The Last Boleyn(16)

“Now, Anne, you shall see those great ones of whom we have told, and the wonders of the court,” Mary promised breathlessly as they descended the great curving porphyry staircase and traversed the long gallery which linked the chateau to the formal gardens. Francois had cleared a huge expanse for the tiltyard and frequently in the warmer months came the seductive sounds of trumpets and cheers.

“Oui, you shall see the other court, the one any red-blooded Frenchman would prefer to our shadowed world of the saintly Reine Claude,” Jeanne put in as they slowed their pace, aware that they were in public now despite the deserted state of the formal gardens in the golden sun. Deserted except for the white-haired, bearded old Italian master whom Francois now patronized. He sat with his profile to them, his sketch pad poised on his lap while he gazed at a distant vista.

“The Premier Peintre, Architecte et Mechanicien des Rois, to use his proper title,” explained the lovely Jeanne as though she were lecturing guests. “The king says his da Vinci paints the valley here and dreams he is home in Florence.”

“The king himself told you that?” asked Mary in awe.

“Well, I heard him say it to Francoise de Foix only the other day, Marie,” Jeanne returned nonchalantly. She turned to Mary’s little sister. “Francoise du Foix is the king’s present maitresse en titre, ma petite, Anne,” Jeanne added.

“Indeed, I have told Anne of her and of them all, Jeanne, though she has not had the chance to see them before today,” Mary said.

“I understand the English king must hide his mistresses from the court. Is it true? It seems all rather uncivilized,” Jeanne commented. Mary was grateful she need not answer, for they were at the brightly festooned galleries, and the joust was already in progress.

The crowd roared its approval sporadically and the blare of marshalls’ voices broke in to announce names and titles and outcomes of each bout. Fawn and white bunting puffed then fell in the warming breeze as the girls peered over the heads of those not perched in the elevated seats to catch sight of the present fray.

“It is Bonnivet himself,” whispered the excited Jeanne. “I can tell by his armor and crested heume.”

“The dearest friend to the king,” recited Anne, for the clever girl had indeed learned her catechism of honored names and titles from her sister in the week she had been at Amboise.

“And all know he adores and wishes to seduce the king’s sister, Madame du Alencon, who loves her own husband not at all,” added Jeanne as though anxious to impress with her knowledge of inner circle scandal. “Come. There must be some seats in the pavillion where we can see better.”

The English girls followed her carefully, wending their way through the rainbow silks and slippered feet along the rows of cushioned benches. They wedged themselves in among a cluster of other unattached flowering mignonnes of the vast court and thrilled and applauded with their neighbors.

To Mary’s deep disappointment, Francois himself had jousted first and they had missed his splendid victory over his picked opponent of the day, Lautrec, the brother of his mistress.

Both Mary and Jeanne sought to educate the wide-eyed Anne as to who were the important people, but many were too distant across the field in the facing royal gallery and some sat well ahead of them, their fine coiffures or plumed hats the only way of identifying them.

“That fine and beautiful lady there, the lively one now chatting with the king’s own mother, is she not Francoise du Foix, his mistress?” asked the girl excitedly.

“No, indeed, ma petite,” cut in Jeanne’s voice as Mary began to answer, “that is the king’s beloved sister Marguerite, his ‘mignonne,’ he calls her. The jeweled lady seated over there is Francoise, for she is not a favorite with the king’s mother and sister, though he listens well to them in all else.”

To be Francoise du Foix or any other lady he gazes on with love, thought Mary solemnly, how wonderful. Better that than to be his queen, fat and white-faced and always swollen with child and only bedded when another nursery cradle was to be filled. Everyone knew Francoise de Foix was his third official mistress, but she was so stunning and so gay, surely this affair would last on and on.

“I said, Marie, Rene de Brosse stares with lovesick eyes at you as he did in the gardens last week.” Jeanne elbowed her gently and looked in the opposite direction. “Do not look that way now, silly, or he will know we have noticed.”

Mary felt herself blush slightly, but, with difficulty, she kept her expression unconcerned. “I favor him not, Jeanne du Lac. I swear he is but fifteen and he still has pimples. I would much rather have his older brother Guillaume take note of me!”

Jeanne’s silver laugh floated to Mary’s ears. “Guillaume, ma Anglaise charmante, is two years wed. Though that has stopped few dalliances of other men, with that bridegroom, the word is that he is faithful to her still.”

“Marie, he is making his way over here. You are right—he is very awkward,” Jeanne went on. She patted her beautifully wrapped reddish tresses. “Shall Anne and I start on ahead? I would introduce her to my sister Louise.”

Mary rose with them stubbornly. She did not like the way Jeanne assumed charge of her little sister, nor did she care to be deserted with the gangly Rene.

“Do not be such a goose, Marie,” scolded Jeanne. “You are a ravishing maid—all the ladies say so—and it would do your reputation and experience no harm to be escorted by a courtier from a fine family, pimples or not. Maybe you can convince him to introduce you to his brother.” Her green eyes tilted up as she smiled at Mary.