by Karen Harper
She felt miffed mostly at herself, and she instinctively sought the refuge of the queen’s rooms, through the open doors where she knew neither Anne nor the others would willingly follow.
The fire in the queen’s chamber burned quite low and her priest had evidently just departed. Queen Claude leaned back on a chaise couch, her prayer book open in her lap, a lady in waiting on both sides of her like silent sentinels. Her bulk was already great. Mary had noticed that with each close-spaced pregnancy, she carried the child lower and seemed to swell sooner. The queen’s eyes slowly moved to Mary, like dark coals on her white face. Her left eye always seemed to squint, and this disconcerted her ladies.
“Marie, entrez.” Mary curtseyed and sat on the tiny prie-dieu near the queen’s feet. “What is happening in the outside world today, ma demoiselle?”
“I have not been abroad, Your Grace,” Mary answered simply.
“But out of the windows, are the skies still gray, Marie?”
“Oui, Your Grace.”
“Then what use is it for me to try to let some light in here before my dear husband’s mother and my dearest Marguerite arrive? I have been lying here summoning my strength for the interview.” She spoke almost to herself. “They bring such vitality, you know, and I seem to have none of my own lately.”
She ordered the shutters be spread inward anyway, and the room was diffused with a hazy gray light. She stood shakily and murmured to no one in particular, “And my poor Francois. How he chafes at the bit in such weather. Francois must always be active and have diversions. And this terrible business of who will be the next Holy Roman Emperor—ah, I pray hourly for it to fall to my husband.”
As though she had foreseen their approach, the queen turned to the door as Louise du Savoy and Marguerite entered in a rush. Marguerite wore a flame-colored velvet gown edged and lined everywhere with either golden satin or whitest ermine with black flecks in the fur, whereas the more subdued Louise’s heavier body was swathed in richest burgundies weighted with gold thread, jeweled girdle, and heavy pearls. Each woman took Claude’s hand solicitously. Mary and the other ladies stepped back to the wall, for the queen never liked to be without several attendants. The royal ladies clustered together before the hearth. Though the queen sat down again and tried to hold herself erect, her back was like a bent bow, but the other two reminded Mary of taut strings ready to send out a brace of sharp arrows.
“My poor daughter Claude,” began Louise du Savoy in her guttural voice, “how does this future prince you carry?”
“He stirs about and turns me blue along my belly, Mother,” the queen answered her mother-in-law, and Mary marvelled at her meekness with these two.
In both Marguerite and the queen mother, Mary could see the long-nosed, dark-eyed Francois, in each the coiled spring of wound power beneath the surface.
“And how does my husband lately?” the queen was asking. “He is much burdened by his rightful inheritance of the cloak of Holy Roman Emperor?”
“Oui, Oui, greatly burdened,” Marguerite responded in her quick sing-song French. “But if anyone can help to sway those wretched Germans who hold the important votes, it is the king’s envoy Bonnivet. The Pope is already ours, Madam, but that she-wolf Margaret of Austria hates our house. I would strangle her for her meddling, if I could get my hands on her!”
Mary’s head snapped up at the mention of her first royal guardian, the kindly Archduchess Margaret. It puzzled her that the dear old woman could hate Francois. She must remember to ask father someday if he would have time to explain.
“The money—the money is another problem, Madam,” Marguerite continued, her head bobbing vivaciously to punctuate her words. “Millions of francs and still the bankers quibble. Quibble with the King of France!”
Claude’s voice came pale and listless after Marguerite’s. “I am grateful that my dear lord’s family can sustain him in these court matters. I am often from the realm of his influence.”
“That is as it should be, dear daughter,” Louise du Savoy responded. “Your support for your lord is made manifest here, in the loving care of his children. This is as it should be,” she repeated slowly.
“I do prefer it to other courtly duties, for what need is there of that when du Roi has you and his Marguerite?”
Louise du Savoy nodded silently as though that closed the matter, but Marguerite began again. “Francois is much unsettled lately, since you asked, sister. The English stance worries him and, you may be pleased to know, he has had a falling out with his ‘lady’ the haughty Francoise du Foix. It is long overdue that he sees that woman’s true colors.”
“Marguerite, please, I hardly think our dear Claude wishes to hear court gossip in her condition...”
“You detest that woman too, mother, and always have,” Marguerite answered, tossing her dark tresses. “The snow-goddess has carried on once too often with Bonnivet, and she shall reap her own harvest now.” She laughed quickly, sharply. “Maybe it is partly the cause of Bonnivet’s appointment as legate in Germany far from the lady’s wiles.”
“Hush, mignonne,” scolded the older woman. “Your preoccupation with Guillaume du Bonnivet much questions your own interest in the man.” She frowned and shook her head.
Yes, remembered Mary suddenly, it is often rumored the Lady Marguerite has long favored Bonnivet though she is wed to Alencon.
“Anyway,” put in the unquenchable Marguerite, glancing down her nose at her annoyed mother, “our roi du soleil is bored and unsettled, and it is hardly weather to tilt at jousts or chase the deer or boar afield.”
Claude listened impassively, and though Mary could not see her face clearly, she pictured her white stare and blurry gaze gone awry.
“We must be going, dear Claude,” Louise du Savoy said in the awkward silence. “I would like to stop by the royal nursery wing on our way.”
“Of course,” said Claude properly, rising slowly with them. “All was well yesterday when I saw them, and the dauphin can nearly speak in sentences. They told me his first words were ‘du roi.’ It is appropriate, is it not?”
“Indeed, my daughter,” her mother-in-law said over her velvet shoulder as they approached the door.
Marguerite’s falcon eyes caught Mary standing nearest the door. “Boullaine’s daughter?” she asked, half to herself. “But not in gold and pure white today.” She laughed and was gone with her awesome mother trailing in her sweet-scented wake.
Mary fervently hoped the queen would not think the remark meant she had done anything wrong, for she had remarked kindly to Mary how lovely she and her dear husband had looked together at the feast. But Claude had sunk down in her vast cushions again and seemed to doze almost immediately. Mary sat at her feet for a soundless time, then rose to leave. Claude’s voice floated to her again.
“Do not let Madam du Alencon tease, nor the queen mother frighten you, petite Boullaine. But have a care not to cross them either.”
Mary turned and her silken skirts rustled loudly in the quiet room. “Merci, Your Grace.”
But Queen Claude leaned as though she drowsed heavily, her bulky form outlined before the low-burning hearth.
Mary soon found she was foolish to think she could hide from facing the restive king by hovering close to the queen’s well-guarded chamber. The arm of du Roi, she learned that same day, could reach anywhere.
“Marie, Monsieur du Fragonard is here in the blue room—to see you alone,” came Jeanne’s excited words. She lowered her voice cautiously as she leaned closer. “No doubt, he bears a message from His Grace, Marie, for Fragonard is most intimate to royal business—in private matters.”
Mary could feel her heart beat a distinct thud, thud. “Then I must speak to Monsieur Fragonard,” she said only.
Jeanne trailed along down the narrow hallway to the reception room, one in a series of formal receiving chambers which the sequestered Claude seldom used. Jeanne lingered at the door while Mary rapped and entered.
Monsieur F
ragonard had silver hair and his doublet and hose were of shimmery gray satin. He bowed elaborately and unnecessarily low.
“Mademoiselle Marie Boullaine.” He seemed to breathe her name rather than speak it. “May we sit together for a moment? I have a message for you from du Roi.” He smiled smoothly and she sat where he had indicated. “A message for your ears only.”
He leaned one lace-cuffed hand on his silver-headed walking stick. “Our king is still charmed by the memory of your warmth and beauty from your too brief time together in Paris last month. You, ah, no doubt, think fondly of him too.”
There was a tiny silence while her mind darted wildly about for a way to draw back from the looming precipice. Fool, she told herself, was this not what you have dreamed of for these last four years?
“Oui, monsieur. Of course I think fondly of du Roi.”
“I would explain to you as a friend, Mademoiselle, that the king is very busy lately and bears much upon his shoulders. It would be a joyous duty to lighten his burden and give him pleasant conversation and diversion, would it not?”
“All would wish to serve the king, monsieur.”
He searched her face carefully. “Oui. Then, I must inform you that His Grace requests the privilege of your company, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” He stood and meticulously pulled his lace shirt through the silver slashings of his doublet.
“When, monsieur?” Mary asked as she rose.
“Now. Can you not leave your duties now? The hour is long before supper or the queen’s evening prayers. May I accompany you?”
He pulled the door open, and Mary half expected to see Jeanne du Lac poised on the threshold, but the adjoining rooms and hall were quite deserted. Mary took shallow breaths to steady herself. She was distinctly aware of each step she took along the gallery leading to the king’s wing of the palace. At least it was broad daylight and not a summons in the night she had dreaded would mean that he had other plans for her than conversation. Monsieur Fragonard’s silver walking stick made regular tap-taps on the inlaid floor to punctuate her breaths and heartbeats.
“Here, mademoiselle,” he said finally. “This is a private way to His Grace’s afternoon study.” He pushed open the narrow door and they came face-to-face with a tall gendarme, his sword at his side. Her guide merely bobbed his head to the soldier, and they went on through two tiny rooms lined with books and containing several low tables each laden with strange globes, mechanisms or clocks.
“Adieu for now, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” His words came suddenly as they faced another closed narrow door. He rapped three times, bowed, and retreated the way they had come.
Mary shuddered as he left, not as much from excitement or fear as from a strange repulsion toward her so proper guide. Somehow, he reminded her of a graceful, silver snake.
The door swung open and Francois stood bathed in the light of the room behind him. He squinted to see her better. She had not expected him to be so close. He was dressed very informally with dark purple satin breech and hose and an open brown velvet doublet over his white silk embroidered shirt. Only his velvet, square-toed slippers, heavily filigreed in gold thread and his very large embroidered codpiece seemed blatant and ornate. Stunned, she began to sweep him a curtsey, but he seized her hands and pulled her gently into the room.
“My Marie, my beautiful golden Marie,” he mused aloud to himself as he held her hands at her sides and scrutinized her.
“I am hardly your golden Marie today, Your Grace.” She glanced down ruefully at her everyday dress of green watered silk with the tiny rim of lace edging the swell of her breasts above the low-cut oval bodice. “But your summons came so quickly that I came as I am.”
“What more could a man wish, cherie? At any rate, I sent you a request, not a summons. If I summon you someday, you shall know the difference. Did Fragonard say otherwise?”
“No, Your Grace. He was most kind.”
“Green suits you too, Marie. Indeed, everything does. Green is most pleasant in these wretched, chilly months when there is little riding and hunting. Only business, worry and lectures from one’s advisors or family.”
He smiled and released her hands and Mary relaxed. How wonderful she felt, how important to be near him. Surely since she was Lord Boullaine’s daughter and under the queen’s protection, he would not expect her to lose her reputation. He was much older, and kings never had liaisons with unmarried ladies that she had heard of. She smiled warmly at him.
“Now I remember,” he said quietly, “why I think of you as golden Marie no matter what dress you wear.” He took a quick step toward her and then turned. “Will you have some wine with your friend Francois, Marie?”
Awed by his informal manner, she took the stemmed goblet willingly and looked up, unafraid, into his dark eyes. Then the familiar awkwardness leaned on her heart again. He did not speak but studied her carefully, and the tiny flames in his eyes warned her of potential disaster.
She turned sideways from his hot stare and surveyed the room. Its walls were dark wood in layered paneling and edged with gilt. A fire crackled merrily behind a carved screen. There were books, a huge compass, maps, stuffed brocaded armchairs and a narrow lounge bed along one wall. There was only one window, but the thin winter sun slanted across the carpet and warmed the chamber.
“Come, Marie.” She looked back at him startled. “Come see the view from one of my favorite windows. I can see far down the valley from here, and the Loire is like the green ribbon in your hair.”
He leaned against the rich paneling and turned his head to gaze far out across the recessed window ledge. She joined him, setting her half-finished wine glass on the table, realizing too late that it was something she could have held between them as they stood so close.
He pulled her against his side in a brotherly way and put one arm lightly around her shoulders. He pointed to the tiny village on the opposite cliff face. “I shall tell you a secret, ma cherie. One night last summer, Bonnivet and I and a few others disguised ourselves and rode through the streets throwing eggs at windows and whatever people we saw.” He laughed, and she could feel his ribs and shoulders move as he did. “A tiny hamlet, but with as fresh a supply of wine and women as any!” He squeezed her shoulder as he chuckled, then loosed her again merely resting his now-heavy arm on her. “Now what the devil was the name of that little place? We shall have to do that again sometime, if we live through this blasted, boring winter.”
“I watched your Master da Vinci draw that view once from the gardens, Your Grace.”
“Did you, sweet? Signor Leonardo is ill and maybe shall not last the winter either. A genius. He and I appreciate each other.”
“It is said you have often spent hours together talking of—well, of everything, Sire.” She felt a stabbing sorrow for the old man’s illness.
“It is said, sweet? Then it is one of the only true rumors about the king to fly around the halls of the palace lately. Shall we give them all something new to speak of to pass the dreary months until spring, golden Marie?”
He turned her to him and his eyes went to her lips. Foolishly she blurted out, “The queen mother and your sister Madam du Alencon visited the queen today.”
His eyes did not waver, and he leaned into her, pressing her between him and the wall. “Fine. Then they will be busy and not bother their Francois all the rest of this so lovely afternoon.”
He bent his head and took her lips gently for a lingering moment and then with hot intensity. She kept her eyes tight shut and tried desperately to stem the trembling in her knees. She could not think of anything but the feel of his velvet chest and the hard muscles of his thighs and his probing tongue. But she must think, she must!
His hands dropped to her narrow waist and one came slowly, treacherously up to her shoulder, sliding, tugging at the oval bodice. He shifted his weight and his lips caressed her neck and kissed her throat. His thick dark hair tickled her chin. He raised his head.
“From the first moment I saw you, c
herie, I knew we were meant to be together. You are so lovely, your eyes, your lips, your hair. My Venus, your king would be most blessed should you allow him to gaze on you, like Venus, undraped.”
She opened her mouth to give him whatever answer she could find, but he stopped her lips with a fiery, open-mouthed kiss. She wanted to say no, but she wanted him more, his warm gaze, his flattery, his praise. She knew in her head he offered her words to seduce, but she could not stem the desire for a man’s touch—especially this king.
His fingers slid down between her full breasts and to her own amazement she arched up against him. His other hand descended between her back and the wall and cupped itself firmly against her derriere through the voluminous folds of her skirts. Her eyes shot open. She could feel the sudden stab of his codpiece against her thigh as he leaned into her. A man’s deepest affections she desired, but...but this was no lovestruck Rene de Brosse in the hedges. This was Francois of France. Fear welled up suddenly.
“Please, Your Grace, please, no.”
He gazed down at her, and one dark brow arched. “Afraid, cherie? I should have called you my Diana and not my Venus, is it not true, little virgin?”
She tried to pull gently away, but she was trapped by his strong body. “You are still virgin, are you not, Marie?”
“Yes, my king.”
“Then I shall be very gentle for now. Where better to learn the arts of love but from your king?”
He half swept, half carried her to the narrow bed with its one huge padded bolster. She thought he would lay her down, but he put her on her feet, turned her away, and began to unlace the back of her gown.
“I have thought much of you since the English banquet at the Bastille, my beauty. Everyone saw what a splendid pair we were, I so dark and you so radiant fair.”
And what of your mistress, Francoise? a strange voice in her head demanded. I will be for your pleasure on only this afternoon and then you will return to her?
