CHAPTER EIGHT

July 3, 1519

Chateau du Fontainebleau

A thin finger of pale sunlight parted the heavy velvet drapes and pointed crookedly across the bed. The rhythm of the king’s deep breathing was unbroken, and Mary marvelled that they had slept the night through. She had never before stayed long abed with Francois after his lovemaking, but many things were different now. How forced his laughter had been these last few months, how jerky his once fluid motions, how brittle his temper. Court pressures and the fear he would not be chosen the next Holy Roman Emperor rode him cruelly, even as he rode her.

Her mind drifted to her increasing cowardice in facing him after that initial seduction in January at Amboise. The trembling she felt with him had been not only because of what he did to her body, but because her body, despite her shame and fear, seemed to respond beyond the reins of her own control.

She had actually gone so far as to hide from Fragonard one day in late February when she heard his voice in the hall and his silver cane rapping on the bedroom door of the small room she now shared only with Anne, who was in attendance on Queen Claude at that hour. She had heard his metallic voice speak to someone when she did not respond, and then, blessedly, his footsteps had departed. No less than ten minutes later, as she had sat smug and relieved that today she would not turn to melted honey in the king’s arms no matter what he asked of her, the door had banged open and the king himself had filled its fragile frame.

“Marie! What luck that you have returned. I do not like for my dear Fragonard to report to me without my precious when I sent for her. ‘But, of course, she was there waiting, Fragonard,’ I told him. ‘Of course, she was awaiting my call for her with bated breath and only fell asleep, eh?’” He grinned at how huge her blue eyes had gone in her pale face and how poorly she hid all the thoughts and passions that passed behind that pretty face of hers. He shouldered the door shut behind him and moved with catlike grace into the room while she scooted off the far side of the bed in a flurry of skyblue skirts.

“Your Grace—but, you never come here to the ladies’ rooms! I—Fragonard—”

He had laughed low in his throat, obviously pleased at her fluster and embarrassment. “Marie, Marie, naughty little girl. You cannot lie to your king, but you shall lie with him. And now, here. I grow impatient with these flutterings.”

He shot the bolt on the door behind him, stripped off his black and red striped doublet and the ruffled white lace shirt under it in one pull.

“But your guards in the hall, Sire,” she floundered, her eyes on him as he peeled off his black velvet breeches and his stockings held by elaborately embroidered and bejeweled garters.

“They are down by Claude’s chambers, ma cherie, and the whole silly court is atwitter over much more than whom I choose to bed during this wretched political mess. But if our being caught worries you, I shall oblige. I shall leave my rings on for a quick exit and you shall—well, let us make it quick if you are so shy, my love.”

Her face and throat went hot clear down to the low square-cut neckline of her simple blue velvet day gown. She knew it amused him to torment her before he took her. At that, her ire rose and she fought to calm her panic that he knew she had avoided Fragonard. She turned to face him squarely with her chin up.

But as he stalked her around the end of her and Annie’s canopied bed, his muscular form, like the paintings of satyrs she had seen, awed her anew. He chuckled and his eyes glinted. She resented that he amused himself at the expense of her poise and her cherished, foolish dreams that he loved her.

“Your Grace, please, a maid’s room is hardly a setting for du Roi of France.”

“But my little filly, you know your Francois likes different places—variety, the sweet variety of life.”

He laughed, then lunged at her. The onslaught of his hands and demanding mouth made a mockery of seduction. “No,” she said. He raised his handsome, sleek head so close to hers; passion blurred his features.

“Oh, oui, Marie,” he said as he pushed her back upon her bed. “Oui and oui, whenever I would have it so—whenever I send for you. You will come running next time, will you not?”

He’d punished her that day, but was this not all punishment in truth? Now in his bed some five months later at the vast hunt lodge of Fountainebleau, she shed no tears for the foolish Mary Bullen. Instead, she turned her head and glared at the sleeping man. Carefully, she pulled her rampant tresses from under his extended left arm. He groaned, and she froze as the sleeping man muttered incoherently. She smiled to know that even kings had fears and nightmares, even as she and Annie.

The last few months had skimmed by, first with the thrill and danger of the king’s avid attentions and then with apprehension as he grew restive with her and sampled other bon-bons at his court, bouncing back to Francoise du Foix’s luxurious bed whenever his appetite waned. The bitter shredding of each girlish fancy—that he adored her only, that she could keep this handsome king forever, that he would be her knight protector—had given her months of agony. Francois du Roi enjoyed his Marie when the whim took him, but she was no more dear to him than one fine palfrey from a whole stable or one blooded hound from his pedigree pack.

Sometimes she thought that she could have withstood all the disenchantment except when he expected her to amuse one of his cronies. Then she was certain she could die from shame. Once she had heard them snickering as they compared the secret charms of their pretty pack of jeune filles. In that crashing second, something sweet and vital inside her withered, and her long-tended love for Francois du Roi died. Knowing how to see clearly could be one’s very survival at court, Signor da Vinci had told her long ago. Yet she had not seen Francois clearly until she had shared his bed, and she could not see how to draw back safely now.

She thanked the blessed Virgin her lord father knew not about the others besides the king. When she had sent to him for advice and help, he had encouraged her to share the glorious king’s bed, for was not such service an honor? She prayed fervently again her father would never know how Francois had once paid a gambling debt with her. She shuddered at the thought. The winner had been Lautrec, Francoise du Foix’s crafty brother, and the memory of his use of her was enough to make her draw far within herself.

She pulled farther away from Francois, rolled on her side, curling up her knees like a child, her back to him. An honor to be possessed by the King of France, father had said, a monarch almost as grand as King Henry. Her reputation would be much enhanced both here and at home, he’d promised. But Mary could too often picture her mother’s tears if she heard, Semmonet’s cluck-clucking in disapproval, William Stafford’s accusing look, and Signor da Vinci’s warning of the pain she showed in her eyes. Queen Claude knew, Mary was sure, but her kindness never wavered. Better to be sick, ugly Claude than pretty, healthy and so ensnared. Dear heavens, someday she would escape, somehow she would go home and show this man who consumed her body and crushed her pride that she favored him not.

If only she could be like the lady in the small portrait by Master da Vinci which Francois had hung in whatever bedchamber he inhabited—it hung here now—the lovely lady whose eyes and lips only hinted at her inward heart. La Gioconda, Francois called her. Mary sat to study the painting, but the sunlight had not yet reached it, and it still hung in dim obscurity. The king could never shatter La Gioconda’s calm as he crashed through the deep forests after stag or danced wild galliards or skewered his nymphs.

“Awake, golden Marie,” came his deep voice behind her. He ran his warm hand lazily down her bare spine. Gooseflesh rose on her arms; she turned slowly to face him. His eyes were languorous, heavy-lidded. “You were not leaving, were you, ma cherie, ma petite Anglaise, so different from that witch Francoise.”

At that thought, his voice rose and he exploded from the bed. “Damn her selfish little soul for being unfaithful to me with Bonnivet—Guillaume Bonnivet, one of my closest friends!”

Mary had known nothing of that. Is that why he had been especially cruel lately?

He swore a string of oaths and pulled on a white silk shirt, then stepped into his breeches. Mary sat huddled on the bed wrapped in the sheet like a protective cocoon.

“After I had punished her enough with others—nearly a fort-night,” he raged on, “I decided she had been tormented by the royal wrath long enough. But that, sweet Marie, is why I decided to send Bonnivet as my envoy to wheedle or buy the damned legates electing the new Holy Roman Emperor. I must be hearing any time now, for the election was four days ago.”

He combed his flat, shining hair as he talked and then jerked open the door and strode into the anteroom where she could hear a low drone of voices.

Mary swiftly pulled the sheet up and tugged it out at the foot of the bed to drape a robe. Why had he left the door ajar? Some-one might come in and see her like this. The chamber had only one entry so she would need to wait until Francois and his entourage vacated the anteroom for their mad pursuit of boar or stag.

Padding barefoot to stand behind the door, she had her chemise and petticoats on when the low buzz of men’s voices, punctuated by an occasional staccato of laughter, ceased utterly. Puzzled, she peeked around the door and stood listening intently.

“News from Bonnivet in Frankfort?” Francois’s voice sounded almost tremulous before he shouted, “Damn it, coward, arise and speak to your king! Francois awaits.”

Pray God the news is not bad, Mary thought, crushing her crumpled dress to her chest. If they should all have to live in the shadow of his terrible temper, then...

“Your Grace, your most humble servant, Bonnivet, begs me to inform you that the electors have betrayed their promises to you and...and...” The man’s muffled voice broke. “The electors have chosen young Charles of Castile, Sire.”

A tiny silence trembled in the room while all held their breaths, awestruck. There was a sharp crack and a thud, and Mary jumped backwards as though she had been struck. “And why is Bonnivet not here to tell his king of his failure himself,” Francois was screaming. “Well?”

“Monsieur Bonnivet is much ill and most wretched from his exertions in his king’s favor, Your Grace, and was forced to take the cure at his estates on the road back.”

Francois’s high-pitched laughter shredded the air. “Damn Bonnivet and that she-wolf Margaret! Damn them all! Charles? The bloody bastard Charles! Get out of here, all of you, now! I said we were hunting boar and by hell’s gates, we shall!”

“Francois, my dear, my dear,” came a new voice in the anteroom, and Mary knew it was the queen mother. “The news then is bad with all your rich deservings, my love. Here, dearest, come and talk. There are other roads to ultimate power for one so deserving, one chosen by God to rule, my love.”

“But what a blow, mother. Damn Bonnivet!” Francois suddenly sounded like a small boy being comforted. Mary darted back from her listening post as their voices came nearer. They entered the bed chamber. Louise du Savoy had her arm about the king’s drooped shoulders and they sat on the edge of the mussed bed together, oblivious to the nervous, half-clad Mary. Francois’s head was bent over his knees, and his voice was on the edge of sobs.

“All, all ruined, mother. Three million lire all for nothing.”

“No, Francois. We shall rebuild. Only now we must go another way to keep from war with Charles’s Spain.”

He put his face in his spread hands. It was then that Louise du Savoy’s surprised eyes took in the frozen Mary, but she only motioned her to silence and went on smoothly.

“You have already proved your greatness as a soldier-king, my dear. Now you shall prove your greatness as a statesman-king. We shall bargain with England and your dear brother-king Henry VIII for alliance against Charles. You shall convince them you bargain from strength not weakness, my dearest love.” She stroked his head gently, rhythmically, and Mary marvelled at her control over the volatile king.

Finally, he raised his head. “The English, oui, a grand alliance between two powerful kings and their nations. I shall meet with him. Oui, I shall command him to come here.”

“Not command, my son. Request, even implore. For strength can come from counterfeit gentleness, oui?”

Francois stood suddenly, almost brushing off his mother’s clinging hands. “It shall be done, mother. No wonder Francois is a powerful king, for he has a veritable she-wolf for a mother, eh?” He laughed jaggedly and his eyes caught Mary’s. She feared his wrath then, for she had beheld his weakness.

“Be dressed, petite Anglaise, for Francois du Roi kills a boar single-handed in the courtyard today. Kills a great slathering boar and anything else that gets in his way!”

Louise du Savoy’s low voice cut in. “My dear, you will not risk such foolhardiness only to kill a boar? Unhorsed?”

“Oui, mother. I have vowed it. It pleases me, and I do it.”

“Francois, you should realize...”

“And so, Marie,” Francois interrupted his mother’s plea, “be dressed quickly and join the gallery. Mother, come, for you shall be proud.”

He strode toward the door then spun around sharply. “Though Marie Boullaine serves her purpose well, I almost wish I could see the sour, busy Ambassador Boullaine standing in her place, mother. I could put him to good use today, for now I need more English than one shy maid.”

His brittle laughter floated back to the embarrassed Mary as she hastily shook out her full skirts and stepped into them. But Louise du Savoy swept from the room without another word or glance, and Mary was left alone under the portrait of the lady with the smiling eyes.

Francois had arranged the amusement for the day, but the mood of the courtiers at Fontainebleau was anything but festive. Mary noted tight little groups whispering as though they were waiting for the other royal fist to strike after the initial outbreak.

Francois darted about ordering his guards to move the barriers or change the wooden poles which blocked the grand staircase from the arena in which he would confront the pawing, grunting boar they could all see freshly penned by his trappers. Courtiers jostled each other at the narrow windows for a good view, latecomers and ladies stood on the staircase behind the barricades for the best position. Mary, newly changed and coiffed, joined Jeanne du Lac there.

“Need I even ask where you have been, Marie?” Jeanne asked icily with a raised brow. “Francoise du Foix was quite incensed when she realized you were with him all night, you know. She worries her hold is slipping, and she does keep track of us.”

Mary could feel a hot blush spread on her cheeks, but she changed the subject. “Is the word well spread of Charles’s victory as the new emperor?”

“Oui. And I hear du Roi took it violently, even slapped the poor messenger from Bonnivet.” She laughed in her silvery tones.

“It is true, Jeanne. I was there.”

“Well! Will you tell me all of it?” There was a little silence. “Francoise declares you only interest him because you are different—English, I guess.”

“And because of her mock sweetness,” came Francoise’s catty voice behind them suddenly. “Any man needs a little rest from an exciting gourmet diet at times.” Her clear green eyes bored into Mary’s as though she were daring her to answer.

“Indeed, Madam du Chateaubriand,” Mary responded slowly, turning back to the wide-eyed Jeanne. “That is what His Grace indicates, too. Yet he finds it tiresome to have to knock and announce himself so that others can quickly vacate the place where he himself would rest.”

Francoise’s feline eyes narrowed, and she spun sharply away. Jeanne nearly sputtered in disbelief that the sweet-tempered Marie had so bested the confident Francoise.

“Marie, tell me what happened,” she begged as they settled themselves behind the other ladies. “To what do you refer? Tell me!”

“Later, Jeanne, I meant not to be so vicious. I fear I just wished to strike out, and, well—she was there.”

A gasp of anticipation rose from the gathering as the boar was pushed and shoved by four trappers into the crude arena. Francois appeared clothed for hunting as she had seen him this morning. He swept past the clusters of ladies and vaulted the barrier at the foot of the steps bravely, his single sword held aloft. Everyone else cheered mightily, though Mary kept her chagrined silence. It came to her that she knew how the boar felt, ensnared, terrified, about to be skewered for the king’s pleasure.

How Francois had laughed at her shame and fears that time in Queen Claude’s room when he had summoned her while Claude and most of her ladies were at chapel. How he had seemed to revel in her outright terror they would be discovered in the queen’s bed which he admitted he never visited anymore until it was time to get poor Claude with child again.

If one of the ladies had come in to see the English Mary Bullen with the French king astride her naked hips, or if the king’s mother or sister—or Claude, or worst of all, her own father had seen that!

She shrugged and shook her head, not realizing Jeanne studied her intently. How she had suffered from the knowledge that Francois did not value her except as an occasional amusement; how her hatred for him grew. Fantasies that he would love her as she had once loved him—shattered, all shattered now. And in the place of girlhood dreams grew a woman’s realization of a world where hurt and pain were not only possible but certain.

“He is so brave and magnificent,” Jeanne said loudly to no one in particular.

The boar pawed the cobbles of the courtyard, then charged at the king, who leapt from his path laughing wildly. Francois jabbed at it once, as it made a raucous pass. The sword drew a crimson puddle of blood on its bristled back. Wide-eyed in fear, it smashed the barricade before the steps and vaulted the low rubble of the crude wooden poles. Horrified, the ladies on the steps screamed and scattered as the boar smashed its way up the staircase. It slavered and wheezed and shoved past. Mary crushed against Jeanne in panic. Its terrified rush left a black smear of blood on Mary’s flying skirts. She heard herself scream as Francois and six armed courtiers charged past after the boar, now loose in the long gallery of the chateau. Mary trembled with fear and disgust as other people inquired of her well-being. Then they scurried after their king, and Jeanne pulled Mary along in their wake.

“You can tell the king it kicked you and he will be most guilty and solicitous for days, Marie. Oh, look at the path of his blood!”

Mary stood silently at the back of the courtiers crowding the doorway to the lovely salon now transformed into a trampled battleground between king and victim. Perhaps Francois will be injured or killed, Mary thought suddenly, and then crossed herself hastily for the wicked idea.

The beast ran in circles now, and nearly vaulted out of corners when Francois had almost trapped him. “Stay back! Stay back!” the king warned between gasps as he chased the terrified boar. “This is king’s business alone!”

The curved tusks of the animal ripped a velvet drape as it charged, and its flying hoofs spun him madly on the thick carpet and polished floors. The king’s third thrust went true. The hilt of Francois’s sword drove into the stretched throat of the beast and it sank to its knees impaling itself further. It shuddered and heaved over on its side, one tusk digging into the plush carpet. Francois approached dramatically. He withdrew the bloodied sword and plunged it deep into the heart where it stayed, its silver hilt bobbing merrily above the slaughtered boar.

A tremendous cheer went up for the begrimed, sweating hero. His dark eyes gleamed, and his breath came swiftly through parted teeth. All were in awe of his nerve and prowess, but Mary felt suddenly sick, queasy and weak at her knees. She leaned against Jeanne for support.

“Does the blood sicken you, Marie? I thought Englishmen were marvelous hunters, too. Here, Marie, sit here and it will pass.”

Jeanne helped Mary to a carved bench in the huge entryway of the chateau, then scurried back to the room where Francois was soaking in the adulation of his mignons.

Mary leaned her head back against the carved panelling and kept her eyes tight shut until the feeling passed. How foolish. She had seen animals trapped and slaughtered before, and it would be a popular pastime at King Henry’s court when she went home.

Home. Home was Hever, not London. Sometimes she thought she would never go home to Hever. If only her father would wed her to some English lord who would be kinder than Francois—someone truly affectionate and protecting. Her gaze drifted out the front doors over the ruined barricade and sought the deep blue-green of Fontainebleau’s vast forests.

Jeanne scuttled back and broke her reverie. “They are coming this way, Marie. We are to have a banquet and dancing tonight and eat the very boar we saw killed!”

Mary stood as courtiers trooped back through the entry and down the steps to survey the fated barricade. Several bent to touch her bloodied skirts and to praise the bravery and finesse of their king again.

Then Francois swept by laughing, his beaming sister Marguerite on his arm and a frantic Francoise du Foix following behind. He stopped when he saw Mary’s white face and offered her his other hand. “Marie, they tell me the boar bloodied your dress as he charged past with the king in hot pursuit. He did not harm you?”

“No. Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.” The sweet words turned to dust on her lips, but she had said them.

“Fine. I would not wish to begin better relations with your country by harming one of their most charming treasures, eh?”

As Mary took his arm, the king’s eye caught Francoise’s face. “And you, Madam, may go find your damned Bonnivet and warm his bed. I am certain he shall have need of such solicitation after his miserable failure in Germany.”

Francoise’s jade eyes showed no pain or anger as far as Mary could tell. She swept her king a low curtsey, still holding her proud head erect so that her full breasts were almost completely visible above her low-cut neckline. “Better to send me to far Muscovy and let me freeze to death, Your Grace. Though in shame or disfavor, I would dwell near the sun.” She smiled brilliantly at her king, and Mary could feel him waver.

“Well, then,” he returned, “see that you do not get so close that your lovely dress becomes singed by the sun, or that your fair skin feels its full heat.”

“I would welcome it, Your Majesty, even if it meant I would be burned.”

Francois laughed in delight and responded gaily, “Well, come along all of you. We have much activity left today.”

Though Mary held the king’s arm on the opposite side of Marguerite, Francoise du Foix’s full swaying skirts nearly pushed her away as she chatted and laughed alongside her king.