The Last Boleyn (9 page)

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.

“Need I even ask where you have been, Marie?” Jeanne asked icily with a raised brow. “Francoise du Foix was quite incensed when she realized you were with him all night, you know. She worries her hold is slipping, and she
does
keep track of us.”

Mary could feel a hot blush spread on her cheeks, but she changed the subject. “Is the word well spread of Charles's victory as the new emperor?”

“
Oui.
And I hear
du Roi
took it violently, even slapped the poor messenger from Bonnivet.” She laughed in her silvery tones.

“It is true, Jeanne. I was there.”

“Well! Will you tell me all of it?” There was a little silence. “Francoise declares you only interest him because you are different—English, I guess.”

“And because of her mock sweetness,” came Francoise's catty voice behind them suddenly. “Any man needs a little rest from an exciting gourmet diet at times.” Her clear green eyes bored into Mary's as though she were daring her to answer.

“Indeed, Madam du Chateaubriand,” Mary responded slowly, turning back to the wide-eyed Jeanne. “That is what His Grace indicates, too. Yet he finds it tiresome to have to knock and announce himself so that others can quickly vacate the place where he himself would rest.”

Francoise's feline eyes narrowed, and she spun sharply away. Jeanne nearly sputtered in disbelief that the sweet-tempered Marie had so bested the confident Francoise.

“Marie, tell me what happened,” she begged as they settled themselves behind the other ladies. “To what do you refer? Tell me!”

“Later, Jeanne, I meant not to be so vicious. I fear I just wished to strike out, and, well—she was there.”

A gasp of anticipation rose from the gathering as the boar was pushed and shoved by four trappers into the crude arena. Francois appeared clothed for hunting as she had seen him this morning. He swept past the clusters of ladies and vaulted the barrier at the foot of the steps bravely, his single sword held aloft. Everyone else cheered mightily, though Mary kept her chagrined silence. It came to her that she knew how the boar felt, ensnared, terrified, about to be skewered for the king's pleasure.

How Francois had laughed at her shame and fears that time in Queen Claude's room when he had summoned her while Claude and most of her ladies were at chapel. How he had seemed to revel in her outright terror they would be discovered in the queen's bed which he admitted he never visited anymore until it was time to get poor Claude with child again.

If one of the ladies had come in to see the English Mary Bullen with the French king astride her naked hips, or if the king's mother or sister—or Claude, or worst of all, her own father had seen that!

She shrugged and shook her head, not realizing Jeanne studied her intently. How she had suffered from the knowledge that Francois did not value her except as an occasional amusement; how her hatred for him grew. Fantasies that he would love her as she had once loved him—shattered, all shattered now. And in the place of girlhood dreams grew a woman's realization of a world where hurt and pain were not only possible but certain.

“He is so brave and magnificent,” Jeanne said loudly to no one in particular.

The boar pawed the cobbles of the courtyard, then charged at the king, who leapt from his path laughing wildly. Francois jabbed at it once, as it made a raucous pass. The sword drew a crimson puddle of blood on its bristled back. Wide-eyed in fear, it smashed the barricade before the steps and vaulted the low rubble of the crude wooden poles. Horrified, the ladies on the steps screamed and scattered as the boar smashed its way up the staircase. It slavered and wheezed and shoved past. Mary crushed against Jeanne in panic. Its terrified rush left a black smear of blood on Mary's flying skirts. She heard herself scream as Francois and six armed courtiers charged past after the boar, now loose in the long gallery of the chateau. Mary trembled with fear and disgust as other people inquired of her well-being. Then they scurried after their king, and Jeanne pulled Mary along in their wake.

“You can tell the king it kicked you and he will be most guilty and solicitous for days, Marie. Oh, look at the path of his blood!”

Mary stood silently at the back of the courtiers crowding the doorway to the lovely salon now transformed into a trampled battleground between king and victim. Perhaps Francois will be injured or killed, Mary thought suddenly, and then crossed herself hastily for the wicked idea.

The beast ran in circles now, and nearly vaulted out of corners when Francois had almost trapped him. “Stay back! Stay back!” the king warned between gasps as he chased the terrified boar. “This is king's business alone!”

The curved tusks of the animal ripped a velvet drape as it charged, and its flying hoofs spun him madly on the thick carpet and polished floors. The king's third thrust went true. The hilt of Francois's sword drove into the stretched throat of the beast and it sank to its knees impaling itself further. It shuddered and heaved over on its side, one tusk digging into the plush carpet. Francois approached dramatically. He withdrew the bloodied sword and plunged it deep into the heart where it stayed, its silver hilt bobbing merrily above the slaughtered boar.

A tremendous cheer went up for the begrimed, sweating hero. His dark eyes gleamed, and his breath came swiftly through parted teeth. All were in awe of his nerve and prowess, but Mary felt suddenly sick, queasy and weak at her knees. She leaned against Jeanne for support.

“Does the blood sicken you, Marie? I thought Englishmen were marvelous hunters, too. Here, Marie, sit here and it will pass.”

Jeanne helped Mary to a carved bench in the huge entryway of the chateau, then scurried back to the room where Francois was soaking in the adulation of his
mignons
.

Mary leaned her head back against the carved panelling and kept her eyes tight shut until the feeling passed. How foolish. She had seen animals trapped and slaughtered before, and it would be a popular pastime at King Henry's court when she went home.

Home. Home was Hever, not London. Sometimes she thought she would never go home to Hever. If only her father would wed her to some English lord who would be kinder than Francois—someone truly affectionate and protecting. Her gaze drifted out the front doors over the ruined barricade and sought the deep blue-green of Fontainebleau's vast forests.

Jeanne scuttled back and broke her reverie. “They are coming this way, Marie. We are to have a banquet and dancing tonight and eat the very boar we saw killed!”

Mary stood as courtiers trooped back through the entry and down the steps to survey the fated barricade. Several bent to touch her bloodied skirts and to praise the bravery and finesse of their king again.

Then Francois swept by laughing, his beaming sister Marguerite on his arm and a frantic Francoise du Foix following behind. He stopped when he saw Mary's white face and offered her his other hand. “Marie, they tell me the boar bloodied your dress as he charged past with the king in hot pursuit. He did not harm you?”

“No. Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.” The sweet words turned to dust on her lips, but she had said them.

“Fine. I would not wish to begin better relations with your country by harming one of their most charming treasures, eh?”

As Mary took his arm, the king's eye caught Francoise's face. “And you, Madam, may go find your damned Bonnivet and warm his bed. I am certain he shall have need of such solicitation after his miserable failure in Germany.”

Francoise's jade eyes showed no pain or anger as far as Mary could tell. She swept her king a low curtsey, still holding her proud head erect so that her full breasts were almost completely visible above her low-cut neckline. “Better to send me to far Muscovy and let me freeze to death, Your Grace. Though in shame or disfavor, I would dwell near the sun.” She smiled brilliantly at her king, and Mary could feel him waver.

“Well, then,” he returned, “see that you do not get so close that your lovely dress becomes singed by the sun, or that your fair skin feels its full heat.”

“I would welcome it, Your Majesty, even if it meant I would be burned.”

Francois laughed in delight and responded gaily, “Well, come along all of you. We have much activity left today.”

Though Mary held the king's arm on the opposite side of Marguerite, Francoise du Foix's full swaying skirts nearly pushed her away as she chatted and laughed alongside her king.

CHAPTER NINE

June 6, 1520

Picardy

T
hey were to call it The Field of the Cloth of Gold, a magnificent meeting of sovereigns and nations on the smooth grassy plain between Guines and Ardres. Mary and Anne Bullen were thrilled to have been given over to the care of their father for the three-week spectacle. They were among their own countrymen, although Anne thought them crude and coarse in manners next to French courtiers. Most importantly, father had promised they would be presented to King Henry.

Mary was elated to be temporarily free of Francois's fickle whims for her presence. And what wonderful diversion the feasting, jousting, and elaborate entertainments would be—a far cry from Queen Claude's stuffy court. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “there is only one cloud in the sky.” William Stafford was serving as liaison between her father and the English king, and she was going to have to put up with his annoying presence.

“Why have you attached yourself to this particular duty?” she asked Stafford coldly as soon as she had the opportunity. She intended to settle him in his place as quickly as possible, so he would not bother her over the days to come. She had learned to set Rene de Brosse back by copying some of Jeanne's and Francoise du Foix's cattiness, and she meant to be rid of the ever-watchful Master Stafford immediately.

“I have not attached myself, Mistress Bullen. It is only slugs and snails and sticky courtiers which do that. I have been attached by His Grace, though a more pleasant and scenic assignment I could not have imagined.” He had his hands linked behind his back and his muscular legs spread as he regarded her with amusement.

“Do you not consider yourself a sticky courtier, sir?”

“I serve His Grace at court not by design, Mary. He keeps me about him at his choosing—for his safety, he believes. I would be a well-content midlands farmer had I control of my life. But I will tell you of all that another time.”

He turned away to gather the ambassador's papers as he heard Thomas Bullen's strident voice in the next room. A farmer? She was much puzzled by such foolishness from a man who obviously had the king's eye. And she was angry with herself that she felt intrigued by what he said when she had fully intended to dispense with him completely.

She turned and smiled vibrantly at her father, who bustled in with several men in his wake, followed by her vivacious thirteen-year-old sister.

“Father says we may go to survey the royal arrangements, Marie. Everything is prepared for the arrival of Francois du Roi and Henry Rex on the morrow. We are even to enter King Henry's beautiful palace!”

“Settle down, both of you, and get riding gear if you wish to go,” came her father's voice over Anne's. “Stafford, I am glad to see you are prompt. His Grace calls you Staff, I believe.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then I shall too. I recall you were an able privy aide two years ago in Paris. I can use you well here. Keep close as we survey preparations and keep an eye on the girls, will you?”

“With greatest pleasure, my lord.”

Mary was chagrined to see that last impudent remark amuse her father, who was usually so stern, but everyone seemed to be in a fine mood on this day. She hurried to get her riding gloves and a large brimmed hat to shade her face on this hot, sunny day.

Their inspection party was not so intimate as Mary had visualized as they clattered fifteen strong out of old Guines Castle and followed the narrow road down toward the sloping plain. She and Anne rode lovely palfreys brought last week from England.

“There are some forty-five hundred courtiers or servants arrived at Calais to accompany His Majesty, including two thousand horses,” William Stafford said at her side as they cantered along.

“Tell us all about it and the court and His Grace if you please,” Anne said, riding on Stafford's other flank.

He laughed. “Well, Mistress Anne, I fear we have not the time for all of that now as we are nearly arrived, but I would consider it an honor to converse at length with you later.”

“We would be grateful, sir.”

Mary thought of a scathing remark, but held her tongue.

They halted in awe at the view spread before them. Striped tents, hundreds of them, looking like fluted sea shells, sprang from the plain. A huge gilded tent which glittered in the sun pointed skyward. There were tournament fields and brightly painted tilt rails and flags, flags fluttered everywhere. The entire panorama was dominated by the English king's newly finished Palace of Illusions.

“It is marvelous,” breathed Mary.

“Indeed, but I would expect as much from eleven thousand Dutch workmen, Wolsey's brain, and millions of treasury pounds,” William Stafford commented.

They rode down toward the fabulous palace, and Stafford helped the two ladies dismount. Mary gazed up at the shiny glass windows, the battlemented walls and the four huge towers with mock arrow slits. Four golden lions topped the gatehouse pillars and Tudor pennants danced aloft in the gentle breeze.

“They say it was all built in England and then shipped over in parts,” Mary put in. “But it looks like stone.”

“How things look are often not what they are, Mary,” William Stafford said, close in her ear. “It is only a beautiful sham—painted canvas over stout English timber. But stout English underpinnings may serve it well.”

She ignored his cryptic comments and looked about for her father. He had already disappeared inside with his entourage, and she was annoyed to see that Anne must have tagged after them.

“Should you not go inside, Master Stafford?”

“Shall we do so, Mistress Mary? And would you not call me Staff?”

“You said the king and your friends call you that, and—well, I am neither.”

“I would be your friend, Mary Bullen.”

She looked straight up into his eyes, and the impact nearly devastated her poise. The look was direct and piercing, yet so different from the wily scrutinies or lecherous looks to which she had become accustomed. Her legs felt like water, and she turned away to break the spell. “The fountains are lovely,” she said finally. “Bacchus and Cupid aloft.”

“Bacchus for good times and Cupid to show love between the English and the French, a tenuous love affair at best. Cardinal Wolsey has temporarily jumped off his secure seat on the fence between Francois I and the new Roman Emperor Charles, but it will not last. I prefer English-to-English marriages myself.”

“You are somewhat of a cynic, Master Stafford,” Mary chided.

“The fountains, by the way, spout white wine, malmsey, and claret. The French masses will love the English king for that alone whatever peace comes from this meeting. They have ordered the common folk to keep at a distance of six miles or face arrest, but they will swarm here. You see, Mary, I am a realist and not a cynic at all.”

They walked under the oval gatehouse entry and across a tiled floor. “They will think we are dawdling,” Mary remarked, and walked faster. “I would stay closer to my father.”

At her words William Stafford sat deliberately on a long banquet bench by the huge trestle table in the center of the great hall. “You may be certain he will never be far away the next few weeks, Mary, for he will want to be in charge whenever you are near His Grace.”

She stopped and turned toward him, annoyed that he could make simple statements sound so ominous.

“Before you scold me, Mary, I shall give you something to be angry about. But I hope you will think on my words and know they come from concern and not malice.”

“I have heard quite enough of your comments, Master Stafford.” Her voice sounded tremulous even though she sought to put him off with cold scorn. Damn them all for traipsing on ahead and leaving her here alone with this man!

“I must find the others,” she said, and turned to flee. But he was quicker than she. He darted off the bench and had her firmly by the arms before she had gone four strides.

“Loose me!”

“You will listen, Mary. Are you afraid of what you might hear?”

“I shall call the others!”

“Do so and then all may hear of my warnings of your relationships to Francois and selected others.”

Her heart stopped at his last word, and she began to tremble inside.

“Your reputation has preceded you, beautiful Mary, and may be unfair, but you must realize the quagmire ahead.”

She ceased trying to pull away, and he led her back to the bench.

“I will listen. What do you have to say?”

“You realize, I am sure, the French court knows you have been one of Francois's several latest young mistresses—in addition to his about-to-be-discarded du Foix.”

Mary looked intently at her folded hands in her lap. “Yes, I know. Secrets are hard to keep when they involve the king.”

“What French court gossips know, English court gossips soon know also, Mary.”

She looked up, startled. “But Amboise is so far away from London!”

“The way at court—any nation's court—is to know all the business of one's own king and other kings. Pope Leo X in the Vatican probably knows how many times Francois bedded you.”

Her face went white and a shudder ran through her body. Mother could even know, but at least she was never at the English court. How could she ever face the English king now?

“But father said,” she began and then stopped, realizing what William Stafford might think of her father if he knew she had been urged to continue her affair with the king.

“I knew it! I guessed it!” His words were angry and he hit his knee hard with his fist. “He no doubt counseled you that it was in your best interest,” he hissed.

She could not lift her face to him, but she wanted to defend her father. How dare he question his betters, but she could not afford to anger him further since he knew so much already.

“You mentioned others, William.” Her use of his first name seemed to soften his rugged features. “I pray you will not mention the others to my father,” she went on. “I had no control over what the king expected of me with his friends. He gave me no choice. But, please do not tell my father.”

“I promise I will not, Mary. I need not, for he has known no doubt longer than I have, or has King Henry.”

She cried aloud as though she had been hit in the stomach. “You are lying. The others—father could not have known about the others. I never heard it about the court from anyone else!”

“Then you have not only been treading on quicksand, Mary, but you have had your beautiful blonde head in it.”

“He could not know! He said nothing!” Her voice rose and, angered beyond further words at his lies, she raised her hand and slapped his face with all her strength. The crack resounded in the lofty room and she shrank back from him on the bench. A red mark slowly suffused his cheek.

He reached calmly for her wrists with his huge hands and pulled her closer to him on the bench. She went stiff, but her skirts made her slide to him across the polished wood. “Did striking me help the pain, Mary?” His voice was gentle and she longed to collapse against him, to sob her shame on his shoulder.

“I am not finished. Hate me if you will, but listen carefully. King Henry, my master whom I serve closely everyday, will find you most entrancing when your father dangles you before him. What red-blooded man would not? He knows of your reputation, but contrary to what you are thinking, it intrigues him, it titillates his sometimes jaded senses and bored mind.”

She stared into William Stafford's dark eyes, mesmerized. How could he speak of his king this way?

“And when he sees you, sweet, your naive beauty, your youth, and blonde innocence, he will be quite ensnared. If your father should try to bring you home to England, and I predict he will, it will be a fine path to escape the trap into which you have fallen. But go home with your eyes wide open, not to let such entrapment happen again.” He reached for her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so. I would wish to go home.”

“Home, Mary, but home to what? That is the danger. The time is ripe for the great Henry to think he loves you. He is long tired of Spanish Catherine, who gives him dead sons. His mistress Bessie Blount—blonde and fair as yourself—bore him a son last year and his interest in her is also dead. Tread carefully, sweet
Mary, with both eyes open, and do not trust the king or your father.”

“Then whom am I to trust?” she challenged him. She lifted her head as she heard their fellow visitors approaching, her father's voice distinct among the others.

William Stafford pulled her to her feet. “I would tell you to trust me, Mary Bullen, but I do not savor another slap when I have you aroused. Still, I promise you that you will pay dearly someday for whatever slaps or scratches or sharp words you give me. You will pay, sweet Mary, but in a time and manner of my choosing.”

She blushed and sputtered, but the others were in the room now and she turned away to compose herself.

“Mary, there is a secret passageway should the king need to escape from the gallery clear to Guines Castle! They dug it underground,” Anne blurted as she hurried to Mary.

“There you are, Stafford,” her father way saying. “We are going to swing around by Francois's golden tent on our return. 'Sblood, I wish the fountains spurted wine already. It is a damned hot day. Have you seen enough of the king's Palace of Illusions, Mary?”

“Yes, father,” she spoke at last. “Quite enough for now.”

They returned to the tethered horses and, much to her dismay, William Stafford helped her mount. “Did you hear that, Mary,” he whispered in her ear. “It is rightly called the Palace of Illusions.”

“I heard clearly enough, Master Stafford.”

“Then heed what you have heard,” he added, and turned away to smoothly mount his own waiting steed.

Mary knew the moment she surveyed the glittering room she would never forget the sight. The clothes and coiffures were not as grand as those of the French, but she was in the dazzling midst of the Tudor court and her exiled English blood moved her beyond belief. If only father had brought her mother, she thought, her life would be complete for this one lovely moment.