The Last Boleyn(31)
Mary leaned her head back against the carved panelling and kept her eyes tight shut until the feeling passed. How foolish. She had seen animals trapped and slaughtered before, and it would be a popular pastime at King Henry’s court when she went home.
Home. Home was Hever, not London. Sometimes she thought she would never go home to Hever. If only her father would wed her to some English lord who would be kinder than Francois—someone truly affectionate and protecting. Her gaze drifted out the front doors over the ruined barricade and sought the deep blue-green of Fontainebleau’s vast forests.
Jeanne scuttled back and broke her reverie. “They are coming this way, Marie. We are to have a banquet and dancing tonight and eat the very boar we saw killed!”
Mary stood as courtiers trooped back through the entry and down the steps to survey the fated barricade. Several bent to touch her bloodied skirts and to praise the bravery and finesse of their king again.
Then Francois swept by laughing, his beaming sister Marguerite on his arm and a frantic Francoise du Foix following behind. He stopped when he saw Mary’s white face and offered her his other hand. “Marie, they tell me the boar bloodied your dress as he charged past with the king in hot pursuit. He did not harm you?”
“No. Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.” The sweet words turned to dust on her lips, but she had said them.
“Fine. I would not wish to begin better relations with your country by harming one of their most charming treasures, eh?”
As Mary took his arm, the king’s eye caught Francoise’s face. “And you, Madam, may go find your damned Bonnivet and warm his bed. I am certain he shall have need of such solicitation after his miserable failure in Germany.”
Francoise’s jade eyes showed no pain or anger as far as Mary could tell. She swept her king a low curtsey, still holding her proud head erect so that her full breasts were almost completely visible above her low-cut neckline. “Better to send me to far Muscovy and let me freeze to death, Your Grace. Though in shame or disfavor, I would dwell near the sun.” She smiled brilliantly at her king, and Mary could feel him waver.
“Well, then,” he returned, “see that you do not get so close that your lovely dress becomes singed by the sun, or that your fair skin feels its full heat.”
“I would welcome it, Your Majesty, even if it meant I would be burned.”
Francois laughed in delight and responded gaily, “Well, come along all of you. We have much activity left today.”
Though Mary held the king’s arm on the opposite side of Marguerite, Francoise du Foix’s full swaying skirts nearly pushed her away as she chatted and laughed alongside her king.
CHAPTER NINE
June 6, 1520
Picardy
They were to call it The Field of the Cloth of Gold, a magnificent meeting of sovereigns and nations on the smooth grassy plain between Guines and Ardres. Mary and Anne Bullen were thrilled to have been given over to the care of their father for the three-week spectacle. They were among their own countrymen, although Anne thought them crude and coarse in manners next to French courtiers. Most importantly, father had promised they would be presented to King Henry.
Mary was elated to be temporarily free of Francois’s fickle whims for her presence. And what wonderful diversion the feasting, jousting, and elaborate entertainments would be—a far cry from Queen Claude’s stuffy court. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “there is only one cloud in the sky.” William Stafford was serving as liaison between her father and the English king, and she was going to have to put up with his annoying presence.
“Why have you attached yourself to this particular duty?” she asked Stafford coldly as soon as she had the opportunity. She intended to settle him in his place as quickly as possible, so he would not bother her over the days to come. She had learned to set Rene de Brosse back by copying some of Jeanne’s and Francoise du Foix’s cattiness, and she meant to be rid of the ever-watchful Master Stafford immediately.
“I have not attached myself, Mistress Bullen. It is only slugs and snails and sticky courtiers which do that. I have been attached by His Grace, though a more pleasant and scenic assignment I could not have imagined.” He had his hands linked behind his back and his muscular legs spread as he regarded her with amusement.
“Do you not consider yourself a sticky courtier, sir?”
“I serve His Grace at court not by design, Mary. He keeps me about him at his choosing—for his safety, he believes. I would be a well-content midlands farmer had I control of my life. But I will tell you of all that another time.”
He turned away to gather the ambassador’s papers as he heard Thomas Bullen’s strident voice in the next room. A farmer? She was much puzzled by such foolishness from a man who obviously had the king’s eye. And she was angry with herself that she felt intrigued by what he said when she had fully intended to dispense with him completely.
She turned and smiled vibrantly at her father, who bustled in with several men in his wake, followed by her vivacious thirteen-year-old sister.
“Father says we may go to survey the royal arrangements, Marie. Everything is prepared for the arrival of Francois du Roi and Henry Rex on the morrow. We are even to enter King Henry’s beautiful palace!”
“Settle down, both of you, and get riding gear if you wish to go,” came her father’s voice over Anne’s. “Stafford, I am glad to see you are prompt. His Grace calls you Staff, I believe.”