The noise was great as people wagered as to who would be the victor. The fame of the English Duke of Suffolk had been discussed and it was believed that he would challenge the Dauphin himself.

The people were jubilantly sure of the outcome for they did not believe there was an Englishman living who could rival the Dauphin.

The sound of trumpets announced the arrival of the royal party, and the King, looking very ill, mounted the stage with great difficulty. It was pleasing to see how solicitous the lovely young Queen could be with her husband. She was attended by the most noble of the ladies; and what a contrast she made with poor insignificant Claude. Marguerite, the Dauphin’s sister, was a real beauty, but it was the Queen with her wonderful golden hair and bright complexion who attracted the attention of everyone.

Louis lay on his couch smiling rather wanly as he acknowledged the acclaim of his people. The more sober ones were depressed by the sick looks of the Father of his People, reminding themselves that he had been a good King to them and life in France had been the better for his rule. The young ones, though, could not take their eyes from François, who was every man’s ideal.

Some studied the Queen’s trim yet voluptuous figure. It was too early yet to show any signs of pregnancy, but it was possible that she was in that state. Then the dazzling François would never reach the throne. It was an intriguing situation; and because of it the people’s interest in the royal family was even greater than usual.

Louis wanted to close his eyes. The shouting of the people, the blare of the trumpets tired him. What would he not have given for the quiet apartment, the hangings shutting out the light, the comfort of his bed … sleep.

But he must be present on this occasion; so he took pleasure in watching the excitement of his Queen.

He had come to believe that there was much he had to learn of her. He did not really know his Mary. She had been shy and shrinking as one must expect a virgin to be and she had remained so. He had thought that in time he might rouse her to passion for he sensed passion in her, latent, unawakened. Yet recently he had been aware of a change in her. There had been a suppressed excitement and she had seemed a different girl from the one he had known in the first days of their marriage.

He was not unaware of François’s greedy eyes which rested too frequently on her. Could it be? He could not be surprised if it were, nor could he blame Mary. He knew François’s reputation. But François would not be so foolish. The Big Boy might philander when and wherever he had a chance, but he would not be such a fool as to engage in a love affair with the Queen.

And yet … there had been that change.

Now the English party were riding into the arena, led by their champions, the Duke of Suffolk and the Marquis of Dorset. Suffolk was a fine figure of a man—as tall as François and broader. To see those two together would be worth a little discomfort.

The Queen had clasped her hands and was watching the riders who bowed on their horses as they passed the royal gallery, the plumes in their helmets touching their horses’ heads as they did so.

Her gaze was on the Duke of Suffolk; the King noticed how her eyes followed him round the arena.

Now it was the turn of the French who had been challenged, and they rode in, led by the Dauphin.

To be as young as that! thought Louis. To hear the applause of the people in one’s ears and to know it was because one was young and strong, a dashing, reckless hero. François doubtless had his trials to come, but Louis would have given a great deal to be the man in that glittering armor on that day.

And the Queen; she was applauded with the rest. It was strange that her eyes did not follow the French knights as they did the English.

She is hoping that her own countrymen are going to win the championship, thought Louis indulgently. It is natural.

Yet if she were attracted by François she must admire him more than ever in such a role as he now played.

Unless of course she was being cautious. But one did not connect caution with Mary.

She is young and innocent, he thought. She is unaware of François and, like a child, she wants her own countrymen to win.

Loudly the crowd applauded. They had to concede that the English were very skillful and even François could not quite match the tall Englishman who jousted as though he were inspired.

The Queen sat forward watching, the color in her cheeks heightened.

Of all the pageants I have had arranged for her, thought Louis, whose eyes rarely left her, none has pleased as this has.

She caught her breath with the thrill of the joust; once, when it seemed the tall Englishman was about to be thrown from his horse, she shut her eyes and shuddered. But all was well; it was only a feint and the man was once more victorious.

It was inevitable that the Duke of Suffolk should challenge the Dauphin, and when these two tilted against each other, Mary was clearly apprehensive.

There was, indeed, an atmosphere of tension not only on the royal stage but throughout the crowd, because thousands of Frenchmen wanted to see the Dauphin win.

Louis watched the Dauphin’s mother and sister and saw them craning forward, watched their apprehension—which was no greater than the Queen’s.

Sardonically Louis thought of the years when Louise had suffered every time his late wife had promised to bring an heir to the throne of France. What anxiety those ambitious women had endured on the Big Boy’s account; and still did. He could not take part in a game without their making a drama of it.

There was a sudden murmur of horror; Mary had risen to her feet and Marguerite and Louise were staring at the arena in dismay.

Louis wished his eyes were better. “What has happened?” he demanded, and for a few seconds those about him ignored him, forgetting that it was the King who had spoken, so intent were they on what was happening in the arena.

“François,” cried Louise. “My son … my son!”

François had been wounded in the hand and this was a blow to French hopes. Suffolk was about to prove himself the champion, and the honors were going to the English. That was the result of the first day’s joust. But there were more to come.

François appeared at the banquet which followed, with his hand in a bandage; ruefully he confessed that he would be unable to hold a lance, so was out of the tournament.

He talked to the Queen as they supped in the grande salle.

“Your Englishman took me off my guard,” he told her.

“Was that not what you would have expected him to do?”

“So you favor the English?”

“I lived all but the last few weeks of my life among them, remember.”

“Shame! I thought you had become one of us.” He leaned toward her. “’Twas my own fault. I was thinking of you when I should have been concentrating on my opponent.”

“Confess,” she retaliated, “your opponent was too good for you.”

“Nay, I’ll challenge him yet and defeat him.”

“I fancy he will be judged the victor of this tourney.”

“It was my devotion to you, not his skill, that gives him that victory.”

“It is not a good enough excuse! You went in to win and you found him a better man.”

“You are vehement in your praise of him. I grow jealous of this man … Suffolk, is it?”

“Charles Brandon”—she said his name slowly, loving every syllable—“Duke of Suffolk.”

“Something of an adventurer, I have heard. Do you know he tried to marry the Archduchess Margaret? The Emperor put a stop to that little game.”

“I do not think he played that little game as well as he jousted today.”

“I will tell you a secret,” said François. “Monsieur Suffolk is not going to be declared the champion.”

“How can you be sure of that, Monsieur le Dauphin?”

“Because I must avenge this.” He touched his bandaged hand.

“How so when you cannot hold a lance? And if you could not beat him before you were injured, how can you hope to now?”

“Madame, you are too triumphant. There is a German fellow in my service. He is even taller than I; he is the strongest man in France. He is unbeatable. I am going to put him up against Monsieur Suffolk, and he’ll have the fellow out of the saddle. You will see. It will be more than a bloody hand he’ll be nursing tomorrow.”

Mary turned away. She was afraid that in seeking his revenge François would do Charles some harm.

The Queen spent a sleepless night and her restlessness awakened the King.

“What ails you, my love?” he asked.

“I am well enough,” she answered.

“Yet you do not sleep. Perhaps you are overtired. It was an exhausting day.”

“And there will be another tomorrow. Louis, I heard that a German who has never yet been beaten is going into the joust. Is it true?”

“Oh, I know the man. One of the Dauphin’s servants, a great burly fellow. I’ve seen him turn men out of their saddles as though they were sacks of corn. Yes, it is true, none can stand against him.”

“Then he is the champion of France?”

“My love, he is not of the nobility so we do not often see him joust.”

“Then he should not joust tomorrow.”

“Ha,” said Louis. “Your Englishmen are too good. We have to throw in what we have in the hope of defeating them.”

“Yet it should not be.”

“How vehement you are! I promise you, you will see good sport.”

She was betraying herself; she knew it. She must be silent. Charles will not be harmed, she assured herself. Charles is invincible. He could always have triumphed over Henry, had he tried to.

Yet she was frightened; and when she slept she dreamed of disaster. She did not know what it was; but when she awoke it seemed to be hanging over her.

François was seated with the royal party on the stage—a spectator now that he could no longer be a participant. He was all eagerness for the moment when the German should ride into the arena to challenge the Duke of Suffolk in the name of France.

François felt a little sullen. It so rarely happened that he was not the hero of such occasions. That Englishman had been too quick for him. It was true that he had been thinking of Mary, eager to shine in her eyes, tilting for show rather than with intelligence; and the Englishman had seized his opportunity and incapacitated him.

A poor showing for the Dauphin! He had disappointed everyone—his mother, his sister, the people—and most of all himself.

Mary? He could not be sure of Mary.

He looked at her, and in doing so caught Claude’s glance. She was looking affectionately maternal, trying to tell him that she did not care whether he was a champion or not; her feelings for him would not change. She herself had insisted on dressing the wound.

It was depressing to be so adored by someone who bored, to be so uncertain of another whom one longed to make one’s mistress.

Not a very auspicious day this, for François.

Mary was leaning forward in her seat. And now there was the German. What bulk! What strength! He was invincible. The Englishman would not have a chance.

The crowd was silent. It was like two giants meeting, as the pale November sunshine touched their armor when they rode toward each other.

Everyone was watching them intently, except two people on the royal stage—one of whom was the King, the other the Dauphin; and they could not take their eyes from the Queen, who sat upright, pale and tense, her hands clasped in her lap; and so absorbed was she in those two glittering figures that she was quite unaware that the eyes of both King and Dauphin were on her and that she was betraying herself.

Louis’s emotions were mixed and it was a long time since he had been deeply moved by them. Sorrow, regret and pity for her as well as for himself tormented him. So she loved the Englishman and, because she was vehement in everything she did, she could not hide that love. This was why she had changed since the English party had come to Court. It was obvious. Why had he been so blind as not to see it before?

Pictures came into his mind of their nights together. Poor child, he thought. Being vehement in love, vehement in hate, she would suffer deeply. Did she hate me? Sick old man—obscene, disgusting. And her thoughts all for that blond giant!

It was a tragedy which befell most royal people; they suffered; but they learned resignation. He remembered his first marriage, to Jeanne of France. He had been a young man then. But he could not compare the repugnance he had felt for his bride with the sufferings of Mary Tudor.