The Secret Bride

  After the blessing, Mary took a step back and lifted her head. Her shimmering red-gold hair was long and loose upon her shoulders, and topped at the crown with a different coronet, this one simply of pearls hooked to a thin veil. She wore a delicate, flowing nightdress of Burgundian lace, with tight, fitted sleeves that were also dotted with pearls. She looked, she knew, far more angelic than she felt.

  Beside Louis, Francois stood tall and commanding in a doublet of garnet silk. The expression on his face was a seductive smile, accented with a spark of expectation. It was the expression he always wore when he regarded Mary. Does he truly believe he shall be next in my bed when my aged, ailing husband expires? Mary had wondered more than once.

  Francois’ young bride, Claude, had escorted Mary to the bedchamber, along with Anne Boleyn; Anne’s younger sister, Mary Boleyn; Lady Guildford; Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk. But Mary saw that her new stepdaughter’s kind smile and doleful gaze were downcast. Poor Claude, an adolescent bride, had no idea that her husband had been pursuing Mary with his every look and gesture since she had set foot in France. And why should she worry? Mary knew that the overtures were made in order one day to accuse her of infidelity so that a son’s paternity—and thus the succession—could be challenged.

  Louis reached out to her then, bringing the aroma of perspiration, ambergris and his own specially noxious hint of camphor. As he did, Mary’s thoughts ceased, pushed back behind the unease. A huge ruby set in silver flashed on his veined, liver-spotted hand. The moment was near. There would be no avoiding it.

  Dear Lord, grant me strength, Mary thought as her heart began again to pound. And more than a little bit of blindness!

  She had one choice, and one choice only. She could not escape the duty that lay before her this night. The only way out must therefore be for her to give a feeble man all that he craved, and amply, and let God decide the outcome. Could anyone truly fault her or think her hideous, after all, if she simply did her duty to her amorous husband? Her body and her love was what he wished. She would give him only that.

  The king drew her to him then, and they stood together at the foot of the bed, her warm trembling hand linked with his cold one. Their faces were both lit by dozens of long, glowing tapers as he lifted her hand and kissed the knuckles with large wet lips. Mary watched a bit of color rise onto his gaunt cheeks. Mercifully, their audience filed from the room then, shuffling through the arched doorway and past the royal guards, posted on the other side. Only the king’s seniormost gentilhomme de la chambre remained, yet far from the couple, near the door that had just been closed. Mary blew out one of the candles but Louis stopped her at the next one.

  “Ah, my Marie . . . ,” he said softly in melodic French, but his voice retained that tremor of an old man.

  “Whatever your heart’s desire, I wish to please Your Majesty,” she replied as humbly as she had been trained all of her life to do.

  This alliance meant the world to Henry. It was more than a marriage. It was England securing her place in the great triumvirate of Spain, France and the Holy Roman Empire. It was power. Mary would not jeopardize it for him. She must say that to herself again and again, until she heard nothing else. With staunch resolve, she kissed Louis fully then, her lips opening so that he might open his own, nearly choking her at needing to do so. But kissing a man with seduction in mind was something she had already done.

  Another moment passed as he lifted his hand to her breast and it stilled there. She thought of Charles yet again . . . of all the moments between them that had brought her to this place. All the things that had made her not his wife but Queen of France.

  “I know you shall please me well,” he murmured.

  “You are my husband.”

  “And you are my queen.”

  May the good Lord save me, she thought, but I am. While she had played at lovemaking with Charles in the maze at Richmond, Mary was going to her wedding bed a maiden. So it was a blessing, she believed, that she was a Tudor, and she was every bit her father’s daughter. For surely she needed the courage of a warrior to face what lay before her.

  Louis pressed another kiss, this one wet and amorous, onto her cheek just then, yet he did so with surprising tenderness before he buried his face in her hair. She felt his hot, sour breath at the turn of her neck. Revulsion rose up once again. He still held her hand to draw her forth as he blew out the last remaining candles. But the effort of doing so led him into a fit of coughing. The sound was rheumy and very unpleasant. Candle smoke snaked and swirled around them, wax dripping onto the cold, inlaid tile floor.

  When the coughing did not cease, a servant, dressed in plush blue and red livery, with neatly combed chin-length hair, stoically advanced. He led Louis, shuffling in his slashed and decorated slippers, through a small private door. Mary knew that the passage did not lead into the vast, formal corridor where the court would be waiting. They would assume for the rest of the night that nothing had even for a moment parted the couple.

  Promising her, with a nod and a reassuring half smile, that he would return in a moment’s time, Louis and his gentleman disappeared into the adjoining room with a click of the door handle, leaving a still lingering scent of camphor.

  Mary sank onto the end of the bed, the enormity of the day descending on her fully only then as flames in the massive fireplace hearth dried the tears on her cheeks. The new smooth gold band on her finger still felt an annoyance, something she had nervously twisted with her thumb since the moment Louis had placed it there. The Mirror of Naples had taken the place of Charles’s ring on her other hand. There had been no other choice. She could have no symbol of him, no constant reminder.

  When her husband did not return, Mary rose and went into the adjoining dressing chamber where her things for morning had been meticulously laid out along with anything else personal she might desire. Beside her hairbrush lay an ivory-handled mirror, a jar of her favorite balm of Mecca and a small silver jewelry casket. Beside that lay her journal, bound in red leather and stamped in gold with her brother’s crest—a Tudor rose topped by a gold crown. She waited, still turning the gold band around on her finger, wondering when Louis might return . . . or if he even meant to come to her at all, and not caring at this moment, either way.

  Much was made the next morning as the gentilhomme de la chambre pulled back the doors and the waiting courtiers flooded into the bedchamber to find king and queen asleep in the same bed. Seeing them around her, Mary rose, avoiding their gaze and ignoring the snickering laughter. She drew on a waiting velvet robe from Lady Guildford and withdrew quickly from the room. As she passed into the dressing chamber and a collection of waiting women surged protectively around her, she heard Louis happily, vulgarly boast, beyond the doors.

  “Ah, gentlemen. It is done. I did indeed cross the river thrice last night and would have done more had I chosen.”

  A little spasm of contempt worked its way up in her throat. She alone knew the truth. Louis had not returned to her through the little private door until dawn and then he had done so with the huffing groans of an old man. He had crawled into bed beside her, rolled onto his side, seemingly relieved that she appeared to be asleep. That was how they had been found an hour later, as the sun rose, Mary on her back, gazing up at the canopy, Louis asleep beside her.

  Charles . . . I miss you . . . , she was thinking.

  That afternoon, a collection of jewels was laid out meticulously on a strip of crimson velvet for her selection: a diamond and emerald choker, several pearl necklaces, a sapphire bracelet and a cabochon ruby necklace, an overwhelming selection. Nearby lay yards of fabric: blue silk woven with gold, lavender silk edged in silver, and extravagant black and ivory velvet. Louis meant to spoil her with these gifts, perhaps to control her as well—and to make amends for their wedding night. But she would not think of that just now. Not when she was trying to find her way and feel just a little bit less of the pain that loss and love and homesickness had brought to her. She fingered the c
abochon rubies. Henry had sent her to France with an impressive collection of English jewelry, but there was nothing like this.

  She looked over at the young girl, Norfolk’s raven-haired niece, and paused for a moment. Mary took her chin in her hand so their gazes met. “Tell me, Anne. Which one would you choose for me to wear today?”

  The girl examined the selection of jewels glittering before her. As Mary had done, she put a finger to her chin, in consideration. “Definitely not the ruby. It does not suit your hair.”

  Mary looked at her, the raven-black tresses falling long over her shoulders beneath a pearl-studded cap, wide blue eyes, lethal in their innocence. “Yet it does suit yours. So you may try it on.”

  “Your Majesty,” she had the good grace to gasp, “I could not.”

  Mary thought Anne too poised to be truly humbled. There was something about her, an odd confidence, too marked for that. Mary picked up the jewel, reached behind the girl’s slim neck and clasped it there. Even though she was still a child, as she had suspected, it did suit her perfectly.

  Mary smiled with years of confidence the girl did not yet have. “How does it feel?”

  “As if an angel himself were caressing my throat, Your Majesty.”

  As the ladies around her chuckled with varying notes of condescension, Anne Boleyn reached up very gently to touch the jewel, her eyes wide as saucers now as her sister, Mary, stood silently near the door. “May I look?”

  “I bid you, do.”

  She stood for what felt a long time admiring herself in the gold-framed looking glass set out on the queen’s dressing table. Mary could hear two of the French gentlewomen whispering as the reflection she saw seemed to transform the child into something she found almost regal. A moment later, when she still had not made a move to return it, Lady Guildford advanced.

  “That shall be enough, child,” she directed in a clipped tone. “You are to put away the others once the queen has chosen, not hope to try them all.”

  The crescendo of laughter broke through the girl’s hauteur and, for a moment, seemed to chasten her. Then Mary saw a little willful spark re-ignite in her eyes. “My uncle is the Duke of Norfolk, my lady, and he would not be pleased to have you chiding me.”

  “I do not suppose he would be overly pleased to know his young relation showed such arrogance in the presence of the queen! One wonders, when he put you here to be of service, which would anger him the more.”

  Experience had triumphed over youth, and Anne Boleyn lowered her eyes.

  “I shall wear the pear-shaped diamond,” Mary announced to warm the chill that had fallen suddenly upon them all. She adored Mother Guildford, but Mary was struck by this girl, who seemed somehow different from any other little girls she had ever known.

  That evening, there was a theme to the banquet. The new queen and her court were attired as Virtues and Vices for the benefit of the citizens of Abbeville, who would be allowed to witness the extravagant festivities as they advanced to the great hall across a path symbolically strewn with roses and lilies. Mary danced with a blinding succession of French nobility, then Francois, duc de Valois, in a rich velvet doublet of teal blue silk and brown velvet, slashed with gold. But with him she danced only reluctantly. His sloe-eyed gaze was always upon her, expectantly, slyly, as if she were prey to be marked for the future. As the dance brought them together, so did his hands. A brief touch to the part of her gown where her thigh pressed against the layers of linen, lace, silk and velvet, the curve of her hip, a skim of his hand to her breast.

  As heir to the throne of France, he was aware of his power at the French court and took full advantage of it. Mary disliked him immensely but she also realized fully that he was someone with whom to be cautious now that she was trapped here.

  Still, she could not entirely control her clever tongue.

  “Your Majesty’s beauty this evening is matchless,” he said too smoothly, offering the flatterery as they danced.

  “And your flattery, monsieur, is as dull as dirt.”

  There was a faint gleam of malice in his twisted smile amid the flicker of candle lamps and fire glow. As the dancers moved around them Francois turned, then bowed. “Ah, I have often heard it said that it is best not to burn one’s bridges too quickly with ingratitude, madame.”

  “The same people advise one not to burn one’s bridges by coveting another man’s wife, no doubt.”

  “Which shall prove true first, one wonders, my platitude or yours?”

  “Clearly a risk on both sides, monsieur le duc,” Mary said.

  The Duke of Norfolk had watched the dance and heard the exchange. Poor little fool, he thought to himself. Mary really was out of her league with a Gallic snake like that. And it certainly took one to know one, he thought with his own twisted little smile. What set him apart was that no one, except perhaps Buckingham—who was not nearly so skilled at hiding his motivations—knew Thomas Howard for the rep-tilian self-server he was. And he meant to keep it that way.

  It was so warm with this press of bodies and all of this fabric that he was perspiring—and he hated how he appeared when he was glistening with sweat. He knew it took away the aura of easy grace he had spent a lifetime cultivating. Norfolk had seen the expression of panic on Mary’s face as the heir had approached her. But she must come to believe she could meet the challenge. A contented and confident Mary was one who would remain in France and happily out of his way back in England. She had too much influence on her brother, and he had worked too hard to go on sharing it on too many fronts. He still had Brandon to contend with, as well as Buckingham and Wolsey. But having been given the extreme honor of a dukedom had rekindled his enthusiasm for the battle of place. Buckingham still believed himself to have some ancient claim to the throne, so Henry would never trust him. Wolsey was only a cleric, who could never fully advise a king on the challenges of a man. If he could next somehow convince Henry that Brandon had lied treasonously about his feelings for Mary, Norfolk’s place beside the king would at last be unchallenged.

  But each change began with one small step. With that in mind, he dotted the perspiration from his upper lip and advanced toward the new queen just when the song was at an end.

  “A dance, Your Majesty?”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” she sighed, bowing to Francois, then turning fully toward him, almost, he thought, falling against his chest in relief. “I am now in your debt.”

  “I am here in France to serve Your Majesty,” he skillfully replied.

  “Just remind me of home from time to time, Thomas. I assure you, that shall be enough to serve me. I am so desperately homesick for England already.”

  That night, as Mary sat beside her husband’s bed, having Lady Guildford brush out her hair in long, even strokes, Louis came into the room through the little side door he had used the night before. He nodded to his gentleman, who bowed, then silently saw himself out. But unlike their wedding night, there was no further ceremony, no audience, no protestations of prowess.

  Lady Guildford looked up and gave a motherly little grunt of disapproval that Mary was glad only she saw. She stubbornly made no move to leave. Anne Boleyn was pushing a warming pan between the bedsheets and Lady Oxford had sprinkled the crisp linen lightly with rose water.

  Louis lingered near the door for a moment before he began to scowl at Lady Guildford.

  “You had better leave us,” Mary said to her softly in English.

  “Are you certain, my sweet?”

  “He is my husband before God. It is your duty, and mine.”

  She grunted again, struggling to stand as the moment of her kind expression faded. Then she helped Mary into bed.

  She did so, though, without ever once meeting Louis’ reproachful stare. Anne Boleyn lingered near as well, still holding the warming pan as Mother Guildford leaned over, gently smoothed the hair back from Mary’s forehead and kissed her there.

  Finally, after they had all gone, Louis blew out each of the white wax candles un
til they were in darkness. She could feel him climb silently into the bed beside her and she was instantly aware that he was naked. He reached out and found one of her breasts with rough, trembling fingers. They stilled there for a moment as he moved himself nearer, his leg wrapping over hers. She could feel him hesitate until she reached up to his shoulder, inviting him closer. For a man twice married, he seemed oddly uncertain.

  He searched for her lips in the darkness and she met him by the sheer force of her will to do now, tonight, what she must. As he probed her mouth with his tongue, at last becoming excited enough that she could taste his moan and feel his hardness against her thigh, Louis pressed a hand forcefully up between her legs. Her mind spun. Do it now and be done with it, she thought, pushing back the press of panic. So that I may sleep . . . so that I may dream. . . .

  The next sensation was sharp, a mix of pain and surprise, so sudden and yet so brief that Mary had not a moment to cry out or to resist it. Once, twice, his chest against her, now awash with perspiration. Then as quickly, he drew himself from her, rolled onto his back, gave a grand sigh and was still. Only the deep snoring that followed told her he had not just expired entirely from the exertion.

  It was a duty, she reminded herself yet again, as if to convince herself yet again. She was fine. She had done it and she was glad. She lay very still watching him sleep as the sun slowly rose. And then the odd thought came to her. At least one day, when it came, the King of France would die a happy man. May God forgive me, her mind pressed in the thought, but may that be sooner, much sooner, than later.