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

The French SCENE II

The Unwilling Bride

DRESSED IN A GOWN of white cloth of silver, her coif set with jewels, the Queen of France rode toward Abbeville. She sat on her white palfrey, which was magnificently caparisoned, looking like a figure from some fairy legend, and Lady Guildford, who had looked after her since her babyhood, thought she seemed like a different person from that gay, laughing girl whom she had known at the English Court. Mary Tudor had become a tragedienne in the drama which was going on around them; yet the change of role had not detracted from her beauty.

Such glittering magnificence to be the background for such sorrow! thought Lady Guildford. But she will get over it. Would she? Was that not rather a glib solution inspired by hope?

Had there ever been a young woman as single-minded as Mary Tudor? And had she not for years decided that the only man she could happily accept as her husband was Charles Brandon?

Her ladies—there were thirty of them—presented a contrast to their mistress. They were looking forward eagerly to life at the Court of France. Pretty creatures in their crimson velvet and jewels—ay and merry, a colorful foil for the white-clad Queen.

Several hundred English horsemen and archers rode on ahead of them, for although they came in friendship, Henry had declared that it was well to let the French know the mettle of English warriors. Following these were English noblemen, and side by side with them rode Frenchmen of similar rank. A pleasant sight for the people who had come out to watch the cavalcade and were more accustomed to seeing men march to war.

Lady Guildford felt a little uneasy when the young man on his spirited charger drew in close to Mary’s palfrey. This man had made her uneasy from the moment she had set eyes on him. One could not deny his undoubted attractions. He sat his horse as though he were part of it; and it was splendid enough to be. He was elegantly dressed; his was the type of face that impressed itself on the memory; it might have been the alert, humorous eyes, or that extremely long nose, which for some reason added to his charm.

What was going on behind that elegant and quite fascinating exterior? What could be going on in the mind of a man who must be ambitious, who had believed himself to be within a step of the throne and now saw, in the person of this exquisite, though somewhat melancholy girl, the frustration of all his hopes?

He must hate her.

If he did, he certainly managed to disguise his feelings; his dark eyes caressed her in a manner which, according to Lady Guildford, was most unseemly. He was reckless; that much was obvious. It would be interesting to see how far he dared go when the King arrived on the scene.

François, holding his horse in check, smiled at Mary.

“I could not resist the pleasure of riding beside you.”

“How good you are to me!”

“I would I had an opportunity to show you how good I could be to you.”

“I have been learning to speak the French language and to understand the ways of the French,” Mary replied with meaning.

She saw the smile curve his lips. He knew she was telling him that she was prepared for extravagant compliments and would give them only the attention they deserved.

“I will tell you a secret,” he said. “Since I heard we were to have an English Princess for our Queen I have been thinking a great deal about the English.”

“Then we do not meet as strangers,” she replied.

“That makes me happy. I should be desolate if I were anything but a dear friend to one who is surely the loveliest lady in the world.”

“You have traveled throughout the world?”

“One does not need to travel to recognize perfection.”

“Nor to flatter, it seems.”

“Madame la Reine, it would be impossible to flatter you, for if you were addressed in what appeared to be the limit of hyperbole, it would still not exaggerate your charms.”

Mary laughed for the first time since she had arrived in France.

“It is well that I am prepared,” she said. “Tell me, when shall I meet the King?”

“It has been planned that you shall do so in his town of Abbeville, but I’ll swear he will be too impatient to wait for you to arrive. Do you know, it would not surprise me if suddenly we saw a group of horsemen riding toward us, headed by an impatient bridegroom who could no longer wait for a glimpse of his bride.”

“If you should see such a party, I pray you give me warning.”

“You would not need it. You would hear the people cheering themselves hoarse for the Father of his People.”

“The King is well loved in France?”

“Well loved he is,” said François. “He has had a great many years in which to win his people’s affection.”

She looked at him sharply. His tone was bitter. Small wonder. He was certainly an ambitious man. Holy Mother, thought Mary, how he must hate me when my very presence here threatens his hopes.

To be hated by such a man would be stimulating; and for all his flattering talk he must hate her.

It was strange that contemplating his feelings for her made her feel more interested in life than she had since she had known she could not escape this French marriage.

At least, she thought, I should be thankful to him for adding a little zest to my melancholy existence.

François was not hating her; far from it. He was too gallant to hate a woman who was so beautiful; and she had spirit too; he sensed that; and she was far from happy at the prospect of marriage with old Louis. That was not surprising. How different it would have been had she arrived in France to marry another king. A king of her own age! What an ironic fate which had given this lovely, vital girl to sickly old Louis, and himself the weakling Claude.

What a pair we should have made! thought François. Life was a mischievous old sprite who loved to taunt and tease.

He continued to talk to her, telling her about the manners and customs of the French Court, asking her questions about those of England. His gaiety was infectious, and Lady Guildford was a little disturbed to hear Mary laughing again. She had wanted to hear that sound, but that it should be inspired by this dangerous young man could be significant. Not that Mary would be affected by his charm. There was some good coming out of her devotion to Charles Brandon. She would be faithful to her love for him, which meant that no Frenchman, however charming, however gallant, would be able to wean her from her duty to the King.

François, sensing her underlying melancholy, had managed to infuse the same quality into his own demeanor. He was implying that although it gave him the utmost pleasure to be in her company he could not forget that she was the bride of another man.

Lady Guildford made up her mind that at the first opportunity she must warn Mary that the French had a way of implying that their emotions were deeply engaged, when they were only mildly so.

The party was within two kilometers of Abbeville when, as François had prophesied, a party of horsemen came galloping toward them.

Mary felt her body numb with apprehension, for she knew that the moment had come when she was to be brought face-to-face with her husband.

“The King!” She heard the cry about her, and the horses were immediately brought to a standstill while Louis rode ahead of his friends and came to his bride.

Fearfully she shot her first quick glance and discovered a face that was not unkindly although its eagerness at this moment alarmed her. The eyes were too prominent, the lips thick and dry; and she noticed with repulsion the swollen neck.

She prayed silently for courage, coupled with the ability to hide her feelings, and prepared to dismount that she might kneel before the King of France.

“No, no,” he cried, “it is I who should do homage to so much beauty.” He left his horse and came to her side, walking rather stiffly. The Dauphin had dismounted and was standing at attention; and Mary knew that the young man was watching them, aware of every emotion which showed itself in their faces.

“God help me,” prayed Mary. “Do not let me betray my feelings.”

The King had taken her hand in his; she felt his kisses on her skin and steeled herself not to shrink. Now those prominent eyes were studying her face beneath the coif of jewels, her young yet voluptuous figure in the cloth of silver.

“So young,” murmured Louis. “So beautiful. They did not lie to me then.”

He seemed to sense the fear in her, for he pressed her hand firmly and said: “Be at peace, my little bride. There is nothing to fear, you know.”

“I know, Sire.”

“The people are lining the road between here and Abbeville,” he told her, “so eager are they to see their Queen.”

“The people have been kind,” she answered, “since I set foot in France.”

“Who could be anything else to one so lovely?” The King seemed to be suddenly aware of François. “And the Duc de Valois, I trust, looks after you in my name?”

“None could have cared more for my comfort.”

For a moment Louis turned his eyes on that tall, elegant figure, and he felt that he would willingly have given half his kingdom if he could have borrowed his youth and vigor. It was only now, when he was face-to-face with this beautiful girl, that he longed so desperately for his youth. And François, standing there, too sly, too clever, might well interpret his thoughts.

“That is well,” said Louis briskly. “I left Abbeville this day, telling my friends that I wanted to hunt. That was not true. My intention was to catch a glimpse of my bride, so great was my impatience. So I rode this way. But this is an informal meeting and I am going to leave you now because, when you ride on your way, I do not want my people to think they must cheer the King. I want their cheers to be for you alone.”

“You are so kind to me,” she murmured.

“Know that it shall be my chief task in the future to look to your comfort and pleasure.”

He mounted, then took off his hat and bowed his head; he seemed loth to turn away because that would mean taking his eyes from her.

The King and his horsemen rode off with a clatter of hooves; the Dauphin had leaped in the saddle and the cavalcade was ready to go forward.

“The King is enchanted,” murmured François, “as he could not fail to be.”

Mary was silent; her limbs were trembling so much that she feared it would be noticeable. She wanted to cry out: How much happier I should be if he had shown me indifference.

She could not forget those prominent eyes alight with desire for her. How far off was the marriage ceremony with the shadow of the nuptial bed hanging over it? One day? Two days? Could some miracle happen to save her even now?

In that moment she could almost wish that she had gone to Flanders, because she had heard that Charles was rather a simple-minded boy, a boy whom she might have been able to command; he would have been shy and inexperienced. But this old man who was her husband would never be shy; he was far from inexperienced; and his intentions regarding her had been apparent in his looks and gestures; even in that short time they had been together.

He looked ill. What was the swelling at his neck? She shivered. When he had ridden up he had not looked as though he were near death, decrepit and diseased as he was. Holy Mother, she thought, he could live for years. Years with those dry hot hands making free with her body … years of longing for the handsome virility of Charles.

She wanted to cry out her defiance; and she believed that she was saved from doing so by the sight of that tall figure beside her, whose alert eyes missed little and who, she was sure, knew exactly how she was feeling now. What was it he was attempting to offer? Commiseration? Consolation?

The town of Abbeville lay ahead. Mary felt exhausted, not with the physical exertion of the ride but with mental agitation.

The Dauphin was still talking; he did not wait for her answers; it was as though he understood her feelings perfectly—and was telling her: I chatter merely to give those about us the impression that all is well with you.

He explained how the King was waiting for her in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse which would be his residence during his stay in that town. The people of Abbeville were so honored that the official meeting between the King and his bride should take place in their town that they had decorated the streets and were preparing to show her their pleasure in the union.

“You have ridden far,” he said tenderly, “and this has been a great ordeal for you. Would you care to enter the town in your litter?”

Mary was grateful for the suggestion. In the litter she would feel less exposed; and it was true that she was tired.

“I will ride beside the litter,” François told her with a smile. “So you will not have lost your … protector.”

“Why, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she replied, “the people of France have shown me such courtesy that I do not feel in need of a protector.”

He grimaced in a manner which was charming. “I pray you do not rob me of my role for I have rarely found one more to my taste.”

He turned away to call a halt, when the litter was brought forward and Mary entered it. She made a charming picture sitting there, for the litter was a thing of beauty, being covered with cloth of gold on which was embroidered the golden lilies.

“We must have it open,” François pointed out. “The people will want to see their Queen.”

So, riding in the open litter, Mary came into Abbeville, and when those watching from the city walls witnessed the approach of the party, the order was given for a hundred trumpets and clarions to sound, that their joyous greeting might fill the air. But to Mary they sounded like the notes of doom.

She saw the excited people who called out to her that she was beautiful. Long life to her, the Queen of France. She looked so young sitting there, the cloth of silver falling gracefully about her, her golden hair showing under the jeweled coif. She was more than a beautiful Queen. Recently there had been war with her people; but that was done with, and this lovely young girl was a symbol of the peaceful days ahead.

Through the triumphal arches they went, Mary turning this way and that to acknowledge the greetings, to express wonder at the tableau which the people of Abbeville had erected for her pleasure.

At last they came to the Church of St. Wulfran, where the Queen was helped from her litter that she might be led to the altar in order to adore the host.

She lingered; there was panic within her which forced her to make everything that preceded her meeting with the King to last as long as she could make it.

François was close.

“The King will be impatient,” he whispered. “He is awaiting your coming at the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.”

She nodded pathetically and allowed herself to be led back to her litter, and the journey continued.

The Duke of Norfolk had now taken the place of the Dauphin; he it was whose duty it was to lead her to the King and make the formal introduction. Mary did not like Norfolk because she believed he was no friend of Charles’s. He was a man who was so proud of his rank that he resented it when other men were lifted up to be set on an equal footing with him. He was Norfolk. Why should a man who had nothing—except a handsome face and skill in sport—be given honors so that he could stand as an equal against men who had been born to dignity? Moreover he knew that the Princess Mary had fancied Suffolk, and he believed the fellow had entertained a secret hope that he might marry her. It gave Norfolk grim pleasure that both the Princess and Suffolk had been robbed of that satisfaction.

He would conduct this girl, who had so far forgotten the dignity of her position, to the King of France with the utmost pleasure.

Mary was aware of his sentiments and she felt more desolate than ever. She must face the truth that no one or no thing could save her from her imminent marriage.

Into the great reception hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse Norfolk led the Princess to the King who was waiting to receive her.

With Louis were the highest ranking nobles of France, the Dauphin prominent among them.

Louis embraced his bride and welcomed her to France. He wanted her to know that all those assembled wished to pay her the homage due to her.

He then presented the Dukes of Alençon, Albany and Longueville, with, among others, the Prince of Naples and de la Roche-sur-Ion.

The next stage of the ceremony was a banquet followed by a ball. Louis kept his bride beside him during the former, and when the dancing began he said that he knew she was longing to dance and he was eager to see her do so. It was a matter of chagrin that he himself was unable to do more than open the ball with her and dance a few steps. François was hovering, ready to do his duty as Dauphin; and Louis sadly watched the young pair dancing together. They were a little apart from the others—the most distinguished pair in the ballroom. Never had François looked so kingly; never had Louis felt so envious of the one whom he had come to think of as the Big Boy.

When the ball was over, Mary was taken to the apartment which had been prepared for her; and as, until she had actually undergone the ceremony, it was deemed unfitting that she should sleep under the same roof as the King, she was conducted along a gallery—erected for this purpose—to a house which had been made ready for her and which was on the corner of the street leading to the Rue St. Gilles.

Here Lady Guildford helped her to disrobe. When the jeweled coif was taken from her head, she shook her golden curls about her shoulders, and the robe of cloth of silver fell at her feet; she looked so young and desolate that Lady Guildford had to turn away to hide her emotion.

“So it is to be tomorrow,” said Mary.

“You did not think it could be very long delayed?”

“But tomorrow … it seems so near! Oh, Guildford, what can happen between now and tomorrow?”

“You can get a good night’s sleep, which is what you will need. You will be exhausted if you do not. You cannot hide anything from me, you know; and you have been sleeping badly since this journey began.”

“I want to feel exhausted. I want to be so tired that when I lie down I shall sleep. You see, then I do not have to lie and think.”

“All this honor for you and yet …”

“And yet I am not satisfied. No, I am not. I am most dissatisfied, Guildford. How much do all these jewels cost … all this feasting … all these ceremonies? They are extravagant, are they not? And they are all to honor me, perforce to give me pleasure. Yet how happy I could have been with none of them. What I asked would have cost them so little. Guildford, it makes me laugh.”

“No, no, my dearest. Be calm. We are here, and tomorrow you will marry the King. He seemed to be so kindly, and he loves you already.”

“He loves this face, this body, because it is young and he is old. Yet what does he know of me, Guildford? If he could look into my heart he would hate me, for I …”

Lady Guildford had put her hand over Mary’s lips.

“Hush! You do not know who listens.”

Mary laughed bitterly. “I am guilty of treason,” she whispered. “Treason to the King of France. What then? Shall I be thrown into a dungeon? Let it be. I’d as lief find myself in one of his dungeons as in his bed.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Oh Guildford, I had hoped … I had never thought it would come to this. How can I bear it? You understand, do you not? There is Charles in England, you see, and here am I in France.”

“Others have borne it before you, my dearest.”

“Others have not loved Charles. If I had never seen him, if I had never known him … then perhaps it would have been easier to face this. But I have seen him. I love him, Guildford, and tomorrow night …”

“Hush, my lady. Hush!”

“Hush! Hush!” cried Mary. “That is all you can say? How can I expect comfort from you! What do you know of love? If you understood, you would find some way of helping me. I hate everyone and everything that keeps me from Charles. I should be going to him tomorrow. Do you not understand? Are you so blind, so deaf, so stupid, that you cannot comprehend one little bit of what it means to love as I love him … and to be given to this old man?”

“Come to bed. You need your strength for the morrow.”

“My strength.” She was laughing again, wildly, alarmingly. “I need my strength to face … that. You are right, Guildford.”

“Come, say your prayers. You should be asleep by now.”

“I’ll say my prayers, Guildford. And do you know for what I pray? I pray for a miracle which will prevent my having to go through that ceremony tomorrow, or when I have gone through it, will prevent my being with him through the night. That is what I shall pray for, Guildford. Now you are looking shocked … frightened too. I am weary of pretense and subterfuge. Guildford, you fool, do not pretend you do not know what I pray for is to be made a widow.”

It was Lady Guildford’s turn to cover her face with her hands, to stop up her ears, suddenly to run to the door to make sure none lurked outside, to ask herself in desperation if ever a woman had undertaken such a delicate and dangerous task as conducting this Princess to her husband.

Her terror sobered Mary.

“Be still, Guildford,” she said; “it would seem it is I who must care for you. Come, help me to my bed. I am fainting with weariness.”

“It is for this reason that you talk so wildly. You are overwrought. It has been such a long day.”

“Stop talking nonsense. I am not weary of the saddle, or the litter. I am weary of my fate. That is very different, Guildford. It is not physical weariness that exhausts me. I love and I hate and so fiercely do I both love and hate that I am weary. Come to bed.”

“And to sleep, my love.”

She lay in the bed, and Lady Guildford drew the coverlet over her. She herself would sleep in the same chamber. She was glad that she had dismissed the other attendants; it would have been dangerous for any of them to have witnessed such a scene. Fortunately she, who knew her Princess so well, had seen that coming; that was why she had dismissed them.

Poor sad little Princess—jewels without price were hers; lavish entertainments had been devised in her honor; few could have been fêted as she was; but few could have been more unhappy than she was that night. Yet a simple ceremony in an English church, with no jewels, no brilliant company, no crown, could have made her the happiest woman in the world, providing the right man had shared that ceremony with her.

But she asks the impossible, mused Lady Guildford, which was characteristic of her. She knew that Mary had gone on believing—in the face of circumstances—that this marriage would not take place; that a miracle would happen and that the man who stood beside her and spoke his marriage vows would be Charles Brandon.

Mary had preserved a childlike faith in her destiny; she knew what she wanted; and Lady Guildford was aware that when she achieved it she would be content. But how could she achieve the impossible? How could a royal Princess hope to marry the man of her choice when he was not of royal blood?

And because Mary had believed it possible, because she was capable of enjoying great happiness and knew so unswervingly what she wanted, tomorrow’s wedding would be all the more tragic.

Lady Guildford lay in her bed at the foot of the Princess’s, thinking of these things.

And when she rose to take a look at her charge who lay very still, she saw that she was asleep and that there was a solitary tear on her cheek.

Poor sad little Princess, thought Lady Guildford, so tragically sad, on this night before her wedding.

She was composed on the morrow. She had awakened to the melancholy knowledge that no miracle could happen now; and because she was a princess she must do her duty.

Lady Guildford was greatly relieved by her demeanor; she had had alarming dreams during the night that the Princess stubbornly refused to go through with the ceremony. Now here was the girl, subdued but resigned; and so young and lovely that sorrow had not set its mark on her; it merely seemed to change her personality, and as the King of France had never seen the gay young girl who had lived at her brother’s Court he would not marvel at the difference in this quiet young beauty who was preparing to take her vows with him.

In spite of her sadness, rarely had Mary looked as beautiful as she did in her wedding gown, which was cut in the French fashion and made of cloth of gold edged with ermine. Diamonds had been chosen to decorate it and she seemed ablaze with their fire and sparkle. Her long golden curls had been released from restriction and hung about her shoulders reaching past her waist, and on her head was a coronet made entirely of jewels.

Her attendants who clustered around her, themselves splendidly clad, could not take their eyes from her. Only Mary herself, when she was implored to look at her reflection, did so with blank indifference.

“The time has come,” said Lady Guildford apprehensively, scarcely daring to look at Mary lest she saw the resentment flaring up again.

But Mary only said quietly: “Then we should go.”

From her apartments she walked to the temporary gallery where her white palfrey was waiting for her; and with it were the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquis of Dorset.

She mounted the palfrey and Norfolk and Dorset walked, one on each side of her, as she rode along the gallery to the door of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse. There she dismounted and was led into the hôtel by the two English noblemen.

The ceremony was to take place in the great hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse, an impressive chamber made even more so for this occasion. Tapestries had been hung on the walls and the hangings were of cloth of gold; costly furniture had been brought in for the ceremony; and there was a lovely light which came from the colored windows on which were depicted the exploits of the town’s patron saint, Wulfran.

Slowly Mary made her way across the mosaic floor to where Louis awaited her. He looked well; there was a faint color in his face which was unusual with him, and her first thought was: He will live for years.

Then she was ashamed of the thought, for he was smiling so kindly and she was aware that he had great tenderness for her.

The Cardinal de Brie was waiting to perform the ceremony and two brilliantly attired French nobles advanced with the royal canopy, which they proceeded to hold over Louis and his bride. One of these was the Duc d’Alençon, and the other was François the Dauphin.

The vows were made, Louis had put the nuptial ring on her finger and the nuptial kiss on her lips. She was now his wife and Queen of France.

It was time to celebrate Mass and make their offering, but the King and Queen could not do this last in person; and it was the duty of the first nobleman of the land and the first lady—next to the King and Mary—to perform this on their behalf.

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.