The Last Boleyn(14)
Then, he was there. His face was impassive, but his eyes gave away his tension and his anger. “Sit, Mary. I will be brief.”
Please, father, stay for a while, she thought, but she sat gracefully, correctly.
“It is difficult to say how long the Princess Mary and her—the duke—will be staying here in France. When they leave, it may not be to return to the English court. And so, she has released you from your service to her, and you will join Queen Claude’s household here as a maid of honor to continue your schooling in French and court ways.”
Mary’s face showed her dismay clearly, and she clenched her hands as though she would implore him. “But, my lord, she said she needs me and wishes me to remain with them.”
“With them, Mary!” His voice spewed venom, and her eyes widened in terror as though he had hit her. Then he lowered his tone and bent menacingly close. “My foolish girl, there may not be ‘them’ unless the king’s blood greatly abates. The fool Suffolk has committed a treasonous act in this illegal marriage. He dares! He dares to come so near the throne in marriage! An effrontery to his lord king and to his once best and trusted friend our sovereign king!”
“But King Henry promised her she might choose her husband should King Louis die,” Mary interposed weakly.
“Ha! His Grace promised! Promised one day, perhaps, but that is not the way the wind blows now. She is important state business, and she has ruined it all.”
“She is only a woman in love, my lord.”
“She is also a fool and will pay dearly starting with this.” He extended his clenched fist and there lay the Jewel of Naples in his square palm. How dull and heavy it looks against his flesh, she thought irrationally.
“I will not have you go down with her, child. I thought she was the one for you to serve.” He swallowed audibly and pocketed the great gem. “I was mistaken.”
“The new king of France favors the marriage, my lord. Surely he will help to turn His Majesty’s mind.”
He reached for Mary’s shoulders, and his fingers hurt. “Stupid girl. He was only too pleased to have a valuable marriage pawn out of the way of a dangerous English alliance. He would have turned bigamist himself to keep Mary Tudor from a marriage to Charles of Castile. The fond and friendly Francois helped them only to their own destruction!”
Tears ran in jagged paths down Mary’s cheeks and fell off her chin. Each time she blinked, she felt the droplets plaster her thick lashes. Tiny involuntary sobs wracked her throat. Her father took his hard hands away and stepped back a pace.
“You have been trapped and used, child, and I will not have that. You are too important to my plans. I only hope the king never hears you were privy to their marriage plans and never told me. And I pray he never blames me for not having stopped them, though I could hardly have stopped the wily fox Francois from his meddling.
“Francois and Claude and their household progress toward Amboise,” he went on. “It is on the Loire where they will establish their court. You are going with them on the morrow.” He looked sideways at her small oaken garderobe. “You must pack immediately.”
“They stay not here at Tournelles?” she heard herself ask.
“Paris is noisome and too near the church powers. It is another wise move. Needless to say, Princess Mary and the duke remain here until they can work out their difficulties one way or the other.”
“You are helping them?”
“I help only my king, child.” He turned to go, and she stood desperate for kinder words, for a gentle look. “And of course, the Bullens,” he added at the door.
“Dry your eyes, Mary. We are blessed that the new queen will take on two young English girls. She is pious and the people love her, though much as with our own king, Francois loves elsewhere.”
“You said two English girls, father?”
“Your sister Anne joins you this summer. I go home to fetch her when I take this bauble to His Grace. I expect you will know to take good care of Anne. She is witty and clever already, though her looks will never match your Howard beauty.”
At least I shall have Annie’s company, thought Mary, as he swung the door wide and the dozing linkboy jumped to attention in the hall behind. But Annie is only eight, and Annie is mother’s baby.
“Anne is young, my lord, younger than I when I went to Archduchess Margaret’s court.” Now mother will have empty gardens at Hever, she thought.
“Younger, but perhaps with more sense, Mary. Remember everything the two of you do can and will reflect on me and the Bullens. Make me—and your mother—proud, Mary. Bid farewell quickly to the Princess Mary. I will keep in touch.”
The door closed. Mary sank, drained, on her narrow bed. At least she would have Annie to get to know again, to help, to mother, to love.
He did not even remove his cloak while he was here, she thought bitterly. She began to sob.
CHAPTER FIVE
June 22, 1517
Chateau du Amboise
The ponderous, lumbering Medieval castle of Amboise was a miracle of rebirth. The massive stone walls had sprouted arabesques of arches and charming pinnacles pointed their creamy fingers into the tall blue skies of the sheltering Loire valley. Rich parquet floors and spacious windows graced the once gloomy chambers and spans of fragrant foliage edged the formal gardens of Persian roses and gentle scented lavender. From fountains arched tiny rivulets of clear water and Italian tapestries and paintings caressed the papered walls in gallery and chamber. Francois’s chateau stood proudly at the glowing dawn of the French Renaissance.