The Last Boleyn(39)

Mary sat between Anne and Rose Dacre at a table of mostly English ladies. She had a clear view of the head table which was raised on a dais, and if she craned her head a bit, she could see her father at the next table with her amusing cousin Francis Bryan. Twice when she looked their way, she caught the all-seeing eye of William Stafford seated near them so she gave up looking about the vast hall and concentrated on the chatter at the table. The first time the conversation truly seized her attention was when the subject suddenly became Francois’s belabored mistress, Francoise du Foix.

“Look at her standing up there at the head table, flaunting herself in front of everyone—and next to his queen!” hissed Rose Dacre. Mary did look. Indeed, the beauteous Francoise was leaning over Francois’s chair as he smiled up at her chatting. Queen Claude looked elsewhere as usual, but the English king was all eyes.

“I warrant he summoned her,” put in Anne. “Even she does not have the nerve to prance up there unbidden.”

“Anne, please,” Mary chided gently, amazed that her little sister could sound so worldly. Has she ever talked about me like that, she suddenly wondered.

“I cannot fathom a court so unchristian as the French. Imagine actually flaunting one’s mistress before the court and queen!” Jane Dorset said, her narrow-eyed gaze riveted on Francoise. “People may know of Bessie Blount and even His Grace’s bastard son, but he never displays her that way!”

“A lady of the French court—Jeanne du Lac, Anne—once told me that she thought it most uncivilized that the English king had to hide his mistresses and pretend he had none when everyone knew he did,” Mary said quietly, and the beautifully coiffed heads within hearing swiveled toward her. “Though not having lived at the English court, I know not for certain how things stand,” she added.

“His Grace does not go through a woman a week, as we have heard the French king does, Mary,” came Rose Dacre’s unmistakably pointed voice. “Perhaps, since you have been at the French court, you could tell us of that.”

Mary felt the color flow to her cheeks, and she kept silent. “I meant not to criticize His Grace,” she offered, “and when I return home to England, I know I shall have much to learn.”

“Granted, Mary, but you do seem a quick learner,” Rose parried and, discomfitted that no one else joined their repartee, she observed, “Well, here comes Francois’s mistress en titre now, and her charming face looks like an absolute thundercloud!”

With her head held high, Francoise approached their table, chatting and nodding to those she recognized. Eventually, she halted her glittering progress behind Rose Dacre. Mary almost wished she had known of Rose’s words and had come to scold her for her impudence.

“Marie Boullaine,” came Francoise’s sweet voice in lilting French, “Francois du Roi wishes to speak with you at his table. I did not ask him the reason, perhaps some message for your father.”

Embarrassed, Mary rose and stepped over the bench on which she sat. She held her tongue until she and Francoise were out of hearing range of her dinner partners and then said, “If Francois du Roi had a message for my father, he could easily summon him, as you well know.”

A smile still on Francoise’s lovely face, she answered evenly, “Perhaps he intends to parade all of his conquests before the English king in order, little Boullaine. Actually, I know he only wishes to hurt and humiliate me, to bring me to heel and back to his bed a willing victim like yourself. You may tell him, if you will, that it will take much more than trying to humble me by sending me to fetch his little English slut to make me lose my spirit!” Francoise stopped then, apparently surprised at her own vehemence, and Mary ached to slap that painted red smile so near.

“I shall tell him all you have said, Francoise du Foix, now, in front of Queen Claude and my King Henry. Then perhaps I shall hear when I am at home in England of your retirement to your dear husband’s chateau far from court.” Mary turned away before the other woman could respond, and mounted the dais.

Francois, resplendent in deep purple velvet, contrasting with the English king’s rich crimson doublet and hose, held out his hand to her. She felt compelled to take it, though the raised red eyebrows of King Henry worried her. Francois immediately fired his first salvo in hearing range of his rival king. “You must come soon to visit my golden tent, Marie. I have not seen you much of late. Do the English keep you hostage? The ceiling of the tent is the wonderful star-lit sky Master da Vinci painted for our fine banquet, when you and I were dressed alike and strolled under our own heavens. Do you remember, Marie?”

Mary nodded and offered a shallow bow in silence. As she rose, Francois began a flowery thanks to Henry for the beautiful maids of England. “I urge you to send us all you can spare, my brother Henry,” Francois chortled.

Henry Tudor smiled thinly but did not laugh. Mary could sense the tangled tensions. She had never before been with them when they were together. Was the cause only the foolish wrestling bout, or more?

“Mary, of course, being of marriageable age now, will be coming home immediately,” Henry said flatly.

“Indeed? I had not heard of this. I am much grieved. And whose sudden decision is this? Golden Marie, how do you feel about this command,” Francois probed, his narrowed dark eyes upon her.

“I shall be happy to return to my home, Your Grace, for I am true-bred English, even though your court has given me French polish. Of course, I shall greatly miss the kindness of our dear Queen Claude. She has been most considerate of me always, no matter what foolish mistakes I have made.”