Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (7 page)

About half-a-mile outside Abbeville the procession was again halted as the chief men of the town, followed by a great crowd of other citizens, archers, musketeers and the captain of the town with about thirty liveried men, came out to greet her. Mary, her confidence growing, greeted them graciously and was pleased to see their approval. They fell in at the head of the now considerably swollen procession and escorted her the rest of the way.

At last, they came to the walls of Abbeville, where again the train was halted so that Mary could prepare for her entry. She had dismounted to enter Notre Dame de la Chapelle to greet the waiting clergy when the heavens opened. Francis, blasphemous as before, whispered in her ear as he rushed her to shelter that the priests’ fine garments must have displeased the Almighty.

Mary stifled an unseemly desire to giggle. For the sudden downpour that made the magnificently-clad clergy so bedraggled certainly signaled omniscient disapproval of their failure to wholeheartedly embrace poverty. Fearing she would breach etiquette and scandalize the citizens of the town, Mary begged him to be silent. But Lady Guildford almost proved her undoing. For her Mother hadn’t been quick enough to dismount and seek shelter. Drenched and fuming, she scowled as her limp, wet hat feathers drooped forlornly over one eye. Francis’ conspiratorial wink at Mary forced her to bite down hard on her lip. When she was able, she quietly reproved him. ‘It isn’t seemly to laugh so at my Mother Guildford, Francis. She must be very vexed.’

‘The trick with wearing such fine feathers, pretty Mary, is to have a fleet turn of foot,’ he told her. ‘That way, the weather can’t make a fool of you.’ Needless to say, Francis had ensured his own, and Mary’s, fine feathers remained intact.

‘Poor Mother. Could you not have assisted her, Francis? She’s no longer young.’

‘But I have devoted myself to you, ma mère,’ he protested. ‘That way, when you need me, I shall be available. How can I spare aught of my help for others?’

‘So you would leave my Mother Guildford to slip in the mud? For shame, Francis. Your gallantry is very selective, I fear.’

‘Tis true. I confess it. Would you have me a faithless churl so soon to abandon you to the tender mercies of other men? Nay, I’ll not do it. Let your haughty Duke of Norfolk see to her.’ Francis gave a graceful bow. ‘You are now my Queen and I must look after you.’

The rain was still falling when the party emerged from the church. The horses’ hooves had churned up the mud into a quagmire. For her entry into Abbeville, Mary had changed her garments yet again and was now dressed in gold brocade with a white gown made in the English fashion, with tight sleeves, decorated with jewels and more heavy goldsmith’s work – ‘tout or et diamants – all gold and diamonds as Francis admiringly commented. Surrounded by her running footmen and the Scots Guards, Mary rode under a canopy of white satin embroidered by roses which the clergy had prepared for her. Borne by the officers of the town, it helped to protect her from the rain. By now it was around four o’clock in the afternoon and Mary was tired after being the centre of so much formal ceremonial. But, well-schooled in what to expect, she knew it would be some time before she could retire for an hour, climb out of her weighty clothing and relax.

As the procession entered the town, Mary was welcomed with bells, trumpets and artillery, all vying together to give her the greatest welcome. The noise was tremendous and made her ears ring. It didn’t seem to disconcert the towns-people who stood in the rain paying it no heed at all in their eagerness to see and greet their new Queen. Their exuberant cries of ‘Vive la Reine’ added to the cacophony, but their obvious delight warmed Mary’s heart. Still a little pale, being but recently plucked from the ocean’s icy clutches, she smiled and waved all the while and was outwardly as enthusiastic as any. The fleeting thought that her brother – who had always known how to appeal to a crowd – would be proud of her made her smile even more. Now Mary, too, was learning that she had the gift of pleasing the people. It was a heady gift.

Surrounded by her jostling new subjects, she rode through the Porte Marcade and down the Chausée. Francis told her the name of each location and pointed out the tapestries which hung down from every available pole and window, billowing in the breeze. He explained the intricacies of the mystery plays that were enacted on every corner, leaning close beside her so she could hear above the noise.

They arrived at the Church of St Wolfran, the patron saint of the town and Mary dismounted to give thanks. She went once more through the noisily shouting populace and she and her ladies were at last conducted to their lodgings, where Mary met the fifteen-year-old Madam Claude, Francis’ wife and King Louis’ eldest daughter. With difficulty, Claude, who was very fat, sank into a deep courtesy. Claude’s pallor reminded Mary that she had but recently risen from her sick-bed and she bade her rise and commiserated with her over the recent loss of her mother. Gently, she chided the wan face before her. ‘You should really have remained in bed. We could have greeted one another just the same.’ Mary studied the girl’s white face with concern. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling quite well?’

Francis interposed. ‘She could not remain in bed whilst your Majesty attended on her. It wouldn’t be right.’

Mary was saddened to note that Francis’ young wife received none of the gallantry he had shown her. Clearly, this was no love match, at least not on Francis’ side, though poor Claude’s sad gaze seemed to follow her husband about with mute adoration. But Mary couldn’t expect the tall, elegant and witty Francis to adore his frumpy little wife even though she would, in time, bring him great riches.

As though he sensed Mary’s thoughts and wanted her to think well of him, with every appearance of husbandly solicitude, Francis enquired of Claude, ‘You’re well enough now, Claude, are you not?’

‘Yes, my lord. Francis is right, Your Grace,’ she told Mary. ‘It would not be seemly for me to abide in bed for your greeting. My father would be most displeased.’

However strongly-felt was her desire to please her father, her desire to please Francis was clearly even stronger. Mary wondered what heartbreak lay in store for the crippled and vulnerable Claude. ‘Even so, she said gently, ‘you must take care of your health. You do not want to be unwell for the ceremonies.’ These would be an ordeal and would tax the resources of the strongest, Mary knew. She turned back to Francis and asked, ‘Do we bide here for a while, my lord?’

Thankfully, Francis confirmed it. ‘Yes, you may rest for a few hours,’ he told her. ‘You must be fresh for the night’s dancing. I intend to claim a lot of dances.’

Mary laughed and turned to Claude, ‘Your husband is very gallant, is he not, Claude?’ She called to mind her own gouty and black-toothed husband, and added enviously, ‘You are fortunate to have such an entertaining husband.’

‘Yes, Madam,’ Claude answered uncertainly.

‘Oh Claude doesn’t find me amusing at all,’ Francis told Mary. ‘She thinks I am wicked and blasphemous. Claude is very religious,’ he explained to Mary. ‘And spends a lot of time on her knees—doubtless praying for me.’

Mary smiled. Francis certainly offered light relief after thoughts of Louis. She had but a few days before she must endure more than sickening kisses from her husband. Her sad thoughts must have shown on her face, for Francis was instantly attentive.

‘Such sad looks, my pretty Mother. Why so?’

Unable to explain they were caused by distaste for her husband, Mary merely smiled. But even the demands of diplomacy allowed a young girl a few pangs of homesickness and she was able to excuse her sad looks by expressing wonder as to whether she would ever see England again.

‘We must make her forget that damp country, Claude,’ Francis instructed, mock-sternly. ‘I will consider it my duty to help you achieve the necessary amnesia, Mary, if thoughts of England make you sad. France is your home now,’ he reminded her, ‘and we your family.’ He drew her to him and kissed both her cheeks, then insisted his young wife do the same. ‘Now it is my turn to look sad,’ he said, ‘for I must leave you to rest. Till this evening, my Mother. Claude.’ Francis swept low and backed out of the room.

Mary, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry at his departure, smiled at her daughter-in-law in and said, ‘Come along, Claude, ladies. Let us relax for a while. I shall want plenty of energy for the ball tonight.’

Once in the bedchamber, Claude, Mary and their ladies quickly undressed one another and spread themselves around the room to rest. The streets were still noisy from the shouts of the excited populace, however, and sleep was impossible. They chatted desultorily, Mary taking the time to learn more of her new family. The young Madame Claude was rather shy and Mary worked at drawing her out. Claude still looked far from well and Mary asked her, ‘What ails you, Madame?’

‘I get pains in my stomach and legs that make me feel sick, Your Grace,’ Claude explained. ‘The physicians are reluctant to put a name to this illness.’

Lady Guildford snorted at this. ‘They usually are,’ she commented dryly. ‘When I was last ill, they clucked around me like a bunch of old hens. They bled me here and bled me there, till they thought me sufficiently weakened to put up with more of their torture. But I rallied despite them and cleared them all out and cured myself with herbal concoctions. I’ve not been ill since,’ she added with satisfaction.

‘Tis a pity we do not all have your constitution, Mother,’ said Mary, with a wry smile at Claude. ‘Perhaps you could make up a potion to help Madame Claude.’

Lady Guildford glanced at this young lady’s overweight body and pale face and said forthrightly, ‘What Madame Claude needs is fresh air, exercise and some good, plain food. Rich cooking is not good for young people.’ Having given her opinion, Lady Guildford leaned complacently back against her pillows.

‘Take no notice, Claude, ‘Mary whispered to the embarrassed-looking Claude. ‘My Mother Guildford is not nearly as fierce as she sounds.’

Claude smiled uncertainly at this and ventured a comment. ‘My father must be very happy in his choice of bride, Your Grace. You’re very beautiful.’

Mary was touched. She felt honour-bound to find a compliment in return. ‘You’re very kind. The King, your father, was most gracious when we met on the road and gave me a hearty greeting.’ Mary’s lips curled at the memory, but she forced herself on. ‘You give me courage for all the ceremonies that lie ahead. I fear they will be an ordeal, especially as my French is not as practised as I could wish.’

‘You shouldn’t worry, Your Grace,’ Claude told her. ‘You can’t fail to please the court and the people. I’m sure you already please my father. You will find him a kind and generous husband, I’m sure. He and my mother were very happy together.’ Claude’s voice trembled, though whether this was caused by the loss of her mother or her anxieties about her own marriage, Mary couldn’t tell.

She assumed the former and tried to comfort her. ‘I, too, lost my mother young. I wasn’t quite seven, but I can still just remember her gentleness. We can be as sisters,’ Mary told her. ‘There are only a few years between us, after all.’ Mary’s curiosity got the better of her and she tried to draw Claude out further. ‘Have you been married long, Claude? You are still very young.’

‘Oh, no, Madame. Francis and I were married in May, though we were betrothed at my father’s wish, long ago, when I was seven and he twelve.’

‘Don’t you think it strange, Claude—here we are, both new brides, made kin by my marriage to your father, and yet we were both, in turn, promised to the young Prince of Castile? Indeed, I was to have been finally married to him this year.’

‘Yes, Madame. It was my mother’s desire that I should marry Castile’s prince, but as my parents had no son the people were against it. They didn’t wish their princess to be married out of the realm. So when my mother died, my father pushed through the marriage to Francis.’

Their dishabille and enforced intimacy had loosened the bounds of formality and Mary found herself asking, ‘Are you happy with Francis? Is he a kind husband?’

Claude’s reply was sadly revealing and uncharacteristically worldly. ‘He is as kind as most husbands, Madame. I’ve become very fond of him, though with his charm he could have married any. I was fortunate he wasn’t a stranger. If God had granted my father sons, I would have been married far from my home.’

‘Like me.’ Mary wasn’t aware she had uttered her sad thought aloud, till Claude moved closer, took her hand and smiled sympathetically. ‘Don’t be sad, Your Grace. I know my father is very aged, but I promise you he will love you. Indeed, I’m sure he must be delighted with you and eager for the nuptials.’

Mary wished she were half as eager as her bridegroom. But she forced the thought down and said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, ‘I’m sure we can get to love one another as husband and wife should.’ She told Claude about the cumbersome gown etiquette demanded and how sympathetic Louis had been. ‘I was grateful for his kindness. It is a marvellous thing in a husband.’

Claude nodded as though Mary had revealed a great truth. They fell silent after that. Outside, the noise seemed to have dimmed. Perhaps the citizens had shouted themselves hoarse. Now Lady Guildford’s gentle snores could be heard. The two girls looked at one another and giggled.

After a while, Claude excused herself. She was the hostess, as she explained, and had to go and oversee the preparations for the ball.

A little later, Mary and her ladies bestirred themselves in turn. After being served a light meal, they called for water and scented linen and started to prepare themselves for the evening’s festivities. The indefatigable Lady Guildford bustled about in her usual efficient manner, chastising the servants and bossing the Maids of Honour, until all was done to her satisfaction. Mary knew she was determined to ensure her entrance to the ball gave the French nothing to criticise.

Although her mirror told her she was still a little pale, Mary felt more relaxed than she had for days and bore her ladies’ ministrations with patience. At last, dressed in a magnificent gown of white cloth of gold with matching head-dress, she slipped a simple necklet of beaten gold about her throat and gazed in the glass at Lady Guildford. ‘Will I please the King and his court, think you, Mother?’ she asked, anxious now that the moment of her presentation was at hand.