The Last Boleyn(24)

Claude’s voice came pale and listless after Marguerite’s. “I am grateful that my dear lord’s family can sustain him in these court matters. I am often from the realm of his influence.”

“That is as it should be, dear daughter,” Louise du Savoy responded. “Your support for your lord is made manifest here, in the loving care of his children. This is as it should be,” she repeated slowly.

“I do prefer it to other courtly duties, for what need is there of that when du Roi has you and his Marguerite?”

Louise du Savoy nodded silently as though that closed the matter, but Marguerite began again. “Francois is much unsettled lately, since you asked, sister. The English stance worries him and, you may be pleased to know, he has had a falling out with his ‘lady’ the haughty Francoise du Foix. It is long overdue that he sees that woman’s true colors.”

“Marguerite, please, I hardly think our dear Claude wishes to hear court gossip in her condition...”

“You detest that woman too, mother, and always have,” Marguerite answered, tossing her dark tresses. “The snow-goddess has carried on once too often with Bonnivet, and she shall reap her own harvest now.” She laughed quickly, sharply. “Maybe it is partly the cause of Bonnivet’s appointment as legate in Germany far from the lady’s wiles.”

“Hush, mignonne,” scolded the older woman. “Your preoccupation with Guillaume du Bonnivet much questions your own interest in the man.” She frowned and shook her head.

Yes, remembered Mary suddenly, it is often rumored the Lady Marguerite has long favored Bonnivet though she is wed to Alencon.

“Anyway,” put in the unquenchable Marguerite, glancing down her nose at her annoyed mother, “our roi du soleil is bored and unsettled, and it is hardly weather to tilt at jousts or chase the deer or boar afield.”

Claude listened impassively, and though Mary could not see her face clearly, she pictured her white stare and blurry gaze gone awry.

“We must be going, dear Claude,” Louise du Savoy said in the awkward silence. “I would like to stop by the royal nursery wing on our way.”

“Of course,” said Claude properly, rising slowly with them. “All was well yesterday when I saw them, and the dauphin can nearly speak in sentences. They told me his first words were ‘du roi.’ It is appropriate, is it not?”

“Indeed, my daughter,” her mother-in-law said over her velvet shoulder as they approached the door.

Marguerite’s falcon eyes caught Mary standing nearest the door. “Boullaine’s daughter?” she asked, half to herself. “But not in gold and pure white today.” She laughed and was gone with her awesome mother trailing in her sweet-scented wake.

Mary fervently hoped the queen would not think the remark meant she had done anything wrong, for she had remarked kindly to Mary how lovely she and her dear husband had looked together at the feast. But Claude had sunk down in her vast cushions again and seemed to doze almost immediately. Mary sat at her feet for a soundless time, then rose to leave. Claude’s voice floated to her again.

“Do not let Madam du Alencon tease, nor the queen mother frighten you, petite Boullaine. But have a care not to cross them either.”

Mary turned and her silken skirts rustled loudly in the quiet room. “Merci, Your Grace.”

But Queen Claude leaned as though she drowsed heavily, her bulky form outlined before the low-burning hearth.



Mary soon found she was foolish to think she could hide from facing the restive king by hovering close to the queen’s well-guarded chamber. The arm of du Roi, she learned that same day, could reach anywhere.

“Marie, Monsieur du Fragonard is here in the blue room—to see you alone,” came Jeanne’s excited words. She lowered her voice cautiously as she leaned closer. “No doubt, he bears a message from His Grace, Marie, for Fragonard is most intimate to royal business—in private matters.”

Mary could feel her heart beat a distinct thud, thud. “Then I must speak to Monsieur Fragonard,” she said only.

Jeanne trailed along down the narrow hallway to the reception room, one in a series of formal receiving chambers which the sequestered Claude seldom used. Jeanne lingered at the door while Mary rapped and entered.

Monsieur Fragonard had silver hair and his doublet and hose were of shimmery gray satin. He bowed elaborately and unnecessarily low.

“Mademoiselle Marie Boullaine.” He seemed to breathe her name rather than speak it. “May we sit together for a moment? I have a message for you from du Roi.” He smiled smoothly and she sat where he had indicated. “A message for your ears only.”

He leaned one lace-cuffed hand on his silver-headed walking stick. “Our king is still charmed by the memory of your warmth and beauty from your too brief time together in Paris last month. You, ah, no doubt, think fondly of him too.”

There was a tiny silence while her mind darted wildly about for a way to draw back from the looming precipice. Fool, she told herself, was this not what you have dreamed of for these last four years?

“Oui, monsieur. Of course I think fondly of du Roi.”

“I would explain to you as a friend, Mademoiselle, that the king is very busy lately and bears much upon his shoulders. It would be a joyous duty to lighten his burden and give him pleasant conversation and diversion, would it not?”