The Last Boleyn(37)

“My lord father’s aide William Stafford wrestles next, Your Grace,” Anne told her. “He has been very kind to Mary and me. And,” she announced grandly, her eyes sparkling, “he wrestles with the brother of the French king’s mistress, Francoise du Foix. It is the famous Lautrec, one of the king’s finest generals.”

Mary’s fingernails dug into the palms of her hands as she fought to keep from showing emotion. That William Stafford wrestled for King Henry she cared not at all, but he wrestled Lautrec, the wily courtier to whom Francois had given her when he lost a bet to him gambling. What if Lautrec saw her here and remarked to Stafford about it? That meddler already knew too much to be trusted. Blurred scenes of how Lautrec had used her far into the night in his deep bed flashed through her mind, and she shut her eyes tight, hoping to stop the flood of memory.

“Sister, are you quite all right?” Anne inquired at her side. “Is the day too warm for you?”

“No, Anne, my thanks. I am fine now. But shall we sit up here in the gallery instead of standing about the ring where we might be a distraction?”

“It is much more exciting here, Mary,” chided Anne, as though she were speaking to a child.

“Yes, Mary,” added the princess. “We have done enough sitting around. Let us stay here—at least until my lord husband or the king spot us and make us behave.” She laughed musically again as the two wrestlers came into the ring and bowed to their monarchs.

“King Henry looks grand today,” Mary noted proudly. Though he and Francois sat in the shade next to their two colorless queens both dripping with jewels, she thought he far outshone the dark Francois. His red beard looked almost golden, and both kings sported closely cropped hair, having ended their mutual vow not to cut hair or beard until they met on The Field of the Cloth of Gold. To her delight, Henry nodded and lifted his huge hand to her, or was it to his sister Mary, who stood beside the Bullen sisters? At any rate, he did not summon them to join the royal party, so they stood about the ring among the other courtiers. How she wished Francois had noted the English king’s probing stare and her own radiant smile and nod in return.

Wearing only breeches and a waist sash of brightest green and white, Stafford faced his brawny opponent. Dark, curly hair covered Stafford’s tanned chest in contrast to Lautrec’s smooth, paler skin. The men crouched and circled warily, each waiting for an opening to grasp the other. Mary could distinctly hear their even breathing, and Lautrec talked to himself in low tones. Then Stafford dove for Lautrec’s thighs, his brown head butting against the Frenchman’s hip; Lautrec flung himself backward, and they went to their knees on the smooth turf. Lautrec reached for Stafford’s arm and tried to twist it as they spun away together, half-rolling, half-kneeling. They grunted and groaned as they strained and struggled. Advice and cheers went up from the encircling crowd and the royal gallery.

Staring at the sweating, grunting Lautrec, Mary recalled the horrible night Francois had demanded she fulfill his gambling debt in Lautrec’s bed. Still so naive then, she hadn’t even caught on to what the king intended at first.

“Your Grace,” she had greeted Francois that night with a quick curtsey as she entered the room to which he had summoned her.

“Marie, I— You must prepare for bed right away. Isabelle is here to help, and I shall wait until you are ready.”

“But we never needed—”

“Dearest little golden English girl,” he began almost poetically before a frown crushed his eyebrows and he began to pace. “Just do it, Marie. Hurry! I have something to explain to you.”

She had stood like a wooden doll, frozen in increasing panic and grief as Isabelle’s steady hands divested her of her clothes and sponged her quickly with rose water. The king’s jerky voice went on explaining how he had wagered much to his boon companion Lautrec—explaining what he had wagered and lost.

Mary pulled away from the startled Isabelle as she tried to dust her with powder, and a fine, white cloud of it drifted to the carpeted floor. The king’s sneeze had nearly drowned out her protest at first: “No, my lord king! Not I! That is impossible.”

“Oui, Marie. One night. Look, sweet, he favors you, at least your blonde look of innocence and purity.”

“Innocence and —” She could not repeat his words and stared open-mouthed at his audacity. “No,” she said again. “No, you would not do this. I know I cannot.”

“Listen to me,” he said low, shaking her once. “You will do it for me. I have favored you, coddled you. I have given my word. Just go along and keep those tears off your face, or I swear, I will give some lurid report of your demeanor to your precious father—or see he is dismissed from his post.”

Her eyes focused on his then, and she hoped the utter contempt of her stare hid the naked fear she felt at that threat to tell or hurt her father.

Now the dreadful memories spun and twisted like the two wrestlers here at her feet. They rolled on the grass again. This time it was the Frenchman who rode Stafford’s powerful body. The Englishman’s great tawny shoulder almost brushed the chalked edge of the circle.

Mary shocked herself by shouting out for William Stafford. Ordinarily, she detested the man, but how wonderful it would be to see the smug Lautrec beaten and Francois’s honor diminished before all.

“Come on, Staff, you can beat him. Get up, get up, please!” she screeched like the lowest fishwife on the Paris streets.