by Jean Plaidy
François made the King’s offering. Mary watched him on his knees, and she felt a faint pleasure that he was there because he seemed like a friend. Then her attention was drawn to the lady who made the offering on her behalf—a pale woman, who limped a little and appeared to be slightly deformed. Surely not the Dauphin’s wife! The woman rose, in somewhat ungainly fashion, and as she did so she looked at the new Queen of France. It was not exactly hatred that Mary saw in that face; it was too mild for that. Was it resentment?
Doubtless, thought Mary, married to that gay young man she has cause to be resentful. It is unlikely that he is a faithful husband. But that was no reason why she should resent Mary.
Mary had too many anxieties of her own to consider for very long those of Claude, Princess of France and wife of the Dauphin.
The sounds of trumpets rang through the halls of Hôtel de la Gruthuse. The solemnity was over; and the King was now ready to lead his bride to the banquet.
He took her hand gently, almost as though he believed she was a precious piece of porcelain that would break with rough handling. Seated beside him at the center table she partook very moderately of the food which was offered, and the King was concerned about her lack of appetite.
It was clear to all those present that the King was delighted with his bride. They had not for years seen him looking so young or so full of vigor.
There was the long day to live through, for the marriage had been performed at nine in the morning; and in accordance with the etiquette of France Mary retired after the banquet to apartments which had been prepared for her personal use, and there she entertained the Princesses of France, and ladies of the nobility.
Now she had an opportunity of making closer acquaintance with Claude and her young sister, Renée. The latter was pleasant enough and inclined to be excited by all the pageantry which had taken place; but the melancholy of Claude, which held a hint of reproach, was disturbing.
“It is my Father’s command,” Claude told her, “that I discover your needs and supply them.”
“There is nothing I need ask for,” Mary replied, “though I thank you.”
And in that moment Mary forgot her own troubles because she was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for this poor, plain girl, who was married to that extremely attractive young man.
She smiled, wanting to show this girl that she was ready to be friendly with her, and laying a hand on her arm said: “I am your mother now. It may be that we can be friends.”
Claude drew back as though she had been struck. “My mother is dead. It is not a year since they laid her in her tomb. No one else could ever take her place.”
She limped away, ugly color in her face and neck.
Someone else was at Mary’s side—a very beautiful, composed young woman a few years older than herself.
“Madame Claude still mourns her mother,” said the newcomer in a low and charming voice. “I also have tried to comfort her. At this stage it is useless.”
“They were devoted to one another?”
“They were. And the Princess is so like her mother in many ways. Queen Anne thought it was sinful to enjoy life, and brought her daughter up to think the same. A sad philosophy, do you not think so, Madame; and an unwise one?”
“I agree.”
“I knew you would. My brother has already told me of your conversations during the journey from Abbeville.”
“Your brother?”
“The Dauphin, Madame. I am Marguerite de Valois, Duchesse d’Alençon. You will remember my brother.”
Mary smiled. “Having met him I could never forget him.”
“There is no one like him at the Court…nor anywhere in the world, I am sure. François is unique.”
“I can see that you are proud of him.”
“Can you marvel at that? Madame, may I present you to my mother?”
Mary was looking into a pair of lively blue eyes, and meeting the intent gaze of a short but vivacious woman.
“The Comtesse d’Angoulême,” Marguerite explained.
“I pray you rise,” said Mary warmly. “It gives me great pleasure to greet you. I have already made the acquaintance of your son, the Dauphin, and now Madame la Duchesse d’Alençon.”
“We are honored by your notice,” Louise replied, and her bright smile belied her inner feelings. She felt sick with apprehension. This girl was beautiful beyond the glowing reports she had heard. If ever a woman could have an aphrodisiacal effect on Louis’s flagging desires it must be this one. Perfectly formed in every way, healthy, and with a look about her which suggested she would be fertile. At least that was how it seemed to Louise’s imagination.
She had seen her from a distance at the wedding ceremony, and of course she had looked exquisite. But who wouldn’t, Louise had asked herself, covered in diamonds and cloth of gold? Even Claude had looked tolerably handsome on her wedding day. But seen close at hand, that fine glowing skin which proclaimed good health, those clear eyes, added to her anxiety.
Marguerite, being fully aware of her mother’s chagrin, told her that the Queen had been enlivened with the company of François during her journey and Louise’s smile illuminated her face as she said: “He is at the right hand of the King. So occupied that his mother sees little of him nowadays. Not that I do not hear his name constantly mentioned. Who can be surprised at that?”
“I am sure,” said Mary, “that he is successful in all he undertakes.”
Other ladies were waiting to be presented to the Queen, and Marguerite and her mother moved away.
Keeping her hand on her mother’s elbow Marguerite piloted Louise out of the main salon into a small room. There she shut the door and said: “Maman, I fear you may betray your feelings.”
“That girl!” said Louise.
Marguerite looked over her shoulder significantly.
“That girl!” whispered Louise. “She is so young…and she’s beautiful too. They say Louis can scarce wait for the night and the blessing of the nuptial bed. How can you look so calm, Marguerite, when this very night our hopes may be blighted.”
“Louis is old, Maman.”
“He has taken a new lease on life.”
“It only appears so. The flush on his cheeks is not good health but excitement.” Marguerite took her mother by the shoulder, drew her close and whispered in her ear: “And excitement could be harmful to him.”
“He could die tonight…and the damage could already be done.”
“Dearest Maman, we have to be careful, not only of our words but our looks. Infatuated as Louis is becoming, he could be very susceptible to our slightest mood.”
“Oh, Marguerite,” sighed Louise, “you who have suffered so much with me must understand my feelings this night.”
“I understand absolutely, Maman, and my feelings are yours. We must pray and hope…”
“And watch. Watch the girl, Marguerite, and see that, when we cannot do so, those whom we can trust carry out our wishes. An alarming thought has occurred to me.”
“Yes, Maman?”
“Louis, as you suggest, may be incapable of getting her with child…”
Marguerite’s eyes were full of warning.
Louise hissed: “She is very desirable, that girl. She seems full of dignity but there is a smoldering fire within her.”
“I noticed it,” said Marguerite.
“So if Louis should fail, there might be others to…to…”
Marguerite closed her eyes; there was an expression of fear in her face, and Louise’s own fears were but increased to know that Marguerite shared them.
The King might be too old to provide the heir to France; but what if the young Queen took a lover, and what if he were young enough…virile enough…? A bastard could inherit the throne, and none be sure that he was a bastard. A bastard to appear at the eleventh hour and oust François from what should be his!
It was unbearable, the greatest of tragedies.
I never suffered quite so much through all
the years of anxiety as I do at this moment, thought Louise.
The beautiful young Mary Tudor could cause her greater concern than Anne of Brittany had ever done.
The nuptial bed was being blessed, and the night which Mary had dreaded for so long was about to begin. She listened to the words of benediction. They were sprinkling holy water on the bed while they prayed that she might be fruitful.
She looked at the great bed with its canopy of velvet embroidered with the gold lilies of France. The silken counterpane had been drawn back; her women had undressed her and she was naked beneath the robe which enveloped her.
She thought of that other ceremony when she had lain on a couch and the Duc de Longueville had removed his boot and touched her bare leg with his bare foot. This would be very different.
Louis in his disarray looked older than he had at the marriage ceremony; she could see how swollen his neck was; it hung over the collar of his gown; there was still a faint color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright as they met hers.
In what a different mood from hers did he approach this nuptial bed; it was clear that he was growing impatient of the ceremony while she wished it would go on and on through the night. He was longing for that moment which she so dreaded.
And now it had come. They were in the bed together and one by one those who assisted at the ceremony departed from the room.
Mary lay in the nuptial bed. It was over, and it had been less horrifying than she had believed it would be. Louis was no monster. He had begged her not to be afraid of him; he told her that she enchanted him; that he had never seen anyone as beautiful; he loved her dearly already and it would be his pleasure to show her how deep went his devotion.
He must seem very old to her; he understood that. It was inevitable since she was so young. He could imagine how sad she must be to leave her brother’s Court and come to a strange land to be with strangers. But she would find here the best friend she had ever had in her life—her husband.
It was a comfort to discover that he was so kind. Had she been of a meek nature she would have been very grateful to him, and could have given him some mild affection. But Charles’s image never left her. She longed for Charles; she was capable of strong passion, but only for Charles. He did not know, this kind old man, how he was making her suffer. If he would be good to her there was only one course of action he could take: Leave her alone and then, as soon as possible, die and make her a widow.
But this was something which even she, who sometimes thought that she could endure her lot better if she could be perfectly honest and say what was in her mind, could not betray. She must be submissive; she must pretend that she was shocked by the consummation of the marriage because of her innocence and not because she longed for another man.
She could rejoice at the King’s infirmity when he lay beside her, exhausted.
“You are delightful,” he told her. “Would that you had come to me twenty years ago.”
That was an apology for his weakness. He need not have apologized. She loved his weakness.
And now he slept, and she lay wide awake, saying to herself: If it does not last too long, I can bear it.
The Queen and the Dauphin
BUT NEXT MORNING when the King had risen and she was with her attendants, she thought of Charles and wondered if he were thinking of her this day. Then it seemed to her that she was defiled, and a great melancholy came over her.
She whispered to Lady Guildford: “Send the others away.”
Lady Guildford did so, and when they had gone she took Mary into her arms and rocked her to and fro as she used to when Mary was a child and had needed comfort.
“My dearest Princess,” she murmured. “Tell Guildford.”
“Guildford, it is over.”
“And you are very unhappy?”
Mary nodded. “Because of Charles.”
“Tush!” said Lady Guildford. “And do you think he is weeping at this moment because of you?”
“He is very sad because of me, Guildford.”
“But the King was kind?”
“He is kind. If he were not I should doubtless kill him. And he is very old. He was soon asleep. But I did not sleep, Guildford. I lay there, thinking.…”
“And you are reconciled. I can sense it, dearest. I know you so well.”
“It won’t last, Guildford. That’s why.”
Then suddenly she threw her arms about Lady Guildford’s neck. It was the first time she had given way to such tempestuous weeping.
The King came in. He saw the tears; he saw the embrace.
Mary started to her feet, while Guildford rose and curtsied deeply.
Louis was smiling. “Leave us,” he said to Lady Guildford; and she went.
Mary, her cheeks wet, stood waiting for her husband to ask the reason for her tears; but he did not. She was to learn that it was a point of etiquette at the French Court to avoid seeing or talking of anything that might prove embarrassing.
“My love,” said Louis, taking her hands and kissing them, “I came to give you this.”
He took from his pocket a ring in which was set one of the largest rubies Mary had ever seen.
“Thank you,” she said. “It is very beautiful.”
“Let us try it on your finger.”
He put it on and held her hand admiringly.
“You do not like jewels, my little Queen?” he asked.
“They are very beautiful,” she answered.
“You must learn to love jewels. They become you so.”
He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it affectionately.
“They are planning a ball for this day,” he told her. “I shall enjoy seeing you dance. Why, you are as light as thistledown and as lovely as a spring day.”
The morning was over when Lady Guildford was able to visit her mistress. Mary took one look at her faithful governess and was alarmed, for Lady Guildford was no longer her calm self; her eyes were wild and there was a hot flush in her cheeks.
She embraced Mary as though she would never let her go.
“Guildford, what is it?” demanded Mary.
“It is goodbye, my dearest.”
“Goodbye!”
“I have had orders to leave for England at once.”
“But you cannot. I need you here.”
“The King does not think so.”
“You mean he has told you that you must go!”
“Not the King in person. But his wishes have been made clear to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He feels I have too much influence over you. He wants you to become wholly French. He saw you with me this morning, dearest. He did not like to see you crying in my arms.”
“I must speak to him. I won’t let you go.”
“He has made up his mind.”
“But we have been together since…”
“Since you were a baby, yes. But you are in no need of a governess now. You are a queen and a wife.”
“I won’t have it, Guildford. I tell you I won’t.”
Mary hurried to the door.
“Where are you going?” Lady Guildford cried in alarm.
Mary turned, her eyes blazing. “I am going to tell the King that I shall choose my own attendants.”
“Dearest, I beg of you, have a care. You will do no good to either of us.”
Mary ignored her and, with blazing eyes and flaming cheeks, ran from the room.
It seemed accidental, but it might not have been, that Marguerite, Duchesse d’Alençon, was in the anteroom through which Mary had to pass on her way to the King’s apartments.
“Madame,” cried Marguerite in alarm, “something is amiss?”
“My attendants are being dismissed,” cried Mary. “Lady Guildford, who has been with me all my life, is being sent back to England.”
“I am so sorry.”
Mary would have passed on, but Marguerite said: “Madame, I should like to help you if you would allow me.
”
“Help me?”
“Yes. You are going to the King, are you not?”
“Certainly I am going to the King.”
“I beg of you, do not act rashly. The King appears to be mild but, when he has made up his mind, is very determined.”
“If he has made up his mind on this matter he must unmake it.”
“Madame, forgive me, but you have little experience of our Court. The King has already given orders that your retinue is to be reduced. If you asked him to allow your attendants to remain, he could not grant your wishes because he has already given this order. It would grieve all your friends that your first request to the King should be refused—but refused it would be.”
“I have found the King kind,” retorted Mary; and she went on her way.
The Dauphin and the Duc d’Alençon were with the King when Mary burst in on them. The three men looked surprised, for it seemed that the Queen was ignorant of French etiquette, since she came in thus, unannounced.
François was secretly amused and delighted to see her, as he told himself he always would be. She would have to learn the importance of etiquette at the French Court; doubtless in her brother’s, gracious manners were not of such importance as they were here.
Louis came to her and gently took her hand.
“I want Lady Guildford to remain with me,” she said.
“Lady Guildford?” Louis repeated gently.
“She has been my governess since I was a child. And now she is being sent away, and she tells me that others are going back to England with her.”
“Ah, yes,” said Louis quietly. “I live simply here, and you must perforce do the same. You will not need all the attendants and servants whom you have brought with you. So they must go back to their native land.”
“But…”
She looked from Louis to François, who had raised his eyebrows and was shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
She wanted to tell them that she cared nothing for their French manners. She was angry; she was desolate and she would let them know it.
