I was changing. I was no longer the innocent child. Such an environment was a forcing ground. The ladies of the Court took little notice of me. I was a child to them and they often behaved as though I were not there; that was when I gleaned my scraps of gossip. They did not realize that I understood their language better than I spoke it—although I was doing that more fluently every day.

I was enormously interested in everything that went on around me, and my great fear was that any day I might hear the dreaded news that I was to leave this colorful scene and return to England.

The Queen did not talk to me as much now. Her thoughts were on one subject: her meeting with her lover. She was silent often and would sit staring into space with a beautiful smile on her lovely face; I knew then that she was dreaming of the meeting.

François was naturally very eager to be crowned King of France. No monarch feels that his position is secure until he has been crowned. But he was in a dilemma. To hurry on the coronation would seem like disrespect to the late King; and yet he could not bear to remain uncrowned.

François compromised. Much as he would have loved a glittering spectacle of a coronation, he decided it would be better to have a simple one if he could have that without delay. It was usual for Kings of France to be crowned at Rheims. But the people would have expected a very grand occasion if he had followed that tradition. So to Rheims he went but that was just for the ceremony of the “sacring,” which meant the anointing with the sainte ampoule which was performed in the Cathedral St. Rémi. This took place of night and afterward he went to St. Denis— where before this, only the Queens of France had been crowned—to complete the coronation with as little fuss as possible.

So François was the crowned King of France.

At this time we heard that the English embassy had arrived in France. François had had a meeting with the Duke of Suffolk and I heard afterward that Suffolk had thanked François on behalf of King Henry for the comfort he had given his poor widowed sister; and François replied that he hoped the Queen would let her brother know how lovingly he had behaved toward her. He was not, of course, referring to the dishonorable overtures he had made to her, but if I knew the Queen, her brother would hear of that in due course. He told Suffolk that he had hoped the King's happy marriage would have been of long endurance. I could imagine his sardonic smile as he uttered such a blatant falsehood.

The meeting had taken place at Noyon; and when it was over the English party made its way to Paris, where it was to witness the ceremonial entry of the King into his capital.

If the coronation ceremony could be called a little subdued, this did not apply to the celebrations which followed.

The coronation had taken place on 25 January—just over three weeks after the death of Louis; but François did delay his entrance into the capital until 13 February. By this time the Queen had just completed her six weeks’ retirement and, although still in mourning, she could emerge— although she could not take part in the celebrations, she could watch them from a window as they passed.

I was, of course, beside her.

There was no doubt that the French welcomed their new King. Louis might have been good for the country but he had sadly lacked that glittering presence, those handsome looks, the young and sparkling vitality which could not fail to fill the people with admiration and hope for the future under such a magnificent creature.

The streets had been hung with damask and tapestry and the people were out in their thousands. Recklessly they climbed to the highest points of buildings to get a better view, and they refused to be dislodged.

And what a splendid sight he was! François was dressed in white satin and silver damask; over this he wore a cloak of silver edged with silver fringe. His white velvet hat glittered with gems and sported a plume of white feathers.

There was a hush as he appeared. I was sure none of these people had ever seen anyone like him. Very tall, athletic, yet perfectly graceful, he must have seemed like a god. He was indeed the supreme specimen of manhood—and most royal personages of the past had been small, sickly and even deformed in some way. The French habit of tightly swaddling their babies probably accounted for a certain stunted growth which I had noticed was rather prevalent. Following Louis with his swollen neck and protruding eyes, François was a glorious contrast. Louise must have made sure that her Caesar was not tightly swaddled in his babyhood; his limbs must have been free to expand as nature intended them to. In any case he was a magnificent figure. He had a natural elegance, as had quite a number of the noblemen who attended him. This was something I missed later in England where there was a decided lack of that quality and where people adorned themselves with dazzling jewels instead of using them with discretion as François and the members of his Court did. I learned to follow the French modes and that I think was one of the things which set me apart later on.

The cheers for the King, the music from the trumpets, sambucas and hautbois were quite deafening and not always harmonious but one could not fail to be caught up in the excitement.

The officers of the Crown in their cloth of gold and damask, the nobility in crimson and gold, the ladies in their litters, all passed below us. I saw Louise seated with little Renée, the late King's daughter; and in another litter was Marguerite d'Alençon with old Madame de Bourbon, who was the daughter of Louis XI.

All this was to be the beginning of six weeks of festivities. François wanted the people to know that under him there would be no cheeseparing. His reign must be heralded by this indication of the good times he was going to give them.

There was no doubt of their appreciation.

During the procession Mary sat beside me, tense, waiting.

And at last the moment came, for part of this brilliant cavalcade was the English embassy which had come to visit the King to offer condolences and congratulations and no doubt lay the foundation for further friendship between the two countries.

The Duke of Suffolk rode at the head. He was undoubtedly handsome—tall as the King of France and as fair as François was dark. He did bear a resemblance to Henry VIII, and I could quite understand why Mary had become obsessed with him.

He glanced up at the window as he passed and I saw the looks they gave each other. Mary was radiant. She was breathing deeply and her clasped hands lay in her lap.

I hoped she would be happy. Perhaps she would take me back to England with her into her household. That would not be unusual. Young girls did go into households of noblewomen; and I believed that she did have a fondness for me.

Events moved quickly after that. That very day there was a meeting between Mary and Suffolk. Afterward she was in a state of great excitement—of wild optimism and despair.

They had had such a short time together, she told me; but that was going to change. “That arrangement with Elizabeth Grey is nothing… nothing. And I am free now. I tell you this: nothing is going to stop us.” Then she was sunk in melancholy. “There are so many against us. They know of our feelings for each other.”

I thought: Seeing you, Madame, who could fail to be aware of it?

But I said nothing.

“They hate him. They are jealous of him. Who would not be? That is understandable. They will try to turn my brother against him. I do believe that Henry might agree to this match…if it were not for those people around him. They think he would become too important… married to the King's sister. It is intrigue… intrigue. He loves me…as I love him. He said it might cost him his head if he married me. Wolsey is not against the match… and Wolsey and my brother together…who would dare say nay if they said yes?”

She paced about the room. I wished she would be calmer for I was sure that would be wiser.

“François has spoken to him. Do you know what he said to him? These are his exact words: ‘My Lord Suffolk,’ he said, ‘there is a bruit in this realm that you have come hither to marry the Queen, your master's sister.’ Poor Charles. He was so taken aback, for he did not understand how François could have known about us. But, of course, it was I who told him. François said he would help us if he could for he had a great affection for me and he knew the strength of my feelings. That was good of him. But I don't trust him. I wish I could speak to my brother. I will write to him. That is it. I will remind him that I married once to please him, and for this I was promised that next time I should please myself. I shall warn him of my enemies who surround him and will try to do me ill.”

I brought the writing materials and she wrote.

I shared her tension, for my anxiety regarding my own future was growing. She said nothing about what would become of me; I could understand that there was no room in her mind for anything but her own affairs.

All during those days when the jousting, balls and banquets and rejoicing in the new reign continued, Mary alternated between joy and despair. She did not attend the festivities, of course, for although the six weeks were up, she was still supposed to be mourning the late King.

She had one or two meetings with Suffolk which carried her to the pinnacle of delight; then she would be plunged into melancholy.

“Charles is afraid,” she told me. “He says our love will destroy us. My brother knows of the love between us. He made Charles swear before he left England that he would not persuade me to plight my troth to him, nor take the opportunity which being here he might find.”