The Last Boleyn Page 9

  “Let me, Marie,” he said low. In one tug, he pulled her dress and chemise from her. She tried to step back but nearly tripped in the folds of her skirts as his hands held her waist firmly.

  “You must trust me, my beauty. Trust me. Close your eyes and trust your Francois.”

  He pushed her back on the bed and began to shed his garments. She wished that he would just caress and care for her, love her, and not have to do this. But surely it would be worth whatever came to have his love.

  He leaned close over her, then lay beside her. Everything went faster. The room spun. Her body seemed not her own. She tried to cling to what was calm and real, but could only cling to him. Dizzy, swept away, at the last moment, she wished she could run far away.

  “Ah,” he said when it was all over and he finally lifted his weight from her, “I have not had a virgin since Claude.” Laughing as he rose, he retrieved his breeks and donned them. She suddenly felt cold, alone, deserted. She watched, wide-eyed, as he tucked in his wrinkled shirt. “No, lie still, sweet,” he ordered when she made a move to rise. “I will send someone to care for you and get you dressed.”

  He patted her bare flank, then leaned over her again until they heard a sharp knock on the door. He stood as Mary sat bolt upright. Panicked, she reached off the bed for the petticoat to cover herself.

  Francois strode to the door and held up his hand to her for silence. “What is it?”

  “Your Grace, you bid us inform you if the Master Leonardo’s condition worsened. Pardon, Sire, but he hovers at death’s door and would see Your Grace.”

  “I will go immediately. Wait there. No, go fetch me the wench Isabelle first.

  “I wish I could keep Master da Vinci here longer,” he said almost to himself as he jammed his feet into his shoes. “I have need of him.” He threw on his dark velvet cloak. “I meant not to leave you so suddenly, Marie,” he said as he reached for the door latch, “but Isabelle will tend to you, and Monsieur Fragonard will see you safely back to your quarters. He awaits there.”

  He motioned toward the other door through which she had entered. “Have Isabelle tidy your coif,” he said, sounding impatient now. Yet he approached her, sitting with her petticoat covering her from breasts to knees. He yanked it away, and his eyes went thoroughly over her again.

  “Remember me, Marie. I wish I were coming back for more sweets as soon as Isabelle tends to you. I will send for you soon, golden Marie.” He turned away, yanked the door open and was gone.

  For a moment she lay back, staring, stunned, at the painted ceiling, then scrambled up and draped the petticoat over herself again. Poor Signor da Vinci lay dying. What would the kind old man think of this if he knew? And Jeanne, Annie, Claude, the whole court? Dearest saints in heaven, what would father say?

  Isabelle knocked once and entered with towels and water, her eyes uncurious, her hands quick and sure. As she helped her dress, fear raged in Mary’s thoughts. If the pious queen found out, she would disown her. Father would be ashamed and angry. But if she were to anger Francois with her refusals, what then? Before it all came out, she had to tell her father. If he discovered it later, it would be as his anger against Mary Tudor when she went behind his back to wed the Duke. Or would Francois stand against her father for her?

  Gowned and coiffed, she nodded her thanks to Isabelle and pulled open the door to face the stealthy Fragonard.

  “I shall see you back now, Mademoiselle Boullaine, and if there is any favor I might do for you on behalf of the king, please let...”

  “There is one I would appreciate, monsieur.”

  “Ask it then.”

  “Would you see that a brief letter to my father, Ambassador Boullaine, is delivered? I have not seen him for weeks, and my sister and I miss his company.”

  “I would be delighted to serve one who so sweetly serves our great roi,” he said, and pushed open the door of her chamber with his silver-headed stick.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  July 3, 1519

  Chateau du Fontainebleau

  A thin finger of pale sunlight parted the heavy velvet drapes and pointed crookedly across the bed. The rhythm of the king’s deep breathing was unbroken, and Mary marvelled that they had slept the night through. She had never before stayed long abed with Francois after his lovemaking, but many things were different now. How forced his laughter had been these last few months, how jerky his once fluid motions, how brittle his temper. Court pressures and the fear he would not be chosen the next Holy Roman Emperor rode him cruelly, even as he rode her.

  Her mind drifted to her increasing cowardice in facing him after that initial seduction in January at Amboise. The trembling she felt with him had been not only because of what he did to her body, but because her body, despite her shame and fear, seemed to respond beyond the reins of her own control.

  She had actually gone so far as to hide from Fragonard one day in late February when she heard his voice in the hall and his silver cane rapping on the bedroom door of the small room she now shared only with Anne, who was in attendance on Queen Claude at that hour. She had heard his metallic voice speak to someone when she did not respond, and then, blessedly, his footsteps had departed. No less than ten minutes later, as she had sat smug and relieved that today she would not turn to melted honey in the king’s arms no matter what he asked of her, the door had banged open and the king himself had filled its fragile frame.

  “Marie! What luck that you have returned. I do not like for my dear Fragonard to report to me without my precious when I sent for her. ‘But, of course, she was there waiting, Fragonard,’ I told him. ‘Of course, she was awaiting my call for her with bated breath and only fell asleep, eh?’” He grinned at how huge her blue eyes had gone in her pale face and how poorly she hid all the thoughts and passions that passed behind that pretty face of hers. He shouldered the door shut behind him and moved with catlike grace into the room while she scooted off the far side of the bed in a flurry of skyblue skirts.

  “Your Grace—but, you never come here to the ladies’ rooms! I—Fragonard—”

  He had laughed low in his throat, obviously pleased at her fluster and embarrassment. “Marie, Marie, naughty little girl. You cannot lie to your king, but you shall lie with him. And now, here. I grow impatient with these flutterings.”

  He shot the bolt on the door behind him, stripped off his black and red striped doublet and the ruffled white lace shirt under it in one pull.

  “But your guards in the hall, Sire,” she floundered, her eyes on him as he peeled off his black velvet breeches and his stockings held by elaborately embroidered and bejeweled garters.

  “They are down by Claude’s chambers, ma cherie, and the whole silly court is atwitter over much more than whom I choose to bed during this wretched political mess. But if our being caught worries you, I shall oblige. I shall leave my rings on for a quick exit and you shall—well, let us make it quick if you are so shy, my love.”

  Her face and throat went hot clear down to the low square-cut neckline of her simple blue velvet day gown. She knew it amused him to torment her before he took her. At that, her ire rose and she fought to calm her panic that he knew she had avoided Fragonard. She turned to face him squarely with her chin up.

  But as he stalked her around the end of her and Annie’s canopied bed, his muscular form, like the paintings of satyrs she had seen, awed her anew. He chuckled and his eyes glinted. She resented that he amused himself at the expense of her poise and her cherished, foolish dreams that he loved her.

  “Your Grace, please, a maid’s room is hardly a setting for du Roi of France.”

  “But my little filly, you know your Francois likes different places—variety, the sweet variety of life.”

  He laughed, then lunged at her. The onslaught of his hands and demanding mouth made a mockery of seduction. “No,” she said. He raised his handsome, sleek head so close to hers; passion blurred his features.

  “Oh, oui, Marie,” he said as he pushed her ba
ck upon her bed. “Oui and oui, whenever I would have it so—whenever I send for you. You will come running next time, will you not?”

  He’d punished her that day, but was this not all punishment in truth? Now in his bed some five months later at the vast hunt lodge of Fountainebleau, she shed no tears for the foolish Mary Bullen. Instead, she turned her head and glared at the sleeping man. Carefully, she pulled her rampant tresses from under his extended left arm. He groaned, and she froze as the sleeping man muttered incoherently. She smiled to know that even kings had fears and nightmares, even as she and Annie.

  The last few months had skimmed by, first with the thrill and danger of the king’s avid attentions and then with apprehension as he grew restive with her and sampled other bon-bons at his court, bouncing back to Francoise du Foix’s luxurious bed whenever his appetite waned. The bitter shredding of each girlish fancy—that he adored her only, that she could keep this handsome king forever, that he would be her knight protector—had given her months of agony. Francois du Roi enjoyed his Marie when the whim took him, but she was no more dear to him than one fine palfrey from a whole stable or one blooded hound from his pedigree pack.

  Sometimes she thought that she could have withstood all the disenchantment except when he expected her to amuse one of his cronies. Then she was certain she could die from shame. Once she had heard them snickering as they compared the secret charms of their pretty pack of jeune filles. In that crashing second, something sweet and vital inside her withered, and her long-tended love for Francois du Roi died. Knowing how to see clearly could be one’s very survival at court, Signor da Vinci had told her long ago. Yet she had not seen Francois clearly until she had shared his bed, and she could not see how to draw back safely now.

  She thanked the blessed Virgin her lord father knew not about the others besides the king. When she had sent to him for advice and help, he had encouraged her to share the glorious king’s bed, for was not such service an honor? She prayed fervently again her father would never know how Francois had once paid a gambling debt with her. She shuddered at the thought. The winner had been Lautrec, Francoise du Foix’s crafty brother, and the memory of his use of her was enough to make her draw far within herself.

  She pulled farther away from Francois, rolled on her side, curling up her knees like a child, her back to him. An honor to be possessed by the King of France, father had said, a monarch almost as grand as King Henry. Her reputation would be much enhanced both here and at home, he’d promised. But Mary could too often picture her mother’s tears if she heard, Semmonet’s cluck-clucking in disapproval, William Stafford’s accusing look, and Signor da Vinci’s warning of the pain she showed in her eyes. Queen Claude knew, Mary was sure, but her kindness never wavered. Better to be sick, ugly Claude than pretty, healthy and so ensnared. Dear heavens, someday she would escape, somehow she would go home and show this man who consumed her body and crushed her pride that she favored him not.

  If only she could be like the lady in the small portrait by Master da Vinci which Francois had hung in whatever bedchamber he inhabited—it hung here now—the lovely lady whose eyes and lips only hinted at her inward heart. La Gioconda, Francois called her. Mary sat to study the painting, but the sunlight had not yet reached it, and it still hung in dim obscurity. The king could never shatter La Gioconda’s calm as he crashed through the deep forests after stag or danced wild galliards or skewered his nymphs.

  “Awake, golden Marie,” came his deep voice behind her. He ran his warm hand lazily down her bare spine. Gooseflesh rose on her arms; she turned slowly to face him. His eyes were languorous, heavy-lidded. “You were not leaving, were you, ma cherie, ma petite Anglaise, so different from that witch Francoise.”

  At that thought, his voice rose and he exploded from the bed. “Damn her selfish little soul for being unfaithful to me with Bonnivet—Guillaume Bonnivet, one of my closest friends!”

  Mary had known nothing of that. Is that why he had been especially cruel lately?

  He swore a string of oaths and pulled on a white silk shirt, then stepped into his breeches. Mary sat huddled on the bed wrapped in the sheet like a protective cocoon.

  “After I had punished her enough with others—nearly a fort-night,” he raged on, “I decided she had been tormented by the royal wrath long enough. But that, sweet Marie, is why I decided to send Bonnivet as my envoy to wheedle or buy the damned legates electing the new Holy Roman Emperor. I must be hearing any time now, for the election was four days ago.”

  He combed his flat, shining hair as he talked and then jerked open the door and strode into the anteroom where she could hear a low drone of voices.

  Mary swiftly pulled the sheet up and tugged it out at the foot of the bed to drape a robe. Why had he left the door ajar? Some-one might come in and see her like this. The chamber had only one entry so she would need to wait until Francois and his entourage vacated the anteroom for their mad pursuit of boar or stag.

  Padding barefoot to stand behind the door, she had her chemise and petticoats on when the low buzz of men’s voices, punctuated by an occasional staccato of laughter, ceased utterly. Puzzled, she peeked around the door and stood listening intently.

  “News from Bonnivet in Frankfort?” Francois’s voice sounded almost tremulous before he shouted, “Damn it, coward, arise and speak to your king! Francois awaits.”

  Pray God the news is not bad, Mary thought, crushing her crumpled dress to her chest. If they should all have to live in the shadow of his terrible temper, then...

  “Your Grace, your most humble servant, Bonnivet, begs me to inform you that the electors have betrayed their promises to you and...and...” The man’s muffled voice broke. “The electors have chosen young Charles of Castile, Sire.”

  A tiny silence trembled in the room while all held their breaths, awestruck. There was a sharp crack and a thud, and Mary jumped backwards as though she had been struck. “And why is Bonnivet not here to tell his king of his failure himself,” Francois was screaming. “Well?”

  “Monsieur Bonnivet is much ill and most wretched from his exertions in his king’s favor, Your Grace, and was forced to take the cure at his estates on the road back.”

  Francois’s high-pitched laughter shredded the air. “Damn Bonnivet and that she-wolf Margaret! Damn them all! Charles? The bloody bastard Charles! Get out of here, all of you, now! I said we were hunting boar and by hell’s gates, we shall!”

  “Francois, my dear, my dear,” came a new voice in the anteroom, and Mary knew it was the queen mother. “The news then is bad with all your rich deservings, my love. Here, dearest, come and talk. There are other roads to ultimate power for one so deserving, one chosen by God to rule, my love.”

  “But what a blow, mother. Damn Bonnivet!” Francois suddenly sounded like a small boy being comforted. Mary darted back from her listening post as their voices came nearer. They entered the bed chamber. Louise du Savoy had her arm about the king’s drooped shoulders and they sat on the edge of the mussed bed together, oblivious to the nervous, half-clad Mary. Francois’s head was bent over his knees, and his voice was on the edge of sobs.

  “All, all ruined, mother. Three million lire all for nothing.”

  “No, Francois. We shall rebuild. Only now we must go another way to keep from war with Charles’s Spain.”

  He put his face in his spread hands. It was then that Louise du Savoy’s surprised eyes took in the frozen Mary, but she only motioned her to silence and went on smoothly.

  “You have already proved your greatness as a soldier-king, my dear. Now you shall prove your greatness as a statesman-king. We shall bargain with England and your dear brother-king Henry VIII for alliance against Charles. You shall convince them you bargain from strength not weakness, my dearest love.” She stroked his head gently, rhythmically, and Mary marvelled at her control over the volatile king.

  Finally, he raised his head. “The English, oui, a grand alliance between two powerful kings and their nations. I shal
l meet with him. Oui, I shall command him to come here.”

  “Not command, my son. Request, even implore. For strength can come from counterfeit gentleness, oui?”

  Francois stood suddenly, almost brushing off his mother’s clinging hands. “It shall be done, mother. No wonder Francois is a powerful king, for he has a veritable she-wolf for a mother, eh?” He laughed jaggedly and his eyes caught Mary’s. She feared his wrath then, for she had beheld his weakness.

  “Be dressed, petite Anglaise, for Francois du Roi kills a boar single-handed in the courtyard today. Kills a great slathering boar and anything else that gets in his way!”

  Louise du Savoy’s low voice cut in. “My dear, you will not risk such foolhardiness only to kill a boar? Unhorsed?”

  “Oui, mother. I have vowed it. It pleases me, and I do it.”

  “Francois, you should realize...”

  “And so, Marie,” Francois interrupted his mother’s plea, “be dressed quickly and join the gallery. Mother, come, for you shall be proud.”

  He strode toward the door then spun around sharply. “Though Marie Boullaine serves her purpose well, I almost wish I could see the sour, busy Ambassador Boullaine standing in her place, mother. I could put him to good use today, for now I need more English than one shy maid.”

  His brittle laughter floated back to the embarrassed Mary as she hastily shook out her full skirts and stepped into them. But Louise du Savoy swept from the room without another word or glance, and Mary was left alone under the portrait of the lady with the smiling eyes.

  Francois had arranged the amusement for the day, but the mood of the courtiers at Fontainebleau was anything but festive. Mary noted tight little groups whispering as though they were waiting for the other royal fist to strike after the initial outbreak.

  Francois darted about ordering his guards to move the barriers or change the wooden poles which blocked the grand staircase from the arena in which he would confront the pawing, grunting boar they could all see freshly penned by his trappers. Courtiers jostled each other at the narrow windows for a good view, latecomers and ladies stood on the staircase behind the barricades for the best position. Mary, newly changed and coiffed, joined Jeanne du Lac there.