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

She clasped her hands together. Gratitude filled her heart, to Providence, to Henry, to Wolsey, to the Emperor for his perfidy. Her prayers were answered. She was free and in a short time she would cajole Henry into letting her have her way.

“Therefore,” went on Henry, “you should no longer consider yourself under contract to the Prince of Castile.”

“Most joyfully,” she answered.

“Do not think though that we have not your future at heart, dear sister. We have a dazzling proposition to put before you, for Monsieur de Longueville has brought us an offer from his master. What would you say if I were to tell you that within a few months you will be Queen of France?”

“Queen of France! But I do not understand …”

“Then let me explain. Louis XII, King of France, recently widowed, seeks a new bride. He has heard glowing accounts of your beauty and virtue and he offers you his hand and crown.”

She had turned pale; her blue eyes seemed suddenly dark. “No! ” she whispered.

Henry came and put an arm about her. “Dearest sister, you are astonished. It is indeed a dazzling prospect. Louis is our friend now; he has shown us who our enemies are. Not for you the pallid Prince of Castile with the mad mother, but the great King of France. You will be crowned in Paris. Mary, you cannot understand yet what honors are about to be laid at your feet.”

Still she did not speak. She could not believe it. It was a nightmare. She had longed so fervently for her freedom, had prayed so vehemently for it, and she must wake in a moment, for this simply could not be true.

“He is driving a bargain, this King of France,” went on Henry with a laugh. “Have no fear. I can provide you with a dowry rich enough to please even him. Mary, you will be the means of cementing this bond which friend Wolsey here agrees with me, is of the utmost importance to our country.”

She spoke then. “I won’t do it. I won’t. I have been tormented with the Prince of Castile. I’ll marry where I will.”

“Why, sweetheart,” said Henry, “when you have heard what this means, you will be as eager for this marriage as we are. Queen of France! Think of that.”

“I’ll not think of it. I do not want this marriage. I do not want to leave you and England.”

“There, my dearest sister, partings are sad, we know well. But you’ll not be far away. I shall visit you and you shall visit us. We shall be rivals in splendor, for when you come to see us I shall have made ready for your entertainment such masques …”

“Stop! Stop! I cannot bear it!”

She turned and ran from the room.

She lay on her bed; she did not weep; this was a matter too tragic for tears. She stared blankly before her and refused to eat.

Lady Guildford and those of her women who loved her—and many did, for impetuous and hot tempered as she could be, she was a generous and goodhearted mistress—were afraid for her.

Henry was perplexed. He had expected a little resistance but he had not thought she would be so unreasonable. Had she not seen similar situations rising around her? Margaret had had to go to Scotland to marry a man whom she had never seen. Her own father had married her mother that the houses of York and Lancaster should be united. Did she not understand that, for all their wealth and privilege, they themselves had their duty to perform?

He went to her room and sat by her bed. Gently he talked to her, pointing out her duty. He would have saved her from this marriage if he could, but the personal desires of Princes must always be set aside for matters of state.

She burst out: “He is fifty-two and I am eighteen. He has had two wives and I have never had a husband.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “So you hold against him the fact that he has had two wives. I did not think you would do that.”

They did not mention Brandon’s name, but she understood the reference; for had not Charles himself had two wives and was he not even now contracted to a third?

“He is ancient,” she cried. “He is ugly and I do not want him.”

“Sister, be calm. Be reasonable.”

“I hate him,” she cried.

“How can you hate one whom you have never seen?”

“Because he will be the means of taking me from all I love.”

And as she lay on her bed, suddenly the tears started to flow down her cheeks. She did not weep noisily, nor sob, but just lay quietly there; and the sight so unnerved Henry that he turned aside, blinking away his own tears.

I have indulged her over much, he thought. I have loved her so well. I shall miss her as she will miss me. By God, were it not that so much was at stake. I would give her Brandon just for the sake of seeing her happy.

Then another thought occurred to him. “Why, Mary,” he said, “your bridegroom, as you say, will be an old man. I hear that he suffers much from the gout.”

“And for these reasons should I be doubly glad to marry him?” she cried angrily.

He put his face close to hers and whispered: “Why yes, sweetheart. He lives but quietly, retiring to bed early; he eats frugally; it is necessary for his health. When he sees his young and beautiful bride he will be excited, depend upon it. He is in a fever of impatience to see you. I hear that in his youth he lived well and was very fond of women.”

“You do not make him any more attractive to me.”

“Do I not? That is because you stubbornly refuse to grasp my meaning. Sister, if you become the wife of the King of France and so serve your country, I do not think it will be long before you are the widow of the King of France.”

She caught her breath. “And then … ?” she asked.

“And then … you will be mistress of yourself, sister.”

She sat up in bed and caught at his coat with impatient fingers.

“Henry, if I marry the King of France to please you, will you, when I am a widow and free, let me marry where I please?”

He saw the hope in her face and it pleased him. He had to rouse her from her melancholy, for if he did not he would have a sick sister who would be unfit for any marriage at all.

“I promise,” he said.

Her arms were about his neck. “Swear, Henry. Swear solemnly.”

He stroked her hair with great tenderness. “I give you my word,” he assured her.

After that interview with her brother, Mary’s manner had changed. She rose from her bed; she ate a little; it was true she remained melancholy but those about her noticed that she had become resigned.

She had realized that as a princess she had her duty and must needs perform it.

She did not see Charles, whom Henry had sent from Court for a while because he knew that to allow them to be together at such a time might be like putting flame to gunpowder.

If only Mary would continue in this state of resignation until the nuptials were completed he would feel at peace.

Charles spent the days of his absence staying at the home of his ward.

Elizabeth had heard a great deal of gossip about him and at one time had thought he would be the wife of Margaret of Savoy.

She had never greatly desired to marry him but since that day when he had rescued the child from the river she had viewed their future union without the distaste she had first felt for it. She had come to believe that since she must marry she might as well marry Charles Brandon as any.

But when she had learned that he had gone to Flanders as Lord Lisle—the title he had taken through his connection with her—and using it had attempted to woo Margaret, her pride revolted; and when he arrived at the manor she greeted him without much warmth.

Charles was too immersed in his own problems to notice this in the beginning.

He was thinking along the same lines as those which Henry had put before Mary. Louis was an old man and it might well be that he would not live long; indeed marriage to a young and beautiful and vital girl would not help him to longevity. Could it be that it was only a matter of waiting?

To imagine Mary in the bed of Louis was revolting; but he would try to think beyond it. Their position had been extremely dangerous; they could not expect to have their desires fulfilled without facing bitter trial beforehand.

In time, he thought, we shall marry. It is only a matter of waiting and enduring for a while.

Elizabeth said to him one day when they rode together: “You have been thoughtful, my lord Duke, since you came here.”

He admitted he had much on his mind.

“I think I know what it is that makes you moody.”

He turned to smile at her.

“Why, my lord,” she said, “you are now the Duke of Suffolk and as such have no need of the title which you took from me. It was useful for a while when you paid court to the Lady of the Netherlands. Now, of course, as a noble Duke you need not concern yourself with the daughter of a viscount.”

He was silent, not really paying attention to her because he could not stop thinking of Mary, going to France, being crowned there, her meeting with Louis.

Elizabeth sensed his lack of attention. She said angrily: “Have no fear, my lord Duke. I have no intention of holding you to your promise. Let me tell you this: I have no intention of marrying you. Nothing would induce me to.”

He turned and looked blankly at her. Piqued and angry, for she sensed he was still not paying full attention to what she said, she whipped her horse and rode on because she was afraid he would see the tears which had started to her eyes.

Charles looked after her retreating figure. He did not pursue her.

She had spoken in childish anger, but he must accept her refusal, because he, like Mary, must be free for whatever good fortune could befall them.

He would return to Court in due course and, when an opportunity offered itself, he would tell Henry that Elizabeth Grey had rejected him and thus he was released from his contract to marry her.

The ceremony took place in the state apartments of Greenwich. Mary was solemn in her wedding robes. At her side was Louis d’Orléans, that Duc de Longueville who had played such a big part in arranging the match, and who on this occasion was acting as proxy for his master, King Louis XII of France.

As he took her cold hand and slipped on it the nuptial ring, as he put his lips on hers for the nuptial kiss, she was thinking: It will not be for long. I could not endure it if it were. What sort of a marriage is this, where the wife can only endure it because she hopes her husband cannot live long? What sort of a person have they turned me into, that I can long for the death of a man I have never seen, and that man my own husband?

She went through the ceremony mechanically, repeating words that she was asked to repeat, without thinking of their meaning; she only knew that, in place of the slack-mouthed boy, she had been given to an old man, and the only change for the better was that in the ordinary course of life the latter must die before the former.

The King of France had expressed the wish that the ceremony should be conducted with realism. “Having heard of the beauty of his bride,” the Duc de Longueville had confided to the King, “he can scarce wait to receive her.” Therefore he wished the marriage to be consummated symbolically.

It was a trying ordeal to be divested of her court gown by her women and put into her magnificent sleeping robes. With her golden hair falling about her shoulders, the robe about her naked body, her feet bare, she looked very appealing, particularly because she was so unnaturally subdued and there was a look of fear and resignation in her eyes.