by Jean Plaidy
When, on a cold January day, Anne of Brittany died, Louis was distraught. He had been in awe of her; there had been times when he had had to resort to subterfuge in order to go against her wishes; but he had loved her and respected her. She had been such a contrast to poor Jeanne, his first wife; and because, when he had married her he had been past his youth and in far from good health, he had counted himself fortunate, in an age of profligacy, to have a faithful wife on whose honor he could absolutely rely.
He wept bitterly at her bedside.
“Soon,” he said, “I shall be lying beside her in the tomb.”
But the bereaved husband was still the King of France. He sent for his ministers. “The marriage of my daughter to the Dauphin must take place without delay,” he said. “Even the fact that we are in mourning for the Queen must not delay that. I do not think I am long for this world; I must see my daughter married before I leave it.”
So François was to prepare himself for marriage, and Louise, hearing the news, made ready to join her son.
“Ah, Jeanne,” she cried, “what happiness! My enemy is no more and I have heard that, by the looks of the King, he will not be long in following her. Then the glorious day will be with us. Caesar will come into his own.”
Even Jeanne de Polignac believed now that no more obstacles could stand in their way.
The two women embraced. Anne of Brittany could no longer produce an heir. The way to the throne was wide open and no one stood in the way of François.
Louise laughed in her glee. “All these years I have feared and suffered such agonies! Why, Jeanne, I need never have worried. All her efforts came to naught; and now my beloved is at Court and no one dares dispute his claim. How long has Louis left, do you think? I hear that the death of Anne upset him so much that he had to keep to his bed for a week. Well, Louis has had his day.”
They were joyful as they prepared to go to Court.
“But,” Jeanne warned her friend, “be careful not to show your elation. Remember we are supposed to be mourning for the Queen.”
“Louis knows too well how matters stood between us to expect much mourning from me. Louis is no fool, Jeanne.”
“Still, for the sake of appearances…”
“I will play my part. What care I? All our anxieties are over. The crown is safe for Caesar.”
François stood beside his bride, and all who had gathered to witness this royal marriage were struck by the contrast between them. François, tall, glowing with health, handsome and upright. Poor little Claude, who dragged one foot slightly as she walked, who was short, and now that she was in her adolescence beginning to be over-fat in an unhealthy way. François was gay; Claude, who had been brought up by her mother, was deeply religious. An incongruous marriage in some ways; but in others so suitable. It was understandable that the King, seeing another man’s son ready to take his crown, should want his daughter to share it.
François played his part well, and if he regarded his bride with repugnance, none noticed it; he smiled at her, took her hand, did all that was required of him as though he believed her to be the most beautiful lady in the land.
Claude adored him; and it was pathetic to note the way her eyes followed him.
All who had gathered in those apartments at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the Royal wedding wondered what the future would hold for those two. Would Claude be able to give France heirs? There was no doubt that François would; but it took two to make a child.
There was an atmosphere of foreboding in that chamber hung with cloth of gold and silver, with the golden lilies of France prominently displayed. But then the Court was still in mourning—and the bride particularly—for the recently dead Queen.
Louis felt a great relief once the marriage ceremony was over; and much as he mourned Anne he found life more restful without her. He was living very quietly and was discovering that he felt better than he had for some time.
The Dauphin was becoming more and more important at the Court. Often Louis from a window would watch the young man with his companions. Claude was never one of them. François was showing a certain ostentation. For so many years he had lived in the shadow of doubt and now that it was removed he had become almost hilariously gay, which was scarcely becoming while the King still lived. He was most elegantly attired and wore many jewels.
On trust? Louis wondered. Is he borrowing against the time when he inherits what I have? Who would not be ready to let the future King have all the credit he asked for?
Louis liked his heir’s robust looks but he would have preferred him to be less high-spirited, less gorgeously attired, less obviously enjoying his position, more serious.
He thought of all the benefits he had brought to France, and he said to his ministers: “It may be that we have labored in vain. That big boy will spoil everything for us.”
His ministers replied: “Sire, he may not come to the throne yet, for you might marry again. And if your bride were young and healthy, why should you not give France an heir?”
Louis was thoughtful. He had been receiving information from his kinsman, the Duc de Longueville, whom Henry VIII had taken as a prisoner into England. The King had a sister—a vivacious and lovely girl. If France made an alliance with England, why should there not be a marriage between the two countries? Circumstances were auspicious. The King of France had become a widower; the King of England had a marriageable sister. Moreover, Henry of England was disgusted with the Emperor, to whose grandson his sister had been betrothed for years. Henry was hot tempered; he was young enough to enjoy acting rashly. He wanted now to show the Emperor and Ferdinand of Aragon that he was snapping his fingers at their grandson. Nothing could do that more effectively than a French alliance.
The more Louis thought of the idea, the more he liked it. A young girl, and an exceptionally beautiful one. If she were malleable—and she should be, for she was so young—he could perhaps delude himself that he was young again…for the time that was left to him.
The thought of having a son was exhilarating.
Louis rose from his bed and called for a mirror.
I am not so old that I am finished with life, he told himself.
He thought of his first wife, Jeanne—poor crippled ugly Jeanne! What sort of a marriage had that been? And Anne? He had loved Anne, admired her greatly and had been desolate when she died. But she had been a dominating woman. Why should he not start afresh with this gay young foreign girl? That would be an entirely different sort of marriage.
Besides, it was politically wise.
He called his ministers and his secretaries, and in a few days a message was dispatched to the Court of England.
Louise was in despair; Marguerite was horrified; as for François, for once he was completely bewildered.
The future was no longer secure. The King, who had appeared to be on his deathbed, had now revived; he was almost young in his enthusiasm for a new marriage. And a young girl was coming from England to share the throne with him.
Louise, tight-lipped, white-faced, shut herself in her apartments with Jeanne de Polignac because she dared not risk betraying her feelings outside those walls.
“So it is to begin again. And I thought it was over. Louis…to marry again, and this young girl who, by all accounts is strong and marriageable! Jeanne, if aught should go wrong now…”
Jeanne once more tried to soothe her as she had over the last twenty years. But it was not easy. Louis was fifty-two, still able to beget children; and a young girl was coming from England.
François was aware of the sympathy of his friends; the certainty had become a grave doubt. If he should fail to reach the throne now it would be the greatest tragedy of his life, and how near he was to that tragedy!
The King was looking younger every day; and a few months previously people were prophesying that he would be dead before the year was out.
Fate was cruel. To hold out the glittering prize so close and, when he felt his fingers touching it, to snatch
it away!
“He’ll never get a son,” said François vehemently.
And how he wished he could believe it!
Louis was sending gifts to the Court of England every day. He could scarcely wait to see his bride. He was like a young man again as he listened delightedly to reports of the young woman’s charm and beauty.
The treaties were signed; a marriage ceremony had taken place at Greenwich with the Duc de Longueville acting as proxy for Louis; and the Earl of Worcester had arrived in France that a marriage by proxy should take place there. This had been celebrated in the Church of the Celestines and, although the Earl of Worcester spoke the bridal vows for Mary, Louis looked almost like a young bridegroom as he made his responses.
Marguerite, only less distracted than her mother because of her natural serenity, whispered that the bride had yet to cross the Channel. That stormy strip of water could present many hazards.
How they clutched at fragile hopes! Suppose her fleet was wrecked. Suppose she perished in a gale.
“It would kill Louis,” said Louise, her eyes glistening with hope.
But in spite of bad weather Mary reached Boulogne, and the King had had new clothes made, less somber than he usually wore. All who saw him declared that he looked younger than he had for many years.
He summoned François to his presence.
“It is fitting,” he said, “that my bride, the Queen of France, should be greeted by the highest in the land. I have already sent off Vendôme and de la Tremouille. Aleçon will be following. But you, François, must be the one who brings my bride to me.”
Thus it was that François rode off to Abbeville to greet Mary Tudor.
The French SCENE II
The Unwilling Bride
DRESSED IN A GOWN of white cloth of silver, her coif set with jewels, the Queen of France rode toward Abbeville. She sat on her white palfrey, which was magnificently caparisoned, looking like a figure from some fairy legend, and Lady Guildford, who had looked after her since her babyhood, thought she seemed like a different person from that gay, laughing girl whom she had known at the English Court. Mary Tudor had become a tragedienne in the drama which was going on around them; yet the change of role had not detracted from her beauty.
Such glittering magnificence to be the background for such sorrow! thought Lady Guildford. But she will get over it. Would she? Was that not rather a glib solution inspired by hope?
Had there ever been a young woman as single-minded as Mary Tudor? And had she not for years decided that the only man she could happily accept as her husband was Charles Brandon?
Her ladies—there were thirty of them—presented a contrast to their mistress. They were looking forward eagerly to life at the Court of France. Pretty creatures in their crimson velvet and jewels—ay and merry, a colorful foil for the white-clad Queen.
Several hundred English horsemen and archers rode on ahead of them, for although they came in friendship, Henry had declared that it was well to let the French know the mettle of English warriors. Following these were English noblemen, and side by side with them rode Frenchmen of similar rank. A pleasant sight for the people who had come out to watch the cavalcade and were more accustomed to seeing men march to war.
Lady Guildford felt a little uneasy when the young man on his spirited charger drew in close to Mary’s palfrey. This man had made her uneasy from the moment she had set eyes on him. One could not deny his undoubted attractions. He sat his horse as though he were part of it; and it was splendid enough to be. He was elegantly dressed; his was the type of face that impressed itself on the memory; it might have been the alert, humorous eyes, or that extremely long nose, which for some reason added to his charm.
What was going on behind that elegant and quite fascinating exterior? What could be going on in the mind of a man who must be ambitious, who had believed himself to be within a step of the throne and now saw, in the person of this exquisite, though somewhat melancholy girl, the frustration of all his hopes?
He must hate her.
If he did, he certainly managed to disguise his feelings; his dark eyes caressed her in a manner which, according to Lady Guildford, was most unseemly. He was reckless; that much was obvious. It would be interesting to see how far he dared go when the King arrived on the scene.
François, holding his horse in check, smiled at Mary.
“I could not resist the pleasure of riding beside you.”
“How good you are to me!”
“I would I had an opportunity to show you how good I could be to you.”
“I have been learning to speak the French language and to understand the ways of the French,” Mary replied with meaning.
She saw the smile curve his lips. He knew she was telling him that she was prepared for extravagant compliments and would give them only the attention they deserved.
“I will tell you a secret,” he said. “Since I heard we were to have an English Princess for our Queen I have been thinking a great deal about the English.”
“Then we do not meet as strangers,” she replied.
“That makes me happy. I should be desolate if I were anything but a dear friend to one who is surely the loveliest lady in the world.”
“You have traveled throughout the world?”
“One does not need to travel to recognize perfection.”
“Nor to flatter, it seems.”
“Madame la Reine, it would be impossible to flatter you, for if you were addressed in what appeared to be the limit of hyperbole, it would still not exaggerate your charms.”
Mary laughed for the first time since she had arrived in France.
“It is well that I am prepared,” she said. “Tell me, when shall I meet the King?”
“It has been planned that you shall do so in his town of Abbeville, but I’ll swear he will be too impatient to wait for you to arrive. Do you know, it would not surprise me if suddenly we saw a group of horsemen riding toward us, headed by an impatient bridegroom who could no longer wait for a glimpse of his bride.”
“If you should see such a party, I pray you give me warning.”
“You would not need it. You would hear the people cheering themselves hoarse for the Father of his People.”
“The King is well loved in France?”
“Well loved he is,” said François. “He has had a great many years in which to win his people’s affection.”
She looked at him sharply. His tone was bitter. Small wonder. He was certainly an ambitious man. Holy Mother, thought Mary, how he must hate me when my very presence here threatens his hopes.
To be hated by such a man would be stimulating; and for all his flattering talk he must hate her.
It was strange that contemplating his feelings for her made her feel more interested in life than she had since she had known she could not escape this French marriage.
At least, she thought, I should be thankful to him for adding a little zest to my melancholy existence.
François was not hating her; far from it. He was too gallant to hate a woman who was so beautiful; and she had spirit too; he sensed that; and she was far from happy at the prospect of marriage with old Louis. That was not surprising. How different it would have been had she arrived in France to marry another king. A king of her own age! What an ironic fate which had given this lovely, vital girl to sickly old Louis, and himself the weakling Claude.
What a pair we should have made! thought François. Life was a mischievous old sprite who loved to taunt and tease.
He continued to talk to her, telling her about the manners and customs of the French Court, asking her questions about those of England. His gaiety was infectious, and Lady Guildford was a little disturbed to hear Mary laughing again. She had wanted to hear that sound, but that it should be inspired by this dangerous young man could be significant. Not that Mary would be affected by his charm. There was some good coming out of her devotion to Charles Brandon. She would be faithful to her love for him, which meant that
no Frenchman, however charming, however gallant, would be able to wean her from her duty to the King.
François, sensing her underlying melancholy, had managed to infuse the same quality into his own demeanor. He was implying that although it gave him the utmost pleasure to be in her company he could not forget that she was the bride of another man.
Lady Guildford made up her mind that at the first opportunity she must warn Mary that the French had a way of implying that their emotions were deeply engaged, when they were only mildly so.
The party was within two kilometers of Abbeville when, as François had prophesied, a party of horsemen came galloping toward them.
Mary felt her body numb with apprehension, for she knew that the moment had come when she was to be brought face-to-face with her husband.
“The King!” She heard the cry about her, and the horses were immediately brought to a standstill while Louis rode ahead of his friends and came to his bride.
Fearfully she shot her first quick glance and discovered a face that was not unkindly although its eagerness at this moment alarmed her. The eyes were too prominent, the lips thick and dry; and she noticed with repulsion the swollen neck.
She prayed silently for courage, coupled with the ability to hide her feelings, and prepared to dismount that she might kneel before the King of France.
“No, no,” he cried, “it is I who should do homage to so much beauty.” He left his horse and came to her side, walking rather stiffly. The Dauphin had dismounted and was standing at attention; and Mary knew that the young man was watching them, aware of every emotion which showed itself in their faces.
“God help me,” prayed Mary. “Do not let me betray my feelings.”
The King had taken her hand in his; she felt his kisses on her skin and steeled herself not to shrink. Now those prominent eyes were studying her face beneath the coif of jewels, her young yet voluptuous figure in the cloth of silver.
“So young,” murmured Louis. “So beautiful. They did not lie to me then.”
