The Last Boleyn (10 page)

Mary wore a blue satin gown with side slashings, and one of the deepest square necklines she had ever dared. Her golden tresses were swept back and piled layer upon layer above her fair brow and at her throat she wore a single huge pearl drop which had once been her grandmother's. Anne, too, looked vibrant in crimson and white, her pale skin setting off her dark, eager eyes, her long sleeves characteristically dripping extra lace to hide the tiny deformity of her left hand.

Father ushered them into the opulent, buzzing crowd which awaited the arrival of the king. Mary recognized few faces in the velvet, gilded swarm except her Uncle Norfolk and her cousin Sir Francis Bryan, who kissed her cheek lingeringly and complimented them all. Despite William Stafford's cruel words earlier in the day at Ardres, Mary was pleased to have her father hovering so close, and she summoned the courage to ask him her pressing question.

“What, Mary?” he responded, as she began to speak, his head swiveling slowly, his eyes far past her as he surveyed the assembly.

“I asked if I shall be going home soon, my lord father.”

“Why did you think that, girl?”

“I am older now than many of the girls, and I—I just wondered.”

“It is possible. I shall think about it tonight, or soon.”

“I should love to go home to Hever, father.”

“Hever is hardly what I had in mind for you, Mary. After your fine opportunities in the French court, I hardly...” His eyes darted to the back of the room in the sudden hush. “The king comes,” he whispered.

Mary strained to see. Trumpet blasts split the close air, heads turned and people bowed in a surging wave as the Tudors entered and moved toward their chairs. Thomas Bullen had positioned his little brood well, for soon Mary could see the tall dark husband of Mary Tudor, and then the red-blond smiling giant, the king himself.

They curtseyed low and did not rise again until the royal family had seated themselves. Instantly, Mary saw her dear friend and guardian of earlier days, the king's beautiful sister, and her eyes filled with joyous tears. Her brother-king had forgiven her and she and her beloved Charles Brandon looked radiant side by side.

But Mary's adoring gaze was mostly for the king. It was hard to believe her father had served this great master for so long. She had only seen him once when she had held the Princess Mary's cloak and heard him promise her that if the French king died, she might wed elsewhere of her own choosing. She had quite forgotten he was so well proportioned. His golden-red beard set off his ruddy complexion and slate-blue eyes. A blond giant to overcome his rival the dark satyr king, she thought proudly. The English monarch wore silver and white silks and massy golden chains draped across his powerful chest and shoulders in perfect balance to the brawny thighs and calf muscles bulging the silk of his hose and emphasized by gilded and jeweled garters. The flagrant, massive codpiece over the king's manhood was covered with a matching gold with jewels to offset his gold and jewel-edged collar as if to call special attention to his powerful face and loins.

It was only when father urged them forward that she noted the queen, pale and heavy in dark green, with a large crucifix leaning on her ample bosom. Another Claude, Mary thought, stunned by the yawning gap in vitality between this dynamic king and his quiet queen.

Even as the three Bullens approached the dais, they caught the king's eye, and he motioned his ambassador forward, his jeweled fingers sparkling in the light. “Thomas, where in Christendom is Wolsey? He should have been here for this reception!” His voice seemed to rise and fall in each sentence. Mary stood slightly behind her father, and Anne stood apart from them both, watching.

“Your Grace, I saw him in early afternoon and he yet had much to do at Ardres. He will be back soon, I am sure, with final arrangements.”

“He had better be. These are his doing, all of it, and I will not be arriving in the morn before my brother Francois does. I will not be there standing about and waiting for the arrival of the French!”

“Even the finest details have received our close attention, Your Grace. And may I say your marvelous Palace of Illusions far outshines Francois's silken tent.”

“Well, I mean to show them all the power and greatness of England. And what say our young English beauties, though raised at the French court? These are your daughters, are they not, my clever ambassador? A pox on you to hide such delights from our eyes.”

His narrowed gaze glittered over them swiftly, and Mary was relieved to feel no romantic lure. William Stafford was quite mistaken, she thought, as King Henry turned to introduce them to his wife.

“My dear, Bullen's lovely flowers. Bred and raised behind your moated walls at Hever, eh?”

Henry and his ambassador laughed. “They have been educated for some years at the court of Francois, Catherine,” the king plunged on, his eyes still on Mary. “A fine finishing school, no doubt.” Mary paled at his final words, and it was suddenly Anne who answered smoothly.

“We enjoy the French court, but of course we miss our home at Hever and all of our beautiful England, Your Grace.”

Queen Catherine's lips broke into a warm smile. “I remember your lovely mother at court when I was not yet wed to His Grace,” she said in accented English. “Looking at your blonde daughter, my Lord Bullen, is quite like having the years rolled back. Do you not agree, my lord? She is so fair.”

“Yes, yes, my Catherine. But the years have gone by and here stands quite another lady, fresh and on the brink of a great experience, eh, Thomas?”

“Sire?”

“Surely your Mary is old enough now to return to her home. She seems ripe for marriage. Is she betrothed?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then we shall make her a good English marriage before some French fop gobbles her up, Thomas. Catherine could use a lady-in-waiting from a fine family such as your own.”

Thomas Bullen bent low in gratitude, and the queen kept silent.

“I always hearken to your advice, Sire. I shall think on the possibilities. Anne, of course, should stay longer, as she is but thirteen.”

“Anne? Ah, yes, but it was Mary we were speaking of.”

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“And Thomas, though I have heard from you and my cardinal, I would like to hear about the character of Francois du Roi from the lips of one who has lived in his court recently. It may help me to deal better with him if I know how much we are alike,” he said loudly, for the curious crowd near the Bullens had grown two and three heads deep.

“In intelligence and wit there is no comparison, Sire,” Thomas Bullen put in grandly. “And Mary shall be available to offer you her opinion should you desire it.”

“Do not stray far, Thomas,” were the last distinct words Mary heard as others took their place near the king and the voices behind them became a dull steady buzz.

“Where was your tongue, girl?” her father inquired out of the side of his mouth as they departed the press of the crowd. “Even Anne spoke. I thought you knew how to handle kings by now. Flattery and smiles and speak up sweetly. You are not to stand there like a hollow golden goddess. Your beauty will take you only so far, and he does not fancy ninnies!”

Tears stung her eyes at the sudden rebuke and a lump caught in her throat. “I was not bid to speak, father. You spoke only of me, not to me.”

“At least he will probably speak to you later. See that you find a sweet tongue by then!”

“Yes, I will, father.”

“Perhaps Marie was too much in awe, father. With her beauty she need not cultivate wittiness as much as I,” put in wide-eyed, serious Anne.

“Yes. Well, both of you at least look your best for the Bullens today. You know your brother would give his best falcon to be here, so make us all proud. I do not intend to have Mary leaving one royal court unless it is to enter another. Do you understand, Mary? You are not going home to embroider with your mother in the long afternoons at Hever nor to breed children on some rural estate.”

He sighed and patted Mary's shoulder. “Dry your eyes, child. I meant not to be harsh on this wonderful evening. It is only that I will have the best for you and for Anne. I should have explained this all before, but I have been much taken with king's business. Do you understand?”

“I think I understand much more now, father,” Mary said quietly.

“Fine, fine. Now we shall just bide our time for the king to remember he wishes to talk to you about Francois. Would you like to go back near the throne and speak to your former mistress Princess Mary? You were once aggrieved to leave her, I recall. She is much in the king's favor again.”

“Yes, I would appreciate that, and she has never met Anne.”

They wound their way back through the clusters of courtiers toward the dais, and the beautiful Tudor Rose sighted Mary and her father. How lovely the king's sister looked, Mary thought. Her gown was dazzling crimson to offset the rich hue of her lips and cheeks. Golden ribbons were threaded through the slashes in the red, tight bodice of the gown, and emeralds in gold filigree rosettes hung from her slender neck and her tight, chain-link girdle. Twisted strips of fox and whitest ermine lined the puffed outer sleeves and ornate crimson headpiece, separating the dark, rich velvets and brocades from her creamy skin, like a beautiful painting set in a precious frame. Princess Mary Tudor, now the adored Duchess of Suffolk, held out her graceful hand to her old friend Mary Bullen before they had emerged from the press of people.

“Mary, my dear, how you have blossomed!” the princess marvelled. “My lord, do you remember the charming girl who was my English maid of honor when first we wed in Paris?”

Charles Brandon's dark eyes surveyed Mary's flushed face and the warm embrace his wife offered the girl. “Of course, I remember, and she is much grown to a beauty. You have conquered the king's heart, I hear.”

For an instant Mary thought he spoke of King Henry and then blushed to realize that William Stafford's words must have been true. The English court knew of her affair with Francois du Roi.

“Hush, my lord,” his wife put in. “Anyone would be taken with her beauty, and we need not your commentary on it.”

She turned intimately to Mary and lowered her voice. “You must forgive him, my dear, for he still bears enmity against the French king and your father. I shall see you do not suffer for his feelings.”

Gratefully, Mary introduced Anne to the duke and duchess. The dark-haired girl handled herself with skillful aplomb, again to the pleased surprise of Mary and the avid eye of Thomas Bullen.

“Shall we see you at court? Does she return home to England now, my lord Ambassador?” Princess Mary questioned Thomas Bullen directly to warm the icy air between her husband and her brother's ambassador.

“His Majesty was just suggesting the idea, Your Grace. Perhaps if we could find Mary a suitable husband, she could live at court. She has never forgotten your kindnesses to her.”

“Then we shall see you, Mary. I shall urge my dear sister-in-law Queen Catherine to consider your service in her household, or maybe, even in mine.”

At that last suggestion, Thomas Bullen seemed to hustle his daughters away, but their proximity to the throne drew the king's attention again, and His Grace rose to follow them into the crowd. For countless minutes Henry Tudor smiled, and cajoled, and flattered Mary, hanging on her every word and opinion of Francois and the French court. Mary smiled, cajoled, and flattered in return under her father's watchful gaze. The time passed swiftly and Mary could remember little of it afterward, like a once-vivid dream that has flown by morn. All she could think of the entire way back to Guines was how William Stafford's warnings could have been sound advice after all. She noticed Anne's starry-eyed gaze and her father's smug approval not at all.

CHAPTER TEN

June 16, 1520

Picardy

F
or ten days the plain of Ardres rang with trumpets, shouts and applause. The nobility of two realms swarmed among the gaily colored tents which studded the tiny parks and bordered the tilt yards, dancing greens, and wrestling circles. The great folk of the two nations intertwined even as did the Hawthorne tree of England and the raspberry bush of France in the golden tent where the blond and raven-haired royal giants had met and embraced to begin the festivities. Serious business was conducted at this entente cordiale: Wolsey met with Louise du Savoy; Suffolk met with Bonnivet; financial promises were made; and King Henry's young daughter was once again engaged to the French prince. Each side eyed the other through the haze of laughter and tried to bridle natural suspicions behind forced smiles. Banter and joviality flowed as profusely as the wine from Henry's fountains, but beneath the golden surface lay the stoney gray foundation of distrust.

For Mary Bullen, the days raced by as swiftly as the huge destriers which charged at each other along the gilded tilt rails. She mingled freely with both courts, but felt most comfortable with the English. Though she did not know them well, she made new acquaintances daily and was convinced their interest in her meant they could not possibly know of her besmirched reputation, which William Stafford had so cruelly flaunted in her face. The English king himself sought her out for conversation whenever he noticed her about, and a tiny plan began to grow in her mind. She would show King Francois how little she thought of him if she could arrange to be often near the great Henry. And indeed, if she were going back to England as had been hinted at and promised by both her father and the king, what had she to fear of reprisal?

Mary accompanied Princess Mary, Rose Dacre, and several English ladies past the tournament gallery decked in Tudor green and white on one side, and Francois's tawny and white bunting on the other, toward the lawn where wrestling had been the favorite entertainment all afternoon. “My father has said that our king is a wonderful wrestler, Your Grace,” Mary offered.

“My dear brother is splendid at whatever he pursues,” said the princess proudly, “and as king he must surpass his nobles. Francois, as I recall, was most admirable, also. I thank the blessed Lord we have been able to keep those two from challenging each other at the lists or elsewhere. My Lord Suffolk jousted against Bonnivet and was victorious today. As long as we let their favorite courtiers represent them on the field or the list, I have hopes that we may keep this assembly peaceful.”

But how I should like to see them set on each other and Francois bested by our English king, Mary thought passionately. “It is said both kings will soon run out of champions to hurl at each other, Your Grace.”

“If they do, Mary, we shall be true patriots and challenge the French king's powerful mother and sister or perhaps Francoise du Foix,” the princess joked, and Mary joined her in giggles.

“But, Your Grace,” put in Rose Dacre with a brilliant smile, “the Lady Mary Bullen has already challenged Francoise du Foix.”

Laughter froze on Mary's lips at the barb and the princess came to her aid. “Rose! Mary was a dear friend to me when I was in sore need, and I will not have her teased for your silly amusement even though the times may be gay and frivolous.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I meant nothing by the jest, Mary.”

Mary's gratitude flowed out to the beautiful princess as they joined the irregular circle of courtiers around the fringe of the wrestling ring. Today she and Mary Tudor had both chosen green gowns in honor of the Tudor king, though of course, the Duchess of Suffolk's gown was much grander than what her father's allowance could purchase. Mary Bullen's gown was a willow green, simply cut and offset only by the vibrant pink satin lining of the sleeves and the narrow pink stripes along the fitted bodice. Mary Tudor's gown sparkled with sunlight glittering across the jade green sheen of the fabric and winking at the jewels that studded her delicate kid leather belt, gloves and even her square-toed slippers. Anne Bullen, in brightest canary yellow silks, standing near with some other court maidens, including Jeanne du Lac, approached the Princess Mary and swept her a graceful curtsey.

“My lord father's aide William Stafford wrestles next, Your Grace,” Anne told her. “He has been very kind to Mary and me. And,” she announced grandly, her eyes sparkling, “he wrestles with the brother of the French king's mistress, Francoise du Foix. It is the famous Lautrec, one of the king's finest generals.”

Mary's fingernails dug into the palms of her hands as she fought to keep from showing emotion. That William Stafford wrestled for King Henry she cared not at all, but he wrestled Lautrec, the wily courtier to whom Francois had given her when he lost a bet to him gambling. What if Lautrec saw her here and remarked to Stafford about it? That meddler already knew too much to be trusted. Blurred scenes of how Lautrec had used her far into the night in his deep bed flashed through her mind, and she shut her eyes tight, hoping to stop the flood of memory.

“Sister, are you quite all right?” Anne inquired at her side. “Is the day too warm for you?”

“No, Anne, my thanks. I am fine now. But shall we sit up here in the gallery instead of standing about the ring where we might be a distraction?”

“It is much more exciting here, Mary,” chided Anne, as though she were speaking to a child.

“Yes, Mary,” added the princess. “We have done enough sitting around. Let us stay here—at least until my lord husband or the king spot us and make us behave.” She laughed musically again as the two wrestlers came into the ring and bowed to their monarchs.

“King Henry looks grand today,” Mary noted proudly. Though he and Francois sat in the shade next to their two colorless queens both dripping with jewels, she thought he far outshone the dark Francois. His red beard looked almost golden, and both kings sported closely cropped hair, having ended their mutual vow not to cut hair or beard until they met on The Field of the Cloth of Gold. To her delight, Henry nodded and lifted his huge hand to her, or was it to his sister Mary, who stood beside the Bullen sisters? At any rate, he did not summon them to join the royal party, so they stood about the ring among the other courtiers. How she wished Francois had noted the English king's probing stare and her own radiant smile and nod in return.

Wearing only breeches and a waist sash of brightest green and white, Stafford faced his brawny opponent. Dark, curly hair covered Stafford's tanned chest in contrast to Lautrec's smooth, paler skin. The men crouched and circled warily, each waiting for an opening to grasp the other. Mary could distinctly hear their even breathing, and Lautrec talked to himself in low tones. Then Stafford dove for Lautrec's thighs, his brown head butting against the Frenchman's hip; Lautrec flung himself backward, and they went to their knees on the smooth turf. Lautrec reached for Stafford's arm and tried to twist it as they spun away together, half-rolling, half-kneeling. They grunted and groaned as they strained and struggled. Advice and cheers went up from the encircling crowd and the royal gallery.

Staring at the sweating, grunting Lautrec, Mary recalled the horrible night Francois had demanded she fulfill his gambling debt in Lautrec's bed. Still so naive then, she hadn't even caught on to what the king intended at first.

“Your Grace,” she had greeted Francois that night with a quick curtsey as she entered the room to which he had summoned her.

“Marie, I— You must prepare for bed right away. Isabelle is here to help, and I shall wait until you are ready.”

“But we never needed—”

“Dearest little golden English girl,” he began almost poetically before a frown crushed his eyebrows and he began to pace. “Just do it, Marie. Hurry! I have something to explain to you.”

She had stood like a wooden doll, frozen in increasing panic and grief as Isabelle's steady hands divested her of her clothes and sponged her quickly with rose water. The king's jerky voice went on explaining how he had wagered much to his boon companion Lautrec—explaining what he had wagered and lost.

Mary pulled away from the startled Isabelle as she tried to dust her with powder, and a fine, white cloud of it drifted to the carpeted floor. The king's sneeze had nearly drowned out her protest at first: “No, my lord king! Not I! That is impossible.”

“
Oui
, Marie. One night. Look, sweet, he favors you, at least your blonde look of innocence and purity.”

“Innocence and —” She could not repeat his words and stared open-mouthed at his audacity. “No,” she said again. “No, you would not do this. I know I cannot.”

“Listen to me,” he said low, shaking her once. “You will do it for me. I have favored you, coddled you. I have given my word. Just go along and keep those tears off your face, or I swear, I will give some lurid report of your demeanor to your precious father—or see he is dismissed from his post.”

Her eyes focused on his then, and she hoped the utter contempt of her stare hid the naked fear she felt at that threat to tell or hurt her father.

Now the dreadful memories spun and twisted like the two wrestlers here at her feet. They rolled on the grass again. This time it was the Frenchman who rode Stafford's powerful body. The Englishman's great tawny shoulder almost brushed the chalked edge of the circle.

Mary shocked herself by shouting out for William Stafford. Ordinarily, she detested the man, but how wonderful it would be to see the smug Lautrec beaten and Francois's honor diminished before all.

“Come on, Staff, you can beat him. Get up, get up, please!” she screeched like the lowest fishwife on the Paris streets.

The men lay nearly at her feet; she felt an overwhelming urge to kick out at Lautrec or shove him off Staff's writhing form.

“Staff, Staff, come on!” she shouted again, oblivious to the stares of the princess and her sister.

Suddenly, Stafford gave a great grunting heave and threw Lautrec away. Stafford dove at the Frenchman's shoulders and pinned him heavily as the marshall began to count, “One...”

Mary held her breath. To have Lautrec shamed was some vindication, though she could share it with no one. “Two...” Unfortunately, it had to be the meddling William Stafford who was her unknowing champion. “Three...Honor to King Henry and his gentleman usher, Master William Stafford.”

The crowd cheered and applauded as the men rose wearily and grasped hands. To Mary's delight, Lautrec looked like a grass-stained field hand in his ruined tawny and white. The men bowed to the royal box and, before he followed the defeated Lautrec from the ring, Stafford turned in their direction and bowed low to Princess Mary, his eyes and teeth white against his sweaty, tanned face.

Francois was obviously annoyed, but Henry pounded him on his back good naturedly and reminded him that the French champions had earned many a fall and tournament point over the last week. Yet it was clear to all that the English, though from a smaller, poorer nation, held the balance of athletic prowess.

“My dear brother,” King Henry was saying in a booming voice, his arm still draped around Francois's silken shoulder, “I would try you for a fall in a friendly bout. Will you accept?”

“Oh, no, my Henry,” Mary heard the princess beside her murmur under her breath, “this is not wise.”

“Indeed I accept, brother Henry,” intoned Francois loudly, bowing and smiling to the rapt gallery. As they stood and made their way down to the field, both queens put out their hands to detain their husbands and implore them to be seated, but the mood was set—the challenge lay there in the sun for all to see.

Bonnivet seconded his master, helping him remove his doublet and shirt while the crowd watched to see the powerful French king half stripped before them. The Duke of Suffolk hastened to assist his king, his dark smooth hair in sharp contrast to Henry Tudor's mane and beard which gleamed in the light.

“Both are magnificent,” Rose Dacre said too loudly in the hush, and Mary nodded wordlessly. She hoped she never saw Francois's bare chest again as long as she lived. Like a lion compared to a sleek fox, King Henry's massive chest and arms were covered with golden hair.

The royal opponents stepped gingerly over the now-blurry chalk circle, and bowed in tandem to their nervous queens. There was no cheering or raucous advice from the crowd. It was as though all of them around the circle stood in a sorcerer's trance. Then Bonnivet and Suffolk began to shout encouragement and soon the din of voices rose. Other courtiers strolling in the area came bounding in to swell the cheering crowd, and Princess Mary wrung her hands in nervous anguish.

The English king side-stepped Francois and stuck a brawny leg behind him hoping to trip the lithe man backward, but Francois twisted from the attempt and Henry nearly toppled over. They recovered their stances and began their stalking anew, their eyes boring into each other's. Then Francois darted forward. Henry's great arms reached to encircle the French king's trunk. Swiftly, Francois bent, then straightened. The King of England flipped over and lay flat on his back.

The screams died to nothing. Francois, too, looked stunned and froze like a statue. In the hush King Henry towered to his feet and said plainly, “I will have another bout for a fall. Now. And then we shall see.”

Mary's stomach churned with excitement and fear. She longed to see the great Henry throw the confident Francois, but she knew the results could bring chaos and ruin to this lovely Field of Gold.

Amazingly, like a mirror vision, the two sisters of the kings swept into the wrestler's circle and curtseyed to their brothers. Mary had not even seen Marguerite in the swollen crowd, but she had been fully aware of Mary Tudor's anxiety.

“You were both wonderful, spectacular!” said Marguerite in her halting English to the two sweating giants. Princess Mary chose the tack of taking her brother's arm and clinging to his clenched fist while curtseying to the French king and Marguerite.