Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (16 page)

Seeing Mary’s anxious look at this, he added, ‘Don’t worry. I said I wouldn’t harm him and I won’t. I shall only remind him of his position and that he will have me to deal with if he persists, heir or no heir. I’m sure he will pay heed to the warning.’

Relieved, Mary now wished she had spoken to him sooner. She might have saved herself a lot of anguish. But she had been right to minimise the extent of Francis’ pursuit. Fortunately, Charles’s French was far from fluent and he was unlikely to catch the more colourful, colloquial gossip doing the rounds of the court. She dreaded to think what might happen should someone trouble to enlighten him.

‘Did you see my Mother Guildford when you arrived at Boulogne?’ He nodded and Mary asked. ‘How was she?’

‘Chafing at the bit to return to you. King Henry and Wolsey have written to King Louis about it as you asked, so mayhap she will return to you ere long. She would soon put a stop to the Duc de Valois’ gallop.’

The image this conjured up made them both laugh. It eased the tension between them and Charles added, ‘She bade me give you her love.’ He bowed slightly and added in a low voice, ‘I lay mine beside it.’

His fond words loosened Mary’s discretion. Her face radiant, she gazed up at him. ‘Oh, Charles, ‘tis so good to have you here. If only—’ Mary was forced to break off as her throat thickened.

Her tears were the one thing likely to unman Charles and he pleaded with her, ‘Please, Mary, no tears. I can’t bear to see you upset again. Let’s try to be happy for the short time I’ll be here.’

Mary dabbed her damp eyes with a tiny scrap of gossamer. His reminder that he would soon be returning to England threatened to bring more tears. But she got herself under control and found a bright smile for him instead, all her love for him visible in her eyes. ‘Tell me of home. How is my brother and Queen Catherine? Does all go well with her? She looked exceeding ill when I left.’

‘The king is well. As for the queen, she is due to be brought to bed in February.’ He frowned. ‘We must pray that this one lives. ‘Tis strange that such a strong and hearty man as King Henry should father such sickly babes. But, of course, it is well known the fault in such matters lies with the woman. King Henry gives Queen Catherine babe after babe, only to see her lose them.’

Fond of Catherine, Mary defended her. ‘You make her sound careless, Charles, as if she had put them down for a moment and forgot where she left them.’

‘You know I didn’t mean it that way, sweetheart. Still, ‘tis passing strange, as the queen not only has the fair colouring that indicates health and fecundity she also comes from a fruitful family. With such points in her favour, you would think she would be as fruitful as her mother and sisters.’

To Mary, it indicated that perhaps the fault for Henry’s lack of an heir lay with Henry rather than Catherine, but she kept this opinion to herself.

Charles said, ‘I’m sure the queen does her best. Perhaps this time she will bring forth a fine son, a healthy son as a New Year’s gift for the king.’

‘Let us hope so. It is not always such a great thing to be a queen, far from one’s family in a foreign land.’ And as Mary recalled what she had learned of Catherine’s suffering after the death of her first husband, Arthur, she couldn’t help but wonder what might lie in store for her if - when - Louis died. Would she be haggled over by Henry and Francis as Catherine had earlier been haggled over by her father and father-in-law? Would she, too, be reduced to poverty and be forced to write pathetic begging letters to her brother? At least she was likely to be spared the torments that Catherine still endured as no one really expected her to give Louis a son. During her time at the French court she had come to have a much greater appreciation of Catherine’s situation. Daily made to feel her failure, she was totally reliant on Henry for her position and happiness. If he should turn away from her her life would be cruel indeed.

‘You seem pensive, Mary. Is there something else troubling you?’

Mary shook her head. What was the point in burdening Charles with such thoughts? ‘Tis only being so far from home and everything that is familiar and being spied on all the time. I cannot move or change my gown without the whole court knowing of it.’

‘That is the lot of queens, Mary, ‘tis accepted.’

‘Perhaps, but not by the queens who must suffer it.’ It had been embarrassing enough when her English ladies had examined her sheets. It was intolerable that now it was done by the unfriendly French spies paid by Francis and his mother to confirm her maidenhead was still intact. Even her undergarments were taken and peered at, she was sure, when they were taken for washing. She would throw them in the fire each night and order new but for the speculation such an action would bring. She forced an ironic laugh. ‘Did you know that Francis’ poor little wife, Claude, is forced to remain with me all day, lest you succeed in seducing me where he has failed?’

Charles looked alarmed at this unlooked for confidence. ‘He knows then, of our love? How can this be? I have done nor said anything to rouse his suspicions.’

Mary regretted her latest confidence. She hastened to put matters right. ‘Don’t worry, Charles. He knows nothing. He suspects a great deal, Francis being Francis, but suspicions prove nothing. You will find that little escapes his notice and what he misses his mother or their spies catch between them. He has probably set a few spies on you, too. Have you noticed anyone?’

Charles shook his head, but it was clear the possibility alarmed him and he glanced over his shoulder.

Mary laughed. ‘You are safe enough here,’ she told him. ‘Even Francis would be unable to conceal a spy here.’

Shamefaced, he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject by enquiring after Louis. ‘Does his health improve?’

‘Nay. He weakens every day. The physicians cannot help him. What will become of me should Louis die, I daren’t think.’ Mary bit off any further words. She had forgotten, for Charles’s benefit, that she had minimised Francis’ pursuit of her.

Fortunately, Charles only looked puzzled by her words. ‘What should become of you? You would merely remain in France a little longer before King Henry sent for you. He wouldn’t leave you in France unless you wished it.’

‘He may bring me home, but home for what purpose? Another foreign marriage for the sake of an alliance?’

‘Tis not like you to be so suspicious,’ Charles told her. ‘You have his promise, Mary. Did you not tell me he had agreed to your choosing a second husband yourself should aught befall King Louis? Why should you doubt him now?’

Why indeed? thought Mary. But her time in France had educated her in unlooked for ways on the natures of kings and would-be kings. It seemed they all pursued their own desires. Why should Henry prove the exception? Mary gazed thoughtfully at Charles and asked, ‘Has Henry said anything about it to you?’

Charles had the grace to look uncomfortable as he admitted, ‘Well, he did speak to me privately ‘ere I left England and asked me to promise that I would not seek to wed you should King Louis die while I was here. But that proves nothing.’

‘You think not?’ It was now Mary’s turn to be alarmed. For Charles’s revelation gave a clear indication that, in spite of his solemn promise, Henry had other plans for her. Why else would he extract such a vow?

‘You’re making too much of it. King Henry has much on his mind at the moment. He is anxious about the queen and her coming confinement. You know how he is when she is with child.’

‘Perhaps.’ But Mary wasn’t convinced by Charles’s argument. Why should she be when it was she, not Henry or Charles, who would be packed off to some other foreign court in another state marriage? And as they re-joined the other English ambassadors, Mary’s troubled thoughts were on her future and what Henry might be planning for her.

CHAPTER NINE

At nine the next morning, still troubled by what her brother might, even now, be organising for her future, Mary set off in her golden chaise for Paris, two hours later than Louis, to make her formal entry. She was accompanied by the usual procession. They made a merry throng. Some of the minstrels strummed their instruments as they rode along and a few voices joined in the melody. Mary’s wasn’t amongst them. She was worried by Charles’s revelation that Henry had extracted a promise that he wouldn’t marry her if she became free to wed again. If Henry meant to keep his promise to her, he wouldn’t have extracted such an oath from Charles. Charles’s attempts to smooth over this question was another anxiety. She had been ready to give up a grand marriage, a grand title, everything that the world regarded as important. Yet Charles would not even ask Henry to keep the promise he had made to her.

To her annoyance, Francis again attached himself to her side - this, in spite of the ‘words’ Charles had had with him and, in spite also of his mother’s rebuke. His persistence made Mary wonder if they had made a mistake in all the ceremonies and it was Francis, not Louis, who had married her.

She tried to ignore the many speculative glances she and Francis attracted, but, though she pretended to ignore the watching eyes, it seemed that even her thoughts must be spied upon, for as the procession made its bumpy way over the treacherous wintry roads, Francis kept begging them from her, doubtless hoping he would be favourably mentioned in them. She couldn’t escape him. It seemed nothing would deter him, not even the threat of what Charles would do to him if he didn’t stop. Impervious to threats, insults, rejection, he carried on regardless. And although he attempted to hide his jealousy of Charles, it was clear from the way he kept asking about their friendship that this jealousy existed.

‘I understand the Duke of Suffolk is great friends with King Henry,’ he probed. ‘Tis said they are more like brothers than king and subject.’

Mary nodded. She hoped such a friendship would protect Charles should Francis seek to injure him. ‘Henry and he are bosom friends, my lord. He was brought up with my brothers when his father died in battle defending our father from Richard Crookback,’ Mary told him. ‘My family owe his family a lot.’

‘Just so. But I thought we had settled on my name, Mary. Why am I suddenly ‘my lord’ this and ‘my lord’ that? ‘Tis scarcely friendly.’ Francis pulled a sad face and stroked Mary’s arm through the curtain of the chaise.

Mary drew her arm back and attempted a rebuke. ‘My lord, you must hear the shameful rumours circulating at the court concerning us. If they should come to the ears of my husband, the king, I know not what would be the outcome.’

This provoked laughter from Francis. ‘King Louis has always had the ability not to hear that which he likes not,’ he told her. ‘You will learn that in time, Mary.’

‘Surely, he must listen to that which concerns his honour and mine?’

Francis recommenced his arm-stroking. ‘I do not wish to dishonour you, Mary. I love you too much for that. I would marry you if I could.’

Francis’ easy protestations didn’t impress Mary. ‘But you cannot, Francis,’ she reminded him. ‘That is the dishonour. And what of Claude, your wife? Have you no love for her? She pines for want of your affection, my lord, did you not know?’

Francis’ shoulders shrugged aside his pining wife. ‘Claude and I understand each other. We married for reasons of state, not love. She has her religion to console her. I’m fond of her, she is a sweet-tempered child, but how could I love her with the passion I feel for you when she is as she is? You and I would make a perfect pair.’

‘But we are not a pair. We are each part of separate pairs. Your pursuit dishonours me and reduces my standing at the court. What if Louis were to die? You would have my character so stained, I would never be able to marry again, even should I wish it. It is an odd way to show this love you claim to have for me.’

Mary’s rebuke subdued the normally ebullient Francis. After giving her a solemn, mocking bow, he left her side and rode off to join the other courtiers.

Mary sat back against the cushions of the chaise and wrapped the fur coverlet closer against the winter’s chill. Her upbringing had ill-prepared her for coping with someone like Francis or his unwelcome ardor. But then, who could have known that she would be placed in such a situation?

The long procession reached the gates of St Denis. Mary fixed on a bright smile and pretended a keen interest in everything. As the citizens praised her in song she leaned forward and listened with a show of attention:

“Wake, wake, ye hearts asleep!

All ye allied to English Powers,

Sing Ave Maria.

The fleece of gold, the purple towers,

The eagles, and the lily flowers,

Rejoice in Dame Maria.

Reveillez-vous!

Joy to Lady Maria.”

Mary interpreted the allusions; the fleece of gold was Prince Charles, the heir to Burgundy and the low Countries; the purple towers referred to the arms of Castile; the eagles referred to the Emperor’s German banner and the lily flowers were the emblem of Louis, her husband.

She dutifully admired the many pageants as she had at Abbeville. Twilight had fallen before she had viewed them all and made her offering at the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame. By now thoroughly bone weary and chilled, with her breath steaming around her on the November air, Mary would gladly have retired to bed. Instead, she was led by torchlight along the quays of the river to the palace of St Louis. Even here, she knew she would have little respite. As queen, she was as much an exhibit as the banners that welcomed her. Happy or sad, lively or weary, she must act the part demanded of her. She was escorted to her chambers where her ladies fussed around her, readying her for the evening’s banquet where she must sup in public at a great marble table.

As she entered the hall – the Grand Salle – with its huge double nave, reputed to be fully 70 metres long, Mary gazed around her. She saw the many statues of previous kings of France which stood on the eight central pillars and on the responds on either side. Louis had told her of the tradition that these statues of the kings were portrayed with their hands held high if they had been considered kings of valour and with their hands by their sides if their reigns had been undistinguished. Ruefully, he had speculated as to how he would be depicted.