The Last Boleyn(25)
“All would wish to serve the king, monsieur.”
He searched her face carefully. “Oui. Then, I must inform you that His Grace requests the privilege of your company, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” He stood and meticulously pulled his lace shirt through the silver slashings of his doublet.
“When, monsieur?” Mary asked as she rose.
“Now. Can you not leave your duties now? The hour is long before supper or the queen’s evening prayers. May I accompany you?”
He pulled the door open, and Mary half expected to see Jeanne du Lac poised on the threshold, but the adjoining rooms and hall were quite deserted. Mary took shallow breaths to steady herself. She was distinctly aware of each step she took along the gallery leading to the king’s wing of the palace. At least it was broad daylight and not a summons in the night she had dreaded would mean that he had other plans for her than conversation. Monsieur Fragonard’s silver walking stick made regular tap-taps on the inlaid floor to punctuate her breaths and heartbeats.
“Here, mademoiselle,” he said finally. “This is a private way to His Grace’s afternoon study.” He pushed open the narrow door and they came face-to-face with a tall gendarme, his sword at his side. Her guide merely bobbed his head to the soldier, and they went on through two tiny rooms lined with books and containing several low tables each laden with strange globes, mechanisms or clocks.
“Adieu for now, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” His words came suddenly as they faced another closed narrow door. He rapped three times, bowed, and retreated the way they had come.
Mary shuddered as he left, not as much from excitement or fear as from a strange repulsion toward her so proper guide. Somehow, he reminded her of a graceful, silver snake.
The door swung open and Francois stood bathed in the light of the room behind him. He squinted to see her better. She had not expected him to be so close. He was dressed very informally with dark purple satin breech and hose and an open brown velvet doublet over his white silk embroidered shirt. Only his velvet, square-toed slippers, heavily filigreed in gold thread and his very large embroidered codpiece seemed blatant and ornate. Stunned, she began to sweep him a curtsey, but he seized her hands and pulled her gently into the room.
“My Marie, my beautiful golden Marie,” he mused aloud to himself as he held her hands at her sides and scrutinized her.
“I am hardly your golden Marie today, Your Grace.” She glanced down ruefully at her everyday dress of green watered silk with the tiny rim of lace edging the swell of her breasts above the low-cut oval bodice. “But your summons came so quickly that I came as I am.”
“What more could a man wish, cherie? At any rate, I sent you a request, not a summons. If I summon you someday, you shall know the difference. Did Fragonard say otherwise?”
“No, Your Grace. He was most kind.”
“Green suits you too, Marie. Indeed, everything does. Green is most pleasant in these wretched, chilly months when there is little riding and hunting. Only business, worry and lectures from one’s advisors or family.”
He smiled and released her hands and Mary relaxed. How wonderful she felt, how important to be near him. Surely since she was Lord Boullaine’s daughter and under the queen’s protection, he would not expect her to lose her reputation. He was much older, and kings never had liaisons with unmarried ladies that she had heard of. She smiled warmly at him.
“Now I remember,” he said quietly, “why I think of you as golden Marie no matter what dress you wear.” He took a quick step toward her and then turned. “Will you have some wine with your friend Francois, Marie?”
Awed by his informal manner, she took the stemmed goblet willingly and looked up, unafraid, into his dark eyes. Then the familiar awkwardness leaned on her heart again. He did not speak but studied her carefully, and the tiny flames in his eyes warned her of potential disaster.
She turned sideways from his hot stare and surveyed the room. Its walls were dark wood in layered paneling and edged with gilt. A fire crackled merrily behind a carved screen. There were books, a huge compass, maps, stuffed brocaded armchairs and a narrow lounge bed along one wall. There was only one window, but the thin winter sun slanted across the carpet and warmed the chamber.
“Come, Marie.” She looked back at him startled. “Come see the view from one of my favorite windows. I can see far down the valley from here, and the Loire is like the green ribbon in your hair.”
He leaned against the rich paneling and turned his head to gaze far out across the recessed window ledge. She joined him, setting her half-finished wine glass on the table, realizing too late that it was something she could have held between them as they stood so close.
He pulled her against his side in a brotherly way and put one arm lightly around her shoulders. He pointed to the tiny village on the opposite cliff face. “I shall tell you a secret, ma cherie. One night last summer, Bonnivet and I and a few others disguised ourselves and rode through the streets throwing eggs at windows and whatever people we saw.” He laughed, and she could feel his ribs and shoulders move as he did. “A tiny hamlet, but with as fresh a supply of wine and women as any!” He squeezed her shoulder as he chuckled, then loosed her again merely resting his now-heavy arm on her. “Now what the devil was the name of that little place? We shall have to do that again sometime, if we live through this blasted, boring winter.”