The Last Boleyn(15)
In the three years since the decrepit Louis XII and his ancient order had passed away, all of France had flourished under the promised hope of the new king’s ascension. On Francois’s badge stood the mythical salamander which could survive fire, and so far, Francois had been true to his motto: “I nourish and I quench.” In the past two years, the young king had marched south conquering the Swiss and making a triumphal entry into Milan. He had been honored by the pope, had breathed the learned, artistic air of Renaissance Italy and had returned victorious to Marseilles stuffed with new plans, laden with Italian styles, and accompanied by the sixty-four-year-old Leonardo da Vinci. Francois’s power and patronage gave great impetus to the new France. He both extinguished the settling ashes of the Middle Ages and nourished the glowing kindling of the Renaissance.
Transformation had touched Mary Bullen’s life, too, for she was a part of the upheavals and shifting times. Uprooted from her disgraced mistress and guardian, the young widowed French queen, she had joined the three hundred ladies in waiting to the pious, ever-pregnant Queen Claude. She had delighted at the queen’s belated coronation this past season and rejoiced with the realm when an heir was finally born this year after two darling but dynastically useless daughters. And finally, though she never fully understood why it had taken so long when her father had promised it three whole years ago, her eleven-year-old sister Anne had joined her at Francois’s fashionable court.
“But, Mary,” Anne had complained more than once since she had arrived a week ago, “why must we always be in chapel or studying Latin texts? Even the needlework is, well, so religious!”
Mary sighed, for Anne voiced the exact sentiments of most of Claude’s sheltered demoiselles du honneur. “Her Grace is a good and pious woman, Annie, and we are her charges. She will not always keep us from the other court. We are too many for her to watch, and some of us shall be noticed sooner or later. You will see.”
“The other court. Of du Roi Francois? Oui, ma Marie, but I am only of eleven years, and I doubt I shall see much beaute or gallantre. C’est grande dommage.”
Mary put down her pettipoint on the marble sill and gazed fondly on the lovely valley with its rim of blue-green forests and its carefully etched ribbons of grape vines.
But today, Mary mused, she and Annie could actually be a part of that lovely, naturally hued scene, for Anne wore golden satin slashed to reveal a daffodil yellow brocaded kirtle underneath her full skirts, and she herself was in the palest of green watered silk with silvery threaded trim along the low, oval bodice, double slashed sleeves, and waistline lacings. Yet, sitting quietly like this, did not Annie’s golds and yellows make her dark eyes dance even more, whereas her own gentle greens just made her meld into the scene unnoticed?
“You shall go far someday, Annie. Your Latin is perfect, your French is beautiful, and you are so witty and clever already. And look at me, fourteen and still a reclusive English maid much alone—save for you, Annie.”
“I wish you would no longer call me that, Marie. It sounds so very childish, as though I still toddled at Semmonet’s knee in leading strings. I wish to make well in the adult world now, and father says he knows my wits and charm will take me far some day.”
Mary felt strangely stung by the girl’s words, and she knew her face showed it. She had never quite mastered the etiquette of the disdainful mask to cover hurt or sorrow. She kept her graceful neck arched toward the window and her wet eyes on the abundant green Loire and the gentle hills. “Of course, Anne. And father is always right. As I said, you shall reach far at court whether it be Francois’s or our own king’s, of that I am certain.”
“If I only had your face, though, Marie, and were not so thin and pale and raven-haired. And,” she lowered her pleasant girlish voice until it was barely audible and Mary leaned closer, “if it were not for my foolish hand.”
Mary glanced to Anne’s lap where the offending fingers curled carefully under the mesh of her newly begun embroidery. As always, she had secreted the tiny stub of the sixth unwanted finger which sprang from her slender small finger of her left hand.
“No one notices it, Annie—Anne. You cover it so beautifully with your tapered sleeves.”
“If anyone should ever laugh, I know I should hate them instantly, and somehow, I would find a way to make them suffer too!” Her thin, dark brows knit and her eyes narrowed.
She has much of George’s temper in her and must learn to bridle it, thought Mary hopelessly. Why do we not feel closer as I thought we would when she arrived? Surely, time together here will change that.
“Marie, Anne, we are allowed to go, now if we wish! I knew we could escape postnoon duties if we just bided our time. I knew it!” The gleeful messenger was Jeanne du Lac, whom Mary admired tremendously for her red-haired beauty and her popularity with many handsome courtiers. The thrilling message was that they were free for several hours to see the glorious tilt match in the gardens with the king and his beautiful friends.
They did not even stop to return their needlework to their rooms or to get a proper head cover, for the hour was late and no doubt the festivities had already begun. Mary would see Francois again, Francois du Roi, her secret passionate fantasy since his magnetic eyes had rested on her momentarily three years ago and he had termed her a young Venus. How wonderful, how distant he was. And those that surrounded him, how blessed.