Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (9 page)

The crush was great as they entered the hall, but Mary and her train were assisted by the guards who lined the route. And as Mary made her way to the altar, she saw by the dim light thrown by the windows decorated to show the deeds of St Wolfran, that the king awaited her. He was clothed, like Mary, in cloth of gold and was seated on a chair. At her appearance, Louis doffed his cap. Mary sank into a deep curtsey and, as she rose, Louis gave her a warm embrace. He seated her on a chair by his side, over which the high nobles of France held a canopy.

Robertet, the treasurer approached the king and handed him a necklace set with a great pointed diamond and a matchless ruby. Mary was unable to conceal yet another shiver as Louis’ clammy hands fastened this costly bridal gift around her neck, while his none-too-sweet breath fanned her cheek.

The marriage ceremony she had tried so hard to avoid began, conducted by the Cardinal of Bayeux. He sang the Mass, illuminated by the candles held by the princes of the blood. Mary kept her hands tightly clasped to still their nervous tremor till the Cardinal handed her and Louis half of a wafer each. Louis, after he had kissed and received his, turned and kissed the trembling Mary.

The ceremony was the long one she had been warned to expect. Weary, and emotionally drained long before its end, it was finally over and Mary was free to leave. She swept to the floor in another deep curtsey and departed to her state apartments to dine privately with the French royal ladies as she had been told was the custom. Given the presence of Louise of Savoy, Francis’ ambitious and, for the moment, at least, thwarted mother, Mary was glad of the sympathetic Claude’s more friendly company as her own ladies were to dine separately in the great hall.

Anticipating some critical conversational barbs during the meal, and still feeling queasy, Mary could hardly eat a bite of all the rich food that was served to her by the Duke of Albany and the French officers. But then the appraising expressions of the royal French ladies did little enough to encourage an appetite. But at least it seemed they all admired one thing about her — her brother Henry. They had heard tell of his handsome looks and his intellectual pursuits and were eager to learn more of him. And although it had been her kingly brother who had forced this match on her, Mary was still proud of him and was glad to have the opportunity to praise him to the arrogant French ladies.

After she had satisfied their curiosity about Henry the talk moved to other things. Mary felt excluded from the conversation, an intruder at her own table, as her French wasn’t quick enough to grasp the fast flow of the conversation. She wondered if this speedy speech was a deliberate attempt to snub Louis’ English bride. She grew pensive, but came out of her reverie at the sound of muffled giggles. She could only guess these were at her expense as she intercepted several sly glances in her direction. Mary felt her skin flush. It betrayed the fact that her knowledge of French was rather better than her companions had been led to expect and a few of them had the grace to look as if they shared her embarrassment.

Had she last night encouraged Francis a little more than was seemly? The French ladies certainly seemed to think so, judging from the few of their critical comments that she had caught. Forced to remember Francis’ attentions and her not-unwilling reception of them, Mary squirmed in mortification at her remembered behaviour. Wine and the daunting prospect awaiting her had made her behave foolishly, she knew. She hoped her behaviour didn’t serve as a spur to Francis to increase his attentions. Embarrassed to recall how her behaviour had become more and more flirtatious as the evening had worn on, Mary forced her expression to remain calm. She would not give the French ladies the satisfaction of knowing her mortification. Instead, she held her head high and spoke proudly. ‘I am a stranger, in a strange land,’ she told them. ‘The Duc de Valois was merely being kind to a sad and lonely woman. He is my son-in-law. What you suggest is unseemly.’

When her words earned her only a few more muffled giggles, Mary wished it had appeared unseemly to her the previous evening, especially as she had to make her little speech under the gaze of the vulnerable Claude, Francis’ young wife, whom her behaviour must have wounded.

Anne of France, who had already shown herself to be a domineering woman, was one of those present at this not-so-festive banquet. This daughter of the Spider King, Louis XI, sat stiff and unbending and looked every inch the true daughter of that wily monarch. Anne of France examined Mary’s now rosy face without a flicker of emotion. Suddenly, her commanding voice filled the hall, making Mary jump.

‘Perhaps they suggest your behaviour was unseemly, Madam, because it was. You are Queen of France and are expected to behave as such. You drank too much, danced too much and laughed too much. Your youth does not excuse your lack of dignity. Nor does it excuse your wanton’s behaviour with the Due de Valois.’

Flame-face, Mary sat and said nothing as the old lady continued her harangue. ‘King Louis wants a son,’ she now told Mary. ‘Did you know?’

Mary’s gasp of dismay at this unwelcome news provided the answer.

‘I see you didn’t,’ Anne of France told her with a hint of spite. ‘It’s to be hoped you have better luck in that direction than my sister, Jeanne.’

Through her jumbled mass of feelings, Mary remembered that Jeanne of France had been Louis’ first wife, discarded, so it was said, for her ugliness.

Anne of France went remorselessly on. ‘Louis divorced her. Couldn’t bear children, so he said. Who’s to know?’ she now demanded of Mary and the assembled company. ‘She wasn’t given the chance to try.’ Her gaze settled sternly on Mary, whom she had termed ‘a wanton’. ‘The king wants a son, madam,’ she told Mary again. ‘Think you he’ll get one on you?’

Mary felt the flush deepen at this coarse question. Old ladies were often-plain-speaking, she knew, but this imperious lady went beyond the limits. As the lady had said, she was now Queen of France and there was no reason why she should have to tolerate such Lèse-majesté. Mary, considered how her brother Harry would react to such dismissal and was emboldened to defend herself. But before she could summon words sufficiently imperious to put the lady in her place, Anne of France went on, with words that Mary found comforting, although comforting her was, she suspected, far from that lady’s mind.

‘He can’t get sons. Never managed it when he was younger, he’ll not manage it now, for all your youth and beauty.’

Mary found her next words less comforting.

‘Nevertheless, Madam,’ Anne of France told her tartly, ‘he intends to try. If you do become enceinte, just be certain the babe is the King’s and not the Duc de Valois’!’ This insult brought a gasp from the ladies assembled at the table. ‘We want no bastard sprigs inheriting the throne of France.’

Mary gathered her so recently-acquired queenly dignity round her like a shield. It was vital that she defend herself, she knew. Her behaviour the previous evening might have been foolish, but it didn’t warrant such ugly insults. ‘What you suggest is a wicked slander, Madam,’ she told Anne of France icily. ‘And it’s best, for your sake, that I pretend I didn’t hear it. As for bearing the king a son,’ Mary forced the words through unwilling lips, ‘I shall do my duty as shall my husband, God willing. Neither of us can do more.’

Mary wished only to avoid any further insults from the foul-tongued old harridan. She turned to Claude, who indicated that Mary had only to rise and they would all be forced to do the same. Mary had forgotten in the heat of her shame, that she had such a power. Doubtless, next the ladies of the French court would be gossiping that she had soon forgotten that she was Queen of France and make a double-entendre of the fact. Upset at being caught out and so soon, Mary upbraided herself for her naivety and lack of queenly authority. She must never again forget that she was a Queen now; she must behave like one. Though, in spite of her brave words to Anne of France, she felt only young and inexperienced and far from regal.

She followed the kind Claude’s advice and after joining the rest of the company in the hall for dancing, she soon retired to her bedchamber to rest and prepare for that evening’s ball, relieved to get away from so many hostile, watching eyes. The unexpectedness of the attack from Anne of France had shocked her, though she recalled that Wolsey had warned her she might encounter envy and antagonism. Courts were ever thus, he had counselled. But even Wolsey would have been shocked that the antagonism should have come so early and been so venomous. Mary was only surprised that Francis’ mother, Louise of Savoy hadn’t joined in.

Anne Boleyn, her youngest Maid of Honour, who had joined Mary’s train from that of the Archduchess Margaret, waited in her chamber to attend her. As the youngest and least significant of her ladies, Anne would have been the one deputed to leave the celebrations in the great hall early. Mary was thankful not to have yet to face the expected barrage of questions from the more worldly-wise ladies in her train. And as the young girl helped her remove her gown and head-dress, Mary found herself envying the happily single Maid. Although Anne’s only real beauty was her great, dark eyes, as these were mostly kept modestly lowered, they failed to reduce the plainness of the rest of her. Her hair was unfashionably dark, her thin, gawky body and sallow complexion made her something of an ugly duckling, while her youth and lack of consequence amongst the other high and noble ladies of Mary’s train made her a natural outsider. No doubt she had been surprised to be chosen for the honour of attending Mary in France.

Anne looked tired, her olive skin even more sallow than usual. Lucky girl, Mary thought, you will never have to endure the unwanted lusts of a king. And tonight, you can eventually claim your solitary pallet bed. Unlike me.

Mary reflected on what had been said during dinner. Forced to admit, even if only to herself, that she had enjoyed Francis’ amusing conversation, she wondered if her naive pleasure would be held against her and used to wound her during her entire sojourn at the French court. It was clear there were plenty eager to weave evil where nothing but a foolish, innocent amusement had existed. Mary knew she must be wary in future and deny herself even the small pleasure of enjoying Francis’ amusing attentions. She had only recently met him. How could anyone truly believe she would let him into her bed after a few conversations and fewer dances?

As Anne turned down the bed linen and Mary climbed under the warmed sheets, she told herself that Anne of France’s suggestions had been only the foul imaginings of an embittered old woman, resentful that her sister had not enjoyed Louis’ favour, and not what the rest would necessarily think. And as she lay back, drained from the day’s experiences, Mary resolved to put them from her mind.

Glad to find some peace and seeming solitude after such a hectic and upsetting day — the young Anne flitting discreetly about the chamber, tidying away her gown, seemed to sense her mistress’s desire to be left undisturbed — Mary’s eyelids began to droop, but as she remembered that in a few short hours Louis would be sharing a bed with her for their wedding night, they flew open again.

Even this quiet sojourn was destined to be short-lived, however. As she sat up, Mary heard the noisy clamor outside her bedchamber as her other Maids of Honour returned from dining in the hall. Their excited chatter, spurred on by the fine French wines, sounded louder than normal. And although Mary heard Lady Guildford trying to quieten them, even this stern lady couldn’t quell all their excitement on such a day. Resigned, Mary allowed her ladies to crowd round and exclaim with wonder at Louis’ bridal gift. Mary was not as awed by the gift as her Maids. She had yet to earn it. Louis would expect his wife to show her gratitude for such a costly necklace. And now Mary was under no illusion what form that gratitude would take. Louis was still looking to get himself a son and fully intended to exert himself till he got one.

She had mistakenly assumed that Louis’ desire for more children was long since over. Perhaps it had been wishful thinking on her part. Or perhaps Henry, Wolsey — even Lady Guildford — had between them conjured up this falsehood and put the idea in her head. She knew better now. Louis was a king, after all and kings all wanted sons.

Mary recalled her luckless sister-in-law, Catherine and her many disappointments. She remembered, too, how her brother, Henry’s, merry and loving ways so often now turned to reproach and recrimination at Catherine’s failure to provide him with a male heir. Perhaps, Louis, if he lived long enough, would also turn from his present kindliness towards her if she failed in her duty? Mary couldn’t help but wish her predecessor in the royal marital bed had worked harder at doing her duty and relieved Mary of its burden. She gazed at the magnificent bridal gift with distaste and bade her Maids to put it away.

The ‘delights’ of the marital bed were now beckoning her, however, and only the evening’s ball now lay between her and it. Mary had to be prinked and preened anew so Louis could enjoy his purchase in prime condition, this time gowned in the French style as her husband had demanded.

Mary had a sense of déjà-vu as she entered the hall, for the same glittering throng who had graced the previous evening’s ball were all present at the ball in honour of her wedding, some of them by now the worse for wear. Fine manners  forgotten with the excess of good wine, Mary felt the men’s eyes follow her as she walked to the dais, and was assisted to the chair by Louis’ side.

Louis was very merry and attentive. He kissed and touched her till she felt clammy all over. Mary talked about she knew not what, though she seemed, later, to remember expressing a wish to visit Venice and Louis promising that they would go together.

The heat of the room with its crowds and banked mass of candles was almost unbearable, and Mary put aside her earlier resolution to drink little. Besides, she told her clamoring conscience as she drained another glass of the rich Gascon wine, coupling with Louis in the marriage bed was not something to be approached with sobriety.