Then it was our turn; but no gentlemen came for us. We must, with great difficulty, get into the little rowing boats and ride the waves again.
But at last the ordeal was over. We had arrived.
It had been a terrifying experience.
The Princess Mary was in fact already the Queen of France, for the proxy ceremony had taken place at Greenwich (with the Duc de Longueville standing in for the King of France; and in France with the Earl of Worcester incongruously taking the place of Mary) but we had been apt to think of her still as our Princess and should do so until the ceremony had been performed between her and King Louis. This was due to take place in two days’ time.
The day after our arrival we were to make the journey to Abbeville where the King would be waiting to greet his bride.
It was amazing how quickly we recovered from our ordeal. Few would have recognized the bedraggled creatures who had come ashore in those rowing boats as the dazzling company who prepared to journey with the new Queen to meet her bridegroom.
I had thought a great deal about her and how tragic it was for one so beautiful to be sent to a loveless marriage, particularly when—as I had gathered—her love was for someone else. Had I been older, with more knowledge of human nature as I was to come to know it later, I should have felt less sympathy perhaps. It was true that Mary was in love with Suffolk, and Mary, being a Tudor, was subject to intense emotions, loving and hating more violently than most people; it was true that she was being forced into a marriage with an old man who might be repulsive to her, but Mary's nature was such as would enable her to exploit any situation to her advantage and emerge from it unscathed and with the determination to have her own way in the end. As indeed it proved for her.
How beautiful she looked in white cloth of silver with a jeweled coif on her lovely hair; her skin was smooth and pink like her brother's. I envied her fairness.
Our clothes, which had been carefully chosen for this occasion, had been safely brought ashore—for which we were thankful—and our dresses were of crimson velvet. I was glad of this for it was a color which was most becoming to my dark hair and eyes. I noticed one or two ladies glance at me; they said nothing, but I could see by their looks that they were reluctantly admiring me, which pleased me very much.
The King had sent over horsemen and archers to accompany us—a gentle reminder, no doubt, of our fighting strength, even though, through this marriage, we were the friendliest of neighbors.
We were just leaving Boulogne when a party of horsemen rode up. At the head of them was one of the most striking looking men I had ever seen. He was tall—as tall as the King of England—and one rarely saw men as tall; but where Henry was dazzlingly fair this man was dark. He was dressed with extreme elegance and here and there a jewel gleamed about his person to suggest good taste rather than ostentation. Oddly enough, the first moment I saw him, I found myself making comparisons with the King of England.
He was clearly a person of high rank. This was obvious by the attitude of those about him. I quickly learned his identity. He was François de Valois, Comte d'Angoulême and the Dauphin of France. I had heard of him, for Simonette had often talked to me of her country. If old Louis did not get sons, François would be King of France.
I wondered how François felt to see this lovely young girl coming into his country to marry the King. If the marriage should be fruitful, it would be the end of François's hopes.
There was something secretly sly about him, I thought, though his manners were as exquisite as his garments. He leaped from his horse and bowed low as he took Mary's hand. His eyes surveyed her and he managed to convey a great deal by his expression, for if he had said he found her beautiful, charming, very exciting and completely desirable, it could not have been more explicit than his looks.
He addressed her in musical French, telling her of his great joy in her arrival. He was welcoming her to France and was proud to have the honor of escorting her to Abbeville.
His glance traveled over the ladies. It even included me whom he must have found uninterestingly youthful. Then he rode beside Mary and we made our way to Abbeville.
When we were within a short distance of the town a party of horsemen came riding toward us. They pulled up sharply and one of their number moved forward and came to the Princess. I guessed who he was, for the Dauphin had leaped from his horse, removed his cap, bowed his head and stood at attention. I noticed a slightly sardonic smile on his handsome face as he did so. Was he guessing that the bride was comparing the King of France with the Dauphin?
The King looked small and insignificant beside François. His eyes were big and rather prominent; his neck was swollen—with some disease, I imagined; but there was something kindly about him and I liked him for that.
He was looking at Mary and was, I believe, unaware of the rest of us.
She sat there on her horse, glowingly healthy and beautiful—pink, white and gold and a little Tudor arrogance. She was very sure of herself and I fancy made a little happier by such obvious admiration.
“The Dauphin has taken good care of you, I trust,” said the King.
Mary replied in rather charmingly accented French that indeed he had and so had all since she had set foot in France.
The King took her hand and kissed it. “They deceived me,” he said. “They just told me you were beautiful—but not how beautiful.”
Mary replied that His Grace was too kind.
The King said he had told his courtiers that he was going to hunt, but he had been unable to curb his impatience. He would now have to leave her; and he was going to let the Dauphin conduct her to Abbeville. Then she would know that the cheers of the crowd were for her alone.
He rode off. François leaped into the saddle and brought his horse close to hers. It was obvious that he was attracted to her.
And so we came into Abbeville.
The next day they were married. My grandfather, the Duke of Norfolk, and the Marquis of Dorset rode with her to the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.
I wondered what she was thinking of her sickly bridegroom with the bulging eyes and the swollen neck. Of course he had a crown to offer her. Did she think it was worth it? I knew she did not, for she yearned for the Duke of Suffolk. Everyone knew this, for she made no secret of it. I was glad it was not yet time for me to be married and I wondered who would be chosen for me. I would rebel if I did not like the choice. But then I was not royal. I was thankful that I should not be a clause in a treaty.
The ceremony took place in the great hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse which had been made very grand for the occasion. Cloth of gold and silver with beautiful tapestries lined the walls; the glass windows had been designed to show pictures of the life of the town's saint, Wulfran; they threw a tinted light on the cloth of gold and silver, making it shimmer, which added a magical touch to all the elegant furniture which had been put into the room for this very special time.
A canopy was held over the bride and one of the bearers of this was the Dauphin, the other the Duc d'Alençon, who was the husband of the Dauphin's sister Marguerite.
Thus Mary Tudor became truly Queen of France.
It was at this ceremony that I was first aware of the Princesse Claude, daughter of the King, for, to my amazement, I had heard that she was the wife of the fascinating Dauphin. What an incongruous pair! She was slightly deformed, had a limp and looked sickly. Her marriage had obviously been made by a treaty. François, the future King of France—providing Louis did not get a male heir—would naturally have to marry the daughter of the reigning King. It was all very neat, but I did wonder what the thoughts of Claude might be as she watched her fascinating husband, and even more did I wonder what was going on in François's mind. That he was ambitious, I had no doubt. So what would he be feeling now to see the King married to, and so enamored of, this beautiful young girl? If this marriage was fruitful, what of François's hopes for the crown?