The Last Boleyn(12)
The duke’s eyes narrowed, their deep fires set off by his dense black hair and beard. “Time and our love are in our favor, my pet. And as for the new French king as our ally, well, indeed, he is his own ally in these dealings.”
The words were spoken almost as a warning and Mary Bullen, though puzzled at their import, turned her attention to the writhing masses of people below. The king was in full view now, attired completely in white and silver. His ivory stallion was nearly lost beneath the gilded trappings and sumptuous saddle.
Mary cheered and bounced with the crowds as Francois saluted. He seemed adrift in a sea of brocades and banners and finally disappeared into the palace below their view. She wished fervently that he were returning victorious to her, blonde Mary from England, and that her beauty and clever, stylish ways would bind him to her forever. What a queen she would be for him, and her father would be so proud! She would invite mother and Annie for her coronation, and dance with Francois before all of their admiring smiles. But what foolishness, she lectured herself, for she was only ten and a poor English maid and one he would probably never look on again. She would return to London with her dear mistress, the English king’s sister, and only dream of this wonderful moment in the years to come. And what would her lord father say if he knew such strange thoughts haunted her dreams?
“Mary. Mistress Mary!” The duke was gesturing to her, for he and his radiant duchess had already stepped back inside their rooms now that Francois had ended his triumphal return. “Stop your dreaming, nymph, and come in from the chill air.”
She hastened to obey, for she sought always to please this virile, great man whom her princess so adored. He was a close friend to King Henry, and no wonder he was so loved by the fiery Tudors. Could she herself only find a lord so charming and loving as the duke or Francois du Roi!
Mary helped her mistress remove her cloak and noted the rosy blush on her fair cheeks. Though it was still the dead of winter, Mary Tudor bloomed with health and beauty. “My own secret Tudor rose,” Lord Suffolk often called her. Surely that glow was the look of love, Mary marvelled.
The lovers sat intimately on a pink brocaded settee, and Mary, who delighted in serving them since her mistress wished their privacy from French servants, poured them goblets of crimson burgundy. The new bride’s low-cut emerald velvet gown made a splash of color as the two sat bathed in February sun.
“Thank you, sweet little Bullen,” came Lord Suffolk’s rich voice, though he needed not thank her for such tendered duties. “Forgive me, lass, but I find it a wonder that such warmth and trustful innocence radiates from the daughter of that fox of all politicians, Thomas Bullen.”
He saw confused hurt in the girl’s eyes, so he added more gently, “Men who serve the king must be clever and wily, Mary. I say nothing against your sire. He serves his king as best he sees it.” He took a slow sip of wine, his eyes still on the attentive girl. Her slim body so daintily attired in the rosy-hued velvet gown with the deep oval neckline bent slightly forward as she hung on his words. Along the soft linen chemise which spilled from her wrists and rimmed the bodice, tiny embroidered bees and flowers and butterflies flitted and bloomed. How fresh and springlike and lovely, the Duke thought. Somehow this little innocent with the guileless face had indeed managed to be a comfort to a much older, more sophisticated woman whom he had now made his dear wife.
“Your father may be here with words from Greenwich Palace and King Henry for us soon, little Mary Bullen,” he said to comfort her and break the silence of his stare. “Do you see him often now he serves His Grace, King Francois here in Paris?”
Mary’s blue eyes fell to his strong fingers curled about his goblet stem as the old haunting loneliness descended on her again. “No, my lord. He is so busy on king’s business and I so busy in serving my beloved princess that...that we seldom have time to see each other here in France.” She raised her eyes to the warm gaze of her mistress hoping for the comfort and understanding support she had often found there, but Mary Tudor smiled warmly upon her husband as though she had not heard.
“Being about the business of the realm keeps us all from doing what we would most love to do, Mary Bullen. We must all be brave about it. I can see why you are a true companion friend to my dear wife.”
The girl smiled at him gratefully. She had found comfort where she had sought none. It was only then that Charles Brandon, English gentleman, and as fine a connoisseur of women as he was of horses, felt the full impact of the maid’s youthful beauty and her magnetic pull beneath the naive face. Her mature looks to come would serve her well at the English court when they were allowed to return—if they were allowed to return.
“Mary, please fetch my enameled jewel box. I wish to show my lord some of my royal regalia.” Mary Tudor laughed musically as though there were some clever joke spoken, but Lord Suffolk only narrowed his eyes over his glass of burgundy.
Mary knew well the three-tiered white, deep blue and gold box to which her mistress referred. Too, she knew well the jewels nestled there on peacock blue velvet, for she had often plucked one out for her queen’s toilette or seen her ponder over them lately. Poor dead King Louis had popped them at his youthful queen as though they were bon-bons or mere baubles. Once, when Her Grace bathed, Mary held up a massive strand of pearls across her own newly developing breasts covered with golden brocade, and held sapphires next to her sky-blue eyes and imagined that...