The Last Boleyn(30)
Mary could feel a hot blush spread on her cheeks, but she changed the subject. “Is the word well spread of Charles’s victory as the new emperor?”
“Oui. And I hear du Roi took it violently, even slapped the poor messenger from Bonnivet.” She laughed in her silvery tones.
“It is true, Jeanne. I was there.”
“Well! Will you tell me all of it?” There was a little silence. “Francoise declares you only interest him because you are different—English, I guess.”
“And because of her mock sweetness,” came Francoise’s catty voice behind them suddenly. “Any man needs a little rest from an exciting gourmet diet at times.” Her clear green eyes bored into Mary’s as though she were daring her to answer.
“Indeed, Madam du Chateaubriand,” Mary responded slowly, turning back to the wide-eyed Jeanne. “That is what His Grace indicates, too. Yet he finds it tiresome to have to knock and announce himself so that others can quickly vacate the place where he himself would rest.”
Francoise’s feline eyes narrowed, and she spun sharply away. Jeanne nearly sputtered in disbelief that the sweet-tempered Marie had so bested the confident Francoise.
“Marie, tell me what happened,” she begged as they settled themselves behind the other ladies. “To what do you refer? Tell me!”
“Later, Jeanne, I meant not to be so vicious. I fear I just wished to strike out, and, well—she was there.”
A gasp of anticipation rose from the gathering as the boar was pushed and shoved by four trappers into the crude arena. Francois appeared clothed for hunting as she had seen him this morning. He swept past the clusters of ladies and vaulted the barrier at the foot of the steps bravely, his single sword held aloft. Everyone else cheered mightily, though Mary kept her chagrined silence. It came to her that she knew how the boar felt, ensnared, terrified, about to be skewered for the king’s pleasure.
How Francois had laughed at her shame and fears that time in Queen Claude’s room when he had summoned her while Claude and most of her ladies were at chapel. How he had seemed to revel in her outright terror they would be discovered in the queen’s bed which he admitted he never visited anymore until it was time to get poor Claude with child again.
If one of the ladies had come in to see the English Mary Bullen with the French king astride her naked hips, or if the king’s mother or sister—or Claude, or worst of all, her own father had seen that!
She shrugged and shook her head, not realizing Jeanne studied her intently. How she had suffered from the knowledge that Francois did not value her except as an occasional amusement; how her hatred for him grew. Fantasies that he would love her as she had once loved him—shattered, all shattered now. And in the place of girlhood dreams grew a woman’s realization of a world where hurt and pain were not only possible but certain.
“He is so brave and magnificent,” Jeanne said loudly to no one in particular.
The boar pawed the cobbles of the courtyard, then charged at the king, who leapt from his path laughing wildly. Francois jabbed at it once, as it made a raucous pass. The sword drew a crimson puddle of blood on its bristled back. Wide-eyed in fear, it smashed the barricade before the steps and vaulted the low rubble of the crude wooden poles. Horrified, the ladies on the steps screamed and scattered as the boar smashed its way up the staircase. It slavered and wheezed and shoved past. Mary crushed against Jeanne in panic. Its terrified rush left a black smear of blood on Mary’s flying skirts. She heard herself scream as Francois and six armed courtiers charged past after the boar, now loose in the long gallery of the chateau. Mary trembled with fear and disgust as other people inquired of her well-being. Then they scurried after their king, and Jeanne pulled Mary along in their wake.
“You can tell the king it kicked you and he will be most guilty and solicitous for days, Marie. Oh, look at the path of his blood!”
Mary stood silently at the back of the courtiers crowding the doorway to the lovely salon now transformed into a trampled battleground between king and victim. Perhaps Francois will be injured or killed, Mary thought suddenly, and then crossed herself hastily for the wicked idea.
The beast ran in circles now, and nearly vaulted out of corners when Francois had almost trapped him. “Stay back! Stay back!” the king warned between gasps as he chased the terrified boar. “This is king’s business alone!”
The curved tusks of the animal ripped a velvet drape as it charged, and its flying hoofs spun him madly on the thick carpet and polished floors. The king’s third thrust went true. The hilt of Francois’s sword drove into the stretched throat of the beast and it sank to its knees impaling itself further. It shuddered and heaved over on its side, one tusk digging into the plush carpet. Francois approached dramatically. He withdrew the bloodied sword and plunged it deep into the heart where it stayed, its silver hilt bobbing merrily above the slaughtered boar.
A tremendous cheer went up for the begrimed, sweating hero. His dark eyes gleamed, and his breath came swiftly through parted teeth. All were in awe of his nerve and prowess, but Mary felt suddenly sick, queasy and weak at her knees. She leaned against Jeanne for support.
“Does the blood sicken you, Marie? I thought Englishmen were marvelous hunters, too. Here, Marie, sit here and it will pass.”
Jeanne helped Mary to a carved bench in the huge entryway of the chateau, then scurried back to the room where Francois was soaking in the adulation of his mignons.