The Last Boleyn(19)
Mary, in contrast to her expensive and frivolous dress for tomorrow, had chosen a gown of mauve colored silk and delicately sculpted brocade today. The smooth lilac bodice was taut to push her well-developed breasts fashionably up above the neckline rimmed with seed pearls, and the gently rustling skirts shifted from mauve to violet hues as she walked. The full outer sleeves were lined with soft but inexpensive rabbit fur and the fitted inner sleeves dripped a narrow cuff of open-weave Belgian lace.
Mary nearly floated on a cloud of tremulous joy as she and the other maids arrived at the lumbering gray-stoned Bastille with the heavy trains of the king’s ladies. The French royal party would follow soon after to take up their official stances. Then on a fine-tuned cue, the English envoys would approach with their formal bobbing of heads and wax-sealed documents of greeting. But several of the peripheral English advisors were in evidence already, ascertaining propriety, scanning the vast expanse of the public audience hall, or scuttling about from the French marshalls to the self-important Ambassador Bullen and his privy staff.
To Mary’s delight there was a pause in the bustlings and her father, looking resplendent in his ermine and velvet, his heavy chest crossed by a massive golden chain, motioned her to him. He stood behind a somewhat shaky portable desk with seals and wax and a disarray of paper, giving orders, questioning men who darted here and there at his will. As Mary neared him, carefully avoiding the vast length of purple velvet carpet on which the English party would approach the enthroned Francois, he ordered the desk cleared and removed. Only one young man, taller and broader-shouldered than the rest, remained in low conversation, so Mary paused a few steps distant, poised, excited.
The young man listened earnestly to Lord Bullen, his strong brown head cocked, his muscular silken legs slightly apart, and still he was as tall as her father. She had never noted that man before. He was either French, on her father’s staff or maybe newly come from London. Anyway, he was in the way, for she seldom spoke with her father alone and never when he was in such a fine mood. She tapped her silken slipper in growing impatience.
Then they both stopped and glanced at her and her father extended his beringed hand. “You look lovely, Mary. Being the English ambassador’s daughter has helped you to be here today, though you will look the part. Whose attendant are you to be?”
“The queen’s, my lord, though the king’s mother and sister have as many bearers.”
“Fine, fine.” He turned away and gestured to an aide who advanced swiftly. He seemed to forget she stood there at all and that he had not even seen her for three months. It was then she noticed the other man again, and realized he had never looked away from her nor stopped his deliberate slow perusal of her face, her figure, her mauve-hued brocaded dress. He seemed to study her, quite unabashed.
Her first impulse was to turn heel on such a rude scrutiny, but she still hoped to speak further with her father. And, somehow, she was curious about this tall man, though his frank, roving gaze unsettled her.
He wore rich browns to match his hair, but his raiment did not look as fussy or costly as she was used to seeing at the grand and glorious court of Francois. He had a rugged face with high cheekbones and not the chiseled features of a Francois or Rene de Brosse. His brows were raven dark and rakish; his jaw square and strong; his nose was well-formed enough, although it appeared he had broken it at least once, probably in some brawl or joust, she thought. She hated to admit it, but the man stood with an angular grace of easy stance and masculine charm. His mouth, which quirked up in apparent amusement or pleasure at her emboldened stare, was wry and somehow very interesting. Then he grinned brazenly and she looked away to feel the color mount to her breasts, pushed up above the neckline of mauve silk and seed pearls, to her neck, her cheeks.
“Tell the fool to see to it in the anteroom before the gendarmes form up,” came her father’s exasperated words into her consciousness. “’Sblood, I shall see to it myself!”
He spun and was gone in a swirl of jade green cloak, the distraught messenger trailing after him. Mary was embarrassed to find herself standing only four feet from the staring, tall man with no one in shouting distance in the whole, vast, purple-bedecked hall.
“What good fortune,” came the man’s low voice in an English accent.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she returned as icily as possible and stood her ground as he took a presumptuous step forward.
“That the Lord Ambassador leaves me here as escort to his so lovely daughter, Mary Bullen.”
He said her name somehow differently, and it intrigued her. “He hardly left you as escort, sir.” She hesitated, not wanting to leave despite his rank impudence. “I must return to my duties.”
He fell in easily beside her as she walked slowly along the edge of the velvet runway. “Please allow me to introduce myself, Lady Mary. I am here on my first visit to France, and my French is rough at best. It pleases me to find so charming a lady with whom I can converse in my own tongue. The French women seem to flit about a great deal, but I prefer a fair and honest English maid anytime.”
How did we get on this tack so suddenly, Mary wondered, keeping her eyes lowered. His huge feet almost brushed the hems of her skirts as they walked.
“You have become shy, Mary Bullen. But a moment ago I was certain your fiery glance could match my own.”
She lifted her head jerkily to face him and met those deep brown probing eyes again. He seemed young, yet somehow worldly.