Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (15 page)

At thirty-eight, Louis of Savoy still retained her youthful good looks and the light auburn of her hair. Slim, in spite of her pregnancies, unlike Henry’s poor Catherine, she carried herself proudly and wore an air of gravity, which Mary tried hard to emulate. Although she greeted Mary politely and made homage to her as queen, Mary was conscious of her slate-blue eyes as they rested on her belly and the snap of satisfaction they wore as she studied its flatness.

Louise of Savoy was gracious, but Mary sensed the undercurrents, knowing their cause only too well. How could Louise not feel antagonistic towards her when any pregnancy of Mary’s could oust her beloved Francis from the succession? Her spies, too, would have informed her that Francis still continued his dangerous and foolhardy wooing. Mary could guess at what Louise would feel should Francis press his intentions to the ultimate and succeed only in costing himself the throne.

Mary hoped his mother’s arrival would stem Francis’s ardor. She knew they were a close family and ambitious for the throne. Between them, his sister, Marguerite, and his mother would surely manage to convince Francis of the dangers inherent in his behaviour.

While Louise of Savoy and Mary batted conversation back and forth, their real thoughts concealed beneath a veil of politeness, for a brief moment, Mary saw beyond the grave slate blue gaze to the turbulent emotions that their determined gravity concealed. And as she caught a glimmer of Louise’s true feelings towards her she felt a tremor of fear. This woman would do her harm if she could, she realised, if she looked likely to threaten her high hopes for her son.

The thought unnerved Mary and made her even more wary. Louis wouldn’t save her. Kindly, but sometimes foolish, Louis would be no match for this determined woman and the strength of her maternal ambition. It made Mary even more thankful that her womb was empty. And as she remembered Lady Guildford’s warning, before her departure, of the dangers of her situation, she felt a shiver of dread. She must pray that her womb remained empty. Because if it didn’t there was no knowing of what Louise of Savoy might not be capable.

The day of Mary’s coronation had arrived. Delayed by Louis’ poor health, it wasn’t till the 5th of November, a Sunday, that she was escorted to the Abbey Church of St Denis by Francis and his fellow nobles. She walked slowly up to the altar, doing her best to ignore Francis’ amorous whispers; his mother’s arrival had, unfortunately, failed to stem his ardor. She saw Charles, her love, standing in the choir stall beside the altar. He gave her a reassuring smile. She didn’t dare to smile back. There were so many curious eyes on her that she hardly dared look at him. Instead, she looked for Louis and found him seated above Charles as a private spectator, watching her and following the ceremony from his closet window.

Mary knelt before the altar and after Cardinal De Pre had anointed her, he put the sceptre in her right hand and the verge of justice in her left. Then, he put a ring on her finger and the great crown of Jane of Navarre on her head.

Mary swayed under its weight, but quickly steadied. After her crowning, Francis led her up to a raised platform to a chair of state under the canopy of the throne, by the altar. Mary sat down cautiously, worried in case she dislodged the crown. Already her neck was aching from the weight of it. Her nerves had been stretched taut as bow strings lately and the near presence of Charles did little to relax her; an anxiety not helped by Francis’ speculative glances from one to the other as though trying to gauge how far the love between them had advanced.

Matters weren’t helped by the presence, amongst her few remaining English Maids of Honour, of Mary Boleyn. The elder Boleyn girl had proved appallingly flighty and as different from her virtuous younger sister as it was possible to be. She had already served her turn in Francis’ bed and that of a number of the courtiers. Her reputation for promiscuity reflected back on Mary and her other English Maids of Honour and did little to incline Francis to believe in or respect her own virtue. She would have sent the girl back to England but for the fact that, if she did, Mary Boleyn would doubtless be replaced by another spying Frenchwoman.

But at least these ladies now saw how false was the gossip about Mary’s virtue. Previously believed by them to be an immoral slut, they had performed a volte-face and their whispers, when they believed she could not overhear them, told her they now believed her to be a foolish virgin, too stupid to usurp Francis, the king-to-be, with his own bastard and so continue on the throne after Louis’ death as Regent for her son. They marvelled at her failure to grasp her opportunity. Even Francis had told her she would profit from studying at the feet of Mary Boleyn. ‘She has taken easily to our French ways,’ he had told her. ‘Sometimes, her behaviour even shocks me.’ Though he had not been so shocked that he had neglected to take the wanton Boleyn girl to his bed.

She wondered what her immoral French ladies would say if they knew she would give it all up tomorrow for love of the low-born Charles Brandon? Had she not learned that, at the French court, lust was called love while the lust lasted and that constancy and true affection were faults to be sniggered at? She had learned that so base were the morals of the sophisticated French that no child could be certain who was his father.

As the lengthy ceremony continued Mary’s thoughts moved on to the previous weeks’ events. Her life had become even more difficult and complicated after the arrival at court of Charles and Louise of Savoy. The pleasure she got from just knowing Charles was close by was over-shadowed by the presence of Louise, whose eyes were as sharp as her son’s and well able to ferret out their secret passion. Worse, being female, Louise of Savoy had even more opportunity than Francis for snooping. In her own way, she was as dangerous as her son. Mary knew that her every word, every look, smile and gesture were intercepted, speculated upon and squeezed dry for significance.

Francis’ attentions, too, were becoming more and more pressing; even now, during the solemn coronation ceremony, he stood too close. The court was rife with gossip about his passion for her. Mary had heard rumours that he had even planned to invade her bed-chamber and seduce her. Fortunately for her peace of mind, it seemed a more cautious friend had persuaded him from it.

Thwarted in his desires, his jealousy of Charles only increased and he had caused Claude, his young wife, to be placed with Mary. She was rarely alone, even at night. And as she now seldom shared Louis’ bed, Francis and his mother had arranged for one of Louise’s ladies to sleep in her chamber. Each had their own motives, of course. Francis determined to ensure that Mary didn’t give Charles the welcome he was denied; Louise anxious in case Francis tried an even more determined assault on Mary’s virtue. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could endure it. Some days, Mary felt her entire body was stiff as a corpse from the strain of it all.

She jumped, as Francis, standing behind her, ignored the formality of the occasion and tickled her neck. Mary quickly steadied the crown. Its weight was becoming unbearable and her head throbbed sickeningly. But, for once, French court etiquette came to her rescue and she was relieved of both the heavy crown and Francis’ distracting attentions. As first prince of the blood royal it was his duty to take the weight of the crown if it proved too burdensome for his queen. Mercifully, his teasing hands were now fully occupied in holding the crown above her head.

The High Mass commenced, sung by the Cardinal. Overawed by the solemnity of the occasion, weighed down with the many burdens that her role brought, Mary felt the ritual of her coronation served only to thrust Charles further away from her than ever. It confirmed her fears that the situation would go on and on for years, with her forced to endure the unwanted caresses of both Louis and Francis while the one man whose caresses she longed for tired of waiting and found himself another wife.

To Mary’s relief, the long ceremony finally ended. Sagging with weariness, she was at last able to retire to rest. Louis went off with the English ambassadors and was closeted with them for the rest of the day. Relieved of the necessity to attend on him, Mary relaxed quietly in her chamber with her ladies and Claude.

But her quiet retreat was not to be long enjoyed. For, as had become his custom, Francis intruded on their peace. And in spite of the presence of Claude, his humiliated young wife, he began once more to court Mary. He paid no heed to her Maids, his wife or indeed, to Mary’s protests. Forced to jump up to get away from him, he pursued her round the chamber till  he had her trapped in a corner. Mary tried to fend him off, but he was strong and ignored her pushing hands. Claude had fled the room in tears, unable to endure yet more humiliation at her husband’s hands. Mary’s ladies didn’t dare to intervene, though their cries of alarm brought an unlikely defender to Mary’s rescue.

As Louise of Savoy entered the room and saw what was going on, she spoke sharply to Francis. To Mary’s surprise, Francis turned bashful. Embarrassed to be caught and subjected to his mother’s rebuke, he left the room without a murmur. He was followed by his mother, though not before Mary had intercepted a look of pure hatred in her eyes. Surely Louise didn’t suspect her of trying to seduce her son in order to provide France with the heir that Louis was unable to get on her? Anyone with eyes not blinded by love must have seen who was the would-be seducer and who the seduced. But Louise, who had waited so long for what she regarded as her ‘rights’, would be suspicious of anyone who looked to threaten them, however innocent.

Badly shaken by the latest incident, Mary returned to her seat. How much longer could she ward Francis off? What if Louise of Savoy hadn’t been conveniently close by to separate her son from his folly? There would be occasions when even her vigilance would fail. Francis’ increasing obsession about possessing her increased by the day, by the hour, and with it increased Mary’s fear. But what could she do? Who could she confide in? Louis had made clear he was not to be troubled. Her French Maids seemed to enjoy the piquancy of the situation for all they cried scandal like the rest of the court. Even Henry, far away in England, didn’t seem to take her worries seriously. That left only Charles. Mary had hoped to avoid confiding her anxieties to him. There was no knowing what his reaction might be. His low birth had made him the more proud of any slight. He might even challenge Francis to combat. It wasn’t that she truly feared that Charles might be killed in such a fight. But Francis, while he might lack Charles’s skill in arms, was his superior in guile and might injure her love through some trickery. And even if he didn’t do so, what might be the fate of the Englishman who, even if in fair combat, slew the heir-presumptive of France?

Torn by indecision, she stared sightlessly down at the embroidery she had been working on before Francis’ intrusion. If only he would leave her be. But she knew in her heart that he wouldn’t, couldn’t. He was a man obsessed and she was the unfortunate object of his obsession. Mary felt she had no choice but to speak to Charles. Even so, she thought it best to try to make light of Francis’ behaviour. She daren’t let Charles know the true extent of Francis’ pursuit or Charles would likely feel honour-bound to demand satisfaction.

It wasn’t till that evening that Mary had the opportunity to speak privately with Charles. After she had spoken to him and the other English ambassadors of various matters, Mary took Charles’s arm and drew him to a corner away from the rest. His reaction to her confidences was even stronger than she had feared.

He was furious and demanded, ‘By the Mass, how dare he? To think that King Henry’s own sister should be so insulted.’

He looked as if he intended there and then to go in search of Francis and Mary did her best to soothe him. ‘Pray, Charles, keep your voice down,’ she entreated. ‘Do you want the entire court to hear you?’ Even more worried now, Mary tried to make light of what had been happening. ‘Francis is young and trying his wings. He has truly done me no great harm.’

‘No thanks to him that he hasn’t,’ Charles replied. ‘I have seen him watching you and wondered at his looks. But then I thought if he was truly threatening your virtue you would have confided in me ere this.’ Suddenly, his suspicions were directed at Mary herself. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Pray don’t look at me like that, Charles,’ she begged. ‘It was only that I feared your reaction.’

He stared broodingly at her, then demanded. ‘What of Louis? Has he said nothing?’

‘Little enough. I don’t think he wishes to be troubled. And Francis, of course, stops his play when Louis is present. But few would make clear to the king what his son-in-law is up to. And even if they did, I’m sure Louis would simply ignore them. As long as he doesn’t witness Francis’ behaviour towards me for himself he won’t do anything to put a stop to it. He even admitted that he had seen Francis watching me and all he said was that he admired his son-in-law’s taste. I can expect no help from that quarter.’

Charles snorted. ‘It is what I would expect of the French. They think all are as base as themselves.’ His anger seemed to have abated a little with Mary’s explanations and his own hearty contempt of his hosts. ‘At least you have told me now. I will be able to do something about it.’

Nervously, Mary asked him what he intended to do. ‘I don’t want any harm to come to you over this.’

This only brought a laugh from Charles and the comment, ‘Harm come from that strutting peacock? Now it is my turn to feel insulted. I see little in Francis to instil fear.’

Worried that his over-confidence would be his undoing, Mary reminded him that he was in a foreign land and that Francis had many friends at court. ‘We don’t know to what actions they might encourage each other if Francis came to any harm at your hands. Remember he is the heir-presumptive.’

‘I’ll remember that when he remembers that you are the Queen.’ Charles retorted. ‘But you are right. Anyway, there is little need, from what you have told me, to cause any damage to such a conceited young fool. It would seem he is his own worst enemy. He has no need of more. And now that his own mother has caught him in the act, as it were, I feel confident she will keep him in check. Nevertheless, I shall have a word with him.’