The Last Boleyn(10)
Mary Bullen drew in her breath swiftly in the tiny silence of the room before anyone spoke. If her dear mistress Mary Tudor felt anything of the impact this Valois king had on her, this interview would be interesting indeed!
Francois bent gracefully to kiss both of the pale woman’s cheeks and his embrace seemed to linger. “Ma cherie Marie. How is it with you, my most beautiful queen?”
“I am queen no longer, Your Grace, as well you know. But I thank you. I am well.”
“But so pale, ma charmante? Would that Francois could bring sweet roses to those fair lips and white cheeks.”
His voice seemed of deepest velvet as the cloak he wore, and his caressing tone so intimate and personal that Mary felt a rush of embarrassment even as she saw her mistress blush hot under his intense scrutiny.
“Your Majesty, I request that my English maid be permitted to stay. She is most dear to me.”
His sleek head rotated smoothly, and the fierce, dark eyes were on Mary. Unlike anything she had ever experienced, they seemed to sweep over her in a moment, probing, piercing. She remembered to curtsy.
“La petite blonde Anglaise Boullaine. Oui. I remember. She grows into a Venus, does she not?”
The sensual mouth under the long aquiline nose had formed the remark smoothly, and Mary’s heart nearly fell to her feet. To be so complimented by the King of France! But then, she thought, he is merely being charming. What a little fool is the “petite Boullaine,” she told herself firmly.
The new king and old queen sat together near the window under the huge tapestry of Orpheus and Eurydice trying to escape from the black reaches of Hades. Mary perched nervously on a gilt chair in the corner and tried to pretend she took no notice of their passionate interview.
“You must have no fear for yourself, Marie,” Francois’s resonant voice assured her. “I shall see you are well cared for always.”
There was a tiny silence and the queen’s voice shook when she answered simply, “Merci, my king.”
“You know you will draw 80,000 francs yearly and have the revenues of Saintonge. You shall want for nothing. And I wish to have you loved and protected by a husband as well as by your adoring king, to remain here ever with us.”
Mary Tudor’s sharp intake of breath shredded the tiny calm. Although his eyes took on a new wariness, Francois du Roi held the pale woman’s hand tight in his own and plunged on. “My dear, the Duke of Savoy is from my own blessed mother’s family. He is honorable and true and he shall adore you.”
The queen shook her head violently so her raven curls bobbed free of her white lace angular headpiece. She could not find the voice to answer, and Mary desired to run to her and throw her arms about her shoulders in comfort. But it was the muscular arm of the King of France which was about Mary Tudor’s quaking body.
“No, cherie? You favor him not? Then one you know more intimately and who has loved you always, the Duke of Lorraine? So blond, so tall and handsome? You have laughed often with him before.”
The widowed queen stared now at her clenched hand in her white lap while Francois seemed to hold the other captive. Her youthful body sagged in exhaustion and dejection, and she heaved with silent sobs, but no tears came. Mary Bullen felt rooted in terror to her chair.
“You shall have the great monies of Blois too, and live like a queen indeed! Marie, ma cherie, which do you choose?”
The rush of tears came then, and Mary thought she could hear each as it pelted onto her ivory satin dress making a tiny silvery print on the material. Still, the distraught woman sat staring at her hand; Mary feared for them both.
The king sat like a statue and then rose suddenly over the sobbing woman and shook her shoulders. “Si vous plait, Marie, Marie.”
His body tensed like some marvelous great horse before it vaults. Then Mary Bullen could remain silent no longer whatever befell her.
“Please, Your Grace,” she breathed, striding to her mistress in a rush of silken skirts, “she has not slept well, and her teeth ache and she is—is, so in need of a strong friend!”
She knelt at her queen’s side as though oblivious to the frustrated king before them and caressed her shivering shoulder with one slender hand and held her tear-speckled fists in her other. “Your Grace, all will be well. Surely this great king can aid you if he knows your true heart, for have you not said he is the greatest chevalier in the kingdom? He is a true Christian king and will be most kind, my lady.”
Mary Tudor looked up from her lap, her eyes wide and almost unseeing. For one tiny second Mary feared her anger at her maid’s daring to urge her queen to share her heart with one she feared could ruin her only chance for happiness. Then the queen’s dark eyes focused on Mary’s blue earnest ones and the tension seemed to flow out of her body.
“Would that I were free to wed you myself, ma Marie,” came Francois’s voice so close to Mary’s ear she almost bolted. “Then your fears would not be so great.”
Will he believe that my mistress loves him only and, therefore, she will not wed with his courtiers, Mary wondered. But who would not love this godlike man?
“I do love and honor you, my Francois, but not just as you would have it. I would no doubt have loved you fully but for the duty we have owed to others and my admiration for your majesty.”
Mary Tudor rose suddenly as though to distance herself from the stunned young king. She stood behind her chair facing him, her cheeks still glistening with tears. Her maid still knelt by her empty chair, and Francois stood with his legs slightly apart and his hands at his sides, waiting.