Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (12 page)

‘But you have many other friends, Ma Mère,’ Francis’ caressing voice replaced the spurned caresses of his hand. ‘And now they will be able to get to know you properly.’

Francis’ honeyed words betrayed his intentions towards her. More than ever Mary regretted her foolish behaviour towards him on the night before her wedding. It seemed it was all the encouragement Francis needed, for he went on.

‘Your Lady Guildford has tended to ward off friendly overtures with her over-protective ways. Even the king feels he must first ask her permission before he sees his own wife.’

‘You exaggerate, Francis. You make her sound like some kind of ogre, which I can assure you, she is not.’

Francis conceded that he might have exaggerated slightly. ‘But I promise you, he feels a certain awe of the lady. Anyway, enough of Lady Guildford. See, she dominates even when not in the room. The king earlier asked what he could do to cheer you. His remorse was quite touching. I confess, I felt tears start to my own eye at the sight of it. We French have very tender hearts.’

Mary glanced down at the bed where Louis was still sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by their whispered exchanges. ‘And what did you suggest, Francis?’

‘Something exciting, I thought. What better than a joust? Colour, crowds, spectacle. And not just an ordinary joust, Ma Mère. We have instructed a herald to go across to England for the finest combatants to come to fight the best in France. You can look forward to seeing many of your old friends as well as many new ones. The king has instructed me to organise it in your honour. We do our best to make our Queen happy, you see.’

Mary felt a thrill course through her. Charles was a magnificent jouster and would surely come. She could scarcely believe she might soon see him again. Surely Henry, who loved to beat the French, whether at real wars as at Tournai or at the scarcely less violent play-acting of the jousts, wouldn’t be able to resist sending him?

Francis begged her help with his costumes for the joust. ‘I want to earn your admiration for my elegance as well as my valour,’ he breathed in her ear. ‘You will be proud of your son-in-law, Ma Mère. I intend to be the victor.’

‘You may find the English lords intend the same, Francis,’ Mary told him lightly, adding, as she remembered Charles’s skill in the lists. ‘Perhaps you’ll find the elegance easier to achieve.’

‘I will take that as a compliment, Mary. I know you intended it as such. As yet, you have no knowledge of my prowess.’ His tone of voice implied that the prowess to which he was referring was not the prowess of the lists, but another sort entirely, so his passionate promise of, ‘that lack shall soon be remedied’, filled her with foreboding.

But she kept her voice steady as Francis’ hand again strayed to her neck and recommenced its fondling, and asked, ‘When shall the joust be held?’

‘In November. After you have made your entry into Paris. You will forget your sadness when you see me triumphant.’

Francis’ confidence amused her. She asked him if he had not heard of the valour of the English lords.

‘But you are French now, Mary You must cheer the French lords on to victory, not the English. This French lord, in particular, will be grateful for it. I hope you will honour me by giving me your sleeve to wear in the lists.’

Mary decided it would be wise to rebuff him. ‘But I may favour another’s victory and would perhaps prefer to promise my sleeve elsewhere.’

Francis drew back in mock astonishment at her rejection. ‘Tell me who is this scoundrel who expects your favour?’

When Mary refused to tell him, he became thoughtful. ‘Is it San Severino? I know his elegance must have impressed you. Or perhaps it is de Longueville? He was in England for many months.’ Francis went down on his knees before her, apparently determined not to give up on his ardent wooing, in spite of Mary’s equally determined rebuffs. ‘Tell me it is not de Longueville, Ma Mère, I beg you.’

‘Please get off your knees, Francis. You will hole your elegant hose.’

Francis gave a Gallic shrug for his hose. ‘If you don’t tell me who will wear your favour, I will discover his name for myself, by whatever means necessary.’

His gallantries were becoming more impassioned and noisy and Mary told him to be quiet or he would waken the king.

Francis lowered his voice, but was no less importunate. ‘Please, Mary. Tell me his name.’

Exasperated, Mary asked, ‘Why should it mean so much to you, Francis? You have a wife, after all. Surely you should wear Claude’s sleeve, not mine?’

Francis gave another shrug that said his marriage and his wife were no more important to him than his elegant hose. ‘Naturally, I will wear my wife’s sleeve. That is duty and is expected of me. But I may also wear your sleeve. That would not be a duty, but a delight.’

Mary reminded him she was now his mother. Did he not call her ‘Ma Mère’ in every other sentence? ‘If you must wear another sleeve it should be that of a lady you admire, not your mother’s,’ she told him. From the gossip her ladies had recounted, Francis didn’t lack for female company; his many amours were an open scandal at the French court. Mary, brought up, first in her father’s chaste and serious court and then in her brother’s, felt shocked at the number of liaisons that abounded. Now, it seemed Francis was eager to add her name to the list of his conquests.

He was persistent. ‘There is no one here I admire more than you. For beside your golden beauty all other ladies look like dark crows. Promise me your favour, Madam,’ he repeated. Still on his knees beside her, face inches from hers, he took her hands and kissed them fervently.

Mary rescued her hands from his kisses. She felt out of her depth and didn’t know how best to rebuff him. She still refused to give him her favour and he had to be satisfied with her promise that she wouldn’t give it to de Longueville, either.

Francis’ dark countenance was hung with sorrow. But with a true gallant’s grace, he smiled and kissed her hand again. His, ‘Alors, Madam, I confess I will be satisfied with whatever you choose to give me,’ should have reassured her. But the way his smouldering glances continued to devour her made a lie of his pretty speech.

To her relief, before Francis could attempt more gallantries, Louis woke up. Mary fetched the drink he asked for and held the goblet to his lips as he took a few mouthfuls. ‘How are you feeling now?’ she asked. ‘Has the pain eased?’

Louis assured her that he was much improved. ‘I told the physicians the sight of your face would make me better.’

Mary smiled. Louis was as keen on gallantries as his son-in-law. Somehow, she couldn’t find it in her heart to hate him for his behaviour. His poor health would make him less able to stand out against the demands of his quarrelsome courtiers.

Behind her, Francis still hovered. And when Louis spoke to him he stepped out of the shadows.

‘Your Grace. May I help you sit up?’

‘No, no.’ Francis was waved away. ‘I want you to inform the court they must get ready for our departure. I feel well enough now to go on to St Denis.’

‘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.’