The Last Boleyn(11)

“My dearest lord, before I ever beheld your fine face or was ever promised to King Louis, I loved another. I loved him honorably from afar, and I love him deeply still, with a true heart and would love him from afar no longer. Indeed, my brother king did promise once that if I were ever widowed, I might choose my second husband with his blessing.”

Mary felt Francois tense beside her. She could feel muscle and sinew stiffen, and she feared for them both again. Mary Tudor calmly stood her ground.

“And who is this most fortunate of men?” he queried.

She hesitated and then spoke his name in a rush of words and feelings. “The King of England’s dearest friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.”

The name hung between them, both proud young people, both wanting their own way. Mary Bullen held her breath, and it suddenly occurred to her that her father might be angered that she dared to so mix in above her place, and to support his king’s sister in her “affaire du coeur.”

“Then, my sweet love, your brother, King of France, shall aid you to your heart’s desire!” Francois shouted a laugh and circled the chair to pull the astounded woman roughly to him. “Indeed we shall have you wed here on his arrival, for has not my cousin king wished and promised you your happiness too?” He spoke over her dark head tucked perfectly under his chin.

Mary Bullen felt suddenly ashamed that at this joyful minute all she could do was wonder how it felt to be held so tight to that powerful body.

“Suffolk comes soon with condolences from London I am told, so we shall see to it. Leave all to me.”

Mary pulled her head away and gazed up into his animated face. “He comes here—and soon?”

“Oui, ma Marie. Then we shall change your widow’s weeds to secret bridal. After it all, we shall tell the world, and I shall stand by you both. Fear nothing.”

“Shall I fear not even my brother’s anger, my king?”

“No, least of all that. He has given you his promised word. Does he not wish joy for his lovely Tudor Rose and his dearest boon companion? I will write him explaining all, and should he not accept at first, you shall live yet here in France at the festive court of Francois.”

His dark satyr’s eyes danced, and it occurred to Mary Bullen that he much resembled a tiny painting from her grandmother’s home at Rochford where the devil awaited a group of lost souls at the gates of hell.

“Shall she not be a beautiful bride, Demoiselle Boullaine?” His white teeth showed when he smiled so, and Mary was entranced.

“Oui, mon grand roi!” she managed.

“Then I shall see to it that your life shall be filled with joy, my lovely sister Marie.”

Mary Bullen rose to stand, gazing in awe at the radiant pair. She smiled brilliantly at her new king believing that all would now be well.





CHAPTER FOUR


February 20, 1515


Hotel Des Tournelles, Paris

The rich Gothic city of Paris was awash with silk banners and crimson bunting. Ribbons and painted standards dripped from narrow windows and silver and white drapes swung from poles spanning each narrow street along the royal entryway. Every window was packed with common folk, and the elite of the realm peered from hackney or carriage. Every neck craned, every eye squinted into the chill wintry sun. Every heart thrilled at the triumphal entry of the newly consecrated King Francois I into the city. Every soul believed that today was the beginning of an exciting new era for France.

The fabulous event marked the end of official mourning for the dead Louis, who had gone to sleep with his sceptered ancestors beneath the aged stone floor of St. Denis Cathedral. This day was the end of his young widow, Mary’s, traditional mourning. Mary Tudor and her little English companion gladly breathed the free air of Paris.

But their new-found freedom from their royal quarantine was not what delighted their hearts, and spun their lovely heads with joy so intense they were almost giddy. Nor was it the drums or trumpets or French fervor for their new monarch. Charles Brandon, the King of England’s own dear friend, stood with the English women on the narrow carved balcony at the palace, and Francois had accomplished all he had promised. Mary Tudor and her beloved Duke of Suffolk had been secretly wed for two days.

“Your Grace, I can see the silver canopy over his horse,” Mary Bullen shouted, quite forgetting her properly trained modulated voice in her pure excitement. “Oh, look, his horse will not even stay under it and prances about. How fine he rides!”

“Yes, my Mary. He has been a fine soldier and horseman much longer than a king.” The new Duchess of Suffolk put her graceful jeweled hand on Mary’s shoulder, and the fox trim of her furred sleeve tickled Mary’s cheek.

“All kings ride so, I warrant,” came the duke’s voice on the other side of his bride’s bobbing head. “Henry Tudor is the finest horseman I have ever had the honor to ride beside.”

The mere mention of King Henry seemed to throw a pall of silence on the three. Mary darted a quick glance at the handsome couple. Surely they were made in heaven for each other. Both so fair of skin, dark eyes and hair, so regal, so desperately wrapped in each other’s love. Certainly the great Henry would see this and wish all happiness to his dear friend and his cherished sister.

“I wish the terrible silence from my lord king and Wolsey would cease,” her mistress’s voice floated to her ears nearly drowned by the blare below them in the street. Speaking of silence of any sort struck Mary as ludicrous, for the trumpets, drums, and shouts beneath their vantage point had become a roar like the crested sea in an autumn storm at Dover. “Can he not remember his vow to me and the love he bears us both,” she shouted, leaning nearer to her tall husband so he could hear. “Thank the dear Lord we have strong allies in Francois and his queen.”