The Last Boleyn(29)

Padding barefoot to stand behind the door, she had her chemise and petticoats on when the low buzz of men’s voices, punctuated by an occasional staccato of laughter, ceased utterly. Puzzled, she peeked around the door and stood listening intently.

“News from Bonnivet in Frankfort?” Francois’s voice sounded almost tremulous before he shouted, “Damn it, coward, arise and speak to your king! Francois awaits.”

Pray God the news is not bad, Mary thought, crushing her crumpled dress to her chest. If they should all have to live in the shadow of his terrible temper, then...

“Your Grace, your most humble servant, Bonnivet, begs me to inform you that the electors have betrayed their promises to you and...and...” The man’s muffled voice broke. “The electors have chosen young Charles of Castile, Sire.”

A tiny silence trembled in the room while all held their breaths, awestruck. There was a sharp crack and a thud, and Mary jumped backwards as though she had been struck. “And why is Bonnivet not here to tell his king of his failure himself,” Francois was screaming. “Well?”

“Monsieur Bonnivet is much ill and most wretched from his exertions in his king’s favor, Your Grace, and was forced to take the cure at his estates on the road back.”

Francois’s high-pitched laughter shredded the air. “Damn Bonnivet and that she-wolf Margaret! Damn them all! Charles? The bloody bastard Charles! Get out of here, all of you, now! I said we were hunting boar and by hell’s gates, we shall!”

“Francois, my dear, my dear,” came a new voice in the anteroom, and Mary knew it was the queen mother. “The news then is bad with all your rich deservings, my love. Here, dearest, come and talk. There are other roads to ultimate power for one so deserving, one chosen by God to rule, my love.”

“But what a blow, mother. Damn Bonnivet!” Francois suddenly sounded like a small boy being comforted. Mary darted back from her listening post as their voices came nearer. They entered the bed chamber. Louise du Savoy had her arm about the king’s drooped shoulders and they sat on the edge of the mussed bed together, oblivious to the nervous, half-clad Mary. Francois’s head was bent over his knees, and his voice was on the edge of sobs.

“All, all ruined, mother. Three million lire all for nothing.”

“No, Francois. We shall rebuild. Only now we must go another way to keep from war with Charles’s Spain.”

He put his face in his spread hands. It was then that Louise du Savoy’s surprised eyes took in the frozen Mary, but she only motioned her to silence and went on smoothly.

“You have already proved your greatness as a soldier-king, my dear. Now you shall prove your greatness as a statesman-king. We shall bargain with England and your dear brother-king Henry VIII for alliance against Charles. You shall convince them you bargain from strength not weakness, my dearest love.” She stroked his head gently, rhythmically, and Mary marvelled at her control over the volatile king.

Finally, he raised his head. “The English, oui, a grand alliance between two powerful kings and their nations. I shall meet with him. Oui, I shall command him to come here.”

“Not command, my son. Request, even implore. For strength can come from counterfeit gentleness, oui?”

Francois stood suddenly, almost brushing off his mother’s clinging hands. “It shall be done, mother. No wonder Francois is a powerful king, for he has a veritable she-wolf for a mother, eh?” He laughed jaggedly and his eyes caught Mary’s. She feared his wrath then, for she had beheld his weakness.

“Be dressed, petite Anglaise, for Francois du Roi kills a boar single-handed in the courtyard today. Kills a great slathering boar and anything else that gets in his way!”

Louise du Savoy’s low voice cut in. “My dear, you will not risk such foolhardiness only to kill a boar? Unhorsed?”

“Oui, mother. I have vowed it. It pleases me, and I do it.”

“Francois, you should realize...”

“And so, Marie,” Francois interrupted his mother’s plea, “be dressed quickly and join the gallery. Mother, come, for you shall be proud.”

He strode toward the door then spun around sharply. “Though Marie Boullaine serves her purpose well, I almost wish I could see the sour, busy Ambassador Boullaine standing in her place, mother. I could put him to good use today, for now I need more English than one shy maid.”

His brittle laughter floated back to the embarrassed Mary as she hastily shook out her full skirts and stepped into them. But Louise du Savoy swept from the room without another word or glance, and Mary was left alone under the portrait of the lady with the smiling eyes.



Francois had arranged the amusement for the day, but the mood of the courtiers at Fontainebleau was anything but festive. Mary noted tight little groups whispering as though they were waiting for the other royal fist to strike after the initial outbreak.

Francois darted about ordering his guards to move the barriers or change the wooden poles which blocked the grand staircase from the arena in which he would confront the pawing, grunting boar they could all see freshly penned by his trappers. Courtiers jostled each other at the narrow windows for a good view, latecomers and ladies stood on the staircase behind the barricades for the best position. Mary, newly changed and coiffed, joined Jeanne du Lac there.

“Need I even ask where you have been, Marie?” Jeanne asked icily with a raised brow. “Francoise du Foix was quite incensed when she realized you were with him all night, you know. She worries her hold is slipping, and she does keep track of us.”