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

The Queen and the Dauphin

BUT NEXT MORNING when the King had risen and she was with her attendants, she thought of Charles and wondered if he were thinking of her this day. Then it seemed to her that she was defiled, and a great melancholy came over her.

She whispered to Lady Guildford: “Send the others away.”

Lady Guildford did so, and when they had gone she took Mary into her arms and rocked her to and fro as she used to when Mary was a child and had needed comfort.

“My dearest Princess,” she murmured. “Tell Guildford.”

“Guildford, it is over.”

“And you are very unhappy?”

Mary nodded. “Because of Charles.”

“Tush!” said Lady Guildford. “And do you think he is weeping at this moment because of you?”

“He is very sad because of me, Guildford.”

“But the King was kind?”

“He is kind. If he were not I should doubtless kill him. And he is very old. He was soon asleep. But I did not sleep, Guildford. I lay there, thinking. …”

“And you are reconciled. I can sense it, dearest. I know you so well.”

“It won’t last, Guildford. That’s why.”

Then suddenly she threw her arms about Lady Guildford’s neck. It was the first time she had given way to such tempestuous weeping.

The King came in. He saw the tears; he saw the embrace.

Mary started to her feet, while Guildford rose and curtsied deeply.

Louis was smiling. “Leave us,” he said to Lady Guildford; and she went.

Mary, her cheeks wet, stood waiting for her husband to ask the reason for her tears; but he did not. She was to learn that it was a point of etiquette at the French Court to avoid seeing or talking of anything that might prove embarrassing.

“My love,” said Louis, taking her hands and kissing them, “I came to give you this.”

He took from his pocket a ring in which was set one of the largest rubies Mary had ever seen.

“Thank you,” she said. “It is very beautiful.”

“Let us try it on your finger.”

He put it on and held her hand admiringly.

“You do not like jewels, my little Queen?” he asked.

“They are very beautiful,” she answered.

“You must learn to love jewels. They become you so.”

He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it affectionately.

“They are planning a ball for this day,” he told her. “I shall enjoy seeing you dance. Why, you are as light as thistledown and as lovely as a spring day.”

The morning was over when Lady Guildford was able to visit her mistress. Mary took one look at her faithful governess and was alarmed, for Lady Guildford was no longer her calm self; her eyes were wild and there was a hot flush in her cheeks.

She embraced Mary as though she would never let her go.

“Guildford, what is it?” demanded Mary.

“It is goodbye, my dearest.”

“Goodbye!”

“I have had orders to leave for England at once.”

“But you cannot. I need you here.”

“The King does not think so.”

“You mean he has told you that you must go!”

“Not the King in person. But his wishes have been made clear to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He feels I have too much influence over you. He wants you to become wholly French. He saw you with me this morning, dearest. He did not like to see you crying in my arms.”

“I must speak to him. I won’t let you go.”

“He has made up his mind.”

“But we have been together since …”

“Since you were a baby, yes. But you are in no need of a governess now. You are a queen and a wife.”

“I won’t have it, Guildford. I tell you I won’t.”

Mary hurried to the door.

“Where are you going?” Lady Guildford cried in alarm.

Mary turned, her eyes blazing. “I am going to tell the King that I shall choose my own attendants.”

“Dearest, I beg of you, have a care. You will do no good to either of us.”

Mary ignored her and, with blazing eyes and flaming cheeks, ran from the room.

It seemed accidental, but it might not have been, that Marguerite, Duchesse d’Alençon, was in the anteroom through which Mary had to pass on her way to the King’s apartments.

“Madame,” cried Marguerite in alarm, “something is amiss?”

“My attendants are being dismissed,” cried Mary. “Lady Guildford, who has been with me all my life, is being sent back to England.”

“I am so sorry.”

Mary would have passed on, but Marguerite said: “Madame, I should like to help you if you would allow me.”

“Help me?”

“Yes. You are going to the King, are you not?”

“Certainly I am going to the King.”

“I beg of you, do not act rashly. The King appears to be mild but, when he has made up his mind, is very determined.”

“If he has made up his mind on this matter he must unmake it.”

“Madame, forgive me, but you have little experience of our Court. The King has already given orders that your retinue is to be reduced. If you asked him to allow your attendants to remain, he could not grant your wishes because he has already given this order. It would grieve all your friends that your first request to the King should be refused—but refused it would be.”

“I have found the King kind,” retorted Mary; and she went on her way.

The Dauphin and the Duc d’Alençon were with the King when Mary burst in on them. The three men looked surprised, for it seemed that the Queen was ignorant of French etiquette, since she came in thus, unannounced.

François was secretly amused and delighted to see her, as he told himself he always would be. She would have to learn the importance of etiquette at the French Court; doubtless in her brother’s, gracious manners were not of such importance as they were here.

Louis came to her and gently took her hand.

“I want Lady Guildford to remain with me,” she said.

“Lady Guildford?” Louis repeated gently.

“She has been my governess since I was a child. And now she is being sent away, and she tells me that others are going back to England with her.”

“Ah, yes,” said Louis quietly. “I live simply here, and you must perforce do the same. You will not need all the attendants and servants whom you have brought with you. So they must go back to their native land.”

“But …”

She looked from Louis to François, who had raised his eyebrows and was shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

She wanted to tell them that she cared nothing for their French manners. She was angry; she was desolate and she would let them know it.

“The arrangements have been made,” went on Louis, and although he smiled and spoke with the utmost gentleness she saw the purpose in his eyes.

“I was not consulted,” Mary complained.

“My dear little Queen, we did not wish to disturb you with such matters, and it is my custom to decide who shall remain at my Court.”

“Lady Guildford …”

The King said to François, “Have my daughter and your sister brought here. They will look after the Queen and show her that she has new friends to replace those who are going.”

“But I want …”

“You want these ladies to be brought to you? It shall be done.”

Mary suddenly felt gauche, young and helpless. She saw that Marguerite d’Alençon was right. She had been foolish to rush in in this way. She should have waited until she was alone with the King and then tried to persuade him. Now she had spoiled everything.

François, who had returned to the King’s side, was giving her a look which was both tender and a warning; and she warmed toward him because she believed that he was trying to help her.

Almost immediately the page was announcing the arrival of Claude and Marguerite. Claude looked sullen, Marguerite lovely and eager.

“My dears,” said Louis affably, “the Queen is feeling a little unhappy because some of her English friends have to leave for their home. I want you two to look after her, to take their places.”

“Yes, Sire,” said Marguerite, while Claude mumbled inaudibly.

“Go with the Queen back to her apartments and explain to her how useful you intend to make yourselves.”

Feeling foolish and frustrated, Mary left the King’s presence with her two new attendants.

Louis’s delight in his bride grew stronger, and, because he wished to compensate her for the loss of her English attendants, the next day he gave her a tablet covered in diamonds and a pendant of pearls.

Mary accepted the gifts with thanks but inward indifference. She had written at once to Henry and Wolsey telling them of her indignation over the dismissal of her friends, and imploring them to take up this matter with her husband.

But as those days passed she became slightly reconciled for two reasons. The first was that Marguerite had become her friend, and Marguerite was, in truth, much more interesting and entertaining than dear old Lady Guildford could ever be. Marguerite’s mother, Louise of Savoy, was also making herself agreeable and, as the Dauphin sought every opportunity of being in her company, she found that this fascinating trio were helping her through the difficult days.

The other reason was that the excitement of his wedding and the days and nights which followed had been too much for Louis. His gout had become worse and was alarming his doctors.

Louis called Mary to his couch one day and, when they were alone together, he took her hand and smiled at her regretfully.

“My dear,” he said, “I greatly desire to see you crowned and make your ceremonial entry into Paris, but as you see, I am confined to my couch, and my physicians tell me that it would be unwise for me to leave Abbeville for some days.”

“I fancy,” said Mary, “that you have been departing from your quiet life during the last days and this is not good for you. You must rest more.”

“But, my dear, I want you to know how pleased we all are to have you with us, and it is only fitting that we should make merry. It is my wish that the balls and banquets should go on.”

“But you should rest more,” said Mary. “I am your wife and I shall insist that you do.”

He was touched that she could be so concerned for his health, and Mary was quick to seize the advantage. She took on the role of a charming little nurse and gave orders in the King’s apartment.

“This afternoon you shall rest on your couch and I will sit beside you and talk to you if you wish. Or I can be silent.”

What an enchanting creature she was—so young and yet willing to forgo the pleasures of the hunt or the banquet for the sake of her husband.

He told her this, taking her hand and kissing it as he did so; and when she sensed that he was inclined to become amorous she raised a finger and put on a stern expression.

“I am going to command you in this matter. You are to rest; and there must be no excitements.”

He allowed her to take charge. He found it very pleasant to lie back on his couch, the delightful creature beside him, listening to her quaint accent which he found quite fascinating, while she occasionally soothed his hot brow with sweet unguents; and although she allowed him to stroke her arms she was very insistent that caresses should stop there.

“I have to consider what is good for you,” said the charming child.

It was so comforting to realize that she was young and inexperienced, that she accepted his shortcomings as a lover; indeed insisted that he should not exert himself.

Each day he gave her a jewel. He had put several trinkets aside for her, and he doled them out one by one—partly because he was a man who always liked to get the utmost return for what he paid out; partly because she expressed as much pleasure over one small jewel as she would have done over twenty.

He contemplated that rarely had he been so contented in his life, and his greatest regret was that when he had married Mary Tudor he was fifty-two instead of twenty-two.

He did not wish, of course, to allow life to become dull for her. He had dismissed her English attendants because he believed they had too much influence over her, and when she was upset he did not want her to cry in the arms of Lady Guildford but in his. That little disturbance was now settled, thanks to Marguerite de Valois who was as scintillating a companion as anyone could have.

He sent for the Dauphin. François came at once to his couch. Louis was not so pleased with François; there was something sly about the Big Boy. Outwardly he was too gay, and he could not be feeling gay. If Mary gave birth to a son—not an impossibility—that would be the end of François’s hopes; so what had he to be gay about?

Definitely the boy was sly. Now he was doubtless amused because an old man had become too excited over his marriage to a beautiful young girl and consequently had to take to his couch for a few days.

“My boy,” he said, “I have decided to delay leaving Abbeville for a few days. The gout is troubling me and my physicians say I need rest. I cannot therefore escort the Queen as I would like to, and I do not wish that all the balls and banquets should be canceled. As the nobleman of highest rank you should take my place at the Queen’s side.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“The Queen understands. In fact she is most charmingly solicitous of my health. I shall be present at the festivities, but you must lead the Queen in the dance and talk to her when I am weary.”

François bowed his head. It was duty he could contemplate with the utmost pleasure.

François was in love. This was not an infrequent occurrence, but in this case the situation held a certain piquancy.

He loved her golden hair and her perfectly formed body; he loved her English accent; but what appealed to him more than anything was that latent fire which he sensed within her. When aroused she would be a passionate creature, and François longed to be the one to arouse her. The fact that she was recently married to the King brought such an element of danger into the relationship as to make it absolutely irresistible to one of François’s temperament.

He had received no greater blow to his hopes than when the King had married; he had even felt—rare for him—depressed. He needed some glorious adventure to give life a new zest. A love affair in itself would not have been enough—he had had so many of them already; but a love affair with the recently married Queen, which could place them both in jeopardy, would give life the excitement which at this time he greatly needed.

He was constantly at the Queen’s side. A little touch of the hand, a burning intensity in the eyes, the caressing note in his voice, the words which were full of a hidden meaning … surely they were enough to tell Mary the state of his feelings?

She pretended not to understand these indications; and he was sure it was pretense. She was not as innocent as she would have them all believe. And the fact that he was not quite sure what was going on behind those beautiful blue eyes only added to her fascination.

He became angry if anyone else attempted to dance with her; he made it clear that, while the King was indisposed, it was the task and privilege of the Dauphin to entertain the Queen.

Mary was fully aware of his feelings, and she was grateful to him as she was finding these days at Abbeville so wretched on account of her longing for Charles; François’s attempt to involve her in an intrigue enlivened the days, particularly as she had no intention of becoming involved, while at the same time it was amusing not to let him know this.

She enjoyed showing wide-eyed innocence, as though his innuendoes passed over her head. She did not for one moment believe that the Dauphin’s feelings were deeply involved. They both needed excitement at this time; she because she was an unwilling bride; he because the marriage which had proved such a tragedy for her was one for him also. She could see that ambition was strong behind the insouciant manner and witty frivolity. François wanted to take revenge on Louis for marrying again, by making love to Louis’s wife.

Thus she was being caught up in an intrigue which amused her; and desperately she needed to be amused.

Louise sought out Marguerite. Louise was very apprehensive, and Marguerite mildly so.

“Marguerite,” cried Louise, “François is constantly with the Queen.”

“The King being indisposed, it is the place of the Dauphin to look after her.”

“I know my son well. He is becoming enamored of that English girl.”

“She is very beautiful,” Marguerite agreed.

“Have you considered what might come out of this?”

“Thoughts have entered my head.”

“Louis will never get a healthy son. But if those two were lovers … why, Marguerite, can you doubt what the result would be? It would be inevitable. And she would pass it off as Louis’s.”

“You mean your grandson and my nephew would take the throne from his father.”

“Unacknowledged! It would be a tragedy.”

“Maman, this is wildest imagination.”

“It could be fact. Admit it, Marguerite. François, bless him, is virile, as he should be. He is in love with the Queen, and can you doubt the Queen’s feelings for him! She pretends that she is unmoved. My dear Marguerite, could any woman remain unmoved by François? I tell you our beloved is in danger of losing the throne … not through Louis—poor impotent old man … but by his own actions.”

“Our François is no fool, Maman.”

“He is brilliant, I grant you. His wit sparkles and makes the Court a gay place. But his emotions are strong, as is natural in all young men. Let the Queen succumb … and how can she help it? … and we shall be hearing that she is pregnant. Louis, the old fool, will be beside himself with glee and within a year there will be a little dauphin in the royal nurseries. I tell you we are in danger … the utmost danger.”

“What do you propose to do, Maman? Point out the danger to François?”

“François has realized the danger. He must have. Do you remember how he always courted danger? He is daring—and I would not have him otherwise—but daring in this case could be fatal to his future. I remember the time when as a boy he let a bull loose in the courtyards of Amboise. He himself slew it … but he was risking his life and knew it. He loves risks. They are the salt of life to him. And now he is ready to take this one. I see it in his face. I know my François.”

“Maman, should we speak to him?”

“I am uncertain, daughter. He is no longer a boy. I know that he likes to make his own decisions and, although he would listen to us courteously as he always has, yet by pointing out the hazards we might increase the enchantment.”

“We must watch this affair closely,” Marguerite murmured.

“And you are near the Queen. You must take an opportunity of pointing out the dangers to her.”

Marguerite was thoughtful. But there was no denying that she was as anxious as her mother.

Mary had been riding and as she went up to her apartment Marguerite intimated that she wished to be alone with her, and the other attendants were dismissed.

“My poor little sister-in-law is not very happy,” Marguerite began. “It is sad for her that she is so different from my brother. They are not well matched. Do you agree, Madame?”

“They are not alike in temperament, but I have heard that people of different types are often attracted to each other.”

“Poor Claude! I fear it is inevitable that she should be a little jealous.”

“Is she of a jealous nature?”

“I believe that, like most of us, if she thought she had reason to be jealous, she could be so.”

“And has she reason?”

“Having recently acquired such a beautiful stepmother, only a year or so older than herself, must necessarily accentuate her own ungainliness, particularly when …,” Marguerite hesitated and Mary raised her eyebrows enquiringly, “… when her husband seems so very much aware of that stepmother’s charm.”

“You are telling me that Claude is jealous … on my account!” Mary’s surprise was clearly feigned, and she meant Marguerite to know that it was.

“François is so clearly attracted to you.”

“Then should you not speak to him? I can assure you that I have done nothing to make Claude jealous.”

“He is impetuous and reckless.”

“I see.” Mary turned her clear gaze on Marguerite. “I certainly think you should warn him in that case.”

Marguerite laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “If the King were to be aware of this …”

Mary said coolly: “I can set your mind at rest. There is nothing in the matter that I am aware of which could give the King the slightest cause for displeasure.”

She was reminding Marguerite that she was the Queen of France, and that she had no wish to discuss the matter further; but secretly she was amused because she had learned a great deal about the relationships of that family. Louise of Savoy had been tortured all through her life by fear that a son of Louis might follow his father to the throne. And now they had actually gone so far as to believe that she might be François’s lover and have a child which she would pretend was Louis’s.

In her present position it was good to have something to laugh at. François greatly desired the crown and yet the need to satisfy his sexual impulses was so demanding that he was prepared to risk the first in order to assuage the second! And the devoted mother and sister were fearfully looking on.

She might have said to them: François shall never be my lover. There is only one who could be that, and he is in England.

But the knowledge of intrigue around her was helping her through these melancholy days.

The royal party had been at Abbeville for almost a fortnight, and Louis was showing signs of recovery. Mary, still acting as nurse, watched him uneasily as she sat by his couch.

He took her hand and said: “Thanks to our ministrations I am beginning to recover.”

“You must be very careful not to exert yourself too much,” said Mary quickly.

“Have no fear. I think we shall be able to leave here within a few days, and our first stop shall be at Beauvais. I have a surprise for you.”

Mary opened her eyes wide in an endeavor to express excitement. A ruby? A diamond? She knew what his surprises usually were and she was beginning to dread them because she must pretend to show enthusiasm which she could not possibly feel.

“We shall have a joust to celebrate your coronation, and I thought that it would please you if we made it a contest between the country of your birth and your adopted one. It would be a symbol of the friendship between us. The people will remember that not long ago we were fighting each other in a real war. Now we will have a mock-battle and see who is the more skilled in the joust.”

“There are few Englishmen here who would be able to give a good account of themselves.”

“I know, and this must be a fair contest. So I thought it would please you if I wrote to your brother and asked him to send over some of his most skilled knights to challenge ours. This I have done.”

For a moment she found speech impossible. She was asking herself: Whom will Henry send?

“I can see that the thought of this match between the two countries please you more than jewels. I am content.”

“You are very good to me,” murmured Mary.

He laughed. “Remember though that you are a Frenchwoman now. You must support us, you know.”

“We shall see,” she answered.

They left Abbeville for Beauvais and as she rode beside the King, acknowledging the cheers of the people, Mary was asking herself the question: Is it possible? Would Henry send Charles?

Louis had said that he was asking that the most skilled men might be sent. In that case Charles must come. For the honor of England he must come. Henry would see to that. Yet, knowing the state of her feelings, would Henry consider it unwise to send Charles?

Rarely had she looked so beautiful as she did then; there was a suppressed excitement in her eyes which did not pass unnoticed by Marguerite.

The Queen is in love? she thought. Has it gone as far as that? Oh, François, beloved, have a care.

It was a golden October day when they rode into Beauvais; and as they reached the mansion where they were to stay for the night, Mary was alert for a sign of the English party.

A banquet had been prepared in the great hall, and she had taken her place at the center table, when the news was brought to the King that the English knights had arrived.

“Have them brought in at once,” was Louis’s answer. “We must give them a good welcome, for they come on behalf of my good brother, the King of England.”

And so the doors were thrown open and as the Englishmen came in, Mary caught her breath with wonder; for they were led—as was only natural that they should be—by Charles Brandon. And there he was coming to the center table, his eyes on the King, betraying only by a twitch of a muscle that all his thoughts were for the young woman who sat silently there, her cheeks aflame, her eyes sparkling as no one in France had seen them sparkle yet.

She must see him. Who would help her now? If only Lady Guildford were with her! But Louis had artfully removed all her English attendants except little Anne Boleyn who, he considered, was too young to influence her.

She dared confide in no one. Marguerite was a friend—up to a point—but only when by being so she could do no harm to her brother. And if she told Marguerite that the man she loved was in Beauvais and she must have an interview with him alone, Marguerite would immediately suspect that Charles might take the place of François in that wild drama she and her mother had conjured up. Therefore, Marguerite would never help her arrange a meeting with her lover—in fact, for the sake of François, might even betray her to Louis.

Perhaps it was natural that she should wish to receive the party from her brother’s Court. If they came to her she could flash a message to Charles who would be ready for it.

This was what she did when, headed by Charles, the Englishmen came to her apartment. Of course her French attendants were present. Nevertheless she must do the best she could.

How happy she was to see him kneeling before her, taking her hand in his, putting his lips to it. She was trying to communicate all her feelings to him, and she knew by the pressure of his hand that he understood.

“It pleases me to see you here,” she said.

He told her that her brother sent her affectionate messages and there were letters which he would bring to her.

“Yes … yes,” she answered.

She must receive the others; she must murmur platitudes to them. She must tell them how excited she was at the thought of the coming joust, and she hoped they would conduct themselves with honor for England.

Oh Charles, she thought, stay near me.

He understood. He was by her side. He said quietly: “Are you happy?”

“What do you think?” Her voice was sharp and bitter.

“You are more beautiful than ever.”

“I must see you alone,” she said. Then added hastily: “Come back in five minutes’ time after the party have gone. I will endeavor to be alone except for young Anne Boleyn.”

He bowed his head and she turned away lest Norfolk, who was with the party, should be suspicious.

Now she was impatient for them to be gone, and afraid that if they lingered much longer the King would come to her apartments.

But at last they went, and she dismissed her attendants, saying that she was going to rest for an hour; and to avoid suspicion kept little Anne with her.

He came back, as they had arranged; and she commanded little Anne to sit on the stool near the door of the main apartment while she drew Charles into a small adjoining chamber. If anyone came to the door, Anne was to tell them her mistress was resting.

It was dangerous, but Mary was ready to take risks. An interview alone with Charles was worth anything she might be asked to pay for it.

They embraced hungrily.

“My love,” said Charles, “I have lived it all with you.”

“Oh, Charles!” She was half laughing, half crying, as she touched his face with her fingers. “I can’t believe it, you see. I have to keep assuring myself that you are here.”

He kissed her urgently.

“We must be careful,” he said at length. “Did you notice Norfolk’s watchful eyes? That fellow hates me.”

“A curse on Norfolk.”

“I agree, my dearest, but he could do us much harm.”

“You mean he could tell Louis that I love you.”

“He could have me sent back to England.”

That sobered her. “Oh, Charles, we must be careful.”

“I should not be here. At any moment we might be discovered.”

“The little Boleyn will give the warning.”

“That child would not protect us. Mary … Mary … what shall we do?”

“When Louis dies and I am free I shall marry where I wish. You know where that will be.”

“But to talk of the King’s death …”

“Is treason, and we should die for it. Then I should not have to spend any more nights in his bed.”

“Hush, Mary. Was it … terrible?”

She shivered. “I lay awake all that first night thanking God and his saints that he was an old man. He apologized for his breathlessness, for his inability. I wanted to shout, Do not apologize to me, Louis. I want to sing Glory to God because of it.”

“And so … ?”

“Do not ask me to speak of it. But he has been ill since. Alas, he tells me he is getting rapidly better. It will begin again. But it won’t be for long, Charles. I feel it won’t be for long. I am certain of it, and that is why I can endure it, because, Charles, I have Henry’s promise that when it is over I shall marry where it pleases me to do so.”

“You grow too excited.”

“Can I help that? The one I love is here and I am in his arms. Who would not be excited?”

“I must not stay. You may depend upon it we shall be watched. I don’t trust Norfolk.”

“But you are here … in France. Oh, this is the happiest day I have known since I came to this land. Stay near me, Charles.”

“I shall as long as it is in my power. But, dearest, let us be cautious … for the sake of the future.”

“The future, Charles. I live for it.”

Once more they were in a close embrace. Then he slipped out of the small chamber into the main apartment where the little Boleyn sat, her great dark eyes filled with dreamy speculation.

The royal cavalcade was now journeying across Picardy toward the capital. Louis no longer suffered so acutely and could take pleasure in his bride. Mary’s moods were variable. Sometimes she felt rebellious and there were occasions when she told herself that she could not endure her husband’s embraces; at others she was resigned, for afterward the poor man always seemed so exhausted. Then Charles’s presence in the party made her feel recklessly gay. Life was never dull because all the time she felt as though she were living on the edge of disaster, for with the man she loved so near, she believed she could not continue to control her feelings.

Those about her noticed the change in her. Her beauty had become more vital.

Marguerite, watching her closely, thought: There is a woman in love.

And because it was inconceivable to Marguerite that any woman could be indifferent to François, she naturally thought that Mary was in love with her brother.

François thought so too; and so did Louise. They all felt themselves to be on the verge of an inflammable situation, disastrous from the point of view of them all while it was yet irresistible to François.

Mary became more aware of those two women and, understanding the reason for their apprehension, an innate streak of mischief made her long to mislead them. After all they had first conceived the myth.

There was more than mischief in it; there was sound common sense, because presumably she had been unable to hide the fact that she was in love. No one could think it was with Louis, and they must not guess it was with Charles Brandon. Therefore they must believe it was with François.

Her manner toward the Dauphin was changing; she showed quite frankly how she delighted in his company.

The more nervous Louise and Marguerite became, the more hopeful was François.

And Mary was diverted enough to laugh secretly as she amused herself at their expense.

Louis would not be content until Mary was crowned Queen of France; and as he did not wish to enter Paris until she could do so as crowned Queen he was anxious for the ceremony to take place as soon as possible. He continued to present her almost daily with some jewel; and he told her that he hoped very much to regain his health so that he could be more like the husband she deserved.

She told him—fervently truthful—that she preferred him as he was; which he thought charmingly tactful. He discussed the coming celebrations with her, adding that he thought that tall Englishman would be a good match for the Dauphin.

“I look forward to see them in combat,” he added; “I hear that man is something of a champion at your brother’s Court.”

“I believe the Duke of Suffolk to be second only to my brother in the joust.”

Louis laughed. “A diplomat into the bargain, eh?”

Mary thought then that the French were often a little too subtle; perhaps that was why she enjoyed leading Marguerite and Louise a merry little dance.

“Now, my dear,” said Louis, “I shall be forced to leave you at St. Dennis for a few days, because I must go to Paris. There are matters of state to which I have to give my attention. Your coronation will take place here and then there will be your triumphant journey into the capital. The people of Paris are eagerly waiting to welcome you.”

“I trust they will be pleased with me.”

“They will love you as we all do. I have only one regret and that is that I must leave you.”

Mary kissed him gently on the brow. She did not want him to see the relief which she feared might show in her face.

The King had gone on ahead to Paris, and the coronation was to take place in a few days.

François joined the Queen as she rode out with her attendants.

“It is the only way in which I can have a word with you in private,” he complained.

“You deceive yourself. We are being watched now. Do you not know that we are always being watched?”

“What an evil fate is this? You come to marry the King of France, and I might so easily have been that King!”

“You are rash.”

“Driven to it by your beauty.”

“Do you forget that ears are straining at this moment to hear what you say to me?”

“Surely they do not need to strain. They must guess. What could I be expected to say to the most beautiful woman I have ever seen?”

“You might be expected to be a faithful husband and remember that I am the wife of your King.”

“That would be asking too much of me.”

“I do not think the King would be pleased if he knew that you speak such words to me.”

“It is not my wish to please the King.”

“François, you are very reckless.”

“You shall discover that I can be more so.”

“To what purpose?”

“When can I see you alone that I may explain to you?”

“I am listening now.”

“This needs more than words. If you would come to an apartment I know …”

“I … come to an apartment! I do not think I have heard aright.”

“Disguised of course. We should both be disguised. It can be done. It is always amusing to be incognito. Do you not agree?”

“I have had no experience of that.”

“There are so many delightful experiences waiting for you.”

“And you propose to be my tutor?”

“I should be the happiest man alive if I were that.”

She laughed and slackened her pace so that she was close to those attendants who had fallen back.

François was disappointed, but he was certain he had made some progress. He had met opposition only once, and that was with poor simple little Françoise. The only woman who had ever refused him! But she was a virtuous woman; there had been no fire in Françoise.

How different was this lovely, vital girl.

Passion was strong in her; and he was certain that she was in love.

In the Cathedral of St. Dennis, François, the Dauphin, took the hand of the Queen and led her to the altar. As she knelt on a cushion which had been put there for that purpose, from a quiet corner of the cathedral Louis watched her. He had not wanted the people to know that he was present, because this was her day and he had no wish to distract attention from her.

His eyes were a little misty as he watched her. Tears came easily in age as they had in extreme youth, and he was deeply moved by her beauty. She looked so young in her dazzling robes with that wonderful hair, which he loved to caress, falling about her shoulders. There could never have been a more beautiful Queen of France, and he would never cease to regret that she had come to him in the days of his infirmity.

Cardinal de Brie was anointing her, and she remained still as a statue while the sacred oil was poured on her head. Now the scepter was being placed in her right hand, the rod of justice in her left, the ring on her finger. De Brie held the crown matrimonial over her head; it seemed too massive for that feminine fragility and Louis trusted it would not cause a headache.

The ceremony of crowning her Queen of France was almost over, and she was moving toward the chair of state on the left side of the high altar. It was the duty of the Dauphin to lead her to it; and she in her splendor, he in his elegance, must surely make all consider how well matched they were.

Poor François! Poor Mary! Fate could so easily have given them to each other. If I had died a few months ago, mused Louis, there would still have been a need to make an English marriage. If my poor Claude had not married François, and he had been free …

But it was not so. Life did not work out as smoothly as that. And now this beautiful young girl was his wife, and poor misshapen Claude was united with François.

Louis shrugged his shoulders. When one was old one realized that all glories, all sorrows, passed away in time. In time, yes. For time was always the victor.

They were singing Mass and François had taken his stand behind the chair of state that he might hold the heavy crown over the Queen’s head to relieve her of its weight.

And afterward, to the sound of trumpets the party, accompanied by the leading noblemen and women of France, left the cathedral.

In the royal apartments Louis embraced his Queen.

“You are now truly Queen of France, my dear,” he said. “And it gave me great pleasure to witness your coronation.”

“It was an impressive ceremony, and I trust I did all that was expected of me.”

“You acted with perfect composure as you always do.”

She was momentarily moved because of his pride in her; and she was ashamed because of the many times she had wished him dead. She still did, but she was sorry that it had to be; and she had an impulse then to throw herself on to her knees before him and beg him to understand the motive behind her desires. She wanted to explain: It is not you personally, Louis, for you have shown me nothing but goodness; it is simply that, having been forced to marry when I love elsewhere, I cannot live without hope that I may one day be free.

He was shrewd, she knew; and often she wondered whether he understood more than he let her believe. Had he noticed the change in her since the arrival of the English party? Others had—Marguerite for instance. Marguerite was clever, yet like most people had her blind spot, and that was where her brother was concerned. She thought that every woman must be in love with him and ready to follow when he beckoned; and he had certainly beckoned to Mary.

Life was too complicated; and she was simple in her desires. She knew what she wanted—so few people did that—and when one knew so certainly, it was possible to make a straight path toward it. She was as certain of this as she was of being alive: one day she would marry Charles, because Louis must die sooner or later and, when he did so, she had her brother’s permission to marry where she would. It was this knowledge which helped her to live through these days.

She wished it were possible to explain all this to this kind, tired old man; but of course it was not. Louis was tolerant and indulgent—but not to the extent he would need to be to accept such a situation.

When they retired she said: “I am so tired tonight.”

“My dear,” he replied, stroking the long golden curls, “it has been an exhausting day for you.”

She lay down and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. He bent over her and kissed her forehead gently before lying down beside her.

Perhaps he was relieved; for he too was very tired. He was asleep almost at once. She was not. She lay breathing as quietly as she could, trying to propel herself into the future, reminding herself that every hour that passed was bringing her nearer and nearer to her heart’s desire.

And in the morning Louis left for Paris. He wanted to be there to receive her when she made her ceremonial entry into his capital.

The grand procession was moving toward Paris, led by a guard of Swiss archers, the heralds of France and England, and the peers of France. The noblemen themselves followed with the Princes of the Blood Royal leading; and it seemed that each had endeavored to outdo all others by the splendor of his equipage.

Mary herself rode in her litter; she was dressed in cloth of gold and on her head was her glittering crown; with her hair falling about her shoulders she looked like a fairy queen. Beside the litter, mounted on a magnificent charger, himself a-glitter with jewels, rode the Dauphin.

He chatted lightly with her as they rode along, but behind his conversation was the urgency of his desire. He told her that there had never been a queen or a woman in the world to compare with her; and she listened complacently, all the time wondering whether she would see Charles at the banquet and whether she could arrange to have him beside her.

“Since you have come to France you are more beautiful than ever,” he told her. “I ask myself why this should be.”

She smiled absentmindedly and he went on: “I think I know. You have become happier, since you have been in France, than you were when you arrived.”

“That may be so.”

“And that is due to some of us … or one of us?”

She smiled at the group of people who were calling greetings to her.

“When we are in Paris,” went on François, “it will be easier for us to meet.”

“In Paris?” she repeated idly.

“You shall see.”

“I shall see,” she echoed, and the Dauphin was satisfied.

They had reached the Porte St. Dennis on which a tableau had been set up, and there was a halt to admire it. It represented a ship in which were sailors who chanted a welcome to the beautiful Queen.

This was the first of the tableaux and what were called mysteries; at several points in the city they had been set up and at each of them the cavalcade must stop while praises were sung to the Queen. Thus the journey to Notre Dame was punctuated by many halts; and when the cathedral was reached and Mary was received there, and had attended the service in her honor, she was beginning to feel tired because it was nearly six o’clock. But the long day was by no means over. She would have supper at the Palais de la Cité, but this she must do in public and during the meal she would be the center of attention. She dared not show how weary she was. She must continue to smile; and all the time she was watchful because she knew that somewhere among the crowds who stared at her was Charles Brandon, and she would certainly see him at the joust, which would take place within a few days’ time, to celebrate her coronation.

Always the Dauphin was at her side; continually he whispered to her, waiting for her to give him that encouragement for which he sought and which he was certain he would soon be given.

Louis had taken up his residence at the Hôtel des Tournelles so that, he had said, all the attention should be concentrated on the Queen. Mary wondered whether he was glad to escape the ceremonies. At the Tournelles he would be resting in his apartment, eating simple food which had been specially prepared for him, and going to bed early, so that when she joined him he would be ready, as he said and as she dreaded, to be a good husband to her.

In the meantime she had some respite, and she strove to forget what the future held for her. Tonight she would be alone.

In the grande salle of the Palais de la Cité, Mary took her seat which had been placed on that tablet of marble from which proclamations were made. The room—which was two hundred and twenty-two feet in length—was hung with rich tapestry; and round the walls were effigies of the Kings of France, from Pharamond, that Knight of the Round Table who was said to have been the first King of France and reigned in the fifth century, to Louis XII himself.

Mary’s attendants were headed by Claude and Marguerite, and she was conscious of their watchful eyes, particularly when François was near. She felt sorry for poor Claude and wanted to tell her that she need have no fear, and that she herself had no intention of becoming François’s mistress. Not that that would prevent him from giving the poor creature cause for jealousy.

How different it will be when Charles and I are married! sighed Mary.

She was thankful on account of her good health that day, for it had been a long and trying ordeal; and as she sat in that magnificent hall she suddenly saw the English party among the diners, and with them Charles.

Across the assembly their eyes met, conveying messages of love and longing.

Mary was no longer weary; and none who had not witnessed the day’s pageantry would have guessed that she had been the center of it; she was gay, fresh and sparkling.

Many people watching her said to themselves: “The Queen is in love.” And because the Dauphin was never far from her side, because he too was unable to hide his feelings, it was whispered that a delicate contretemps was brewing.

“Watch the Dauphin and the Queen!” was the whisper that passed round the hall.