The Last Boleyn Page 5

  Her heart leapt. Business to settle? It was obvious he was angered. At her? But he had told her to serve the princess well, and maybe now she would return with the Tudor rose to the English court. Surely that had been his ultimate goal for her.

  Automatically, she closed the heavy door and slipped past her silent father into Her Grace’s bed chamber. To her astonishment, her mistress had been crying, and the duke was endeavoring to comfort her. He looked up nervously, and his dark eyes squinted at the girl standing in the dusk beyond the sunny pool where they sat.

  “Your Grace, the English Ambassador, my Lord Bullen, wishes to see you. He awaits.”

  Charles Brandon jumped to his feet, and Mary Tudor wiped her cheeks with her fingers. From somewhere, as Mary had seen her do time and again, the proud woman covered herself with composure and nodded. “We will see him now, Mary.”

  She curtseyed and backed from the room, nearly bumping into the angular form of her father, his arms folded across his cloaked chest, his hat now held in one hand.

  “Her Grace will see you now, my lord.” He nodded and entered, closing the door firmly.

  How suddenly familiar it all seemed, seeing him and being so formal and having to wait while he talked behind closed doors to others, like that long-ago day at Hever when he told mother he was sending Mary away.

  Tears came to her eyes unbidden, and she felt weak and tired and very alone. Mary Tudor truly needed her no longer, not like she had. She was glad that Her Grace was happy and in love, so why should she cry? Father was angry, and she feared his displeasure. Dreaming of Hever and mother always hurt. And how much she wanted someone wonderful and grand like the handsome French king to love her.

  She fought for control of herself. She was never like her mistress and the others when it came time to hide emotions. She still had much to learn before she could ever face the royal court of the English king.

  She peered at her azure eyes in her tiny silvered mirror and wiped her cheeks, carefully pinching them for color. Slowly, she dusted her face with powder, resmoothed her coif, twined her side curls about her index finger and let them pop back into place. She paced and tried to make her mind a blessed blank, but her thoughts darted about the room and tried to pierce the thick wooden door behind which the great Henry’s lovely sister faced the great Henry’s ambassador. Surely he would be meek before the king’s dear sister.

  Then, he was there. His face was impassive, but his eyes gave away his tension and his anger. “Sit, Mary. I will be brief.”

  Please, father, stay for a while, she thought, but she sat gracefully, correctly.

  “It is difficult to say how long the Princess Mary and her—the duke—will be staying here in France. When they leave, it may not be to return to the English court. And so, she has released you from your service to her, and you will join Queen Claude’s household here as a maid of honor to continue your schooling in French and court ways.”

  Mary’s face showed her dismay clearly, and she clenched her hands as though she would implore him. “But, my lord, she said she needs me and wishes me to remain with them.”

  “With them, Mary!” His voice spewed venom, and her eyes widened in terror as though he had hit her. Then he lowered his tone and bent menacingly close. “My foolish girl, there may not be ‘them’ unless the king’s blood greatly abates. The fool Suffolk has committed a treasonous act in this illegal marriage. He dares! He dares to come so near the throne in marriage! An effrontery to his lord king and to his once best and trusted friend our sovereign king!”

  “But King Henry promised her she might choose her husband should King Louis die,” Mary interposed weakly.

  “Ha! His Grace promised! Promised one day, perhaps, but that is not the way the wind blows now. She is important state business, and she has ruined it all.”

  “She is only a woman in love, my lord.”

  “She is also a fool and will pay dearly starting with this.” He extended his clenched fist and there lay the Jewel of Naples in his square palm. How dull and heavy it looks against his flesh, she thought irrationally.

  “I will not have you go down with her, child. I thought she was the one for you to serve.” He swallowed audibly and pocketed the great gem. “I was mistaken.”

  “The new king of France favors the marriage, my lord. Surely he will help to turn His Majesty’s mind.”

  He reached for Mary’s shoulders, and his fingers hurt. “Stupid girl. He was only too pleased to have a valuable marriage pawn out of the way of a dangerous English alliance. He would have turned bigamist himself to keep Mary Tudor from a marriage to Charles of Castile. The fond and friendly Francois helped them only to their own destruction!”

  Tears ran in jagged paths down Mary’s cheeks and fell off her chin. Each time she blinked, she felt the droplets plaster her thick lashes. Tiny involuntary sobs wracked her throat. Her father took his hard hands away and stepped back a pace.

  “You have been trapped and used, child, and I will not have that. You are too important to my plans. I only hope the king never hears you were privy to their marriage plans and never told me. And I pray he never blames me for not having stopped them, though I could hardly have stopped the wily fox Francois from his meddling.

  “Francois and Claude and their household progress toward Amboise,” he went on. “It is on the Loire where they will establish their court. You are going with them on the morrow.” He looked sideways at her small oaken garderobe. “You must pack immediately.”

  “They stay not here at Tournelles?” she heard herself ask.

  “Paris is noisome and too near the church powers. It is another wise move. Needless to say, Princess Mary and the duke remain here until they can work out their difficulties one way or the other.”

  “You are helping them?”

  “I help only my king, child.” He turned to go, and she stood desperate for kinder words, for a gentle look. “And of course, the Bullens,” he added at the door.

  “Dry your eyes, Mary. We are blessed that the new queen will take on two young English girls. She is pious and the people love her, though much as with our own king, Francois loves elsewhere.”

  “You said two English girls, father?”

  “Your sister Anne joins you this summer. I go home to fetch her when I take this bauble to His Grace. I expect you will know to take good care of Anne. She is witty and clever already, though her looks will never match your Howard beauty.”

  At least I shall have Annie’s company, thought Mary, as he swung the door wide and the dozing linkboy jumped to attention in the hall behind. But Annie is only eight, and Annie is mother’s baby.

  “Anne is young, my lord, younger than I when I went to Archduchess Margaret’s court.” Now mother will have empty gardens at Hever, she thought.

  “Younger, but perhaps with more sense, Mary. Remember everything the two of you do can and will reflect on me and the Bullens. Make me—and your mother—proud, Mary. Bid farewell quickly to the Princess Mary. I will keep in touch.”

  The door closed. Mary sank, drained, on her narrow bed. At least she would have Annie to get to know again, to help, to mother, to love.

  He did not even remove his cloak while he was here, she thought bitterly. She began to sob.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  June 22, 1517

  Chateau du Amboise

  The ponderous, lumbering Medieval castle of Amboise was a miracle of rebirth. The massive stone walls had sprouted arabesques of arches and charming pinnacles pointed their creamy fingers into the tall blue skies of the sheltering Loire valley. Rich parquet floors and spacious windows graced the once gloomy chambers and spans of fragrant foliage edged the formal gardens of Persian roses and gentle scented lavender. From fountains arched tiny rivulets of clear water and Italian tapestries and paintings caressed the papered walls in gallery and chamber. Francois’s chateau stood proudly at the glowing dawn of the French Renaissance.

  In the three years since the decrepit Louis X
II and his ancient order had passed away, all of France had flourished under the promised hope of the new king’s ascension. On Francois’s badge stood the mythical salamander which could survive fire, and so far, Francois had been true to his motto: “I nourish and I quench.” In the past two years, the young king had marched south conquering the Swiss and making a triumphal entry into Milan. He had been honored by the pope, had breathed the learned, artistic air of Renaissance Italy and had returned victorious to Marseilles stuffed with new plans, laden with Italian styles, and accompanied by the sixty-four-year-old Leonardo da Vinci. Francois’s power and patronage gave great impetus to the new France. He both extinguished the settling ashes of the Middle Ages and nourished the glowing kindling of the Renaissance.

  Transformation had touched Mary Bullen’s life, too, for she was a part of the upheavals and shifting times. Uprooted from her disgraced mistress and guardian, the young widowed French queen, she had joined the three hundred ladies in waiting to the pious, ever-pregnant Queen Claude. She had delighted at the queen’s belated coronation this past season and rejoiced with the realm when an heir was finally born this year after two darling but dynastically useless daughters. And finally, though she never fully understood why it had taken so long when her father had promised it three whole years ago, her eleven-year-old sister Anne had joined her at Francois’s fashionable court.

  “But, Mary,” Anne had complained more than once since she had arrived a week ago, “why must we always be in chapel or studying Latin texts? Even the needlework is, well, so religious!”

  Mary sighed, for Anne voiced the exact sentiments of most of Claude’s sheltered demoiselles du honneur. “Her Grace is a good and pious woman, Annie, and we are her charges. She will not always keep us from the other court. We are too many for her to watch, and some of us shall be noticed sooner or later. You will see.”

  “The other court. Of du Roi Francois? Oui, ma Marie, but I am only of eleven years, and I doubt I shall see much beaute or gallantre. C’est grande dommage.”

  Mary put down her pettipoint on the marble sill and gazed fondly on the lovely valley with its rim of blue-green forests and its carefully etched ribbons of grape vines.

  But today, Mary mused, she and Annie could actually be a part of that lovely, naturally hued scene, for Anne wore golden satin slashed to reveal a daffodil yellow brocaded kirtle underneath her full skirts, and she herself was in the palest of green watered silk with silvery threaded trim along the low, oval bodice, double slashed sleeves, and waistline lacings. Yet, sitting quietly like this, did not Annie’s golds and yellows make her dark eyes dance even more, whereas her own gentle greens just made her meld into the scene unnoticed?

  “You shall go far someday, Annie. Your Latin is perfect, your French is beautiful, and you are so witty and clever already. And look at me, fourteen and still a reclusive English maid much alone—save for you, Annie.”

  “I wish you would no longer call me that, Marie. It sounds so very childish, as though I still toddled at Semmonet’s knee in leading strings. I wish to make well in the adult world now, and father says he knows my wits and charm will take me far some day.”

  Mary felt strangely stung by the girl’s words, and she knew her face showed it. She had never quite mastered the etiquette of the disdainful mask to cover hurt or sorrow. She kept her graceful neck arched toward the window and her wet eyes on the abundant green Loire and the gentle hills. “Of course, Anne. And father is always right. As I said, you shall reach far at court whether it be Francois’s or our own king’s, of that I am certain.”

  “If I only had your face, though, Marie, and were not so thin and pale and raven-haired. And,” she lowered her pleasant girlish voice until it was barely audible and Mary leaned closer, “if it were not for my foolish hand.”

  Mary glanced to Anne’s lap where the offending fingers curled carefully under the mesh of her newly begun embroidery. As always, she had secreted the tiny stub of the sixth unwanted finger which sprang from her slender small finger of her left hand.

  “No one notices it, Annie—Anne. You cover it so beautifully with your tapered sleeves.”

  “If anyone should ever laugh, I know I should hate them instantly, and somehow, I would find a way to make them suffer too!” Her thin, dark brows knit and her eyes narrowed.

  She has much of George’s temper in her and must learn to bridle it, thought Mary hopelessly. Why do we not feel closer as I thought we would when she arrived? Surely, time together here will change that.

  “Marie, Anne, we are allowed to go, now if we wish! I knew we could escape postnoon duties if we just bided our time. I knew it!” The gleeful messenger was Jeanne du Lac, whom Mary admired tremendously for her red-haired beauty and her popularity with many handsome courtiers. The thrilling message was that they were free for several hours to see the glorious tilt match in the gardens with the king and his beautiful friends.

  They did not even stop to return their needlework to their rooms or to get a proper head cover, for the hour was late and no doubt the festivities had already begun. Mary would see Francois again, Francois du Roi, her secret passionate fantasy since his magnetic eyes had rested on her momentarily three years ago and he had termed her a young Venus. How wonderful, how distant he was. And those that surrounded him, how blessed.

  “Now, Anne, you shall see those great ones of whom we have told, and the wonders of the court,” Mary promised breathlessly as they descended the great curving porphyry staircase and traversed the long gallery which linked the chateau to the formal gardens. Francois had cleared a huge expanse for the tiltyard and frequently in the warmer months came the seductive sounds of trumpets and cheers.

  “Oui, you shall see the other court, the one any red-blooded Frenchman would prefer to our shadowed world of the saintly Reine Claude,” Jeanne put in as they slowed their pace, aware that they were in public now despite the deserted state of the formal gardens in the golden sun. Deserted except for the white-haired, bearded old Italian master whom Francois now patronized. He sat with his profile to them, his sketch pad poised on his lap while he gazed at a distant vista.

  “The Premier Peintre, Architecte et Mechanicien des Rois, to use his proper title,” explained the lovely Jeanne as though she were lecturing guests. “The king says his da Vinci paints the valley here and dreams he is home in Florence.”

  “The king himself told you that?” asked Mary in awe.

  “Well, I heard him say it to Francoise de Foix only the other day, Marie,” Jeanne returned nonchalantly. She turned to Mary’s little sister. “Francoise du Foix is the king’s present maitresse en titre, ma petite, Anne,” Jeanne added.

  “Indeed, I have told Anne of her and of them all, Jeanne, though she has not had the chance to see them before today,” Mary said.

  “I understand the English king must hide his mistresses from the court. Is it true? It seems all rather uncivilized,” Jeanne commented. Mary was grateful she need not answer, for they were at the brightly festooned galleries, and the joust was already in progress.

  The crowd roared its approval sporadically and the blare of marshalls’ voices broke in to announce names and titles and outcomes of each bout. Fawn and white bunting puffed then fell in the warming breeze as the girls peered over the heads of those not perched in the elevated seats to catch sight of the present fray.

  “It is Bonnivet himself,” whispered the excited Jeanne. “I can tell by his armor and crested heume.”

  “The dearest friend to the king,” recited Anne, for the clever girl had indeed learned her catechism of honored names and titles from her sister in the week she had been at Amboise.

  “And all know he adores and wishes to seduce the king’s sister, Madame du Alencon, who loves her own husband not at all,” added Jeanne as though anxious to impress with her knowledge of inner circle scandal. “Come. There must be some seats in the pavillion where we can see better.”

  The English girls followed her carefully, wendi
ng their way through the rainbow silks and slippered feet along the rows of cushioned benches. They wedged themselves in among a cluster of other unattached flowering mignonnes of the vast court and thrilled and applauded with their neighbors.

  To Mary’s deep disappointment, Francois himself had jousted first and they had missed his splendid victory over his picked opponent of the day, Lautrec, the brother of his mistress.

  Both Mary and Jeanne sought to educate the wide-eyed Anne as to who were the important people, but many were too distant across the field in the facing royal gallery and some sat well ahead of them, their fine coiffures or plumed hats the only way of identifying them.

  “That fine and beautiful lady there, the lively one now chatting with the king’s own mother, is she not Francoise du Foix, his mistress?” asked the girl excitedly.

  “No, indeed, ma petite,” cut in Jeanne’s voice as Mary began to answer, “that is the king’s beloved sister Marguerite, his ‘mignonne,’ he calls her. The jeweled lady seated over there is Francoise, for she is not a favorite with the king’s mother and sister, though he listens well to them in all else.”

  To be Francoise du Foix or any other lady he gazes on with love, thought Mary solemnly, how wonderful. Better that than to be his queen, fat and white-faced and always swollen with child and only bedded when another nursery cradle was to be filled. Everyone knew Francoise de Foix was his third official mistress, but she was so stunning and so gay, surely this affair would last on and on.

  “I said, Marie, Rene de Brosse stares with lovesick eyes at you as he did in the gardens last week.” Jeanne elbowed her gently and looked in the opposite direction. “Do not look that way now, silly, or he will know we have noticed.”

  Mary felt herself blush slightly, but, with difficulty, she kept her expression unconcerned. “I favor him not, Jeanne du Lac. I swear he is but fifteen and he still has pimples. I would much rather have his older brother Guillaume take note of me!”