The Last Boleyn(9)
“Of course he has, Madam, and soon a message will be here.”
“Did he tell you it would be here soon, ma cherie?”
“I, well, I have not seen him, Your Grace, any more than usual. He is so busy as the new French ambassador, you see.” Her quiet voice hung suspended in the silence and both were soon lost in their own lonely thoughts.
“I know you think often of him, of your brother, the king, and of...the duke, my lady. It is only seven days. Someone will come soon.”
“Yes, indeed, but the one who comes soon is my loving nephew Francois, le grand roi. And this visit will be not for pretended condolences, but to force me to marry his mignon or submit to some other which his mother or sister have suggested. How shall I gainsay him then, Mary, without my brother’s might? I fear, Mary, I fear!”
They instinctively clasped fingers in the darkness, and Mary wished so desperately to offer her older friend a thread of hope, however slender. “Surely my father will be calling again soon and you can at least ask his advice, Your Grace.”
“No, sweet Mary. I would not hurt you for all the gold in France, but his advice would be that other charge I fear to obey. ‘Marry wherever your royal brother could best use you for England,’ he would say. Well, never! Never again.”
Her fingers tightened so suddenly that they crushed Mary’s hand painfully. “I must—I shall—tread this course between the Scylla of Francois’s intent and the ugly Charybdis that my brother should make me wed abroad again. Never!”
She released the girl’s hand and rose, a shrouded figure in the gloom. To Mary, her queen looked oddly ghostlike in white, the French color for mourning. Mary felt the tingling blood rush back into her fingers. She wished to argue with her fair Tudor princess, that surely her father could be trusted as the king’s great ambassador and that Henry, too, was a fine Christian king and would keep his promise to her, for she had heard him say so herself. But she knew well that her mistress did not trust these men when it came to her desperate love for the Duke of Suffolk, and she held her tongue.
“I am able to sleep now, I believe, la petite blonde Anglaise. I shall not have the new king find me gaunt with gray lines on my cheeks and brows. And pray God this wretched toothache shall abate before I must face him.”
Her graceful form glided away from Mary toward the great canopied bed which already bore the fawn and white colors and the salamander badge of the new King Francois I.
“I shall tell the king that you are to remain for our interview on the morrow, Mary. It will lend me comfort and surely he will not begrudge me my only English maid. Sleep well, Mary.”
“And God watch over us both, Your Grace,” came the whispered voice of Mary Bullen to the silent gray chamber.
Even the sunlight of December looks chilling, thought Mary Bullen as she gazed at the slate sky over the stony balustrades of Cluny. At least she could bundle up and walk the old Roman ruins in the frozen gardens again today. “If this Hotel de Cluny were on the river, we would freeze indeed, Your Grace,” she observed to her mistress as she sat stiffly in her carved oak chair awaiting the new king. Her heavily brocaded skirts with their stuffed folds looked like carved marble, but Mary knew she was no cold statue. She could see Mary Tudor’s quick breathing move the tight-fitted ivory silk bodice under the folds of tulle and white crepe draped gracefully from her shoulders. Jewels winked steadily from both layers of brocade sleeves where they were slashed for decoration, and heavy girdle and rosary chains drooped to the carpeted floor by the tips of her velvet slippers.
Mary Bullen herself felt cold and colorless in her heavy white velvet and brocade gown which clung to her yet slender form which promised the full curves of a woman’s body. How still the room was until her dear queen and friend spoke again.
“I fear we might freeze anyway, Mary, in our hearts at least, if we do not escape this place soon. He knows full well I am not with child. How I long to burn this colorless brocade and silk and tulle and crepe before his eyes and dance laughing at his consecration at Reims!”
Her vehemence frightened Mary, and she felt the knot in the pit of her stomach tighten. “You are only tired, Your Grace. There will be good news, and soon. How is your toothache?”
“Worse, Mary, worse and worse. This oil of peppermint and camphor helps not at all. But then, I pain all over, so who is to tell its cause or remedy?” She laughed strangely, and Mary was grateful for the knock on the door. She moved carefully back against the wall to appear as unobtrusive as possible in this confrontation of her powerful betters. Her white skirts rustled surprisingly loudly.
The door glided open as if of its own volition and he was there, larger and grander than Mary had ever seen him at banquet or masque or gaming. His massive shoulders stretched the white velvet taut, and his sleek black head with the fine-chiseled features towered near the ceiling as she stared, mesmerized. In that stunning instant she tried not to gape, but his agile legs and hips below his short, white velvet, ermine-edged cloak fascinated her as he swept past and approached her waiting mistress. White embroidery, lace, delicate tuckings, and elaborate ribbings rioted across the white of his short doubtlet, breech, and tight stockings. Despite the fact that he, like them, was clothed entirely in white, he radiated warmth and vitality. His muscular legs were revealed in each sinewy twist and turn by the golden filigree material of his garters. He swept off his ermine cap flowing with pure white heron plumes and his golden belt, dagger, and the decorated codpiece that covered his manhood, all emanated a richness and heat that neither Englishwoman felt in her mourning whites.