“Madame la Reine, it would be impossible to flatter you, for if you were addressed in what appeared to be the limit of hyperbole, it would still not exaggerate your charms.”
Mary laughed for the first time since she had arrived in France.
“It is well that I am prepared,” she said. “Tell me, when shall I meet the King?”
“It has been planned that you shall do so in his town of Abbeville, but I’ll swear he will be too impatient to wait for you to arrive. Do you know, it would not surprise me if suddenly we saw a group of horsemen riding toward us, headed by an impatient bridegroom who could no longer wait for a glimpse of his bride.”
“If you should see such a party, I pray you give me warning.”
“You would not need it. You would hear the people cheering themselves hoarse for the Father of his People.”
“The King is well loved in France?”
“Well loved he is,” said Francois. “He has had a great many years in which to win his people’s affection.”
She looked at him sharply. His tone was bitter. Small wonder. He was certainly an ambitious man. Holy Mother, thought Mary, how he must hate
To be hated by such a man would be stimulating; and for all his flattering talk he must hate her.
It was strange that contemplating his feelings for her made her feel more interested in life than she had since she had known she could not escape this French marriage.
At least, she thought, I should be thankful to him for adding a little zest to my melancholy existence.
Francois was not hating her; far from it. He was too gallant to hate a woman who was so beautiful; and she had spirit too; he sensed that; and she was far from happy at the prospect of marriage with old Louis. That was not surprising. How different it would have been had she arrived in France to marry another king. A king of her own age! What an ironic fate which had given this lovely, vital girl to sickly old Louis, and himself the weakling Claude.
What a pair we should have made! thought Francois. Life was a mischievous old sprite who loved to taunt and tease.
He continued to talk to her, telling her about the manners and customs of the French Court, asking her questions about those of England. His gaiety was infectious, and Lady Guildford was a little disturbed to hear Mary laughing again. She had wanted to hear that sound, but that it should be inspired by this dangerous young man could be significant. Not that Mary would be affected by his charm. There was some good coming out of her devotion to Charles Brandon. She would be faithful to her love for him, which meant that no Frenchman, however charming, however gallant, would be able to wean her from her duty to the King.
Francois, sensing her underlying melancholy, had managed to infuse the same quality into his own demeanor. He was implying that although it gave him the utmost pleasure to be in her company he could not forget that she was the bride of another man.
Lady Guildford made up her mind that at the first opportunity she must warn Mary that the French had a way of implying that their emotions were deeply engaged, when they were only mildly so.
The party was within two kilometers of Abbeville when, as Francois had prophesied, a party of horsemen came galloping toward them.
Mary felt her body numb with apprehension, for she knew that the moment had come when she was to be brought face-to-face with her husband.
“The King!” She heard the cry about her, and the horses were immediately brought to a standstill while Louis rode ahead of his friends and came to his bride.
Fearfully she shot her first quick glance and discovered a face that was not unkindly although its eagerness at this moment alarmed her. The eyes were too prominent, the lips thick and dry; and she noticed with repulsion the swollen neck.
She prayed silently for courage, coupled with the ability to hide her feelings, and prepared to dismount that she might kneel before the King of France.
“No, no,” he cried, “it is I who should do homage to so much beauty.” He left his horse and came to her side, walking rather stiffly. The Dauphin had dismounted and was standing at attention; and Mary knew that the young man was watching them, aware of every emotion which showed itself in their faces.
“God help me,” prayed Mary. “Do not let me betray my feelings.”
The King had taken her hand in his; she felt his kisses on her skin and steeled herself not to shrink. Now those prominent eyes were studying her face beneath the coif of jewels, her young yet voluptuous figure in the cloth of silver.
“So young,” murmured Louis. “So beautiful. They did not lie to me then.”
He seemed to sense the fear in her, for he pressed her hand firmly and said: “Be at peace, my little bride. There is nothing to fear, you know.”
“I know, Sire.”
“The people are lining the road between here and Abbeville,” he told her, “so eager are they to see their Queen.”
“The people have been kind,” she answered, “since I set foot in France.”
“Who could be anything else to one so lovely?” The King seemed to be suddenly aware of Francois. “And the Duc de Valois, I trust, looks after you in my name?”
“None could have cared more for my comfort.”
For a moment Louis turned his eyes on that tall, elegant figure, and he felt that he would willingly have given half his kingdom if he could have borrowed his youth and vigor. It was only now, when he was face-to-face with this beautiful girl, that he longed so desperately for his youth. And Francois, standing there, too sly, too clever, might
