The Nymph from Heaven, page 29
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
“What do I assume?” he whispered. “I love you. I would give anything to taste your sweetness for myself. I have yearned for you night after night ever since that first day I saw you in the woods outside Abbeville. And now these thoughts, these desires, invade my every waking moment.” Now his voice sounded piteous.
“Then I suggest you leave the court, My Lord,” said Mary coldly. “We will all be easier then.”
“To do so would be like plunging a knife through my heart. But as you well know, I cannot leave the court. My place is here. Claude will soon give birth and I must be here, at her side.”
Mary turned to look at him, and the full force of her beauty hit François like a thunderbolt. “All the more reason for you to divert your attentions from this fruitless quest for illicit gratification. You should be attending your wife, sir, and not fawning after me like a dog.”
“You are right, I am a dog,” he replied. The black eyes glittered. “A dog who longs to bury his muzzle in your…”
“That is quite enough,” Mary said coldly, but calmly and without demonstration. No one was within ear shot, and anyone who had observed them conversing would have thought they spoke of no more interesting topic than the weather.
Mary walked to where her groom held her horse and signaled him that she wished to mount. It was time to halt the morning’s exercise. She rode to where Louis stood with his hawk on his arm. She had been right; whereas before he had been flushed, he was now pale and sweaty. “My Lord,” she said. “I am sorry, but I feel unwell. Would you kindly ride with me back to the palace?”
Louis knew what she was doing and loved her for it. He was trying hard to put on a show, to convince everyone that his health was improved. He knew better, but pride forbade him from showing any signs of weakness. “Of course, my dear. Look!” he said, proudly holding up the brace of squirrels. “Your mantelet will be ready before the week is out!”
As the party rode back to the palace, Mary wondered just how much longer she would be able to keep François at bay. At her coronation in the cathedral of St. Denis, François had walked behind her throne and held the crown over her head when it became apparent that its weight had become too much for her slender neck during the long ceremony. It was the gesture of a lover, and it had set court tongues wagging.
François had pursued her relentlessly for weeks afterwards. A queen had very little privacy, affording him few opportunities, but even a queen must make necessary errands during the course of a banquet. In the dark corridor outside the privy, a most undignified setting, he had emerged from the shadows, grabbed her wrists and pressed her against the wall. When she would have cried out his mouth crashed down on hers.
It had been horrible; his hot tongue had explored every part of her mouth. When he finally pulled his lips from hers, he began kissing the tops of her breasts. Not for the world would she have Louis know about his cousin’s behavior, not to protect François, but to save her husband from hurt. She would have to manage this delicate situation herself.
“My Lord,” she hissed, “You forget yourself. Unhand me before someone comes and sees this unseemly spectacle of a dauphin who knows not how to behave towards his queen.”
When François lifted his face to hers, and she saw his look of naked lust, she shrank from him. The gesture caught him off-guard; apparently he still refused to believe that his advances were not welcome. Her obvious reluctance and disgust had been a rude shock. But instead of putting him off for good and all, the incident had only fired him further.
There was only one thing left to do, although she hated doing it. She must inform the English ambassador of the behavior of the dauphin, and trust him to handle the matter discreetly with François.
# # #
“Mon Dieu, I am astonished at you,” said Louise. “What are you about? You are making a spectacle of yourself in front of the entire court.”
“I love her.”
“You love her! Are you mad?”
François shrugged. “You cannot know how it is. You have never loved anyone except your children.”
Louise winced; but she knew that she must tread carefully. She knew François. A wrong word now and all would be lost. “All right. You love her. I believe you. But you must think with your head now, and not your heart.” François cocked an eyebrow and a small smile curved his lips. It had always been thus with the three of them; herself, François, and Marguerite. Across a room full of people they could communicate volumes without words. Louise returned the smile. “I meant with your other head, François.”
He laughed. There was no embarrassment between them. François’ love affairs had been numerous and his mother had never sought to restrain him. To attempt to do so would be folly. But this was different. He had always viewed women as playthings, the diversion of an hour. Never, except for his mother and his sister, as objects of devotion. A change of tactics, perhaps. Appeal instead of admonishment.
“François, I beg you. Would you throw away everything that I have worked for, all of our hopes and dreams, for one hour in bed with a beautiful woman?”
“For one hour? No. But for a night with her, I would sacrifice anything.”
Frustrated, Louise realized that she was near tears, and that would never do. A tearful woman was either an object of pity or disgust. Logic, then. She straightened her spine, folded her hands, lowered her voice and said, “Mother of God, François, would you supplant yourself on the throne of France with your own bastard, then?”
He considered. “You are right. There must be another way. Louis will die soon, and no mistake. He is very ill, and he has given up all his healthful habits for his queen’s enjoyment. Late nights; heavy food; much merrymaking. He will die, I will find a way to put Claude away, and I will marry the queen myself. When you consider our ages, she should have been mine anyway, and not Louis’. Hang Claude, and Brittany.”
Saint Michael and all His Angels, thought Louise, he is mad. Would he give up half of France to serve his desire for this woman? It was up to her, then. She would get no cooperation from François, that much was evident. And even though it hurt her to admit it, he was right. That blind, passionate, unreasoning frenzy her son was experiencing on Mary Tudor’s behalf was something that she had never felt. And praise God for the favor, if this was what it did to one’s reason! Put his wife, Princess Claude, away! And she heiress to Brittany and pregnant, God willing, with the heir to France! Perhaps it was best to play along. Perhaps this thing was like a violent thunderstorm; it rages frightfully, unstoppable, unchecked, but spends itself quickly. Perhaps this burning obsession would do the same. She must be patient, watchful, careful for him, if he refused to be careful himself.
“Well, let us think on the matter,” she said pleasantly. “Do nothing in haste.”
François smiled. Anything he had ever wanted, his mother had always found a way to get for him. He would leave the worrying to her and enjoy himself, basking in Mary’s beauty and her intriguing company.
Chapter 11
“She so conducts herself towards me that I know not sufficiently how to praise her. I ever more love, honor and hold her dear.”
- Louis XII, King of France, in a dispatch to Henry VIII
Palais de Tournelle, Paris, November 1514
A high, clear fanfare blew from the golden horns of the mounted trumpeters, and Mary held her breath as the chivalric procession came into view from the southern end of the tourney ground. A cold wind fluttered the colorful pennons, which snapped merrily in the breeze. As the defenders, the English led the first procession, and Mary had to pinch herself once more at the sight of the tall knight in the gleaming armor, he and his mighty white courser all swathed in tawny and blue silks. But even without his colors, there was no mistaking Brandon. He and Henry were always by far the largest figures in any joust that Mary had ever seen.
She still could not believe that Brandon was actually in France. In a way, his presence at the French court was bittersweet, for beyond the official audience he had attended with both the king and queen upon his arrival, and the delivery to her of Mary’s messages and letters from England in a less formal audience that was nevertheless well-attended by her ladies, there had been no opportunity for Mary to see Brandon alone, or to speak with him privately.
It had all come about when François decided to organize a tournament between the best jousters of England and France, in honor of France’s new English queen. Francois had sent a herald to the court of King Henry to announce the challenge and to throw down the jeweled gauntlet. Henry’s only regret was that he could not attend the games himself; since the King of France was in ill health, and would not be able to participate, then protocol dictated that neither could King Henry. So Henry did the next best thing; he sent the flower of English chivalry, his very best knights, to meet the French challenge. This of course included Brandon, who was second only to the king himself in skill at the tilt, the joust, and in his prowess at hand-to-hand combat. With him Brandon would take the Marquis of Dorset, Lord Clinton, Sir Edward Neville, Sir Giles Capell, and Thomas Cheyne.
The event was also the perfect cover for a diplomatic mission. Brandon was charged by Henry with arranging a meeting between King Louis and King Henry, to take place the following spring. Brandon was to negotiate a suitable time and place, and draft an agenda.
Another fanfare blew and the French challengers appeared from the northern end of the tourney ground, riding in single file down the eastern side of the barrier. The best of the French jousters, the lords of Bourbon, Lorraine, St. Pol, Lautrec, Bonnivet and Montmorency, paraded in their russet and cloth of gold, their blue and silver, their yellow and brown, their scarlet and yellow caps, and their crimson hose. Finally, the defenders were all in place, lined up on the west side of the stout wooden barrier that divided the tiltyard.
Once all were in place it was the signal for Mary to stand and bestow favors upon the English knights, who were tilting in her honor. The crowd cheered loudly as she rose, as they had done several times since the king and queen entered the royal pavilion. This was the first glimpse that many of them had had of their new queen, and her beauty entranced them. Mary smiled and waved, waved and smiled, until finally, the cheers subsided.
Mary remained standing, and at a nod from her, the five Englishmen rode slowly forward, each extending a multi-colored lance. Onto each she tied a sleeve of damask in the Tudor livery of white and green. To Brandon’s lance she also affixed a red and white silk Tudor rose.
Then the Englishmen fell back and the French challengers came forward. To each of their lances an awkwardly pregnant Princess Claude affixed a blue and sliver sleeve, each embroidered with golden Fleur-de-Lis.
The contest was ready to begin, and would take all day to complete. Based on a system of points garnered at the practice heats the day before, the lesser knights would joust first, vying for an opportunity to challenge the more skilled. A third fanfare was blown and then the first of the challengers and defenders ran their courses. The thundering hooves of the mighty coursers echoed in each and every breast.
Mary turned towards Louis from her velvet-cushioned throne. He was having one of his bad days and should not even have been outside, but he had insisted. He would not delay the tourney, he said, simply because of a few aches and pains. But Mary was concerned about him; he had had to ride to the tourney ground in a litter and was carried into the royal pavilion on a couch, where he reclined swathed in furs and with a hot brick at his feet.
“How do you, My Lord?” she asked, extending her hand to him. It was more than a polite gesture; she wanted to feel his skin to see if it was dry and cold or feverishly hot and clammy.
Seeing the worried look on her face, he said, with a reassuring smile, “I am better now. I feel certain that the fresh air is beneficial to me.” He thought bitterly of the faraway days of his youth when he would hunt from dawn until dusk and never give it a second thought. Those days had ended years ago, but he still thought of them.
His hand was cold and dry, a sure sign that he might take a chill. “Madame d’Aumont.” Mary laid her hand on the shoulder of the woman seated just below her. “A goblet of mulled wine for His Grace, if you please.” Mary watched as the breeze lifted the heavy tapestries and cloth of gold swaths with which she had ordered the royal pavilion to be lined to keep out the worst of the drafts. He should not be outside. It was too cold, and although the sky was sunny, the air held a dampness that presaged rain.
Louis looked at her tenderly. “Do not fret, my dear. I assure you that all is well.”
Mary reached over and pulled the furred coverlet closer about his chest. “I am sure of it,” she said with a smile. But as Madame d’Aumont returned with the King’s wine goblet and handed it to Mary, Mary whispered in her ear, “Send for a charcoal brazier to be placed behind the king’s couch.”
Finally, she was able to turn her attention back to the joust. Thomas Cheyne was running the fourth of his five courses against the Duc de Lorraine. So far, Cheyne was ahead of the game. Mary let her gaze wander until it fell upon the little trinity of Savoyards seated on the far side of Louis’ couch. François threw her an enigmatic look of longing tinged with contempt. Mary understood the look; he wanted to sleep with her, but her constant refusals were beginning to wear on him. He was beginning, despite the love he professed, to hate her.
And what a coward he was! He pretended to glance mournfully down at his bandaged hand. His look said, “But for this, I would be riding in the lists myself this day!” What utter tripe, thought Mary. François had taken one look at the robust Englishmen he had invited to fight with him, and had promptly feigned an injury to his hand during his practice run the day before. Mary had not been present to witness his injury, but Anne Boleyn had been there, and had seen it all. She swore that François had sustained no more than a scratch from the glancing blow of a sword.
Mary looked up at the scalloped wooden trim of the pavilion, on which were painted the various devices of the French royal family. Among them was François’ salamander. It was supposed to symbolize fertility, and judging from the number of his reputed bastards, she supposed it did; but to her the salamander was a dark, slithery, slimy creature, and very apropos of the Dauphin in her opinion.
Her eyes drifted again, and she caught Louise of Savoy staring at her. Louise nodded and quickly looked away, but not before Mary realized the full import of her troubled expression. Louise was always looking these days, not into Mary’s face, but at her belly, even though it was far too early for any pregnancy to be apparent. The woman was simply obsessed with fear.
And Mary had given her good reason to be fearful. She insisted that Louis visit her in her room every evening after supper. She rather enjoyed his visits, and even looked forward to them. It was one of the few times of the day that they were truly alone together. Mary discovered that Louis had a wry, sly wit and an excellent sense of humor. This he combined with a flair for gossip that bordered on the feminine, and when he repeated the latest juicy stories of the court for her, he never failed to make her laugh.
To add to the subterfuge, every evening just before Louis departed for his own chamber, Mary would spread on her linens a little of the goose grease and lanolin mixed with rosewater that she used to soften her hands, for her ladies to find when they inspected her bed in the morning. So far, she and Louis had fooled everyone. Between his nightly visits to the queen’s bed and the sticky mess that was found there each morning, the entire court believed that Louis was as virile as a bull, and that any day, Mary would announce that she was with child.
Louise of Savoy was driven near to distraction at this point, and had taken to making long appraisals of Mary’s abdomen whenever the opportunity afforded. It was one of the things that Mary and Louis laughed the hardest about during their nightly chats.
# # #
The sun climbed high in the sky, course after course was run, and the English had prevailed in all but one of the contests. Finally, Brandon appeared at the north end of the tiltyard to defend against Montmorency. Mary clapped loudly at the sight of Brandon swinging his visor shut and couching his lance in readiness. Unaccountably, tears sprang into her eyes and she clasped her hands under her chin in the age-old attitude of apprehension.
Finally, the moment was right and the two men thundered down the length of the barrier towards each other. Montmorency was too skilled to make the disqualifying mistakes that his French contemporaries had made before him. There was no touch of lance to the barrier, no glancing blow off of body armor. To score, the hit had to be to the helmet. Both men shattered their lances, but each managed to stay mounted on his horse in the headlong ride to the end of the barrier.
Four times they repeated this action. On the fifth and final run, Montmorency’s lance shattered into Brandon’s visor; men had been killed in the past by splintered lances in just this way. But simultaneously, Brandon’s lance struck Montmorency’s helmet and the Frenchman was unhorsed. Brandon threw open his visor and waved at the crowd to indicate that all was well with him. The English had won the mounted competition.
Mary breathed again and unclasped her hands. She turned to look at Louis and realized that he had been watching her, and not the joust. She smiled sheepishly, and he returned her smile with a reassuring one of his own. Mary turned her attention back to the tourney ground. It was time for the mounted contest with swords.
Louis watched Mary wistfully as she watched Brandon leave the tiltyard to refresh himself before he was called for his next competition. He heaved a heavy sigh. So that was the way it was. Well, why not, he thought? She has known Charles Brandon all her life; he is her brother’s best friend. And he is young, handsome, virile. Just as I was, once… And the Duke of Suffolk was no fool, even though Louis knew that many people thought Brandon simple. Certainly his spelling was highly individual. But Louis had discovered that Brandon was a good negotiator, and he excelled in exuding a magnetic charm in personal situations where he had no audience to impress. Louis had agreed to the meeting his brother-in-law King Henry sought, and had even agreed to let the meeting take place in Calais, on English soil. Some of the concessions Louis had made were to please Mary, but some were made simply because he liked Brandon. He just hoped that Mary would not further betray her feelings for the man.
