a hint of her own charisma shining through in it. Mary saw the spark, and heard it—there was a hint of herself in the tone.

  She moved toward the dress. It really was an exquisite thing, intricately sewn and quilted, then studded with tiny rubies.

  “Are you to be in my company from now on?”

  “If it please Your Highness,” the girl replied, making a proper little curtsy.

  “I suspect it will please me since I cannot have my Jane. You are English after all.”

  “You could tell?” She sounded disappointed.

  Mary leaned forward sweetly. She recognized now that this girl must be from a noble family sent to the French court to be raised in style, as so many English girls were. Her words came in a tone just above a whisper. “An Englishwoman can always tell another Englishwoman. What is your name, girl?”

  “My uncle is the Duke of Norfolk, Your Highness. I am called Anne Boleyn.”

  The grand banquet in Mary’s honor that evening was a turbulent sea of introductions into which she was plunged, body against body—all nodding, bowing, dancing, dripping candle wax, fireplace smoke, laughter and endless tales of life in France. Before their official wedding the following morning, Louis wanted to present his beautiful young bride properly to everyone, and he wished his entire court to hear and see the lovely young girl who was about to become Queen of France and make an old man young again. Unlike in England, where she was admired and envied, here she was an oddity, someone about whom to gossip and stare. She was so uncomfortable that she was relieved when Francois requested her partnership in a branle. He stood before her, eyes flashing along with his smile. When the music began he extended his hand and bowed, as if refusal were not an option. Mary took his hand with great dignity.

  “I was told you were pretty,” he said, his amber eyes glinting mischievously at her. “I am pleased to know that was an understatement.”

  She shivered beneath his gaze. But he did not see that. “I am many things, monsieur. But I hope always a surprise.”

  “Oh, I have little doubt of that. A pity it is to be wasted on one unable to fully appreciate the pleasure of it.”

  She laughed at him for how absurdly obvious his flirtation was. Mary grabbed his arm, as the danced dictated, and let him turn her. Before she knew it, the song was at an end.

  He bowed. She curtsied, then took his arm again.

  “I am thirsty,” Mary said. “Perhaps you could fetch me some wine.”

  “I would give you far more than that if you would take it.”

  Mary wanted to laugh aloud, but she only smiled. What a world away this was from England.

  “For now the wine will do nicely,” Mary said.

  The wedding took place in the chapel of the king’s residence at the Hotel de la Gruthuse. Lady Guildford wept, and the plaintive sound echoed up from the front row of the cavernous stone chapel as Mary recited vows that were her duty to the stranger who held her hand. Determination pushed her. It took her to another place. Henry would be proud. My mother too. I am a Tudor like all the other Tudors before me. I know my duty. I also know my heart. This will not break me.

  Mary felt as if she were somewhere else during the entire ceremony, not quite a part of her own body. As the Mass was spoken, the songs sung in Latin and French, she stood regally still, attired in the French gown selected for her, that cloth of gold, trimmed in ermine, and studded with diamond clasps. In her hair a coronet of sapphires and rubies glittered.

  She saw by a sideways glance at Louis that a surprising wellspring of tears was glistening in his sad, tired eyes as the archbishop droned in Latin. How complex a man was he, to weep for a girl he did not know? Mary softened toward him again and took up his cold hand between the folds of her heavy gown and his elegant doublet, barring the gesture. He turned to her briefly and their eyes met, just before he turned away.

  She felt him tremble, then falter against her. She squeezed his hand to steady him. His court must not see a weakened king on his wedding day. Nor must the duc de Valois see it.

  Something about the French heir reminded her of Charles Brandon long ago—yet without the heart or strength of character to soften him. She felt a painful little wrench in her heart as the comparison came to her . . . until she realized she had allowed a memory in. Charles . . . my heart . . . my life . . . The image of him took hold like a flame, flared brightly in her mind, then burned and faded as Louis took he
r other hand and, vows repeated, slipped the small gold ring onto her finger, replacing the proxy band, and officially making her Mary, Queen of France.

  The king and queen stood framing the royal black oak bed with its intricately turned posts and soaring purple satin canopy, fringed in gold thread and stamped with gold fleurs-de-lys. Around them were French courtiers, nobility and ambassadors from England and France, opulently layered in rich velvet doublets and heavy chains. The noble-women among them wore gowns with slashed sleeves and tight-fitting bodices, their bare breastbones strung with gold and pearls.

  For all of the elegance, the noxious odor of ambergris, civet and sweat permeated the vast, tapestry-lined chamber.

  Most of those around them were drunk and swaying, making Mary weak, making it all seem so much worse. Louis XII gazed at her, his white silk nightshirt showing through the robe, as dozens of long white tapers burned and the flames danced around them. I must endure a moment of disgust in order to please my brother . . . my dearest friend— but it is the necessary first step toward the happiness I seek, the sacrifice that will be rewarded with my greatest dream. . . .

  Her own resolve helped to ease the worst of the disgust rising up so powerfully within her. Her new husband smiled back, brown teeth glistening at her. Someone cleared his throat but she did not see who as she watched the bed linen being sprinkled with rose water. Mary and Louis lowered their heads dutifully then for the bishop’s blessing of the holy marriage bed. She was glad to have Lady Guildford there beside her, with her fleshy face and kind, pale blue eyes. Yet she would always miss Jane . . . so dear a friend. It was hard to feel more than pity for Louis at this crucial moment, knowing how he had prevented Jane from attending her in France with the others. Whore, he had called Jane for the impure things she had done. They were the very same things Mary would have done with Charles in a heartbeat if he would only have agreed. Thank the sweet Lord, she thought then, that my husband knows nothing of the thoughts that steal through my mind even now!