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

• Название: Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII
• Автор: Jean Plaidy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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“My lady Mary …”

She went toward him, her hand uplifted to strike him. The friar hurried from her presence.

When he was gone, she threw herself onto her couch. So many enemies, she thought. Powerful men against us. Where will it all end?

But not for more than a moment would she allow her confidence to desert her.

There was another interview with Charles.

She faced him triumphantly.

“I have the answer,” she told him. “Henry made you swear not to influence me. Well, you have kept that promise. You did not influence me. My mind has long been made up. He made you promise not to induce me to plight my troth to you. Well, have I? Did I need any inducement? Now, Charles, you have kept your promise. But I insist that you plight your troth to me. I command that you marry me.”

Charles shook his head sadly. “I fear it will not do.”

“But it shall do,” she insisted.

“And afterward?”

“Oh, let us not think of afterward. I will deal with that if need be. I will make known to Henry that I was determined to marry you and commanded that you should obey me. Oh Charles, why do you hesitate? Do you not want to marry me?”

“More than anything on earth. But I want to live with you in peace and comfort for the rest of our lives. I want us to be able to watch our children growing up. I do not want a few short nights and then a dungeon for us both.”

She took his hands and laughed up at him. “I would not think beyond those few short nights,” she answered.

Then his emotions seemed to catch fire from hers. He seized her hungrily and they remained close.

Then she said: “If you do not marry me, Charles, I shall go into a convent. I’ll not be thrown to that other Charles. Oh my dearest, have no fear. I will face Henry. He will never harm us. He loves me too dearly and has often said that you are his greatest friend. What do you say, Charles?”

“When shall it be?” he asked, his lips close to her ear.

“As soon as it can be arranged. François will help us.”

“Then,” said Charles, “we will marry. And when it is done, together we will face whatever has to be faced.”

“I promise you this, my love,” she told him solemnly. “There will be no regrets. As long as I live there shall be none.”

In the oratory chapel of the Hôtel de Clugny a marriage ceremony took place in great secrecy.

Only ten people were present, and the priest was a humble one who had no notion, when he had been summoned, of the people whom he was to marry.

And there Mary stood, blissfully content, for this was the ceremony of which she had dreamed over many years.

The nuptial ring, the nuptial kiss—how different this occasion from that other in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse—how simple this, how elaborate that!

She smiled to think of the cloth of gold she had worn, and all the glittering jewels; they served their purpose for they did hide some of the bitter dejection, the melancholy which was then in her heart.

Now there were no jewels and the ceremony was simple; yet she wore her exultation, her supreme happiness more proudly than she had worn the costly treasures of France and England.

And as she stood beside her bridegroom, one of the spectators, smiling down his long nose at the bridal pair, cynically told himself that he was a fool to pass over this radiant girl to a rival. Yet it gave him pleasure to contemplate his own chivalry, and he would always remember the grateful glances of the bride.

The ceremony was over, and Mary Tudor was married to Charles Brandon.

The King of England might be furious, but at least they had the blessing of the King of France.

The English SCENE II

The Return

THE COUNTRYSIDE was at its most beautiful when Mary and her husband returned to England, for the spring was well advanced. What a joy to be riding once more through the country lanes of her native land with the man of her choice beside her.

Charles was the perfect lover, the perfect husband, as she had always known he would be, simply because she had long ago decided that he was the only man for her. He was more uneasy than she was, particularly since they had crossed the sea. He was apprehensive, thinking of facing the King.

As they came near to London, she said: “Charles, whatever happens now, it was worth it.”

He turned to smile at her. Her recklessness amused and delighted him while it often startled him; and when he thought of the honeymoon and the singleminded passion of his wife, he could say honestly that it was worthwhile and he would do the same again.

“But,” he added, “having tasted bliss, I could not bear to give it up now.”

“Nor shall you,” she retorted. “I know Henry well. He wants us back at Court. He will speak sternly to us but that is not to be taken seriously. At heart he is rejoicing because we are coming home.”

Charles did not deny this. But he could not forget those noblemen who were his enemies and who would be ready to poison the King’s mind against him. If Wolsey had not been on his side, he felt, it would almost certainly be a cell in the Tower of London which would be awaiting him.

Wolsey had indeed been his friend, and it was he who had warned the Duke how to act. The King, Wolsey had told him, was extremely displeased with both his sister and her husband. It was a foolish—one might say treasonable—act to marry without the King’s consent, and so quickly after the Queen had become a widow. Wolsey trembled at the thought of the King’s anger, but knowing the great love he bore his sister he believed that His Grace might be slightly placated if Mary made over to him her French rents, which amounted to some twenty-four thousand pounds. Then there was the matter of the Queen’s dowry which François had promised to pay back to her. This was some two hundred thousand crowns. If the King was asked graciously to accept these monies, together with the Queen’s plate and jewels, he might show a little leniency.

Mary had laughed when she heard this. She had waved her hand airily:

“Let him have all my possessions. What do I care? All that matters is that we are together, Charles.”

“I doubt we shall be able to afford to live at Court.”

“I believe, sir, you have estates in Suffolk?”

“You will find them somewhat humble after all the splendor you have known.”

“I was never more unhappy than when I lived most splendidly, Charles. I shall be happy, if need be, in Suffolk. Not that I believe Henry will allow us to leave Court. Did he not always love to have us with him? Why, when he was about to plan a joust his first thought was: ‘Where is Mary? Where is Suffolk?’”

“That was before we had so offended him.”

“Nonsense! Henry is only offended with those he dislikes. He loves us both. We shall be forgiven.”

“At a great cost.”

“Who cares for the cost?”

“Twenty-four thousand pounds? Two hundred thousand crowns?”

“Oh come, Charles, am I not worth that?”

He laughed at her. She was worth all the riches of France and England … and indeed the world, he told her.

Now as they rode along she was remembering how she had left Paris accompanied by the nobility of the Court. François himself had ridden with her, a little sad at parting, she fancied.

She would miss him, she assured him. Evidently not as he would miss her, he replied.

“Why, François,” she told him on parting, “if there had not been such a paragon of many virtues in the world as Charles Brandon, then I think I might have loved you.”

François grimaced and when he kissed her in parting at St. Dennis he was very loth to let her go.

She had embraced Marguerite tenderly; she would always remember their friendship with pleasure, she told her.

Louise was affectionate, bearing no malice, because she was now a completely contented woman. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight and she seemed years younger, for she was a woman with a dream at last come true. Even Claude said goodbye as though she were a friend; but that might have been due to relief at the parting.

Then on to Calais, leaving that phase of her life behind her forever.

They stayed some weeks in Calais, and it was then that she had been aware of Charles’s fear. They dared not cross to England until they had Henry’s permission to return, and each day Charles had eagerly hoped for a messenger from his King.

Mary had been content to remain in Calais, for anywhere was a good place as long as Charles was in it; and she could not completely share his anxieties because she was certain that she would be able to win Henry to her side as easily as she had François.

And at last the message had come. Henry would receive them; but with his invitation, carefully couched, was Wolsey’s more explanatory letter. The King was displeased; it was necessary to placate him; the pair must come to England not as a married couple, but they might call themselves affianced and there should be a ceremony of marriage in England; but in the meantime Henry would receive them.

Thus they rode on to Greenwich.

Henry stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, studying the pair who stood before him. His eyes were narrowed, his little mouth was tight. Secretly he was glad to see them but he was not going to let them know it yet.

A pace or so behind him, her face set in lines of anxiety, stood Katharine, his wife. She would have liked to offer them a warm welcome, but she dared not until Henry gave her a sign that she might.

Mary smiled at her brother, but he was not looking at her. That is because we are not yet alone, she assured herself. When we are, he will be quite different. She glanced at Katharine. Poor Katharine! Her appearance had not improved in the last months and she was looking her age which was several years more than Henry’s.

Mary knelt and kissed her brother’s hand; she then paid homage to the Queen.

“I am so happy to be home,” she said.

Henry’s mouth slackened a little, as he took her hand and led her into the Palace, while Katharine followed with Charles.

“Henry,” whispered Mary as they walked together, “how well you look! You are taller than ever. I had forgotten how truly magnificent you are.”

“I hear that the King of France is tall.”

“Very tall, but lean, Henry.”

“I like not lean men.”

“And ’tis not to be wondered at. I have been longing to see my brother.”

He was softening visibly.

“You have behaved in a manner which I find truly shocking.”

“Dearest Henry, how can you, who have never had to leave your home, your country, your beloved brother, understand the desire to return to all that you love!”

“So you preferred the King of England to the King of France?”

“There can be no comparison.”

“I have heard he is a clever fellow, this François.”

“Not clever enough to see through my little joke. Oh, Henry, I must tell you how I duped them all. As soon as possible let us be alone, you, Charles and I … and perhaps Katharine. I could tell this only then, and you will laugh so much. You will tell me I am méchant… as the King of France did.”

“Now you are in England we shall expect you to speak in English.”

“A little wicked then, Henry.”

His mouth was already beginning to turn up at the corners. How good it was to have her home! How lovely she was—even more so than when she went away—with her French clothes and her way of wearing them. She made poor Katharine look a little dull. It was to be expected, he supposed. This was a Tudor girl, his own sister. They were so alike. It was small wonder that she glowed and sparkled as none other could.

She was looking at him slyly. “Henry, confess something.”

“You forget to whom you speak.”

“Forget I am speaking to my dearest brother, when I have thought of doing little else for so many months!”

“Well, what is it?”

“You are as glad to have me with you as I am to be here.”

“I am displeased …,” began Henry; but his eyes were shining. “Well,” he said, “I’ll not deny it. It pleases me to see you back here at Court.”

She was smiling.

Charles dearest, she was thinking, it is easy, as I knew it would be.

Henry had laughed uproariously at the farce of keeping the royal family of France guessing. The tears were on his cheeks. He had not laughed so much since Mary had gone to France.

“How I should have liked to see you prancing about with your skirts padded. I’ll warrant that long-nosed Frenchman was beside himself with anxiety.”

“And his mother, and his sister. And then they caught me, Henry. The little Boleyn had not padded me carefully enough. The padding slipped. …”

Henry slapped his thigh and rolled on his chair. Katharine looked on a little primly; she did not entirely approve of such ribald clowning. Poor Kate! thought Mary fleetingly. She does not amuse him as she should.

“I would I had been there,” declared Henry.

“Oh that you had!” sighed his sister. “But now we are home and all is well.”

“Is all well?” Henry scowled at Charles. “You should not think, Brandon … nor you, Mary, that you can flout my wishes and not suffer for it.”

Mary went behind her brother’s chair and wound her arms about his neck.

“Suffer for it?” she said. “You would not hurt your little sister, Henry?”

“Now, sister,” said Henry. “Do not think to cajole me.”

“You promised me that if I married Louis I myself should choose my next husband.”

“And would have kept that promise had you trusted me. I meant you to have him, but you should have asked my consent. And to marry as quickly as you did was unseemly.”

“’Twas not Charles’s fault. ’Twas mine. I insisted, Henry.”

“Then Charles is a bigger fool than I thought him, if he allows himself to be forced into marriage.”

“There are ways of forcing, Henry. We loved so much. But he did not want to offend you. The fault was mine. I was so much afraid of losing him. Katharine is shocked, because I tell the truth, but it is something I am not ashamed of.”

Henry scowled at his wife. “You should not be shocked because a woman loves her husband, Kate,” he said.

“Not that a woman should love her husband, Henry, but that before they were married … it is not usual for a woman to insist on marriage.”

Henry laughed suddenly. He pointed at Mary. “That girl’s a Tudor. She knows what she wants, and she makes certain she gets it.”

“’Tis true, I fear,” agreed Mary. “Oh Henry, have done. Charles and I are married.”

“You have not been married in England.”

“But you cannot say we are not married. What if I should be with child—which I can tell you may well be the case. Now I have shocked Katharine again. But I am blatant, Katharine.” She went to Charles and put her arms about him. She sighed. “You must send us to the Tower if you will, Henry, but one boon I ask of you. Let us share a cell, for I never want to be parted from this man as long as I shall live.”