The Secret Bride (36 page)

“That shall be enough, child,” she directed in a clipped tone. “You are to put away the others once the queen has chosen, not hope to try them all.”

The crescendo of laughter broke through the girl’s hauteur and, for a moment, seemed to chasten her. Then Mary saw a little willful spark re-ignite in her eyes. “My uncle is the Duke of Norfolk, my lady, and he would not be pleased to have you chiding me.”

“I do not suppose he would be overly pleased to know his young relation showed such arrogance in the presence of the queen! One wonders, when he put you here to be of service, which would anger him the more.”

Experience had triumphed over youth, and Anne Boleyn lowered her eyes.

“I shall wear the pear-shaped diamond,” Mary announced to warm the chill that had fallen suddenly upon them all. She adored Mother Guildford, but Mary was struck by this girl, who seemed somehow different from any other little girls she had ever known.

That evening, there was a theme to the banquet. The new queen and her court were attired as Virtues and Vices for the benefit of the citizens of Abbeville, who would be allowed to witness the extravagant festivities as they advanced to the great hall across a path symbolically strewn with roses and lilies. Mary danced with a blinding succession of French nobility, then Francois, duc de Valois, in a rich velvet doublet of teal blue silk and brown velvet, slashed with gold. But with him she danced only reluctantly. His sloe-eyed gaze was always upon her, expectantly, slyly, as if she were prey to be marked for the future. As the dance brought them together, so did his hands. A brief touch to the part of her gown where her thigh pressed against the layers of linen, lace, silk and velvet, the curve of her hip, a skim of his hand to her breast.

As heir to the throne of France, he was aware of his power at the French court and took full advantage of it. Mary disliked him immensely but she also realized fully that he was someone with whom to be cautious now that she was trapped here.

Still, she could not entirely control her clever tongue.

“Your Majesty’s beauty this evening is matchless,” he said too smoothly, offering the flatterery as they danced.

“And your flattery, monsieur, is as dull as dirt.”

There was a faint gleam of malice in his twisted smile amid the flicker of candle lamps and fire glow. As the dancers moved around them Francois turned, then bowed. “Ah, I have often heard it said that it is best not to burn one’s bridges too quickly with ingratitude, madame.”

“The same people advise one not to burn one’s bridges by coveting another man’s wife, no doubt.”

“Which shall prove true first, one wonders, my platitude or yours?”

“Clearly a risk on both sides, monsieur le duc,” Mary said.

The Duke of Norfolk had watched the dance and heard the exchange. Poor little fool, he thought to himself. Mary really was out of her league with a Gallic snake like that. And it certainly took one to know one, he thought with his own twisted little smile. What set him apart was that no one, except perhaps Buckingham—who was not nearly so skilled at hiding his motivations—knew Thomas Howard for the rep-tilian self-server he was. And he meant to keep it that way.

It was so warm with this press of bodies and all of this fabric that he was perspiring—and he hated how he appeared when he was glistening with sweat. He knew it took away the aura of easy grace he had spent a lifetime cultivating. Norfolk had seen the expression of panic on Mary’s face as the heir had approached her. But she must come to believe she could meet the challenge. A contented and confident Mary was one who would remain in France and happily out of his way back in England. She had too much influence on her brother, and he had worked too hard to go on sharing it on too many fronts. He still had Brandon to contend with, as well as Buckingham and Wolsey. But having been given the extreme honor of a dukedom had rekindled his enthusiasm for the battle of place. Buckingham still believed himself to have some ancient claim to the throne, so Henry would never trust him. Wolsey was only a cleric, who could never fully advise a king on the challenges of a man. If he could next somehow convince Henry that Brandon had lied treasonously about his feelings for Mary, Norfolk’s place beside the king would at last be unchallenged.

But each change began with one small step. With that in mind, he dotted the perspiration from his upper lip and advanced toward the new queen just when the song was at an end.

“A dance, Your Majesty?”

“Thank you, Thomas,” she sighed, bowing to Francois, then turning fully toward him, almost, he thought, falling against his chest in relief. “I am now in your debt.”

“I am here in France to serve Your Majesty,” he skillfully replied.

“Just remind me of home from time to time, Thomas. I assure you, that shall be enough to serve me. I am so desperately homesick for England already.”

That night, as Mary sat beside her husband’s bed, having Lady Guildford brush out her hair in long, even strokes, Louis came into the room through the little side door he had used the night before. He nodded to his gentleman, who bowed, then silently saw himself out. But unlike their wedding night, there was no further ceremony, no audience, no protestations of prowess.

Lady Guildford looked up and gave a motherly little grunt of disapproval that Mary was glad only she saw. She stubbornly made no move to leave. Anne Boleyn was pushing a warming pan between the bedsheets and Lady Oxford had sprinkled the crisp linen lightly with rose water.

Louis lingered near the door for a moment before he began to scowl at Lady Guildford.

“You had better leave us,” Mary said to her softly in English.

“Are you certain, my sweet?”

“He is my husband before God. It is your duty, and mine.”

She grunted again, struggling to stand as the moment of her kind expression faded. Then she helped Mary into bed.

She did so, though, without ever once meeting Louis’ reproachful stare. Anne Boleyn lingered near as well, still holding the warming pan as Mother Guildford leaned over, gently smoothed the hair back from Mary’s forehead and kissed her there.

Finally, after they had all gone, Louis blew out each of the white wax candles until they were in darkness. She could feel him climb silently into the bed beside her and she was instantly aware that he was naked. He reached out and found one of her breasts with rough, trembling fingers. They stilled there for a moment as he moved himself nearer, his leg wrapping over hers. She could feel him hesitate until she reached up to his shoulder, inviting him closer. For a man twice married, he seemed oddly uncertain.

He searched for her lips in the darkness and she met him by the sheer force of her will to do now, tonight, what she must. As he probed her mouth with his tongue, at last becoming excited enough that she could taste his moan and feel his hardness against her thigh, Louis pressed a hand forcefully up between her legs. Her mind spun.
Do it now and be done with it,
she thought, pushing back the press of panic.
So that I may sleep . . . so that I may dream. . . .

The next sensation was sharp, a mix of pain and surprise, so sudden and yet so brief that Mary had not a moment to cry out or to resist it. Once, twice, his chest against her, now awash with perspiration. Then as quickly, he drew himself from her, rolled onto his back, gave a grand sigh and was still. Only the deep snoring that followed told her he had not just expired entirely from the exertion.

It was a duty, she reminded herself yet again, as if to convince herself yet again. She was fine. She had done it and she was glad. She lay very still watching him sleep as the sun slowly rose. And then the odd thought came to her. At least one day, when it came, the King of France would die a happy man.
May God forgive me,
her mind pressed in the thought, but may that be sooner, much sooner, than later.

The king came eagerly to her bedchamber every night after that. Rarely were his amorous intentions met with the success he intended. In spite of the groping, grunting and perspiring, he was usually unable to completely make love to his wife.

Yet he would lie with her anyway in the pearl gray light of early morning, hold her hand, and whisper to her about his plans for their future. When it came time to ride toward her coronation outside of Paris, he explained to her that he wanted her to exercise a right of the queen that would endear her to the French people. As they passed into each town, one after the other, she must free all of the prisoners, a show of the new queen’s generosity and compassion. When he spoke of such things she heard the excited tremor of a boy, mixed with the exultant timbre of a completely happy man.

Each day, Louis would dress elegantly for her pleasure alone, he would tell her, and they would attend matins together. As they sat in stoic silence, surrounded by the spoken rhythmic elegance and the echo of Latin prayers, Louis would take her small hand and squeeze it in a way that no one would see. Then afterward, they would stroll slowly through the vast gardens that linked the private chapel and the Hotel de la Gruthuse, Louis pointing out to her his favorite flowers and plants. Marriage had transformed him, the duc de Longueville, Jane Popincourt’s love, told Mary one afternoon as the king sought to play a round of
jeu de paume
in order to impress his vibrant young bride. She sat with Longueville beneath a fluttering canopy, also with her collection of ladies, both English and French, all there to watch the king. Mary felt a little burst of triumph hearing it.

“People here were certainly skeptical at first. But no one at court has seen His Majesty behave like this for a decade or more.”

She smiled serenely, as she had seen her mother so often do. “It is a blessing to know a husband is well pleased by his wife.”

“And is the wife equally pleased?” There was just the smallest glimmer of sarcasm in the words and Mary looked up at him in response with a little frown. “Do not inquire about my heart, Longueville, and I shall not inquire about yours.”

“Oh, I spoke not of Your Majesty’s heart.” He threw back his silver-haired head, hiding a devilish, thin-lipped smile. His laugh was good-natured as his eyes crinkled at the corners, and she found herself wondering if so fun-loving an opportunist, returned now to his reality, truly was capable of missing Jane. How long could any man miss a woman once she had gone from his life? Even her brother Henry did not seem capable of real fidelity, in spite of his protestations of love for Katherine. Could Charles really be any different? Perhaps
forever
was something best left to the pages of the great romances. She had something solid now. Something sure. She was Mary, Queen of France. At least, as she watched the old man before her struggle with a gaming racket, that was what she tried her very best to convince herself.