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.
As she lay down on what was called the nuptial couch, she saw her brother smiling at her encouragingly. Beside him was his Queen. Katharine, who understood, was trying not to weep in sympathy. And there was one other there. Suffolk had recently returned from the country, free of his engagement with Elizabeth Grey; he could not look at her, nor dared she look at him.
The Duc de Longueville approached the couch and, sitting down on it, gazed at the Princess; then he took off one of the red riding boots he was wearing; and, that all present might see, he lay down on the couch beside the Princess and touched her bare leg with his bare foot.
Symbolically the marriage had been consummated, and the Princess Mary was now the Queen of France.
The whole Court was talking of the impatience of King Louis. And who could blame him? He was an old man and he could not have many years left to him. He had a young bride, notoriously beautiful; it was natural that he should want her to be with him without delay.
Couriers were arriving at Greenwich every day, bringing gifts from the King of France. There were jewels and trinkets at which all those who knew the King marveled, because he was not noted for his extravagance; but so eager was he to show his bride the affectionate greeting which was awaiting her, that for once he forgot to calculate the cost.
Mary declared her intention to learn French; she had, of course, studied that language but she did not feel as yet proficient enough. “I should prefer not to disappoint my husband,” she said demurely. Henry knew that she was seeking to delay her departure by every possible means. She feigned great interest in a grammar which her French master, John Palsgrave—a Londoner who had graduated in Paris and spoke French like a Frenchman—was compiling for her. He must write the book for her, she said; for how could she perfect her knowledge of the French language without such a book? John Palsgrave worked too hard for her at his task, and she was not pleased when he told her delightedly that he had been writing the book for some time and would be able to present it to her in a week. This he did; it was called
There was her trousseau to be prepared and it was decided that some of her dresses should be made in the French style out of compliment to her husband.
“My dressmakers should go to Paris to study the dressmakers there,” she suggested. “They should make absolutely certain that there is no mistake.”
But her brother knew, and Wolsey knew, that her great wish was to delay her departure; and, as theirs was to expedite it, her case was hopeless for they were more powerful than she.
Wolsey himself harangued the dressmakers. If they had not enough seamstresses they must find more … quickly. The sixteen dresses which comprised the Princess’s trousseau must be made in record time even though some were in the French style, some in the Italian—in order to please Louis who, as well as being King of France, was titular ruler of the Milanese. And some of the dresses must of course be of the English fashion, to remind all who saw the Princess that she was of that nation.
Mary would stand still in silence while the dazzling materials were tried on her, showing no interest in the clothes whatsoever, and her women, watching her, were sad because they remembered how excited she had once been over her gowns and her jewels.
As for the jewels, few of them had ever seen any collection so glorious as those which were being prepared for the Princess. Her carcanets were adorned with rubies and diamonds; there were gold bracelets set with priceless gems; there were glittering girdles and imitation flowers to be attached to her gowns—roses, marigolds (Mary’s own emblem) and fleur-de-lis decorated with every precious stone that could be imagined. Her litter was a thing of beauty adorned with the arms of her parents and her grandfather, King Edward IV. There was a canopy of a delightful shade of blue embroidered with the figure of Christ sitting on a rainbow, bearing the motto of the new Queen of France:
Mary would stand like a statue while the necklaces were placed about her neck, while the girdles encircled her waist, and her women combed out her lovely hair and set the jeweled ornaments on it.
“Oh my lady, don’t you care that you have all these beautiful things? Does it mean nothing in the world to you that you have more honor done to you than any woman in England?”
She answered: “I care not.”
And she thought: “I would give up all the jewels, all the silks and velvets, if I could leave the Court this day with the man I love.”
During those melancholy weeks she was on several occasions ready to find her way to Charles, to say to him: Let us go away from here together … anywhere. What does it matter if we abandon rank, wealth, everything? I have proved that all these things mean nothing without love.
They would be outlaws, but what did she care?
She smiled to think of them, living in some humble cottage. They need not starve. She would take a few jewels with her—those which were her very own—and they would sell them and live on the proceeds for the rest of their lives, humbly perhaps, but oh, how happily.
They would never be seen at Court again.
And if they were discovered?
Now came the vision which made the dream impossible of fulfillment. They would take him from her. The Tower for him … perhaps for them both. She would be safe though for she knew Henry would never allow his sister to be harmed.
But what of Charles? She could not bear it. They would take him to Tower Hill. She could see his beautiful head held high in the executioner’s bloody hand.
“Here is the head of a traitor!”
No, not that.
