Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (18 page)

Charles  seized the giant by the neck and gave him a hefty blow. Mary gasped as the giant retorted in kind with an even fiercer blow that sent Charles staggering backwards. Terrified that Charles had been seriously injured, Mary cried out, but Charles climbed to his feet and rushed so swiftly at the giant that his weight carried them both to the ground. Sensing what was behind this battle royal, the shouts of the crowd died away and were replaced by an eerie silence. Mary felt many searching glances in her direction at this reversal of Charles Brandon’s fortune. Pale and trembling, she was beyond concealing her distress and could only watch as blow succeeded blow. Her heart rose in her breast till she thought it would choke her.

It was clear that both men were tiring. But fortunately, Charles found his second wind first and gave his opponent another mighty blow. It signalled the end. The now blood-soaked and battered giant beat a hasty retreat.

Mary collapsed in her seat as a great roar rose up from the crowded stands for the victorious Englishman. Mary, knowing that against such an opponent, her love wouldn’t have got away unscathed, no longer felt like shouting. She wanted only to tend his wounds and check for herself that he wasn’t grievously hurt. For a brief moment, she was tempted to flout convention and go to him. But then common sense prevailed. The courtiers would be outraged if she were to do so. What remained of her reputation would be destroyed by such a revealing action.

So she stayed by Louis’ side, her pretended indifference to Charles’s fate a thing of mere gossamer, as the many knowing glances made clear. Louis, at least, was kindly and magnanimous in defeat. He congratulated her again on the skill and valour of her countrymen. And as the rumours circulated that the giant was no French noble at all, but a German wearing disguise at Francis’ bidding in order to humiliate Charles, he criticised Francis for his unsportsmanlike and cowardly behaviour.

Angered by Francis’ low trickery, Mary resolved to have as little to do with him as possible. Had he not, by insinuating the common German giant into the nobles’ lists, offended against all the laws of chivalry? Mary heard the muttered comments that Francis’ actions had lost him much prestige and was glad. Louis agreed that Francis’ behaviour had shamed all France. And coming from the heir-presumptive, who should guard his country’s honour, made it even more shaming.

As they and the courtiers made their way back to the palace, it became clear the whole court shared their feelings. Even the supremely confident Francis was unable to ignore the murmurs and he slunk off to one of his mistresses to lick the wounds to his pride in private.

After the excitements of the joust, when it ended the court seemed slunk in torpor. And from the heady witnessing of Charles’s triumph, Mary was brought down with a bump when Louis, in spite of entreaties from Henry and Wolsey, refused to countenance Lady Guildford’s return to court. But, although disappointed, Mary was surprised to discover that Louis had been right when he had claimed that she would come to enjoy being her own governess. Perhaps she had grown up a little in the interval, for although she missed Lady Guildford’s wise counsel, she missed her stern remonstrances not at all. Now that Francis had been persuaded not to persist in his pursuit of her, Mary found she was beginning to enjoy being her own woman, and the freedoms the situation brought.

Secretly a little ashamed that she was being disloyal, Mary was glad she had ordered such costly gifts of jewellery for her dismissed train. She had been forced to buy the jewellery on credit as her income from her demesne lands had not yet started to come in. It was partly to sort out these matters of her income that Charles and his fellow ambassadors had remained in France after their glorious showing at the joust. Mary thanked God for such problems; they meant her love remained close at hand.

Francis, after his ignominious showing at the joust, was consulted no more by Louis. Instead, it was Mary who sat beside him as he transacted business in his bedchamber. It gave her the opportunity to feast her eyes on Charles.

The court retired to St Germain-En-Laye. Here, Mary and Louis followed a quiet and domestic routine. But for Louis, this peace looked to have come too late. His health had deteriorated alarmingly after he had forced his body through the ceremonies and banquets following their wedding and Mary’s coronation. Mary watched over him anxiously. Although she longed for her freedom so she could marry Charles, she feared what would become of her if - when Louis died. Would Francis, determined to enjoy his kingly power to the full, recommence his pursuit of her? And, with the crown safely on his head, how likely was it that he would be prepared to take no for an answer?

From the way Francis had taken to watching her, from the way he had set his spies over Louis’ bedchamber in order to gain daily reports about his health, it was clear that Francis was convinced the final, ultimate victory would soon be his. Mary’s only consolation was that Charles was still at court. She was pleased that Louis made much of him and insisted on his frequent attendance in the bedchamber. As Mary was also required to spend much of her time with Louis it enabled her to see more of Charles. It also meant that she avoided hearing much of the gossip that circulated about her behaviour at the joust. Now, in place of her name being joined with that of Francis, to her dishonour, it was Charles’s name that was bandied about.

How could it be otherwise? She had been unable to conceal her obvious love for him during the days of the jousting. And while her love for Charles was clean, honest, true, the courtiers raked over it with a salaciousness that further dishonoured her. It pained her that she should be spoken of in the same breath as the wanton Mary Boleyn. The situation did nothing to ease her position or her worries and she feared that now her love for Charles was out in the open some vindictive person would find a way of damaging it beyond repair. That was why, even though she would miss him sorely, Mary felt not a little relief when Charles at last departed for England, even though he carried with him the news of Louis’ still-declining health, which - assuming he hadn’t done so already - seemed likely to prompt Henry to make plans for her future that she would find extremely unwelcome.

Mary found herself watching Louis nervously. He was now her only stay in this foreign land of meaningless gallantry and only too meaningful spite. She had begun to dread his dying, even though she would be free. Free for what? was the question with which she frequently tormented herself. Her position in the immediate aftermath of such an event would be intolerable. With Francis in power and herself at his mercy, protected only by the self-interested protectiveness of his not over-friendly mother, Mary felt like a wounded doe, running from a hunter. In such a situation there could only be one ending.

December wore on, with Christmas being celebrated very quietly. Louis was sinking fast. Mary did her best to comfort him. Somehow he found the strength to jokingly console her that he was about to give her the best present yet—his death.

Exhausted by nervous strain and her almost constant attendance at Louis’ sick-bed, Mary retired to bed on New Year’s Eve. But she was unable to sleep. Full of dark forebodings, she lay in bed listening to the gathering storm and the wind that seemed to howl with a banshee wail through the very rafters of the palace. Finally, towards morning, she fell into an uneasy doze only to waken and sit up in sudden fright when a loud banging resounded on the door of her bedchamber. Francis’ voice called out to her, entreating her to let him enter.

Panicking, believing that her worst nightmare was about to be realised, Mary screamed and leapt from her bed, convinced Francis had come to seduce her at last.

CHAPTER TEN

Common sense quickly asserted itself. Surely even Francis wouldn’t attempt to ravish her in the presence of her Maids of Honour? Gathering her addled wits, Mary fastened a robe about her and bid her ladies open the door.

Of course, Francis hadn’t come to seduce her. He had come – as Mary would have realised if her nerves and wits hadn’t been in shreds – to tell her that her husband was dead and that he, Francis, was now King of France. And although their roles were now reversed Francis went down on his knees to give her queen-ship one last benediction. When he rose to his full height, he looked a king in truth. Strength and power seemed to radiate from him and in a matter of hours he had grown into the role. Mary could see no trace of that meanness of spirit that had led him to attempt to do Charles an injury.

The years of waiting were over for Francis. Now he could afford to be magnanimous. He consoled Mary on her loss as though he meant every word. ‘It was a happy release for him, Mary,’ he told her. ‘Louis had suffered much. It’s a marvel he lasted so long. You must have put new zest into him, for last January, after Queen Anne died, he looked to have little life left in him.’

‘When did he die, my lord?’ Mary, nervous of the swift change in Francis and uncertain how to react to it, kept her distance. Now Francis was king she felt the need for such caution had doubled. And although Louis had done his best to claim it, Mary still retained her virginity—a rare and precious commodity at the promiscuous French court. Now she clung to it as to a talisman, determined that having retained it for so long it should be Charles’s prize and none other’s.

‘He died in the early hours of this morning. One moment he was here, though drifting, the next he was gone.’

‘Why was I not called to attend him, my lord? My duties as his wife—’

Mary had forgotten to call him by his new rank, but Francis made no comment on that. Instead, he smoothly interrupted her. ‘There was no time for it. He passed away so quickly.’ Francis shrugged and told her softly, ‘He hadn’t looked any worse than before, there seemed no need to disturb you.’

His soft tone increased Mary’s wariness. For Francis must now be feeling his power. He was a young man in his prime, the glories of kingship were only just beginning for him. Mary was convinced such an intoxicating elevation would surely go straight to his head - via his loins. She had never felt so alone. Sudden anguish caused her to cry out. ‘What am I to do? Please advise me, my lord, for I know not what is required of me.’ To her surprise, Francis restrained any temptation to lover-like impulses and behaved almost fatherly towards her.

‘Calm yourself, my little Mother,’ he told her. ‘You need do nothing. As your widowhood has commenced you will be required to confine yourself to a darkened room, that is all.’

Mary misunderstood him. ‘You mean to shut me away?’ Alone in a darkened room, she knew she would be truly at his mercy. ‘Have I not withstood enough?’ Mary could hear the hysterical note in her voice, but felt unable to calm herself. The few remaining English Maids in her train tried to soothe her, but they were as young and frightened as she and infected by her hysteria. Never was the wisdom and experience of Lady Guildford more needed.

Francis broke through the anxious voices of her ladies. ‘It is nothing to fret about, Mary. It is merely a custom of France and will be only for a short time. It is simply that, once before, a Dowager-Queen gave birth after the death of her husband, so, ever since, to be certain such an eventuality hasn’t occurred, a newly-widowed queen is required to retire for six weeks till it is clear she is not with child. It’s a safeguard, nothing more. You will enjoy the peace and quiet of seclusion after so many excitements. You will not be alone. My mother will be with you.’

The prospect of the antagonistic Louise of Savoy sharing her secluded sojourn did little to comfort Mary. Nor did Francis’ next words.

‘And I will take the time to visit you and try to cheer you.’

Mary shrank at that. She felt she could guess what form his cheering would take. The thought of such seclusion with only his mother for company and the unwelcome visits of Francis to break the monotony was likely to send her mad. She longed for home, but that, too, had its perils. For all that he loved her, Mary knew her brother was more than capable of forgetting his ready promise if it suited him.

Indeed, she feared he had already done so and that once her six weeks’ retirement was over and she had returned home he would swiftly pack her back across the Channel to some other royal marriage and she would suffer the same misery all over again.

Mary was determined she would not endure such a marriage a second time. Then she remembered the rumours doing the rounds about her elder sister, Margaret. The rumours said that Margaret had secretly married the Earl of Angus. Mary believed them, for although she barely knew her only sister, she remembered enough to know she had earned her reputation for being headstrong and wilful. If Margaret could choose her second husband herself, why shouldn’t I? Mary thought. The thought gave her courage. Come what may, she resolved that Henry would keep his promise, whether he meant to or no. He and Margaret were not the only ones with lusty Tudor blood in their veins.

Mary lay back in the canopied bed. The dark circles under her eyes caused by sleepless nights were enhanced by a few candles. Otherwise, the room was gloomy, for her widowed seclusion had begun and, although it was still daytime, the windows of the Hotel de Cluny to where she had been removed, were covered.

The dark circles camouflaged her silent determination that she would, somehow, defy Henry and choose her own second husband. Her courage wavered a little as she remembered that Francis had said she must endure six weeks of this imprisonment. How could it not, when she must lie in a darkened room, secluded from reality and with Francis’ hostile mother as her gaoler?

Her imprisonment was made all the more wretched, as daily, she waited for Francis’ next promised visit. Her anxiety had invaded the nerves of her teeth and the pain she suffered made her even more wretched as her mind and body united to torment her. She tensed as a knock came at the door. It was a knock she had become increasingly familiar with. She sat up in the bed as Francis entered, his mother, the newly-created Duchess of Angouleme and Anjou following on his heels.