“Sire,” the Queen said, “my forty days of seclusion will soon be at an end, and I am glad to tell you that you are the only possible King of France.”
The sardonic eyes gleamed. Fran?ois seized her hand and kissed it fervently. “That is the most welcome news I have ever had in my life, and it is doubly welcome, for not only does it make me a king, but it also means that the lady I admire more than any is free from ties. Marie”—he always used the French form of her name—“this is no life for you. You are beautiful and made for loving. Why sleep in this miserable bed when I can have you spirited out of here and into mine?”
Anne was shocked at Fran?ois’s boldness. It would never have been tolerated at the Regent’s court.
The Queen’s eyes widened in outrage. “Sire, in your delight in your good fortune, you have obviously forgotten that I am a princess born, and mourning my husband.”
“Let me comfort you,” he urged. “Let me help you to forget your sad loss.”
“That is kind, but I would be left to weep in peace.”
He ignored that. “I would set you above all other ladies, as your beauty and gentleness deserves,” he declared. He actually had his hand on his heart.
“And what of your charming wife, who is now Queen in my place?”
“Ma chère, there are ways of arranging these things. The crown of France looks better on your golden head, as we have all seen. Claude would rather have been a nun than a queen.”
“She loves you, sire. She told me that herself. And she is to have your child.” Mary’s panic was becoming evident in her shrill voice and tense posture.
“Popes have been accommodating before,” Fran?ois told her. He seemed not a whit put out by her resistance. “Tell me I may wait in hope.”
“Alas, sire, I cannot consent to anything that would harm my honor or that poor, blameless lady. And now, if you would leave me to rest…”
—
When Fran?ois had gone, reluctantly and still protesting his love as he walked out of the door, Queen Mary controlled herself for a few moments, then burst into furious tears.
“How dare he!” she cried. “He is unspeakable. I will write to my brother. I will beg him to send for me. I do not know how long I can hold out against this satyr! Bring me pen and paper.”
Thanks to the good offices of Elizabeth Gray and Jane Bourchier, the letter was smuggled out and sent to England by means of friends of their families in Paris, and it was followed by another, and another, for Fran?ois did not give up. He haunted the black-hung chamber. The citadel must yield: he was determined upon it. Queen Mary put up a brave defense, and although she did nothing to encourage him, and repeatedly rebuffed him, in private she confessed to her ladies that she feared she would not prevail: he was the King, after all.
She was drawn and tense, having spent so many sleepless nights raging against him and bewailing her lot. Inevitably there came a day when her patience snapped.
“Sire, I beg you to leave me alone,” she flared. “I cannot love you, and I have no wish to be married to you.”
Anne had never heard her speak so plainly to the King before, and the effect was dramatic.
“Then perchance you wish to be married to a prince of my choosing, to France’s advantage,” he retorted nastily. The ardent lover had been instantly eclipsed by a dangerous adversary. The Queen gasped, then quickly recovered herself.
“My brother shall hear of this!” she cried.
“By then it may be too late,” Fran?ois warned, and stalked out.
—
“He is using me!” the Queen stormed, as her women hastened to console her. Anne and Mary glanced at each other, then looked at their mistress, who was sitting on the bed twisting her rings, utterly distraught.
“How can he do that?” Anne whispered.
“He is threatening to marry Her Highness to England’s detriment, in revenge for her rejecting his advances,” Florence murmured.
The Queen nodded. “It is for the King my brother to dispose of me in marriage, and he has made me a promise,” she said mysteriously. “I will not be married to some foreign prince. If Fran?ois did that, King Henry would declare war on him, I am certain of it.”
Anne hated to think of women being forced into marriages they did not welcome. Poor Queen Mary had been made to wed the King of France, and now his successor was trying to compel her to marry someone else. Even the Regent had feared being forced by her father into marriage. It was wrong, surely, that men had the right to make women take husbands against their will. She would never let anyone force her into marriage!
Fortunately King Henry had taken his sister’s complaints seriously. Word came that he was sending an embassy to Paris to bring her home.
Hard on the heels of that welcome news came a furious King Fran?ois.
“Madame, I will not allow the King your brother to marry you to anyone hostile to France.”
Mary glared at him. “Sire, I have no intention of marrying anyone!”
“You dissemble!” he growled. “And these English ladies abet you in your scheming. No doubt they smuggle out your letters to England. Well, I will have them replaced by French ladies.”
Anne was torn. Her life in France was tedious, but going home to Hever held little appeal, unless, of course, Father could find her another place at court—any court. She did not want to leave her kind mistress in such peril and distress, yet go she must, it seemed. On the King’s orders she and the rest were escorted to a set of chambers in another wing of the H?tel de Cluny, and left to wait there, comfortably accommodated but under guard, until arrangements could be made for their journey to England. Most were indignant.
“My brother shall hear of this,” sniffed Elizabeth Gray. “And I shall write to King Henry, who is my cousin. He would not wish me to be treated in this way.”
Mary Fiennes and Jane Bourchier said that they would write to their relatives too. Florence Hastings was all for packing her things and going home at once.
Anne fretted about the Queen. “Shut in here, we can do nothing to help her,” she lamented.
They were not confined for long. A few days later they were summoned to see Queen Mary, and astonished to find that there were no guards outside their door.
It was a great relief to discover the curtains drawn and the black hangings gone from the Queen’s chamber. The walls were now hung with beautiful floral tapestries in rich shades of blue and red, and the room looked so much more cheerful with the hazy February sunlight streaming in. Where the mourning bed had stood there was a chair upholstered in velvet beneath a cloth of estate bearing the royal arms of France and England—the lilies and the leopards—quartered. Here the young Queen was seated, still wearing her white weeds and veil, and in a defiant mood.