The Last Boleyn(23)
“Are you cold, Marie? It is stifling in here in general, I think.” Anne’s nimble fingers halted poised above her small tapestry loom, her needle trailing a thin shaft of crimson yarn.
“No, Anne. I am fine.”
“Your patience to sit about has certainly improved since your journey to Paris,” Anne responded, narrowing her dark almond-shaped eyes slightly. “You used to be happy to escape these dreary chambers once in a while.” She lowered her voice even more. “I think the sullen mood of Her Grace’s pregnancies has mushed your spirit, Marie Boullaine.”
“Do not tease, Anne. It is gloomy outside today anyway. If you need the diversion of a stroll or high adventure in the frozen gardens, Jeanne will be only too willing to go with you. I shall remain within summons to Her Majesty. Besides, the queen mother and Madam Alencon will be here soon and they always provide diversion. Really they are as much at the heart of the realm as is the king.”
“Do you think much about seeing him again, Marie? How exciting that the great king truly knows you and favors you and recognizes you. Does not the sense of power thrill you?”
“His Grace was only being kind, Anne. I told you that we happened to be dressed much alike and I caught his eye. That is all.”
“Coward,” Anne teased and laughed. “I shall ask our father what he thought of it, next I see him.”
“Feel free to leave me, little sister, if you care more for your own interpretations.” Mary rose swiftly and some of her flaxen threads spilled from her full-skirted lap.
“My sweet sister Marie does indeed show the temper of which she used to accuse George and me,” said Anne, widening her gaze in gentle mockery as Mary bent to scoop her threads from the footstool and floor.
She felt miffed mostly at herself, and she instinctively sought the refuge of the queen’s rooms, through the open doors where she knew neither Anne nor the others would willingly follow.
The fire in the queen’s chamber burned quite low and her priest had evidently just departed. Queen Claude leaned back on a chaise couch, her prayer book open in her lap, a lady in waiting on both sides of her like silent sentinels. Her bulk was already great. Mary had noticed that with each close-spaced pregnancy, she carried the child lower and seemed to swell sooner. The queen’s eyes slowly moved to Mary, like dark coals on her white face. Her left eye always seemed to squint, and this disconcerted her ladies.
“Marie, entrez.” Mary curtseyed and sat on the tiny prie-dieu near the queen’s feet. “What is happening in the outside world today, ma demoiselle?”
“I have not been abroad, Your Grace,” Mary answered simply.
“But out of the windows, are the skies still gray, Marie?”
“Oui, Your Grace.”
“Then what use is it for me to try to let some light in here before my dear husband’s mother and my dearest Marguerite arrive? I have been lying here summoning my strength for the interview.” She spoke almost to herself. “They bring such vitality, you know, and I seem to have none of my own lately.”
She ordered the shutters be spread inward anyway, and the room was diffused with a hazy gray light. She stood shakily and murmured to no one in particular, “And my poor Francois. How he chafes at the bit in such weather. Francois must always be active and have diversions. And this terrible business of who will be the next Holy Roman Emperor—ah, I pray hourly for it to fall to my husband.”
As though she had foreseen their approach, the queen turned to the door as Louise du Savoy and Marguerite entered in a rush. Marguerite wore a flame-colored velvet gown edged and lined everywhere with either golden satin or whitest ermine with black flecks in the fur, whereas the more subdued Louise’s heavier body was swathed in richest burgundies weighted with gold thread, jeweled girdle, and heavy pearls. Each woman took Claude’s hand solicitously. Mary and the other ladies stepped back to the wall, for the queen never liked to be without several attendants. The royal ladies clustered together before the hearth. Though the queen sat down again and tried to hold herself erect, her back was like a bent bow, but the other two reminded Mary of taut strings ready to send out a brace of sharp arrows.
“My poor daughter Claude,” began Louise du Savoy in her guttural voice, “how does this future prince you carry?”
“He stirs about and turns me blue along my belly, Mother,” the queen answered her mother-in-law, and Mary marvelled at her meekness with these two.
In both Marguerite and the queen mother, Mary could see the long-nosed, dark-eyed Francois, in each the coiled spring of wound power beneath the surface.
“And how does my husband lately?” the queen was asking. “He is much burdened by his rightful inheritance of the cloak of Holy Roman Emperor?”
“Oui, Oui, greatly burdened,” Marguerite responded in her quick sing-song French. “But if anyone can help to sway those wretched Germans who hold the important votes, it is the king’s envoy Bonnivet. The Pope is already ours, Madam, but that she-wolf Margaret of Austria hates our house. I would strangle her for her meddling, if I could get my hands on her!”
Mary’s head snapped up at the mention of her first royal guardian, the kindly Archduchess Margaret. It puzzled her that the dear old woman could hate Francois. She must remember to ask father someday if he would have time to explain.
“The money—the money is another problem, Madam,” Marguerite continued, her head bobbing vivaciously to punctuate her words. “Millions of francs and still the bankers quibble. Quibble with the King of France!”