The Last Boleyn (4 page)

The king sat like a statue and then rose suddenly over the sobbing woman and shook her shoulders. “
Si vous plait,
Marie, Marie.”

His body tensed like some marvelous great horse before it vaults. Then Mary Bullen could remain silent no longer whatever befell her.

“Please, Your Grace,” she breathed, striding to her mistress in a rush of silken skirts, “she has not slept well, and her teeth ache and she is—is, so in need of a strong friend!”

She knelt at her queen's side as though oblivious to the frustrated king before them and caressed her shivering shoulder with one slender hand and held her tear-speckled fists in her other. “Your Grace, all will be well. Surely this great king can aid you if he knows your true heart, for have you not said he is the greatest
chevalier
in the kingdom? He is a true Christian king and will be most kind, my lady.”

Mary Tudor looked up from her lap, her eyes wide and almost unseeing. For one tiny second Mary feared her anger at her maid's daring to urge her queen to share her heart with one she feared could ruin her only chance for happiness. Then the queen's dark eyes focused on Mary's blue earnest ones and the tension seemed to flow out of her body.

“Would that I were free to wed you myself,
ma
Marie,” came Francois's voice so close to Mary's ear she almost bolted. “Then your fears would not be so great.”

Will he believe that my mistress loves him only and, therefore, she will not wed with his courtiers, Mary wondered. But who would not love this godlike man?

“I do love and honor you, my Francois, but not just as you would have it. I would no doubt have loved you fully but for the duty we have owed to others and my admiration for your majesty.”

Mary Tudor rose suddenly as though to distance herself from the stunned young king. She stood behind her chair facing him, her cheeks still glistening with tears. Her maid still knelt by her empty chair, and Francois stood with his legs slightly apart and his hands at his sides, waiting.

“My dearest lord, before I ever beheld your fine face or was ever promised to King Louis, I loved another. I loved him honorably from afar, and I love him deeply still, with a true heart and would love him from afar no longer. Indeed, my brother king did promise once that if I were ever widowed, I might choose my second husband with his blessing.”

Mary felt Francois tense beside her. She could feel muscle and sinew stiffen, and she feared for them both again. Mary Tudor calmly stood her ground.

“And who is this most fortunate of men?” he queried.

She hesitated and then spoke his name in a rush of words and feelings. “The King of England's dearest friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.”

The name hung between them, both proud young people, both wanting their own way. Mary Bullen held her breath, and it suddenly occurred to her that her father might be angered that she dared to so mix in above her place, and to support his king's sister in her
“affaire du coeur.”

“Then, my sweet love, your brother, King of France, shall aid you to your heart's desire!” Francois shouted a laugh and circled the chair to pull the astounded woman roughly to him. “Indeed we shall have you wed here on his arrival, for has not my cousin king wished and promised you your happiness too?” He spoke over her dark head tucked perfectly under his chin.

Mary Bullen felt suddenly ashamed that at this joyful minute all she could do was wonder how it felt to be held so tight to that powerful body.

“Suffolk comes soon with condolences from London I am told, so we shall see to it. Leave all to me.”

Mary pulled her head away and gazed up into his animated face. “He comes here—and soon?”

“
Oui, ma
Marie
.
Then we shall change your widow's weeds to secret bridal. After it all, we shall tell the world, and I shall stand by you both. Fear nothing.”

“Shall I fear not even my brother's anger, my king?”

“No, least of all that. He has given you his promised word. Does he not wish joy for his lovely Tudor Rose and his dearest boon companion? I will write him explaining all, and should he not accept at first, you shall live yet here in France at the festive court of Francois.”

His dark satyr's eyes danced, and it occurred to Mary Bullen that he much resembled a tiny painting from her grandmother's home at Rochford where the devil awaited a group of lost souls at the gates of hell.

“Shall she not be a beautiful bride, Demoiselle Boullaine?” His white teeth showed when he smiled so, and Mary was entranced.

“Oui, mon grand roi!”
she managed.

“Then I shall see to it that your life shall be filled with joy, my lovely sister Marie.”

Mary Bullen rose to stand, gazing in awe at the radiant pair. She smiled brilliantly at her new king believing that all would now be well.

CHAPTER FOUR

February 20, 1515

Hotel Des Tournelles, Paris

T
he rich Gothic city of Paris was awash with silk banners and crimson bunting. Ribbons and painted standards dripped from narrow windows and silver and white drapes swung from poles spanning each narrow street along the royal entryway. Every window was packed with common folk, and the elite of the realm peered from hackney or carriage. Every neck craned, every eye squinted into the chill wintry sun. Every heart thrilled at the triumphal entry of the newly consecrated King Francois I into the city. Every soul believed that today was the beginning of an exciting new era for France.

The fabulous event marked the end of official mourning for the dead Louis, who had gone to sleep with his sceptered ancestors beneath the aged stone floor of St. Denis Cathedral. This day was the end of his young widow, Mary's, traditional mourning. Mary Tudor and her little English companion gladly breathed the free air of Paris.

But their new-found freedom from their royal quarantine was not what delighted their hearts, and spun their lovely heads with joy so intense they were almost giddy. Nor was it the drums or trumpets or French fervor for their new monarch. Charles Brandon, the King of England's own dear friend, stood with the English women on the narrow carved balcony at the palace, and Francois had accomplished all he had promised. Mary Tudor and her beloved Duke of Suffolk had been secretly wed for two days.

“Your Grace, I can see the silver canopy over his horse,” Mary Bullen shouted, quite forgetting her properly trained modulated voice in her pure excitement. “Oh, look, his horse will not even stay under it and prances about. How fine he rides!”

“Yes, my Mary. He has been a fine soldier and horseman much longer than a king.” The new Duchess of Suffolk put her graceful jeweled hand on Mary's shoulder, and the fox trim of her furred sleeve tickled Mary's cheek.

“All kings ride so, I warrant,” came the duke's voice on the other side of his bride's bobbing head. “Henry Tudor is the finest horseman I have ever had the honor to ride beside.”

The mere mention of King Henry seemed to throw a pall of silence on the three. Mary darted a quick glance at the handsome couple. Surely they were made in heaven for each other. Both so fair of skin, dark eyes and hair, so regal, so desperately wrapped in each other's love. Certainly the great Henry would see this and wish all happiness to his dear friend and his cherished sister.

“I wish the terrible silence from my lord king and Wolsey would cease,” her mistress's voice floated to her ears nearly drowned by the blare below them in the street. Speaking of silence of any sort struck Mary as ludicrous, for the trumpets, drums, and shouts beneath their vantage point had become a roar like the crested sea in an autumn storm at Dover. “Can he not remember his vow to me and the love he bears us both,” she shouted, leaning nearer to her tall husband so he could hear. “Thank the dear Lord we have strong allies in Francois and his queen.”

The duke's eyes narrowed, their deep fires set off by his dense black hair and beard. “Time and our love are in our favor, my pet. And as for the new French king as our ally, well, indeed, he is his own ally in these dealings.”

The words were spoken almost as a warning and Mary Bullen, though puzzled at their import, turned her attention to the writhing masses of people below. The king was in full view now, attired completely in white and silver. His ivory stallion was nearly lost beneath the gilded trappings and sumptuous saddle.

Mary cheered and bounced with the crowds as Francois saluted. He seemed adrift in a sea of brocades and banners and finally disappeared into the palace below their view. She wished fervently that he were returning victorious to her, blonde Mary from England, and that her beauty and clever, stylish ways would bind him to her forever. What a queen she would be for him, and her father would be so proud! She would invite mother and Annie for her coronation, and dance with Francois before all of their admiring smiles. But what foolishness, she lectured herself, for she was only ten and a poor English maid and one he would probably never look on again. She would return to London with her dear mistress, the English king's sister, and only dream of this wonderful moment in the years to come. And what would her lord father say if he knew such strange thoughts haunted her dreams?

“Mary. Mistress Mary!” The duke was gesturing to her, for he and his radiant duchess had already stepped back inside their rooms now that Francois had ended his triumphal return. “Stop your dreaming, nymph, and come in from the chill air.”

She hastened to obey, for she sought always to please this virile, great man whom her princess so adored. He was a close friend to King Henry, and no wonder he was so loved by the fiery Tudors. Could she herself only find a lord so charming and loving as the duke or Francois du Roi!

Mary helped her mistress remove her cloak and noted the rosy blush on her fair cheeks. Though it was still the dead of winter, Mary Tudor bloomed with health and beauty. “My own secret Tudor rose,” Lord Suffolk often called her. Surely that glow was the look of love, Mary marvelled.

The lovers sat intimately on a pink brocaded settee, and Mary, who delighted in serving them since her mistress wished their privacy from French servants, poured them goblets of crimson burgundy. The new bride's low-cut emerald velvet gown made a splash of color as the two sat bathed in February sun.

“Thank you, sweet little Bullen,” came Lord Suffolk's rich voice, though he needed not thank her for such tendered duties. “Forgive me, lass, but I find it a wonder that such warmth and trustful innocence radiates from the daughter of that fox of all politicians, Thomas Bullen.”

He saw confused hurt in the girl's eyes, so he added more gently, “Men who serve the king must be clever and wily, Mary. I say nothing against your sire. He serves his king as best he sees it.” He took a slow sip of wine, his eyes still on the attentive girl. Her slim body so daintily attired in the rosy-hued velvet gown with the deep oval neckline bent slightly forward as she hung on his words. Along the soft linen chemise which spilled from her wrists and rimmed the bodice, tiny embroidered bees and flowers and butterflies flitted and bloomed. How fresh and springlike and lovely, the Duke thought. Somehow this little innocent with the guileless face had indeed managed to be a comfort to a much older, more sophisticated woman whom he had now made his dear wife.

“Your father may be here with words from Greenwich Palace and King Henry for us soon, little Mary Bullen,” he said to comfort her and break the silence of his stare. “Do you see him often now he serves His Grace, King Francois here in Paris?”

Mary's blue eyes fell to his strong fingers curled about his goblet stem as the old haunting loneliness descended on her again. “No, my lord. He is so busy on king's business and I so busy in serving my beloved princess that...that we seldom have time to see each other here in France.” She raised her eyes to the warm gaze of her mistress hoping for the comfort and understanding support she had often found there, but Mary Tudor smiled warmly upon her husband as though she had not heard.

“Being about the business of the realm keeps us all from doing what we would most love to do, Mary Bullen. We must all be brave about it. I can see why you are a true companion friend to my dear wife.”

The girl smiled at him gratefully. She had found comfort where she had sought none. It was only then that Charles Brandon, English gentleman, and as fine a connoisseur of women as he was of horses, felt the full impact of the maid's youthful beauty and her magnetic pull beneath the naive face. Her mature looks to come would serve her well at the English court when they were allowed to return—if they were allowed to return.

“Mary, please fetch my enameled jewel box. I wish to show my lord some of my royal regalia.” Mary Tudor laughed musically as though there were some clever joke spoken, but Lord Suffolk only narrowed his eyes over his glass of burgundy.

Mary knew well the three-tiered white, deep blue and gold box to which her mistress referred. Too, she knew well the jewels nestled there on peacock blue velvet, for she had often plucked one out for her queen's toilette or seen her ponder over them lately. Poor dead King Louis had popped them at his youthful queen as though they were bon-bons or mere baubles. Once, when Her Grace bathed, Mary held up a massive strand of pearls across her own newly developing breasts covered with golden brocade, and held sapphires next to her sky-blue eyes and imagined that...

“Thank you, Mary. Leave the door ajar so you can summon us at once should the ambassador, your father, arrive.” Their dark heads bent together over the cache of jewels as Mary curtseyed and departed the chamber. She slept now in a small anteroom since they had moved in state to Francois's palace and Mary Tudor bedded with her new husband.

She picked some needlework from the chair and gazed at it guiltily for a moment before tossing it on her narrow bed. She was much too busy lately for such placid work. What a bore it was anyway unless one could chat or trade juicy palace gossip to help forget the endless threading and pulling and knotting.

Mary settled her rose-hued velvet skirts carefully as she sat, for her mistress had ordered her this new gown and another for after royal mourning, and she intended not to have it wrinkled should she see her father, when he came today. Came here, but not to see her. She readily forgave him his busy life but, by the saints, she missed him and suffered that he never sent for her, visited or even sent a gift. Just notes dashed off, notes to properly serve the king's sister and be grateful for her fortunate station at the court and be worthy of the Bullen and Butler and Howard blood that flowed in her veins. Flowed? Rather, beat passionately, if he only knew! Beat and coursed and cried for her mistress, and now that she was happy, for her, for Mary Bullen, herself!

She pushed her head back suddenly, willfully against the carved high chair back. But she adored her father so, and would above all else make him proud of her.

The low voices of Mary and Charles Brandon floated clearly to her in the silent room. Were they indeed arguing over a mirror? The Mirror of Naples, no doubt, that huge teardrop cut diamond on a pendant that sparkled like fire when it hung between Mary Tudor's two full breasts above the deep oval velvet or brocade of a bodice.

“It is yours as widowed queen, is it not? They will never ask for it. The Cardinal says such would help to change His Grace's ill temper at us for the marriage without his permission. My pet, it is a very small price to pay, and Ambassador Bullen would be the safest channel.”

Mary Tudor murmured low words of reply but her usual lilting voice was more muffled than her lord's. They must be planning to send a gift of the queen's jewel to King Henry then, and her mistress hesitated to part with it. For the favor of the great King Henry it seems a small price, mused Mary Bullen.

Three piercing raps suddenly resounded from the door in the next chamber and the girl hurried to answer it. She hoped she looked pretty and dignified and proper. It was her dear father standing tensely, his fist poised to knock again, an anxious pageboy with a lighted link behind him in the gloom of the passageway.

“Father? I am so pleased to see you.” How desperately she wanted to throw her arms about his furred shoulders, but she stood stock-still as he pushed the door open wide and entered.

“The princess and Lord Suffolk are here, Mary?” His swift sidelong glance took in the whole room instantly.

“Yes, father. There, father, within.”

“Awaiting me?”

“Yes.”

“Close the door, girl. And announce me. Also, Mary, do not leave. I would see you afterwards. You and I have business to settle.”

Her heart leapt. Business to settle? It was obvious he was angered. At her? But he had told her to serve the princess well, and maybe now she would return with the Tudor rose to the English court. Surely that had been his ultimate goal for her.

Automatically, she closed the heavy door and slipped past her silent father into Her Grace's bed chamber. To her astonishment, her mistress had been crying, and the duke was endeavoring to comfort her. He looked up nervously, and his dark eyes squinted at the girl standing in the dusk beyond the sunny pool where they sat.

“Your Grace, the English Ambassador, my Lord Bullen, wishes to see you. He awaits.”

Charles Brandon jumped to his feet, and Mary Tudor wiped her cheeks with her fingers. From somewhere, as Mary had seen her do time and again, the proud woman covered herself with composure and nodded. “We will see him now, Mary.”

She curtseyed and backed from the room, nearly bumping into the angular form of her father, his arms folded across his cloaked chest, his hat now held in one hand.

“Her Grace will see you now, my lord.” He nodded and entered, closing the door firmly.

How suddenly familiar it all seemed, seeing him and being so formal and having to wait while he talked behind closed doors to others, like that long-ago day at Hever when he told mother he was sending Mary away.

Tears came to her eyes unbidden, and she felt weak and tired and very alone. Mary Tudor truly needed her no longer, not like she had. She was glad that Her Grace was happy and in love, so why should she cry? Father was angry, and she feared his displeasure. Dreaming of Hever and mother always hurt. And how much she wanted someone wonderful and grand like the handsome French king to love her.

She fought for control of herself. She was never like her mistress and the others when it came time to hide emotions. She still had much to learn before she could ever face the royal court of the English king.

She peered at her azure eyes in her tiny silvered mirror and wiped her cheeks, carefully pinching them for color. Slowly, she dusted her face with powder, resmoothed her coif, twined her side curls about her index finger and let them pop back into place. She paced and tried to make her mind a blessed blank, but her thoughts darted about the room and tried to pierce the thick wooden door behind which the great Henry's lovely sister faced the great Henry's ambassador. Surely he would be meek before the king's dear sister.