Read Online Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII by Geraldine Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Geraldine Evans
Tags: Biographical, Biographical fiction, Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, kindle, British, Genre Fiction, Geraldine Evans, tudor historical novel, tudor fiction, multi published author, reluctant queen, mary rose tudor, literature fiction historical biographical, fictional biography
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with about thirty liveried men, came out to greet her. Mary, her confidence growing, greeted them graciously and was pleased to see their approval. They fell in at the head of the now considerably swollen procession and escorted her the rest of the way.
At last, they came to the walls of Abbeville, where again the train was halted so that Mary could prepare for her entry. She had dismounted to enter Notre Dame de la Chapelle to greet the waiting clergy when the heavens opened. Francis, blasphemous as before, whispered in her ear as he rushed her to shelter that the priests’ fine garments must have displeased the Almighty.
Mary stifled an unseemly desire to giggle. For the sudden downpour that made the magnificently-clad clergy so bedraggled certainly signaled omniscient disapproval of their failure to wholeheartedly embrace poverty. Fearing she would breach etiquette and scandalize the citizens of the town, Mary begged him to be silent. But Lady Guildford almost proved her undoing. For her Mother hadn’t been quick enough to dismount and seek shelter. Drenched and fuming, she scowled as her limp, wet hat feathers drooped forlornly over one eye. Francis’ conspiratorial wink at Mary forced her to bite down hard on her lip. When she was able, she quietly reproved him. ‘It isn’t seemly to laugh so at my Mother Guildford, Francis. She must be very vexed.’
‘The trick with wearing such fine feathers, pretty Mary, is to have a fleet turn of foot,’ he told her. ‘That way, the weather can’t make a fool of you.’ Needless to say, Francis had ensured his own, and Mary’s, fine feathers remained intact.
‘Poor Mother. Could you not have assisted her, Francis? She’s no longer young.’
‘But I have devoted myself to you, ma mère,’ he protested. ‘That way, when you need me, I shall be available. How can I spare aught of my help for others?’
‘So you would leave my Mother Guildford to slip in the mud? For shame, Francis. Your gallantry is very selective, I fear.’
‘Tis true. I confess it. Would you have me a faithless churl so soon to abandon you to the tender mercies of other men? Nay, I’ll not do it. Let your haughty Duke of Norfolk see to her.’ Francis gave a graceful bow. ‘You are now my Queen and I must look after you.’
The rain was still falling when the party emerged from the church. The horses’ hooves had churned up the mud into a quagmire. For her entry into Abbeville, Mary had changed her garments yet again and was now dressed in gold brocade with a white gown made in the English fashion, with tight sleeves, decorated with jewels and more heavy goldsmith’s work – ‘tout or et diamants – all gold and diamonds as Francis admiringly commented. Surrounded by her running footmen and the Scots Guards, Mary rode under a canopy of white satin embroidered by roses which the clergy had prepared for her. Borne by the officers of the town, it helped to protect her from the rain. By now it was around four o’clock in the afternoon and Mary was tired after being the centre of so much formal ceremonial. But, well-schooled in what to expect, she knew it would be some time before she could retire for an hour, climb out of her weighty clothing and relax.
As the procession entered the town, Mary was welcomed with bells, trumpets and artillery, all vying together to give her the greatest welcome. The noise was tremendous and made her ears ring. It didn’t seem to disconcert the towns-people who stood in the rain paying it no heed at all in their eagerness to see and greet their new Queen. Their exuberant cries of ‘Vive la Reine’ added to the cacophony, but their obvious delight warmed Mary’s heart. Still a little pale, being but recently plucked from the ocean’s icy clutches, she smiled and waved all the while and was outwardly as enthusiastic as any. The fleeting thought that her brother – who had always known how to appeal to a crowd – would be proud of her made her smile
At last, they came to the walls of Abbeville, where again the train was halted so that Mary could prepare for her entry. She had dismounted to enter Notre Dame de la Chapelle to greet the waiting clergy when the heavens opened. Francis, blasphemous as before, whispered in her ear as he rushed her to shelter that the priests’ fine garments must have displeased the Almighty.
Mary stifled an unseemly desire to giggle. For the sudden downpour that made the magnificently-clad clergy so bedraggled certainly signaled omniscient disapproval of their failure to wholeheartedly embrace poverty. Fearing she would breach etiquette and scandalize the citizens of the town, Mary begged him to be silent. But Lady Guildford almost proved her undoing. For her Mother hadn’t been quick enough to dismount and seek shelter. Drenched and fuming, she scowled as her limp, wet hat feathers drooped forlornly over one eye. Francis’ conspiratorial wink at Mary forced her to bite down hard on her lip. When she was able, she quietly reproved him. ‘It isn’t seemly to laugh so at my Mother Guildford, Francis. She must be very vexed.’
‘The trick with wearing such fine feathers, pretty Mary, is to have a fleet turn of foot,’ he told her. ‘That way, the weather can’t make a fool of you.’ Needless to say, Francis had ensured his own, and Mary’s, fine feathers remained intact.
‘Poor Mother. Could you not have assisted her, Francis? She’s no longer young.’
‘But I have devoted myself to you, ma mère,’ he protested. ‘That way, when you need me, I shall be available. How can I spare aught of my help for others?’
‘So you would leave my Mother Guildford to slip in the mud? For shame, Francis. Your gallantry is very selective, I fear.’
‘Tis true. I confess it. Would you have me a faithless churl so soon to abandon you to the tender mercies of other men? Nay, I’ll not do it. Let your haughty Duke of Norfolk see to her.’ Francis gave a graceful bow. ‘You are now my Queen and I must look after you.’
The rain was still falling when the party emerged from the church. The horses’ hooves had churned up the mud into a quagmire. For her entry into Abbeville, Mary had changed her garments yet again and was now dressed in gold brocade with a white gown made in the English fashion, with tight sleeves, decorated with jewels and more heavy goldsmith’s work – ‘tout or et diamants – all gold and diamonds as Francis admiringly commented. Surrounded by her running footmen and the Scots Guards, Mary rode under a canopy of white satin embroidered by roses which the clergy had prepared for her. Borne by the officers of the town, it helped to protect her from the rain. By now it was around four o’clock in the afternoon and Mary was tired after being the centre of so much formal ceremonial. But, well-schooled in what to expect, she knew it would be some time before she could retire for an hour, climb out of her weighty clothing and relax.
As the procession entered the town, Mary was welcomed with bells, trumpets and artillery, all vying together to give her the greatest welcome. The noise was tremendous and made her ears ring. It didn’t seem to disconcert the towns-people who stood in the rain paying it no heed at all in their eagerness to see and greet their new Queen. Their exuberant cries of ‘Vive la Reine’ added to the cacophony, but their obvious delight warmed Mary’s heart. Still a little pale, being but recently plucked from the ocean’s icy clutches, she smiled and waved all the while and was outwardly as enthusiastic as any. The fleeting thought that her brother – who had always known how to appeal to a crowd – would be proud of her made her smile
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