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

Is the Queen Enceinte?

DRESSED COMPLETELY IN WHITE, Mary sat alone in that room in the Hôtel de Clugny which was known as la chambre de la reine blanche. Here she was to remain, in accordance with custom, for six weeks while she mourned her husband.

Mary was relieved to be able to shut herself away in this manner. Her husband was dead but she knew that she was not yet free to make another marriage, and that there would be all sorts of opposition to her choice possibly not only from England but from France. She had come to understand that the English and the French would be wrangling over her dowry, her jewels, and all the costly appurtenances with which they had thought it necessary to load her before making her Queen of France. The fight was not yet over; therefore it was a pleasure to be shut away from the Court and be alone with a few of her attendants: six whole weeks in which to review the new life which lay ahead and to plan that she should not again be deprived of her heart’s desire.

The Hôtel de Clugny was situated in the Rue des Mathurins and had once been the home of Cluniac monks. It was small compared with Les Tournelles, but her own apartments were adequate; and somberly fitted out as a mourning chamber and lighted only by wax tapers, they gave her the feeling that she was shut away from the world; in such intimate surroundings she could think clearly.

Strangely enough she did mourn Louis, for she could not forget his gentleness and many kindnesses; and in spite of her relief she was a little sad because she had longed for his death; so while she exulted in her freedom she was a little melancholy; and now that he was dead she knew that she was not yet out of danger.

This was made clear to her during her interview with François; for although she was shut away from the Court her close relations were allowed to visit her; and of course these included François.

They faced each other and neither was able to suppress the excitement which burned beneath that solemn façade which convention demanded they should show the world. His future was in the balance, no less than hers, for whether or not he was to be King of France would be decided in a few weeks. Perhaps she could tell him now.

“My dearest belle-mère,” he murmured, using that name which he had always spoken with tenderness and an implication that it was ridiculously amusing that, through his marriage with her stepdaughter, one so young and beautiful should bear such a relationship to him. “These are sad days for you and I have been waiting impatiently to come to you and tell you that I am thinking of you every hour.”

A smile was upon her lips. Indeed you are! she thought. For on me depends whether or not you will be, in a few short weeks, crowned King of France.

“You have always been so thoughtful,” she murmured.

“I trust you are in good health … ?” His eyes strayed about her body.

“In excellent health,” she answered.

“And not indisposed in any way?”

“I am as well as can be expected … in the circumstances.”

She saw the lights of alarm shoot up in his eyes, and a tremor of laughter ran through her. Serve you right, François, she thought. Did you not bring out the big German in the hope that you would unseat Charles? You might have harmed him … if he had not been so much better than your German.

“The circumstances … ?” he began.

“Have you forgotten that I have recently become a widow?”

His relief was obvious. Where was his old subtlety? It had deserted him, so anxious was he.

“I feared the King’s health was growing steadily worse in the weeks before his death.”

“Yet there were times when he was so gay … almost like a young man. Why, only just before his death …”

François clenched his fists. He was longing to ask her outright: Are you enceinte? Yet it would be unseemly to do so, and if he could only curb his patience for a few weeks he would know.

He left her, no wiser about this important matter than before.

Louise and Marguerite embraced François when he came to them direct from the Hôtel de Clugny.

Louise looked earnestly into his face.

“Did you discover?”

François shook his head mournfully.

“She might not know yet,” suggested Marguerite.

“Surely if there were already signs she would have told you!” protested Louise.

“She would have been only too ready to make it known,” mused Marguerite. “She would be so proud to be mother of the King of France.”

Louise covered her face with her hands. “Do not say that.” She shivered. “If it were true I think I should die of melancholy.”

François went to his mother and put his arm about her shoulder. She gave him the smile which was kept for him alone.

“Dearest, we should still be together,” he said.

“And while the world held you, my King, there would be a reason for living. But that another should have that which is yours! I think I should be ready to strangle the brat at birth.”

“I doubt they would allow you to be present at the birth,” retorted Marguerite grimly.

“You must not despair,” said François. “I do not think Louis was capable.”

Marguerite looked at her brother steadily. “And others?” she asked.

“I think the Queen was … entirely virtuous.”

Mother and daughter showed their relief. At least François had not shared her bed, and they were inclined to think that Louis, who was even weaker than they had realized, must have been incapable of begetting a child.

“The point is,” said Marguerite precisely, “is it possible for the Queen to be enceinte?”

“It is certainly possible,” François said.

“But if she is a virtuous woman, unlikely,” went on Marguerite.

“In a few weeks we should know,” put in Louise.

“And even if we should learn that the Queen is enceinte,” added Marguerite, “we should not utterly despair, because it is just as likely that she might give birth to a girl as a boy.”

“Even you do not understand,” cried Louise. “For years I have been in torment. I have seen the crown so near and suffered the frustration. And now I know I am near the end of that dreaded uncertainty, but it might prove that all my worst fears will be realized. It has been too long. …”

“Mother dear,” said François, “we shall soon be out of our misery. Let us remember that.”

She slipped her hand through his arm and laid her cheek against his sleeve while she looked up at him adoringly.

“Trust my King to soothe me,” she murmured.

“Whatever happens,” François reminded her, “we have each other. Remember … the trinity.”

“Yes,” said Louise fiercely, “but it must be a trinity with the King of France at the apex.”

“I have a feeling it will be,” said Marguerite calmly.

François smiled at her. “I share your view, my pearl. So much so that I am already thinking as though I am King of France. We must find a husband for Mary Tudor … in France.”

“You have discussed this with her?” asked Marguerite.

“It is as yet too soon. She is, after all, making a pretense of mourning Louis. But I have heard that her brother is already sounding Charles of Castile. Such an alliance would not be good for France. Moreover it would mean that we should have to return her dowry, and there would be the question of her jewels. Louis was constantly giving her trinkets and, as these by right belong to the crown of France, I should not want to see them leave the country. Therefore I have been thinking of a possible match for her.”

“In France, of course,” said Louise. “Oh for the day when Mary Tudor is safely married and no longer a threat to François!”

“I have two suitors in mind for her. There is the Duc de Lorraine, and the Duc de Savoy.”

“My beloved,” cried Louise, “what a King you will make! What a happy day it will be for France when you mount the throne!”

Marguerite, her eyes shining, knelt before him and taking his hand kissed it. The gesture meant that she was paying homage to the King of France.

“It must be so,” murmured Louise. Then her eyes narrowed and she added: “It shall be so.”

Mary was filled with despair. The walls of her mourning chamber seemed to her like a prison, and within them she felt herself to be doomed.

For six weeks she must remain here. She could have borne that if when she emerged it was to be to freedom. But there were plans to prevent this. To ambitious kings she was not so much a woman as a bargaining counter. François forgot his gallantry when he considered her future; was Henry going to forget his promise?

Fear was her companion. Little Anne Boleyn who, in spite of her youth, knew how to keep her ears and eyes open, had told her that there was gossip among the French attendants and that they were wagering who would have his way over the next marriage of Mary—François or the King of England.

Henry was in negotiation to renew the match between Mary and Charles of Castile which had been broken when she was affianced to Louis. François had other plans for her.

“I could not bear it!” Mary murmured into her pillows. “I will not endure it. Henry shall keep his promise to me.”

She became so melancholy that her attendants were alarmed for her health. She complained of toothache and headaches; and on one or two occasion she burst into loud laughter which turned into weeping.

“The Queen realizes that she has lost a good husband,” said her attendants.

Each day she arose, fretting against her incarceration in the Hôtel de Clugny, while at the same time she rejoiced in her seclusion because it gave her time to think. She would feel suddenly gay because she had gained her freedom from Louis; then the gaiety would be replaced by melancholy when she asked herself how long this freedom would last.

Marguerite, hearing of the Queen’s state of health, came to visit her in some concern. Her moods, reasoned Marguerite, could be due to her condition, and Marguerite was a woman who believed that it was better to know the worst and plan accordingly.

In the mourning chamber, Marguerite embraced her.

“You are looking pale,” she said anxiously.

“Are you surprised?”

“Indeed no. You have had a great shock. And, even though the King’s death was expected, when these things happen they shock nonetheless. Tell me about your health. I hear that you have headaches and toothache.”

“I have never had them before.”

“Have you any idea why you should feel thus … apart from your melancholy over the King’s death?”

Mary lowered her eyes. They were too insistent. In spite of her alarm for her future she felt the laughter bubbling up inside her. Had François or Louise sent Marguerite to question her? They had all three lost their subtlety in their great anxiety.

“I feel at such a time it is natural for me to be in delicate health.”

“Are there any other symptoms?”

“I felt a little sick this morning.”

Mary reproached herself on seeing the look of despair which Marguerite could not suppress. Poor Marguerite! She had always been very kind to Mary. It was a shame to tease her.

Mary went on quickly: “I think it was because I was upset. I had heard that my brother was already planning a new marriage for me.”

“And you do not favor such a marriage?”

“I was affianced to Charles of Castile before I came to France. He was not eager for the match then; I am not eager for it now. Then I was a Princess of England; now I am a Queen of France.”

“I’ll swear you have grown to love France during your stay here and have no wish to leave it.”

Mary stared dreamily ahead of her and Marguerite went on: “My brother is anxious on your behalf. He wants to see you happy. He would make a very good match for you here in France. Then you need never leave us.”

“I do love France, it is true,” answered Mary. “But do you not think that it is somewhat unseemly to think of marriage for me when …”

“When?” asked Marguerite, alarmed.

“When I have so recently lost my husband?”

“Marriages for royal people are invariably arranged with little consideration for their personal feelings.”

“Alas,” sighed Mary.

“And my brother would not wish to force you into anything that was not congenial to you.”

“At this time it is congenial to me to remain as I am.”

“That he understands, but he puts forward certain propositions to you that you may bear them in mind; and if your brother should become insistent, you can tell him that you have plans of your own.”

Mary smiled, secretively and in a manner which increased Marguerite’s despair. “I have plans of my own,” she murmured.

“The Duc de Lorraine, whom my brother had in mind for you, is affianced to the daughter of the Duc de Bourbon; but Charles, Duc de Savoy, would be an excellent match. Oh, Mary, please stay with us.”

With a gesture of affection Marguerite had thrown her arms about Mary. Were those caressing hands trying to discover whether there was any thickening of the girlish figure?

Mary returned the embrace but continued to look mysterious.

“I can decide nothing … yet,” she said.

“But your brother, I have heard, is sending an embassy to France. I think his wish is that you should return to England with it.”

“An English embassy! I wonder whom he will send.”

“I do know that it will be led by the Duke of Suffolk.”

All melancholy was replaced by joy. If Henry was sending Charles, it could mean that he remembered his promise. Was Henry saying: Now it is up to you!

This changed everything. Charles was coming. Nothing in the world could have made her happier.

She must hide her joy. Marguerite was too watchful; and a little sly, she had to admit, for Marguerite, while posing as her friend, was in truth her brother’s spy.

She knew full well that although Marguerite expressed her friendship and François constantly hinted that a closer relationship would please him, they were her enemies—in so much as they would not help her to marry Charles Brandon.

She was not so simple that she did not know the reason for François’s desire for a French marriage. He wanted to keep her dowry.

But Charles was coming! And this time she would not be cheated.

She walked to her couch and lay down on it.

“I feel a little tired,” she told Marguerite. “I think I shall have to rest a little more frequently … now.”

“You mean … ?”

“Just that I do seem to be in need of this rest, my dear Marguerite. Thank you for coming to see me.”

She turned her face away and Marguerite must leave her, bewildered, frustrated, as deep in that dreadful uncertainty as she had been before her visit.

It was unseemly for a widow to be so happy. She could not help it. When she rose she wanted to sing: “Charles is coming to France.” It was her last thought before retiring each night.

Every day she waited for news of the English embassy. She would say to herself: “This very day he may come walking into the apartment.” She knew what she would say to him when he did come. “Charles, Charles, now. No delay. We must take no more chances. I have waited too long and will wait no longer. Take me now, for I am yours and you are mine for as long as we both shall live.”

Still he did not come. But she was not in despair. Perhaps he was waiting at Dover now. Perhaps the gales were too fierce. Oh, the perils of the sea! They alarmed her; they frightened her. But he would come through them safely. She was certain.

“Soon, my love. Soon I shall be in your arms,” she murmured.

And meanwhile the trinity were watching for signs of her pregnancy, and they would try to prevent her marriage to Charles Brandon, she knew, because their plan was to force her into marriage with Charles of Savoy.

I’d die rather, Mary told herself.

She was burning with impatience. She could scarcely endure the days, and life was so dull and dreary in the mourning chamber while she was waiting for Charles that she must try to infuse a little gaiety into her life.

She kept little Anne Boleyn at her side. The girl was discreet, she was sure; moreover she was English.

“Soon,” Mary told Anne, “we shall be going to England. I shall never marry here.”

Then she was afraid that she had been indiscreet and, taking the girl by her long black hair, warned her of the horrors which would befall her if she ever repeated what she had heard.

The serene black eyes were untroubled; Mary knew she could rely on the child, who was wise beyond her years.

She would have only Anne to help her dress and insisted that together they spoke English. And if Anne was astonished at the petticoats Mary insisted on wearing she gave no sign.

“There!” cried Mary. “How do I look?”

Anne put her head on one side, her black eyes disapproving. She was already fastidious about her dress, and a very fashionable young lady who could always be relied on to bring out the ornaments which looked best on certain gowns.

“Too fat, Madame,” said Anne.

Then Mary laughed and taking the girl by the hands danced round the room with her.

“So I look fat, do I? So would you, Mistress Anne, if you were as petticoated as I am. And I will tell you something; tomorrow I shall wear yet another petticoat; and I want you to find some quilting.”

“Quilting, Madame?”

“I said quilting. Those black eyes are very inquisitive. Never mind, little Anne. You shall discover. In the meantime not a word … not a word to anyone of petticoats or quilting. You understand me?”

“Yes, Madame.” The black eyes were demure, the lips turned up at the corners. The girl had wit enough to enjoy the joke.

Each day Mary was visited at the Hôtel de Clugny by Louise, Marguerite or François.

Daily her body seemed to grow thicker and each day as they left her they were in greater despair.

Mary’s eyes, sparkling with excitement, would be watchful. They knew that she guarded some secret, which gave her the utmost pleasure.

“There can be no doubt about it,” said Louise in despair. “Louis has left her pregnant.”

François beat his fist against his knee. “Months of waiting … then the birth. And if it is a boy … Foi de gentilhomme, why is Fate so cruel!”

Louise paced up and down her apartment.

“That it should have come to this. All the years and now … this. Who would have thought Louis capable!”

Only Marguerite had comfort to offer. “It may be a girl,” she said.

But even so there would be the months of uncertainty.

Mary had shut the door of her chamber and taken little Anne by the hands. She danced with her round and round until they were both breathless.

“Anne, did you see her face? Marguerite’s, I mean. Poor Marguerite! It is a shame. She has been a good friend to me.”

“She has been a better one to her brother, Madame.”

“Well, Anne, that is natural. As for Louise, I believe she would like to kill me.”

“And would do, Madame, if it were possible for the deed not to be discovered.”

“I know it well. That is perhaps why I enjoy my little joke.”

“The quilting has slipped, Madame.”

“I find it rather hot, Anne. Perhaps I will wear fewer petticoats tomorrow.”

“You must not grow smaller, Madame.”

“Not until the time is ripe,” was the answer. “Have you heard any rumors about the embassy from England?”

“No, Madame, only that the King has chosen the Duke of Suffolk to lead it.”

Mary clasped her hands together.

“My Charles, soon he will be with me.” She began to dance once more round the room, her arms held out as though to a partner. She stopped suddenly. “I should be mourning Louis. Poor Louis who was always kind to me. But I cannot pretend, Anne. How can I mourn when Charles is coming to me? And when he comes, this time I shall never let him go.”

Anne had run to her and was picking up the quilting which had fallen from her skirts.

Mary snatched it from her and threw it high into the air.

“When he is here, the joke will be over. I would not have him see me ungainly, I do assure you.”

Then she laughed and wept a little while Anne watched her with solemn eyes.

Marguerite, her eyes wide, her face pale, burst into her mother’s apartment.

“What is it, my dear?” demanded Louise, and François, who was with his mother, came swiftly to his sister’s side.

“I have just left the Queen,” stammered Margaret.

“And she has told you …,” began François.

Marguerite shook her head. “I can’t believe it, and yet …”

“My dearest, it is unlike you to be incoherent,” François murmured.

“Come, come,” put in Louise impatiently. “What is it?”

“I was studying her figure and thinking that it had thickened even since yesterday. She was seated and suddenly rose; I am sure my eyes did not deceive me, but it seemed that something beneath her gown moved.”

“Is it so far gone then!” cried Louise in panic. She began counting on her fingers. “They were married in October. Could it have happened then? Impossible. Old Louis would have been so proud, he would never have kept the secret.”

“Not a child,” said Marguerite slowly, “definitely not a child. It was as though something … slipped.”

The three looked at each other.

Louise spoke first. “It’s impossible. Would she attempt to trick us? For what purpose? What can she hope to gain from it?”

“Some amusement,” suggested François, and he began to laugh, partly with relief. For if what had entered his mind were indeed true then he would be a very happy man.

“We must find out,” declared Louise.

“How?” asked Marguerite.

“How, my dear! I shall go to her apartments. I shall see what it is she wears beneath her garments.”

“You cannot mean, Maman,” protested Marguerite, “that you will go to the Queen’s chamber and ask to see what she wears beneath her gown! Remember she is still the Queen of France.”

“My dear Marguerite, if your eyes have not deceived you as that girl is trying to deceive us, I am—at this moment—the mother of the King of France. I fancy my son would allow no one to criticize my actions. Is that not so, Sire?”

“Mother, if I ever forget what I owe to you I should never deserve to wear the crown.”

“Then I shall take this chance. Come with me, Marguerite. But wait awhile. We will prepare her for our meeting. Go, my dear, and send one of the pages to the Hôtel de Clugny to tell the Queen that we beg leave to call on her.”

Mary patted her body affectionately. A visit from Louise and Marguerite! When the former came she could always be sure of some amusement; she never felt ashamed of duping her, as she did Marguerite.

“How do I look, Anne?”

“Very enceinte, Madame.”

“What would you say, my child? Three months?”

Laughter bubbled to Anne’s lips. “It would seem, Madame, that you carry a large and healthy boy and have been doing so for more than three months.”

“And if I look larger than other women that is natural, Mistress Anne. Do I not carry a little king? Do I carry him high? They tell me that that is a sign of a boy.”

“Oh yes, Madame. But you are far too large.”

“We will leave it now, Anne. I shall remain thus until the English embassy arrives. See who is at the door.”

Anne came back, her eyes sparkling. “Madame d’Alençon with her mother, Madame.”

Mary went to her couch and reclined there, looking wan.

“How is that, Anne?”

“Excellent, Madame.”

“Bring them in. And then go discreetly into the corner and sit there with your needlework. You must look very serious. Remember that you are in a chamber of mourning.”

Mary might have been warned by the militant glare in Louise’s eyes, but she scarcely looked at her.

She smiled wanly and held out her hand.

“Welcome,” she said in a quiet voice. “It does me so much good to see you here. And Marguerite also. Welcome too, my dear.”

“We have been hearing accounts of your health which give us some concern,” Marguerite told her.

“My health? You must not be so anxious on my behalf. It is all so natural.”

“And how are you feeling, now, Madame?”

“A little tired. A little sick now and then. With diminished appetite, and now and then a fancy for some odd thing.”

“I trust your servants are taking good care of you.”

“The utmost care. The little Boleyn is a treasure.”

“I would,” said Marguerite, “that you would allow me to be with you more frequently.”

“At such a time I am happy to be with little Boleyn. I am in no mood even for your sparkling conversation.”

Louise had spoken little, but her sharp eyes never left the Queen’s reclining figure for one moment.

She came close to the couch and two spots of color burned in her cheeks, as she said: “I trust, Madame, that you did not catch the King’s complaint when you nursed him so carefully.”

“The King’s complaint?”

“Gout!” hissed Louise, as with a swift movement she leaned over the couch and touched that spot where the padding beneath Mary’s gown was thickest.

“Madame!” Mary began indignantly, leaping from the couch as she spoke.

Louise, so triumphant, so conscious of the fact that as privileged mother of the King she was in a position to act as familiarly as she cared to with the Dowager Queen, jerked up the Queen’s gown, exposing the layers of petticoats; and not content with that she probed further until she was able to pull at the padding.

Mary shrieked her protest but Louise was in command now.

“A new fashion perchance from England?” asked Marguerite, and there was laughter in her voice.

“Exactly so,” answered Mary. “Did you not like it?”

“It gave you the appearance of a pregnant woman,” went on Marguerite, for she saw that her mother was struck speechless by the mingling of delight and fury.

“Is that so?” replied Mary calmly. “Then that must have pleased some, while it displeased others.”

“Your royal body is more charming in its natural state,” went on Marguerite.

Mary sighed and put her hands on her hips. “I feel you may be right.”

By this time Louise had recovered her speech, and all the anxiety of years was slipping from her. But she had to make sure. She took Mary by the arm and shook her.

“You will tell me,” she said, “that you are not with child.”

Mary’s mischievous eyes looked straight into Louise’s. The little game was over. She had to tell them the truth.

“Madame,” she said, “I am not with child. I trust that ere long I may have the pleasure of greeting the King and saying, as all his subjects will wish to: ‘Vive François Premier.’ ”