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

“Yet it should not be.”

“How vehement you are! I promise you, you will see good sport.”

She was betraying herself; she knew it. She must be silent. Charles will not be harmed, she assured herself. Charles is invincible. He could always have triumphed over Henry, had he tried to.

Yet she was frightened; and when she slept she dreamed of disaster. She did not know what it was; but when she awoke it seemed to be hanging over her.

Francois was seated with the royal party on the stage—a spectator now that he could no longer be a participant. He was all eagerness for the moment when the German should ride into the arena to challenge the Duke of Suffolk in the name of France.

Francois felt a little sullen. It so rarely happened that he was not the hero of such occasions. That Englishman had been too quick for him. It was true that he had been thinking of Mary, eager to shine in her eyes, tilting for show rather than with intelligence; and the Englishman had seized his opportunity and incapacitated him.

A poor showing for the Dauphin! He had disappointed everyone—his mother, his sister, the people—and most of all himself.

Mary? He could not be sure of Mary.

He looked at her, and in doing so caught Claude’s glance. She was looking affectionately maternal, trying to tell him that she did not care whether he was a champion or not; her feelings for him would not change. She herself had insisted on dressing the wound.

It was depressing to be so adored by someone who bored, to be so uncertain of another whom one longed to make one’s mistress.

Not a very auspicious day this, for Francois.

Mary was leaning forward in her seat. And now there was the German. What bulk! What strength! He was invincible. The Englishman would not have a chance.

The crowd was silent. It was like two giants meeting, as the pale November sunshine touched their armor when they rode toward each other.

Everyone was watching them intently, except two people on the royal stage—one of whom was the King, the other the Dauphin; and they could not take their eyes from the Queen, who sat upright, pale and tense, her hands clasped in her lap; and so absorbed was she in those two glittering figures that she was quite unaware that the eyes of both King and Dauphin were on her and that she was betraying herself.

Louis’s emotions were mixed and it was a long time since he had been deeply moved by them. Sorrow, regret and pity for her as well as for himself tormented him. So she loved the Englishman and, because she was vehement in everything she did, she could not hide that love. This was why she had changed since the English party had come to Court. It was obvious. Why had he been so blind as not to see it before?

Pictures came into his mind of their nights together. Poor child, he thought. Being vehement in love, vehement in hate, she would suffer deeply. Did she hate me? Sick old man—obscene, disgusting. And her thoughts all for that blond giant!

It was a tragedy which befell most royal people; they suffered; but they learned resignation. He remembered his first marriage, to Jeanne of France. He had been a young man then. But he could not compare the repugnance he had felt for his bride with the sufferings of Mary Tudor.

She was clenching her hands together, and had moved forward slightly, breathing quickly. My poor little one, he thought. If you stood up and shouted, I love Suffolk, you could not tell me more clearly what is in your mind. It is time I was dead.

And he had never loved her so dearly as he did at that moment.

Francois’s face had hardened. He too had read the secret. He was angry, for never had she seemed more desirable than she did now that he knew she was in love with another man. She had never taken his courtship seriously, but had fooled him as she had old Louis.

Beaten in the joust! Beaten in love! And possibly the Queen pregnant with the child who would oust him from the throne. Never had the Dauphin’s fortunes been so low.

“Foi de gentilhomme,” he swore, “what if she gets with child by Suffolk! Here’s a pretty state of affairs. Had it been my own son who robbed me of my rights, that would have been one thing—but that it should be an English bastard!”

Louis, the old fool, drooling over a beautiful girl, must be made to understand the significance of the danger which threatened.

In the meantime Suffolk must be defeated in the arena.

But it was not to be so. Suffolk was inspired. Never had he jousted in all his life as he did in the Park of Les Tournelles, and even the most partial of judges must declare him the victor.

The Queen had risen; she clasped her hands with joy. She could not wait to greet the champion; and all the time she was watched by the sad eyes of the King, the lowering ones of the Dauphin.

Francois was in the King’s apartment and they were alone together.

The Dauphin was decidedly uneasy and Louis made a shrewd guess as to why he had come to him. It was not easy to hint—for he would not dare say outright—what was in his mind; yet he had to convey to Louis the dangers of this delicate situation.

“And the hand?” asked the King.

“Almost healed, Sire.”

“You have healthy blood.”

“It was unfortunate that it happened so early in the joust, Sire. I regret losing the pleasure of unseating the Englishman.”

“Ah, my big Francois, he was too good for us, let us admit it.”

“The English method, Sire, is less polished than our own.”