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

“How, my dear! I shall go to her apartments. I shall see what it is she wears beneath her garments.”

“You cannot mean, Maman,” protested Marguerite, “that you will go to the Queen’s chamber and ask to see what she wears beneath her gown! Remember she is still the Queen of France.”

“My dear Marguerite, if your eyes have not deceived you as that girl is trying to deceive us, I am—at this moment—the mother of the King of France. I fancy my son would allow no one to criticize my actions. Is that not so, Sire?”

“Mother, if I ever forget what I owe to you I should never deserve to wear the crown.”

“Then I shall take this chance. Come with me, Marguerite. But wait awhile. We will prepare her for our meeting. Go, my dear, and send one of the pages to the Hôtel de Clugny to tell the Queen that we beg leave to call on her.”

Mary patted her body affectionately. A visit from Louise and Marguerite! When the former came she could always be sure of some amusement; she never felt ashamed of duping her, as she did Marguerite.

“How do I look, Anne?”

“Very enceinte , Madame.”

“What would you say, my child? Three months?”

Laughter bubbled to Anne’s lips. “It would seem, Madame, that you carry a large and healthy boy and have been doing so for more than three months.”

“And if I look larger than other women that is natural, Mistress Anne. Do I not carry a little king? Do I carry him high? They tell me that that is a sign of a boy.”

“Oh yes, Madame. But you are far too large.”

“We will leave it now, Anne. I shall remain thus until the English embassy arrives. See who is at the door.”

Anne came back, her eyes sparkling. “Madame d’Alençon with her mother, Madame.”

Mary went to her couch and reclined there, looking wan.

“How is that, Anne?”

“Excellent, Madame.”

“Bring them in. And then go discreetly into the corner and sit there with your needlework. You must look very serious. Remember that you are in a chamber of mourning.”

Mary might have been warned by the militant glare in Louise’s eyes, but she scarcely looked at her.

She smiled wanly and held out her hand.

“Welcome,” she said in a quiet voice. “It does me so much good to see you here. And Marguerite also. Welcome too, my dear.”

“We have been hearing accounts of your health which give us some concern,” Marguerite told her.

“My health? You must not be so anxious on my behalf. It is all so natural.”

“And how are you feeling, now, Madame?”

“A little tired. A little sick now and then. With diminished appetite, and now and then a fancy for some odd thing.”

“I trust your servants are taking good care of you.”

“The utmost care. The little Boleyn is a treasure.”

“I would,” said Marguerite, “that you would allow me to be with you more frequently.”

“At such a time I am happy to be with little Boleyn. I am in no mood even for your sparkling conversation.”

Louise had spoken little, but her sharp eyes never left the Queen’s reclining figure for one moment.

She came close to the couch and two spots of color burned in her cheeks, as she said: “I trust, Madame, that you did not catch the King’s complaint when you nursed him so carefully.”

“The King’s complaint?”

“Gout!” hissed Louise, as with a swift movement she leaned over the couch and touched that spot where the padding beneath Mary’s gown was thickest.

“Madame!” Mary began indignantly, leaping from the couch as she spoke.

Louise, so triumphant, so conscious of the fact that as privileged mother of the King she was in a position to act as familiarly as she cared to with the Dowager Queen, jerked up the Queen’s gown, exposing the layers of petticoats; and not content with that she probed further until she was able to pull at the padding.

Mary shrieked her protest but Louise was in command now.

“A new fashion perchance from England?” asked Marguerite, and there was laughter in her voice.

“Exactly so,” answered Mary. “Did you not like it?”

“It gave you the appearance of a pregnant woman,” went on Marguerite, for she saw that her mother was struck speechless by the mingling of delight and fury.

“Is that so?” replied Mary calmly. “Then that must have pleased some, while it displeased others.”

“Your royal body is more charming in its natural state,” went on Marguerite.

Mary sighed and put her hands on her hips. “I feel you may be right.”

By this time Louise had recovered her speech, and all the anxiety of years was slipping from her. But she had to make sure. She took Mary by the arm and shook her.

“You will tell me,” she said, “that you are not with child.”

Mary’s mischievous eyes looked straight into Louise’s. The little game was over. She had to tell them the truth.

“Madame,” she said, “I am not with child. I trust that ere long I may have the pleasure of greeting the King and saying, as all his subjects will wish to: ‘Vive François Premier.’ ”

Triumph of the Queen

HE SAT OPPOSITE HER in the mourning chamber. He was at his most handsome and insouciant. The anxiety was over; moreover it was a thing of the past because it had gone forever.

He was jaunty, sitting there, his long, elegant legs crossed, studying her with smiling eyes.

“I am honored,” she told him demurely, “to be visited by the King of France.”

“It is a marvelous thing,” he replied, “that I should have been a King before I was aware of it.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

He laughed suddenly. Then he said: “I trust you enjoyed the game.”

“It was the greatest fun,” she answered frankly.

“It gave my mother and sister much anxiety.”

“And you, I fear.”

“It would seem to me that you are a little méchant, ma belle-mère. ”

“It is why I have always felt drawn toward you, mon beau-fils . We are alike in some ways.”

“All those weeks of uncertainty! I should have been crowned at Rheims by now.”

“But that is to come, Sire.”

“You should be trembling, so to have duped the King and his family.”

“So should I, did I not know that the King loves a joke—even against himself—as well as I do.”

“Nevertheless, this was beyond a joke.”

“Then, Sire, you are indeed angry. But I do not believe it. You still look at me with such friendship.”

François began to laugh and she joined in; she was thinking of young Anne, carefully padding her, and the expression on Louise’s face when she had studied her thickened figure.

“’Twas a good joke, Sire,” she said between her gusts of laughter. “You will admit that.”

“It did not seem so then,” he said, trying to look solemn; but he could not set his face into severe lines, and he was thinking: Why was I not given this girl instead of Claude? He was speculating too. He would marry her to Savoy and she and her husband should be at Court. He would carry on his flirtation with her and, when he was King and she was Duchess of Savoy, there was every hope of their little affair reaching its culmination. He might come to an arrangement with Savoy that the marriage should be one of convenience. Savoy need never be a husband to her and she could be the maîtresse-en-titre of the King of France. It was not difficult for a king to arrange such matters.

He could see a very pleasant future ahead of them, so how could he be angry with her?

“If you were not so beautiful,” he said, “I might decide you should be punished in some way.”

“Then I thank the saints for giving me a face that pleases the King of France—and a body too … although that did not once please him so well.”

“So,” went on François, “instead of sending my guards to arrest you and take you to some dark dungeon, I will tell you of the future I have planned for you. I shall never allow you to leave France, you know.”

All the gaiety left her face; she was alert now.

“My home is in England,” she began. “Now that I no longer have a French husband I should return to my native land.”

“My dearest belle-mère , we will find you a husband who will please you. In fact I have someone in mind for you.”

“The Duke of Savoy by any chance?”

“So you already had your eye on him. He will be a good husband to you.”

“When I marry, Sire, I should like to be the one who had decided on my partner.”

François slowly uncrossed his legs. He rose and came to her chair. There he stood smiling down at her.

“You are fully aware of my feelings toward you.”

“Oh yes. You forgive me my follies because you like my face and now my figure.”

He took her hands and pulled her up, standing very close to her.

“I have thought a great deal about our future,” he told her.

“Ours?”

“Yours and mine.”

“Yours is a great destiny.”

“I should like you to have a share in it. I think that together we should find great … contentment.”

“I to share your life? And your Queen?”

“Poor little Claude. She will do her duty in a docile manner, but she will not expect to share my life.”

“But she shares your throne.”

“Here in France it is the woman the King loves who is in truth Queen of France—not the one he marries.”

“You are suggesting that I become your mistress!”

“Do not look horrified. You have forgotten that I am now the King. Everything you wish will be yours. Savoy shall understand the position so that he will be no encumbrance to you.”

“I see. Is that how matters are arranged in France?”

“It is how I intend matters shall be arranged in France.”

He had his arms about her and she placed her hands on his chest, holding him off. He could see now that she was in truth afraid of him.

“François,” she said urgently, “you have always been my friend.”

“And always will be, I hope.”

“From the moment I saw you, although my coming could well have meant the death of all your hopes, you were good to me. More than anyone you made me feel welcome and comfortable in a new land.”

“That was my endeavor.”

“So now I am going to be frank with you. I am going to ask you to help me. I am fond of you, François. You see I speak to you as my friend—not as the King of France. But I shall never willingly be your mistress. Oh, it is not that I hate you, or find you repulsive. That would be foolish. Everyone knows you are the most attractive man in France. But François, before I came to France I loved, and I do not change. I shall love one man forever.”

“Suffolk?” said François.

“You know.”

“You betrayed your feelings at the tournament, when he tilted against the German.”

She had clasped her hands across her breast and was looking at him appealingly. François turned away. This was too much. After having played her tricks on him and his family she was asking him to help her make a secret marriage with Suffolk, so that the dowry and the jewels should not after all remain in France.

The impudence of this girl was past belief.

She was catching at his arm and there were tears in her beautiful eyes. “Oh, François, you who are so gallant, so wise, will understand. I shall tell you everything because you are as a brother to me … the dearest, kindest brother any girl ever had. I thought I should die of a broken heart when they told me I should have to marry Louis. And my brother promised me that if I did, on his death I should marry whom I pleased. That time has come, and I shall look to my brother to keep his promise.”