The Last Boleyn (11 page)

“As once queen of your nation, I was often honored to see your greatness and prowess, Francois du Roi, and I have often thought, as I did today, what a godlike match you and my dear brother king make in all endeavors.”

Both Claude and Catherine had descended from their perches by this time and Catherine added the ultimate soothing balm. “Dinner is served now in the king's fair Palace of Illusions,” she said in her strangely accented French, and then repeated it in English, though everyone present understood the French well enough. “Please join us all in a stroll to the banqueting hall.”

Momentarily, all focused on the tiny wrestling circle crowded now with the two kings, their queens, and dear sisters. Mary noted William Stafford across the sea of faces and wondered vaguely how much of the bout he had witnessed. Then Anne tugged gently on her sleeve, and they drifted along in the whispering waves of courtiers meandering toward the huge Palace of Illusions.

It was King Henry's turn to stuff the royal and noble masses with delicacies and wine. Each night the host king strove to offer some viand or decoration or delight to top the previous offerings. Although only three hundred elite of the thousands present at these lengthy revels were feasted each day in the presence of the sovereigns, the surprises tonight took their breath away. Not only was real gold plate used instead of the customary trenchers of day-old bread, but each diner was supplied with a spoon and fork to use at the meal, rather than making do with their own spoons and no forks. Still, the most marvelous titillation was yet to come. After the pheasant with baked quince, venison bucknade, stuffed partridges, dolphin and thirty peacocks with lighted tapers in their beaks, and numerous toasts with heady glasses of sweet Osney from Alsace, the cupbearers and servers rolled in a massive subtlety of an exact miniature replica of the Palace of Illusions with orangeade moats and huge Tudor roses and Francois's salamanders on all corners. A ripple of applause went up and King Henry glowed with pride.

Mary sat between Anne and Rose Dacre at a table of mostly English ladies. She had a clear view of the head table which was raised on a dais, and if she craned her head a bit, she could see her father at the next table with her amusing cousin Francis Bryan. Twice when she looked their way, she caught the all-seeing eye of William Stafford seated near them so she gave up looking about the vast hall and concentrated on the chatter at the table. The first time the conversation truly seized her attention was when the subject suddenly became Francois's belabored mistress, Francoise du Foix.

“Look at her standing up there at the head table, flaunting herself in front of everyone—and next to his queen!” hissed Rose Dacre. Mary
did
look. Indeed, the beauteous Francoise was leaning over Francois's chair as he smiled up at her chatting. Queen Claude looked elsewhere as usual, but the English king was all eyes.

“I warrant he summoned her,” put in Anne. “Even she does not have the nerve to prance up there unbidden.”

“Anne, please,” Mary chided gently, amazed that her little sister could sound so worldly. Has she ever talked about me like that, she suddenly wondered.

“I cannot fathom a court so unchristian as the French. Imagine actually flaunting one's mistress before the court and queen!” Jane Dorset said, her narrow-eyed gaze riveted on Francoise. “People may know of Bessie Blount and even His Grace's bastard son, but he never displays her that way!”

“A lady of the French court—Jeanne du Lac, Anne—once told me that she thought it most uncivilized that the English king had to hide his mistresses and pretend he had none when everyone knew he did,” Mary said quietly, and the beautifully coiffed heads within hearing swiveled toward her. “Though not having lived at the English court, I know not for certain how things stand,” she added.

“His Grace does not go through a woman a week, as we have heard the French king does, Mary,” came Rose Dacre's unmistakably pointed voice. “Perhaps, since you have been at the French court, you could tell us of that.”

Mary felt the color flow to her cheeks, and she kept silent. “I meant not to criticize His Grace,” she offered, “and when I return home to England, I know I shall have much to learn.”

“Granted, Mary, but you
do
seem a quick learner,” Rose parried and, discomfitted that no one else joined their repartee, she observed, “Well, here comes Francois's
mistress en titre
now, and her charming face looks like an absolute thundercloud!”

With her head held high, Francoise approached their table, chatting and nodding to those she recognized. Eventually, she halted her glittering progress behind Rose Dacre. Mary almost wished she had known of Rose's words and had come to scold her for her impudence.

“Marie Boullaine,” came Francoise's sweet voice in lilting French, “Francois du Roi wishes to speak with you at his table. I did not ask him the reason, perhaps some message for your father.”

Embarrassed, Mary rose and stepped over the bench on which she sat. She held her tongue until she and Francoise were out of hearing range of her dinner partners and then said, “If Francois du Roi had a message for my father, he could easily summon him, as you well know.”

A smile still on Francoise's lovely face, she answered evenly, “Perhaps he intends to parade all of his conquests before the English king in order, little Boullaine. Actually, I know he only wishes to hurt and humiliate me, to bring me to heel and back to his bed a willing victim like yourself. You may tell him, if you will, that it will take much more than trying to humble me by sending me to fetch his little English slut to make me lose my spirit!” Francoise stopped then, apparently surprised at her own vehemence, and Mary ached to slap that painted red smile so near.

“I shall tell him all you have said, Francoise du Foix, now, in front of Queen Claude and my King Henry. Then perhaps I shall hear when I am at home in England of your retirement to your dear husband's chateau far from court.” Mary turned away before the other woman could respond, and mounted the dais.

Francois, resplendent in deep purple velvet, contrasting with the English king's rich crimson doublet and hose, held out his hand to her. She felt compelled to take it, though the raised red eyebrows of King Henry worried her. Francois immediately fired his first salvo in hearing range of his rival king. “You must come soon to visit my golden tent, Marie. I have not seen you much of late. Do the English keep you hostage? The ceiling of the tent is the wonderful star-lit sky Master da Vinci painted for our fine banquet, when you and I were dressed alike and strolled under our own heavens. Do you remember, Marie?”

Mary nodded and offered a shallow bow in silence. As she rose, Francois began a flowery thanks to Henry for the beautiful maids of England. “I urge you to send us all you can spare, my brother Henry,” Francois chortled.

Henry Tudor smiled thinly but did not laugh. Mary could sense the tangled tensions. She had never before been with them when they were together. Was the cause only the foolish wrestling bout, or more?

“Mary, of course, being of marriageable age now, will be coming home immediately,” Henry said flatly.

“Indeed? I had not heard of this. I am much grieved. And whose sudden decision is this? Golden Marie, how do you feel about this command,” Francois probed, his narrowed dark eyes upon her.

“I shall be happy to return to my home, Your Grace, for I am true-bred English, even though your court has given me French polish. Of course, I shall greatly miss the kindness of our dear Queen Claude. She has been most considerate of me always, no matter what foolish mistakes I have made.”

Her heart rose in her throat at the audacity of the reply she had so long desired to give. She tried to smile sweetly and look innocent of her motives. Francois glared but a moment and Henry's voice was lighter, almost jovial as he spoke.

“Do not grieve the loss of one of your queen's maids so greatly, brother Francois. I assure you, such beauty and wit will not be wasted. I personally shall find ‘golden Mary' a suitable English husband, and she will serve at the court of her king.”

Mary could see the muscles in Francois's jaw go taut and his slender fingers wrap tightly around his goblet filled with ruby wine. “I envy her husband his treasure,” he said. “Perhaps, my trusted Henry, if you and I are as alike as your dear sister claimed today, after you were thrown in our wrestling bout, I shall envy you too, eh?” Francois's brittle laughter filled the air as Mary curtseyed and turned away, though she had not been formally dismissed. She could feel the myriad eyes of the room on her, but she had had quite enough of the tense banter between these two powerful magnets of influence.

“Mary,” King Henry's voice floated to her, and she turned again.

“Your Grace?”

“I am sending for your father and intend to discuss some diplomatic matters with him in a few moments. I would wish you to wait for me—and your father—in the antechamber.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

“I do not order you, Mary,” came his now-hushed voice. “I only request.”

She thought instantly of Francois's same words to her once—words that lied to her foolish heart before he seduced her in that tiny room at Amboise.

“I shall be there, Sire.” She managed a little smile but she felt drained now, embarrassed, proud and afraid. Relieved to see both queens still turned away from their husbands in continual conversation, she stepped from the dais.

When the confrontation with Francois that she had longed for was over and she had exited down the narrow hall lined with hanging tapestries, her knees went weak and she began to tremble uncontrollably. She sat gratefully on a velvet-cushioned chair in the anteroom. In the vast hall with its vipers and sly foxes, huge bearlike Henry seemed a distant dream. She closed her eyes to gain poise and control before they would be on her again—the king, her father. She prayed God she would never see Francois at close range again, the god-like Francois du Roi who shattered a little girl's dreams for his own pleasure and amusement—and to pay gambling debts.

“Mary, are you feeling well enough to stay, or may I take you back to Guines?”

Her eyes shot open at the familiar voice—Staff! Up close, his more refined appearance in gold velvet and heavy brocade made him look every whit as handsome as he had while dirty and sweaty in the wrestling circle, she reluctantly admitted to herself. His huge shoulders stretched the costly materials taut and his doublet outlined the heavy muscles of his chest and tapered, flat belly as completely as his hose etched every sinew of his brawny thighs and calves. Despite the disdain she tried to show him, her eyes darted guiltily to the gold brocade-covered codpiece where his powerful loins joined. Then her eyes met his lazy perusal of her body with the usual resounding crack of energy which leapt between them.

“William Stafford, are you always about? Must I see you everywhere I look or turn? Did the king send you?”

“No, Mary. Your father did. Are you all right after your dangerous interview? How does it feel to be a little pawn tossed about between two kings?”

“I need none of your impudence, Master Stafford!”

“I am thrilled that the fire of spirit still burns beneath the pliant sweetness. And I had hoped that after this afternoon you had resolved to call me Staff.”

“Why should I?”

“Perhaps you will at least do so when you become aroused or excited, Mary. Was that not your clear voice I heard as I rolled about on the ground at your feet this afternoon: ‘Come on, Staff, you can do it'?”

Mary felt herself color instantly. “Do not be so conceited to think that I wanted you especially to be the victor. I am true English, you know, and would cheer for any English contender.”

“Alas, I had hoped your concern for me was of another sort.” He hung his head in mock grief and she almost burst into laughter. Then he said quietly, “I was hoping your good will was truly for me and not against poor Lautrec. Has he been an enemy to you?”

“No. No, indeed, and it is none of your concern.”

He flashed her an impudent smile. “Then he was something to you, but I shall console myself with the fact that you seem to detest him. You know, sweet Mary, you have never yet mastered telling lies, at least not lying and hiding it. And you still have a conscience. You had best learn to lie and to bury that conscience if you are to get on at great Henry's court, lass.”

“You have no right, no right at all to counsel me. Why do you concern yourself anyway?”

“I assure you, Mary, it is not part of my duty to either your father or the king. Therefore, I must have my own motives. When you grow up a bit, from the foolish wisp of girl you are, perhaps we shall discuss my motives. Until then, you will have to wonder.”

Her hand tingled with the desire to slap him again, but would he take it as calmly this time? She wanted to beat on his chest, to kick at him, to scratch and scream. It frightened her that he aroused such feelings in her when he was so obviously beneath her concern.

The dark curtains parted in the awkward silence, and Thomas Bullen darted in. “Is she quite all right, Staff?”

“Ask the lady yourself, milord. I would say her spirits are quite high.”

“That is a good girl,” he nodded. “What exactly did the king say, Mary?”

“Which king, father?” Out of the corner of her eye she caught William Stafford's delighted smile at her impudence.

“His Grace, of course. He said he would choose a husband for you. Did he give a name?”

“No. He said only to await him—and you—here.”

“Fine. Fine. Maybe you will be returning home with the royal party.”

“I should like to at least visit mother at Hever.”

“Indeed if there is to be a wedding, you shall return there to prepare...if that is permissable,” he said as an afterthought. “And what were Francois's words? Did they argue?”