It was Lady Guildford’s turn to cover her face with her hands, to stop up her ears, suddenly to run to the door to make sure none lurked outside, to ask herself in desperation if ever a woman had undertaken such a delicate and dangerous task as conducting this Princess to her husband.

Her terror sobered Mary.

“Be still, Guildford,” she said; “it would seem it is I who must care for you. Come, help me to my bed. I am fainting with weariness.”

“It is for this reason that you talk so wildly. You are overwrought. It has been such a long day.”

“Stop talking nonsense. I am not weary of the saddle, or the litter. I am weary of my fate. That is very different, Guildford. It is not physical weariness that exhausts me. I love and I hate and so fiercely do I both love and hate that I am weary. Come to bed.”

“And to sleep, my love.”

She lay in the bed, and Lady Guildford drew the coverlet over her. She herself would sleep in the same chamber. She was glad that she had dismissed the other attendants; it would have been dangerous for any of them to have witnessed such a scene. Fortunately she, who knew her Princess so well, had seen that coming; that was why she had dismissed them.

Poor sad little Princess—jewels without price were hers; lavish entertainments had been devised in her honor; few could have been feted as she was; but few could have been more unhappy than she was that night. Yet a simple ceremony in an English church, with no jewels, no brilliant company, no crown, could have made her the happiest woman in the world, providing the right man had shared that ceremony with her.

But she asks the impossible, mused Lady Guildford, which was characteristic of her. She knew that Mary had gone on believing—in the face of circumstances—that this marriage would not take place; that a miracle would happen and that the man who stood beside her and spoke his marriage vows would be Charles Brandon.

Mary had preserved a childlike faith in her destiny; she knew what she wanted; and Lady Guildford was aware that when she achieved it she would be content. But how could she achieve the impossible? How could a royal Princess hope to marry the man of her choice when he was not of royal blood?

And because Mary had believed it possible, because she was capable of enjoying great happiness and knew so unswervingly what she wanted, tomorrow’s wedding would be all the more tragic.

Lady Guildford lay in her bed at the foot of the Princess’s, thinking of these things.

And when she rose to take a look at her charge who lay very still, she saw that she was asleep and that there was a solitary tear on her cheek.

Poor sad little Princess, thought Lady Guildford, so tragically sad, on this night before her wedding.

She was composed on the morrow. She had awakened to the melancholy knowledge that no miracle could happen now; and because she was a princess she must do her duty.

Lady Guildford was greatly relieved by her demeanor; she had had alarming dreams during the night that the Princess stubbornly refused to go through with the ceremony. Now here was the girl, subdued but resigned; and so young and lovely that sorrow had not set its mark on her; it merely seemed to change her personality, and as the King of France had never seen the gay young girl who had lived at her brother’s Court he would not marvel at the difference in this quiet young beauty who was preparing to take her vows with him.

In spite of her sadness, rarely had Mary looked as beautiful as she did in her wedding gown, which was cut in the French fashion and made of cloth of gold edged with ermine. Diamonds had been chosen to decorate it and she seemed ablaze with their fire and sparkle. Her long golden curls had been released from restriction and hung about her shoulders reaching past her waist, and on her head was a coronet made entirely of jewels.

Her attendants who clustered around her, themselves splendidly clad, could not take their eyes from her. Only Mary herself, when she was implored to look at her reflection, did so with blank indifference.

“The time has come,” said Lady Guildford apprehensively, scarcely daring to look at Mary lest she saw the resentment flaring up again.

But Mary only said quietly: “Then we should go.”

From her apartments she walked to the temporary gallery where her white palfrey was waiting for her; and with it were the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquis of Dorset.

She mounted the palfrey and Norfolk and Dorset walked, one on each side of her, as she rode along the gallery to the door of the Hotel de la Gruthuse. There she dismounted and was led into the hotel by the two English noblemen.

The ceremony was to take place in the great hall of the Hotel de la Gruthuse, an impressive chamber made even more so for this occasion. Tapestries had been hung on the walls and the hangings were of cloth of gold; costly furniture had been brought in for the ceremony; and there was a lovely light which came from the colored windows on which were depicted the exploits of the town’s patron saint, Wulfran.

Slowly Mary made her way across the mosaic floor to where Louis awaited her. He looked well; there was a faint color in his face which was unusual with him, and her first thought was: He will live for years.

Then she was ashamed of the thought, for he was smiling so kindly and she was aware that he had great tenderness for her.

The Cardinal de Brie was waiting to perform the ceremony and two brilliantly attired French nobles advanced with the royal canopy, which they proceeded to hold over Louis and his bride. One of these was the Duc d’Alencon, and the other was Francois the Dauphin.

The vows were made, Louis had put the nuptial ring on her finger and the nuptial kiss on her lips. She was now his wife and Queen of France.

It was time to celebrate Mass and make their offering, but the King and Queen could not do this last in person; and it was the duty of the first nobleman of the land and the first lady—next to the King and Mary—to perform this on their behalf.

Francois made the King’s offering. Mary watched him on his knees, and she felt a faint pleasure that he was there because he seemed like a friend. Then her attention was drawn to the lady who made the offering on her behalf—a pale woman, who limped a little and appeared to be slightly deformed. Surely not the Dauphin’s wife! The

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