Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

Death of a King

A HIGH STAGE had been erected in the park of the Hôtel des Tournelles and on this had been put a couch, for the King’s gout was troubling him again and he was too indisposed to be able to sit in one position for long at a time. Yet he must be present on this occasion, because the English had come over specially to test their skill in the joust against the French champions, and already the excited people of Paris were crowding into the Rue St. Antoine which adjoined the Park of Les Tournelles where the lists had been set up.

The noise was great as people wagered as to who would be the victor. The fame of the English Duke of Suffolk had been discussed and it was believed that he would challenge the Dauphin himself.

The people were jubilantly sure of the outcome for they did not believe there was an Englishman living who could rival the Dauphin.

The sound of trumpets announced the arrival of the royal party, and the King, looking very ill, mounted the stage with great difficulty. It was pleasing to see how solicitous the lovely young Queen could be with her husband. She was attended by the most noble of the ladies; and what a contrast she made with poor insignificant Claude. Marguerite, the Dauphin’s sister, was a real beauty, but it was the Queen with her wonderful golden hair and bright complexion who attracted the attention of everyone.

Louis lay on his couch smiling rather wanly as he acknowledged the acclaim of his people. The more sober ones were depressed by the sick looks of the Father of his People, reminding themselves that he had been a good King to them and life in France had been the better for his rule. The young ones, though, could not take their eyes from François, who was every man’s ideal.

Some studied the Queen’s trim yet voluptuous figure. It was too early yet to show any signs of pregnancy, but it was possible that she was in that state. Then the dazzling François would never reach the throne. It was an intriguing situation; and because of it the people’s interest in the royal family was even greater than usual.

Louis wanted to close his eyes. The shouting of the people, the blare of the trumpets tired him. What would he not have given for the quiet apartment, the hangings shutting out the light, the comfort of his bed … sleep.

But he must be present on this occasion; so he took pleasure in watching the excitement of his Queen.

He had come to believe that there was much he had to learn of her. He did not really know his Mary. She had been shy and shrinking as one must expect a virgin to be and she had remained so. He had thought that in time he might rouse her to passion for he sensed passion in her, latent, unawakened. Yet recently he had been aware of a change in her. There had been a suppressed excitement and she had seemed a different girl from the one he had known in the first days of their marriage.

He was not unaware of François’s greedy eyes which rested too frequently on her. Could it be? He could not be surprised if it were, nor could he blame Mary. He knew François’s reputation. But François would not be so foolish. The Big Boy might philander when and wherever he had a chance, but he would not be such a fool as to engage in a love affair with the Queen.

And yet … there had been that change.

Now the English party were riding into the arena, led by their champions, the Duke of Suffolk and the Marquis of Dorset. Suffolk was a fine figure of a man—as tall as François and broader. To see those two together would be worth a little discomfort.

The Queen had clasped her hands and was watching the riders who bowed on their horses as they passed the royal gallery, the plumes in their helmets touching their horses’ heads as they did so.

Her gaze was on the Duke of Suffolk; the King noticed how her eyes followed him round the arena.

Now it was the turn of the French who had been challenged, and they rode in, led by the Dauphin.

To be as young as that! thought Louis. To hear the applause of the people in one’s ears and to know it was because one was young and strong, a dashing, reckless hero. François doubtless had his trials to come, but Louis would have given a great deal to be the man in that glittering armor on that day.

And the Queen; she was applauded with the rest. It was strange that her eyes did not follow the French knights as they did the English.

She is hoping that her own countrymen are going to win the championship, thought Louis indulgently. It is natural.

Yet if she were attracted by François she must admire him more than ever in such a role as he now played.

Unless of course she was being cautious. But one did not connect caution with Mary.

She is young and innocent, he thought. She is unaware of François and, like a child, she wants her own countrymen to win.

Loudly the crowd applauded. They had to concede that the English were very skillful and even François could not quite match the tall Englishman who jousted as though he were inspired.

The Queen sat forward watching, the color in her cheeks heightened.

Of all the pageants I have had arranged for her, thought Louis, whose eyes rarely left her, none has pleased as this has.

She caught her breath with the thrill of the joust; once, when it seemed the tall Englishman was about to be thrown from his horse, she shut her eyes and shuddered. But all was well; it was only a feint and the man was once more victorious.

It was inevitable that the Duke of Suffolk should challenge the Dauphin, and when these two tilted against each other, Mary was clearly apprehensive.

There was, indeed, an atmosphere of tension not only on the royal stage but throughout the crowd, because thousands of Frenchmen wanted to see the Dauphin win.

Louis watched the Dauphin’s mother and sister and saw them craning forward, watched their apprehension—which was no greater than the Queen’s.

Sardonically Louis thought of the years when Louise had suffered every time his late wife had promised to bring an heir to the throne of France. What anxiety those ambitious women had endured on the Big Boy’s account; and still did. He could not take part in a game without their making a drama of it.

There was a sudden murmur of horror; Mary had risen to her feet and Marguerite and Louise were staring at the arena in dismay.

Louis wished his eyes were better. “What has happened?” he demanded, and for a few seconds those about him ignored him, forgetting that it was the King who had spoken, so intent were they on what was happening in the arena.

“François,” cried Louise. “My son … my son!”

François had been wounded in the hand and this was a blow to French hopes. Suffolk was about to prove himself the champion, and the honors were going to the English. That was the result of the first day’s joust. But there were more to come.

François appeared at the banquet which followed, with his hand in a bandage; ruefully he confessed that he would be unable to hold a lance, so was out of the tournament.

He talked to the Queen as they supped in the grande salle.

“Your Englishman took me off my guard,” he told her.

“Was that not what you would have expected him to do?”

“So you favor the English?”

“I lived all but the last few weeks of my life among them, remember.”

“Shame! I thought you had become one of us.” He leaned toward her. “’Twas my own fault. I was thinking of you when I should have been concentrating on my opponent.”

“Confess,” she retaliated, “your opponent was too good for you.”

“Nay, I’ll challenge him yet and defeat him.”

“I fancy he will be judged the victor of this tourney.”

“It was my devotion to you, not his skill, that gives him that victory.”

“It is not a good enough excuse! You went in to win and you found him a better man.”

“You are vehement in your praise of him. I grow jealous of this man … Suffolk, is it?”

“Charles Brandon”—she said his name slowly, loving every syllable—“Duke of Suffolk.”

“Something of an adventurer, I have heard. Do you know he tried to marry the Archduchess Margaret? The Emperor put a stop to that little game.”

“I do not think he played that little game as well as he jousted today.”

“I will tell you a secret,” said François. “Monsieur Suffolk is not going to be declared the champion.”

“How can you be sure of that, Monsieur le Dauphin?”

“Because I must avenge this.” He touched his bandaged hand.

“How so when you cannot hold a lance? And if you could not beat him before you were injured, how can you hope to now?”

“Madame, you are too triumphant. There is a German fellow in my service. He is even taller than I; he is the strongest man in France. He is unbeatable. I am going to put him up against Monsieur Suffolk, and he’ll have the fellow out of the saddle. You will see. It will be more than a bloody hand he’ll be nursing tomorrow.”

Mary turned away. She was afraid that in seeking his revenge François would do Charles some harm.

The Queen spent a sleepless night and her restlessness awakened the King.

“What ails you, my love?” he asked.

“I am well enough,” she answered.

“Yet you do not sleep. Perhaps you are overtired. It was an exhausting day.”

“And there will be another tomorrow. Louis, I heard that a German who has never yet been beaten is going into the joust. Is it true?”

“Oh, I know the man. One of the Dauphin’s servants, a great burly fellow. I’ve seen him turn men out of their saddles as though they were sacks of corn. Yes, it is true, none can stand against him.”

“Then he is the champion of France?”

“My love, he is not of the nobility so we do not often see him joust.”

“Then he should not joust tomorrow.”

“Ha,” said Louis. “Your Englishmen are too good. We have to throw in what we have in the hope of defeating them.”

“Yet it should not be.”

“How vehement you are! I promise you, you will see good sport.”

She was betraying herself; she knew it. She must be silent. Charles will not be harmed, she assured herself. Charles is invincible. He could always have triumphed over Henry, had he tried to.

Yet she was frightened; and when she slept she dreamed of disaster. She did not know what it was; but when she awoke it seemed to be hanging over her.

François was seated with the royal party on the stage—a spectator now that he could no longer be a participant. He was all eagerness for the moment when the German should ride into the arena to challenge the Duke of Suffolk in the name of France.

François felt a little sullen. It so rarely happened that he was not the hero of such occasions. That Englishman had been too quick for him. It was true that he had been thinking of Mary, eager to shine in her eyes, tilting for show rather than with intelligence; and the Englishman had seized his opportunity and incapacitated him.

A poor showing for the Dauphin! He had disappointed everyone—his mother, his sister, the people—and most of all himself.

Mary? He could not be sure of Mary.

He looked at her, and in doing so caught Claude’s glance. She was looking affectionately maternal, trying to tell him that she did not care whether he was a champion or not; her feelings for him would not change. She herself had insisted on dressing the wound.

It was depressing to be so adored by someone who bored, to be so uncertain of another whom one longed to make one’s mistress.

Not a very auspicious day this, for François.

Mary was leaning forward in her seat. And now there was the German. What bulk! What strength! He was invincible. The Englishman would not have a chance.

The crowd was silent. It was like two giants meeting, as the pale November sunshine touched their armor when they rode toward each other.

Everyone was watching them intently, except two people on the royal stage—one of whom was the King, the other the Dauphin; and they could not take their eyes from the Queen, who sat upright, pale and tense, her hands clasped in her lap; and so absorbed was she in those two glittering figures that she was quite unaware that the eyes of both King and Dauphin were on her and that she was betraying herself.

Louis’s emotions were mixed and it was a long time since he had been deeply moved by them. Sorrow, regret and pity for her as well as for himself tormented him. So she loved the Englishman and, because she was vehement in everything she did, she could not hide that love. This was why she had changed since the English party had come to Court. It was obvious. Why had he been so blind as not to see it before?

Pictures came into his mind of their nights together. Poor child, he thought. Being vehement in love, vehement in hate, she would suffer deeply. Did she hate me? Sick old man—obscene, disgusting. And her thoughts all for that blond giant!

It was a tragedy which befell most royal people; they suffered; but they learned resignation. He remembered his first marriage, to Jeanne of France. He had been a young man then. But he could not compare the repugnance he had felt for his bride with the sufferings of Mary Tudor.

She was clenching her hands together, and had moved forward slightly, breathing quickly. My poor little one, he thought. If you stood up and shouted, I love Suffolk, you could not tell me more clearly what is in your mind. It is time I was dead.

And he had never loved her so dearly as he did at that moment.

François’s face had hardened. He too had read the secret. He was angry, for never had she seemed more desirable than she did now that he knew she was in love with another man. She had never taken his courtship seriously, but had fooled him as she had old Louis.

Beaten in the joust! Beaten in love! And possibly the Queen pregnant with the child who would oust him from the throne. Never had the Dauphin’s fortunes been so low.

“Foi de gentilhomme,” he swore, “what if she gets with child by Suffolk! Here’s a pretty state of affairs. Had it been my own son who robbed me of my rights, that would have been one thing—but that it should be an English bastard!”

Louis, the old fool, drooling over a beautiful girl, must be made to understand the significance of the danger which threatened.

In the meantime Suffolk must be defeated in the arena.

But it was not to be so. Suffolk was inspired. Never had he jousted in all his life as he did in the Park of Les Tournelles, and even the most partial of judges must declare him the victor.

The Queen had risen; she clasped her hands with joy. She could not wait to greet the champion; and all the time she was watched by the sad eyes of the King, the lowering ones of the Dauphin.

François was in the King’s apartment and they were alone together.

The Dauphin was decidedly uneasy and Louis made a shrewd guess as to why he had come to him. It was not easy to hint—for he would not dare say outright—what was in his mind; yet he had to convey to Louis the dangers of this delicate situation.

“And the hand?” asked the King.

“Almost healed, Sire.”

“You have healthy blood.”

“It was unfortunate that it happened so early in the joust, Sire. I regret losing the pleasure of unseating the Englishman.”

“Ah, my big François, he was too good for us, let us admit it.”

“The English method, Sire, is less polished than our own.”

“And more effective.”

François hesitated and then said: “The English—and in particular the Duke of Suffolk—seem to be highly favored at our Court.”

“It is necessary to entertain our guests.”

“True, Sire. Yet methinks there are some members of the Court who would be glad to see the English return to their own land.”

“The Queen delights to entertain her countrymen.”

“She has had many opportunities of doing so, Sire.”

That was as far as he dared go. He was right of course, mused Louis. The fellow should not be allowed to come and go as he wished. It was putting too great a temptation in the way of the Queen. He did not wish for trouble.

“The Court will be moving soon to St. Germain,” said Louis quietly. “We shall not expect the English to accompany us there.”

Poor child, he was thinking. But it is better so.

Charles had left for England and there had been no opportunity for a private interview. Mary was desolate, and desperately tried to hide this.

When shall I see my Charles again? she asked herself, and could provide no satisfactory answer.

The Dauphin seemed secretly amused; he had renewed his attentions which, she remembered then, had ceased for a while. Charles was going home covered in glory. Henry would be pleased with him. She pictured them together talking of her.

What would I not give to be sitting in Greenwich Palace between them as I used to!

The King came to her and put her lute into her hands.

“Play for me,” he said. “I am in the mood for sweet music.”

So she played the songs she had played for Henry, and the King, watching her, shared her melancholy. Her golden curls were held from her face by a band set with pearls, but they fell over her shoulders; her gown of violet velvet was cut away in the front to show a petticoat of amber satin which was decorated with a gold fringe, and about her white throat was a necklace of pearls.

This was folly, thought the King. She must forget England and her Englishman. She is the Queen of France now—a proud destiny which should be enough to satisfy anyone. If they could beget a child she would be contented.

A child? Why not? He was not so very old, and on his good days he felt almost young again.

He loved her; he did not see why they should not live together in amity. If there was a little dauphin she would care for the boy so much that she might come to love his father.

He came to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. The lute was silent.

“It does me good to watch you,” he said. “I feel young again.”

She tried to repress the shiver which ran through her, and almost succeeded.

He pitied her but told himself he must harden his heart. She was his wife; he had given her the crown of France; and in exchange she must give him a dauphin.

Louis refused to accept age. At St. Germain he hunted with his old enthusiasm. The Queen rode out with him, and he was at her side during the banquets. He partook of the rich dishes, forsook his boiled meat; and even tried a measure now and then; and when he retired with the Queen he assured himself that having a young wife had made him young again.

Gone was the old man of France.

He knew that the Dauphin with his mother and sister looked on sourly; inwardly he laughed at their discomfiture.

The most beautiful girl at the Court was his Queen, and he was man enough to rejoice in her.

The Court had returned to the Palais des Tournelles in order to celebrate Christmas and the New Year.

The Queen was feverishly gay. If the King wanted to prove that he was not an old man, let him. He must join her in the revels; and she would show them how Christmas and the New Year was celebrated at her brother’s Court.

The weather had turned bitterly cold; deep snow was in the streets and biting winds swept through the Palace. The Queen did not seem to be affected by the weather. Her mood became more hilariously gay as the days passed.

This is how she was meant to be, Louis told himself. She is getting over her infatuation with the Englishman. She is ready to enjoy her new status; it is a glorious thing to be Queen of France even if one must take the old man with it.

When she was with him Louis strove to be gay; he was constantly attempting to prove that he had regained his health and strength. He wanted to make that sly speculation on the face of the Dauphin a certainty. He wanted to send Louise’s hopes diving down to disaster. He was using all the means he could lay his hands on to give his old body a semblance of youth.

He opened the Christmas revels with the Queen beside him; he danced with her; he supped with her, and it was his wit which provoked her to laughter.

As for her, she seemed inexhaustible; it was as though she danced a wild dance and bewitched the King into sharing it with her.

On New Year’s Eve her gaiety seemed to reach its climax. The King never left her side.

When she rose to dance she held out her arms to him and François watching with his mother and sister had never felt his hopes so low.

“She is a witch,” hissed Louise. “She has breathed new life into him. He looks ten years younger than he did before his marriage. He was never so besotted with Anne as he is with this one, and Anne could lead him by the nose.”

“Oh, Mother,” sighed Marguerite, “who would have thought it would have come to this? Each night she is in his bed. There can be one outcome.”

“All our hopes … all our plans …,” moaned Louise.

“And at that time,” muttered François, “when the crown seemed about to be placed on my head!”

The trinity was in despair.

The Queen was aware of this. Mischief would lighten her eyes every time she met one of the family. Yet behind her gaiety there was a certain brooding, a watchfulness.

The heat of the ballroom had been excessive; outside the temperature was at freezing point.

They had danced and retired late to their apartments; the Queen lay in her royal bed, rejoicing. There could be no love-making tonight. He was too ill. He could not pretend to her as glibly as he did to others.

She had comforted him. “My poor Louis, you are so tired. You shall sleep. I shall be close to you … thus … and when you have rested you will feel well again.”

She bent over him and, looking up into her round young face, he longed to caress her; but she was right, he was too tired.

So he lay still and she lay beside him, keeping her fingers laced in his.

And she thought: It cannot be long now. Something tells me.

She was sorry and yet exulting. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask his pardon. She wanted to say: I wish you dead, Louis, and I hate myself for wishing it; but I cannot stop this wish.

It was long before she slept. She kept thinking of the heated ballroom, and she fancied she could still hear the sound of music mingling with the howling wind outside. Faces flashed in and out of her mind. François, lean and hungry … hungry for her body, half loving her, half hating her, since the tournament in which Charles had beaten him. Louise, alert and fearful, those glances which covered the whole of her body, speculatively fearful; and Marguerite so anxious that her brother’s way to the throne should not be blocked. The King … whose spirit yearned toward a greater amorousness than his body would allow.

She thought of Charles in the arena—the dreadful moment when she thought the German would unseat him and perhaps inflict some injury. Then she remembered him, victorious, receiving the prize from her hands.

How long? How long? she asked herself.

She did not have to wait for the answer.

She would never forget waking on the morning of New Year’s Day when the wintry light filtered into the bedchamber and on to the gray face of the man in the bed. She leaned over him in deep compassion and said: “Louis … you are very sick today?”

He did not answer her. He did not even know it was his beautiful Queen who had spoken.

Then she knew that the day for which she had prayed and yearned had come.

The door of the cage was opening; she would soon be free.

Yet when she looked down at that withered face, at the bleak, unseeing eyes, she could only murmur: “The pity of it!”