The Last Boleyn(38)
The men lay nearly at her feet; she felt an overwhelming urge to kick out at Lautrec or shove him off Staff’s writhing form.
“Staff, Staff, come on!” she shouted again, oblivious to the stares of the princess and her sister.
Suddenly, Stafford gave a great grunting heave and threw Lautrec away. Stafford dove at the Frenchman’s shoulders and pinned him heavily as the marshall began to count, “One...”
Mary held her breath. To have Lautrec shamed was some vindication, though she could share it with no one. “Two...” Unfortunately, it had to be the meddling William Stafford who was her unknowing champion. “Three...Honor to King Henry and his gentleman usher, Master William Stafford.”
The crowd cheered and applauded as the men rose wearily and grasped hands. To Mary’s delight, Lautrec looked like a grass-stained field hand in his ruined tawny and white. The men bowed to the royal box and, before he followed the defeated Lautrec from the ring, Stafford turned in their direction and bowed low to Princess Mary, his eyes and teeth white against his sweaty, tanned face.
Francois was obviously annoyed, but Henry pounded him on his back good naturedly and reminded him that the French champions had earned many a fall and tournament point over the last week. Yet it was clear to all that the English, though from a smaller, poorer nation, held the balance of athletic prowess.
“My dear brother,” King Henry was saying in a booming voice, his arm still draped around Francois’s silken shoulder, “I would try you for a fall in a friendly bout. Will you accept?”
“Oh, no, my Henry,” Mary heard the princess beside her murmur under her breath, “this is not wise.”
“Indeed I accept, brother Henry,” intoned Francois loudly, bowing and smiling to the rapt gallery. As they stood and made their way down to the field, both queens put out their hands to detain their husbands and implore them to be seated, but the mood was set—the challenge lay there in the sun for all to see.
Bonnivet seconded his master, helping him remove his doublet and shirt while the crowd watched to see the powerful French king half stripped before them. The Duke of Suffolk hastened to assist his king, his dark smooth hair in sharp contrast to Henry Tudor’s mane and beard which gleamed in the light.
“Both are magnificent,” Rose Dacre said too loudly in the hush, and Mary nodded wordlessly. She hoped she never saw Francois’s bare chest again as long as she lived. Like a lion compared to a sleek fox, King Henry’s massive chest and arms were covered with golden hair.
The royal opponents stepped gingerly over the now-blurry chalk circle, and bowed in tandem to their nervous queens. There was no cheering or raucous advice from the crowd. It was as though all of them around the circle stood in a sorcerer’s trance. Then Bonnivet and Suffolk began to shout encouragement and soon the din of voices rose. Other courtiers strolling in the area came bounding in to swell the cheering crowd, and Princess Mary wrung her hands in nervous anguish.
The English king side-stepped Francois and stuck a brawny leg behind him hoping to trip the lithe man backward, but Francois twisted from the attempt and Henry nearly toppled over. They recovered their stances and began their stalking anew, their eyes boring into each other’s. Then Francois darted forward. Henry’s great arms reached to encircle the French king’s trunk. Swiftly, Francois bent, then straightened. The King of England flipped over and lay flat on his back.
The screams died to nothing. Francois, too, looked stunned and froze like a statue. In the hush King Henry towered to his feet and said plainly, “I will have another bout for a fall. Now. And then we shall see.”
Mary’s stomach churned with excitement and fear. She longed to see the great Henry throw the confident Francois, but she knew the results could bring chaos and ruin to this lovely Field of Gold.
Amazingly, like a mirror vision, the two sisters of the kings swept into the wrestler’s circle and curtseyed to their brothers. Mary had not even seen Marguerite in the swollen crowd, but she had been fully aware of Mary Tudor’s anxiety.
“You were both wonderful, spectacular!” said Marguerite in her halting English to the two sweating giants. Princess Mary chose the tack of taking her brother’s arm and clinging to his clenched fist while curtseying to the French king and Marguerite.
“As once queen of your nation, I was often honored to see your greatness and prowess, Francois du Roi, and I have often thought, as I did today, what a godlike match you and my dear brother king make in all endeavors.”
Both Claude and Catherine had descended from their perches by this time and Catherine added the ultimate soothing balm. “Dinner is served now in the king’s fair Palace of Illusions,” she said in her strangely accented French, and then repeated it in English, though everyone present understood the French well enough. “Please join us all in a stroll to the banqueting hall.”
Momentarily, all focused on the tiny wrestling circle crowded now with the two kings, their queens, and dear sisters. Mary noted William Stafford across the sea of faces and wondered vaguely how much of the bout he had witnessed. Then Anne tugged gently on her sleeve, and they drifted along in the whispering waves of courtiers meandering toward the huge Palace of Illusions.
It was King Henry’s turn to stuff the royal and noble masses with delicacies and wine. Each night the host king strove to offer some viand or decoration or delight to top the previous offerings. Although only three hundred elite of the thousands present at these lengthy revels were feasted each day in the presence of the sovereigns, the surprises tonight took their breath away. Not only was real gold plate used instead of the customary trenchers of day-old bread, but each diner was supplied with a spoon and fork to use at the meal, rather than making do with their own spoons and no forks. Still, the most marvelous titillation was yet to come. After the pheasant with baked quince, venison bucknade, stuffed partridges, dolphin and thirty peacocks with lighted tapers in their beaks, and numerous toasts with heady glasses of sweet Osney from Alsace, the cupbearers and servers rolled in a massive subtlety of an exact miniature replica of the Palace of Illusions with orangeade moats and huge Tudor roses and Francois’s salamanders on all corners. A ripple of applause went up and King Henry glowed with pride.