The Last Boleyn

by Karen Harper

  Mary accompanied Princess Mary, Rose Dacre, and several English ladies past the tournament gallery decked in Tudor green and white on one side, and Francois’s tawny and white bunting on the other, toward the lawn where wrestling had been the favorite entertainment all afternoon. “My father has said that our king is a wonderful wrestler, Your Grace,” Mary offered.

  “My dear brother is splendid at whatever he pursues,” said the princess proudly, “and as king he must surpass his nobles. Francois, as I recall, was most admirable, also. I thank the blessed Lord we have been able to keep those two from challenging each other at the lists or elsewhere. My Lord Suffolk jousted against Bonnivet and was victorious today. As long as we let their favorite courtiers represent them on the field or the list, I have hopes that we may keep this assembly peaceful.”

  But how I should like to see them set on each other and Francois bested by our English king, Mary thought passionately. “It is said both kings will soon run out of champions to hurl at each other, Your Grace.”

  “If they do, Mary, we shall be true patriots and challenge the French king’s powerful mother and sister or perhaps Francoise du Foix,” the princess joked, and Mary joined her in giggles.

  “But, Your Grace,” put in Rose Dacre with a brilliant smile, “the Lady Mary Bullen has already challenged Francoise du Foix.”

  Laughter froze on Mary’s lips at the barb and the princess came to her aid. “Rose! Mary was a dear friend to me when I was in sore need, and I will not have her teased for your silly amusement even though the times may be gay and frivolous.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I meant nothing by the jest, Mary.”

  Mary’s gratitude flowed out to the beautiful princess as they joined the irregular circle of courtiers around the fringe of the wrestling ring. Today she and Mary Tudor had both chosen green gowns in honor of the Tudor king, though of course, the Duchess of Suffolk’s gown was much grander than what her father’s allowance could purchase. Mary Bullen’s gown was a willow green, simply cut and offset only by the vibrant pink satin lining of the sleeves and the narrow pink stripes along the fitted bodice. Mary Tudor’s gown sparkled with sunlight glittering across the jade green sheen of the fabric and winking at the jewels that studded her delicate kid leather belt, gloves and even her square-toed slippers. Anne Bullen, in brightest canary yellow silks, standing near with some other court maidens, including Jeanne du Lac, approached the Princess Mary and swept her a graceful curtsey.

  “My lord father’s aide William Stafford wrestles next, Your Grace,” Anne told her. “He has been very kind to Mary and me. And,” she announced grandly, her eyes sparkling, “he wrestles with the brother of the French king’s mistress, Francoise du Foix. It is the famous Lautrec, one of the king’s finest generals.”

  Mary’s fingernails dug into the palms of her hands as she fought to keep from showing emotion. That William Stafford wrestled for King Henry she cared not at all, but he wrestled Lautrec, the wily courtier to whom Francois had given her when he lost a bet to him gambling. What if Lautrec saw her here and remarked to Stafford about it? That meddler already knew too much to be trusted. Blurred scenes of how Lautrec had used her far into the night in his deep bed flashed through her mind, and she shut her eyes tight, hoping to stop the flood of memory.

  “Sister, are you quite all right?” Anne inquired at her side. “Is the day too warm for you?”

  “No, Anne, my thanks. I am fine now. But shall we sit up here in the gallery instead of standing about the ring where we might be a distraction?”

  “It is much more exciting here, Mary,” chided Anne, as though she were speaking to a child.

  “Yes, Mary,” added the princess. “We have done enough sitting around. Let us stay here—at least until my lord husband or the king spot us and make us behave.” She laughed musically again as the two wrestlers came into the ring and bowed to their monarchs.

  “King Henry looks grand today,” Mary noted proudly. Though he and Francois sat in the shade next to their two colorless queens both dripping with jewels, she thought he far outshone the dark Francois. His red beard looked almost golden, and both kings sported closely cropped hair, having ended their mutual vow not to cut hair or beard until they met on The Field of the Cloth of Gold. To her delight, Henry nodded and lifted his huge hand to her, or was it to his sister Mary, who stood beside the Bullen sisters? At any rate, he did not summon them to join the royal party, so they stood about the ring among the other courtiers. How she wished Francois had noted the English king’s probing stare and her own radiant smile and nod in return.

  Wearing only breeches and a waist sash of brightest green and white, Stafford faced his brawny opponent. Dark, curly hair covered Stafford’s tanned chest in contrast to Lautrec’s smooth, paler skin. The men crouched and circled warily, each waiting for an opening to grasp the other. Mary could distinctly hear their even breathing, and Lautrec talked to himself in low tones. Then Stafford dove for Lautrec’s thighs, his brown head butting against the Frenchman’s hip; Lautrec flung himself backward, and they went to their knees on the smooth turf. Lautrec reached for Stafford’s arm and tried to twist it as they spun away together, half-rolling, half-kneeling. They grunted and groaned as they strained and struggled. Advice and cheers went up from the encircling crowd and the royal gallery.

  Staring at the sweating, grunting Lautrec, Mary recalled the horrible night Francois had demanded she fulfill his gambling debt in Lautrec’s bed. Still so naive then, she hadn’t even caught on to what the king intended at first.

  “Your Grace,” she had greeted Francois that night with a quick curtsey as she entered the room to which he had summoned her.

  “Marie, I— You must prepare for bed right away. Isabelle is here to help, and I shall wait until you are ready.”

  “But we never needed—”

  “Dearest little golden English girl,” he began almost poetically before a frown crushed his eyebrows and he began to pace. “Just do it, Marie. Hurry! I have something to explain to you.”

  She had stood like a wooden doll, frozen in increasing panic and grief as Isabelle’s steady hands divested her of her clothes and sponged her quickly with rose water. The king’s jerky voice went on explaining how he had wagered much to his boon companion Lautrec—explaining what he had wagered and lost.

  Mary pulled away from the startled Isabelle as she tried to dust her with powder, and a fine, white cloud of it drifted to the carpeted floor. The king’s sneeze had nearly drowned out her protest at first: “No, my lord king! Not I! That is impossible.”

  “Oui, Marie. One night. Look, sweet, he favors you, at least your blonde look of innocence and purity.”

  “Innocence and —” She could not repeat his words and stared open-mouthed at his audacity. “No,” she said again. “No, you would not do this. I know I cannot.”

  “Listen to me,” he said low, shaking her once. “You will do it for me. I have favored you, coddled you. I have given my word. Just go along and keep those tears off your face, or I swear, I will give some lurid report of your demeanor to your precious father—or see he is dismissed from his post.”

  Her eyes focused on his then, and she hoped the utter contempt of her stare hid the naked fear she felt at that threat to tell or hurt her father.

  Now the dreadful memories spun and twisted like the two wrestlers here at her feet. They rolled on the grass again. This time it was the Frenchman who rode Stafford’s powerful body. The Englishman’s great tawny shoulder almost brushed the chalked edge of the circle.

  Mary shocked herself by shouting out for William Stafford. Ordinarily, she detested the man, but how wonderful it would be to see the smug Lautrec beaten and Francois’s honor diminished before all.

  “Come on, Staff, you can beat him. Get up, get up, please!” she screeched like the lowest fishwife on the Paris streets.

  The men lay nearly at her feet; she felt an overwhelming urge to kick out at Lautrec or shove him off Staff’s writhing fo
rm.

  “Staff, Staff, come on!” she shouted again, oblivious to the stares of the princess and her sister.

  Suddenly, Stafford gave a great grunting heave and threw Lautrec away. Stafford dove at the Frenchman’s shoulders and pinned him heavily as the marshall began to count, “One...”

  Mary held her breath. To have Lautrec shamed was some vindication, though she could share it with no one. “Two...” Unfortunately, it had to be the meddling William Stafford who was her unknowing champion. “Three...Honor to King Henry and his gentleman usher, Master William Stafford.”

  The crowd cheered and applauded as the men rose wearily and grasped hands. To Mary’s delight, Lautrec looked like a grass-stained field hand in his ruined tawny and white. The men bowed to the royal box and, before he followed the defeated Lautrec from the ring, Stafford turned in their direction and bowed low to Princess Mary, his eyes and teeth white against his sweaty, tanned face.

  Francois was obviously annoyed, but Henry pounded him on his back good naturedly and reminded him that the French champions had earned many a fall and tournament point over the last week. Yet it was clear to all that the English, though from a smaller, poorer nation, held the balance of athletic prowess.

  “My dear brother,” King Henry was saying in a booming voice, his arm still draped around Francois’s silken shoulder, “I would try you for a fall in a friendly bout. Will you accept?”

  “Oh, no, my Henry,” Mary heard the princess beside her murmur under her breath, “this is not wise.”

  “Indeed I accept, brother Henry,” intoned Francois loudly, bowing and smiling to the rapt gallery. As they stood and made their way down to the field, both queens put out their hands to detain their husbands and implore them to be seated, but the mood was set—the challenge lay there in the sun for all to see.

  Bonnivet seconded his master, helping him remove his doublet and shirt while the crowd watched to see the powerful French king half stripped before them. The Duke of Suffolk hastened to assist his king, his dark smooth hair in sharp contrast to Henry Tudor’s mane and beard which gleamed in the light.

  “Both are magnificent,” Rose Dacre said too loudly in the hush, and Mary nodded wordlessly. She hoped she never saw Francois’s bare chest again as long as she lived. Like a lion compared to a sleek fox, King Henry’s massive chest and arms were covered with golden hair.

  The royal opponents stepped gingerly over the now-blurry chalk circle, and bowed in tandem to their nervous queens. There was no cheering or raucous advice from the crowd. It was as though all of them around the circle stood in a sorcerer’s trance. Then Bonnivet and Suffolk began to shout encouragement and soon the din of voices rose. Other courtiers strolling in the area came bounding in to swell the cheering crowd, and Princess Mary wrung her hands in nervous anguish.

  The English king side-stepped Francois and stuck a brawny leg behind him hoping to trip the lithe man backward, but Francois twisted from the attempt and Henry nearly toppled over. They recovered their stances and began their stalking anew, their eyes boring into each other’s. Then Francois darted forward. Henry’s great arms reached to encircle the French king’s trunk. Swiftly, Francois bent, then straightened. The King of England flipped over and lay flat on his back.

  The screams died to nothing. Francois, too, looked stunned and froze like a statue. In the hush King Henry towered to his feet and said plainly, “I will have another bout for a fall. Now. And then we shall see.”

  Mary’s stomach churned with excitement and fear. She longed to see the great Henry throw the confident Francois, but she knew the results could bring chaos and ruin to this lovely Field of Gold.

  Amazingly, like a mirror vision, the two sisters of the kings swept into the wrestler’s circle and curtseyed to their brothers. Mary had not even seen Marguerite in the swollen crowd, but she had been fully aware of Mary Tudor’s anxiety.

  “You were both wonderful, spectacular!” said Marguerite in her halting English to the two sweating giants. Princess Mary chose the tack of taking her brother’s arm and clinging to his clenched fist while curtseying to the French king and Marguerite.

  “As once queen of your nation, I was often honored to see your greatness and prowess, Francois du Roi, and I have often thought, as I did today, what a godlike match you and my dear brother king make in all endeavors.”

  Both Claude and Catherine had descended from their perches by this time and Catherine added the ultimate soothing balm. “Dinner is served now in the king’s fair Palace of Illusions,” she said in her strangely accented French, and then repeated it in English, though everyone present understood the French well enough. “Please join us all in a stroll to the banqueting hall.”

  Momentarily, all focused on the tiny wrestling circle crowded now with the two kings, their queens, and dear sisters. Mary noted William Stafford across the sea of faces and wondered vaguely how much of the bout he had witnessed. Then Anne tugged gently on her sleeve, and they drifted along in the whispering waves of courtiers meandering toward the huge Palace of Illusions.

  It was King Henry’s turn to stuff the royal and noble masses with delicacies and wine. Each night the host king strove to offer some viand or decoration or delight to top the previous offerings. Although only three hundred elite of the thousands present at these lengthy revels were feasted each day in the presence of the sovereigns, the surprises tonight took their breath away. Not only was real gold plate used instead of the customary trenchers of day-old bread, but each diner was supplied with a spoon and fork to use at the meal, rather than making do with their own spoons and no forks. Still, the most marvelous titillation was yet to come. After the pheasant with baked quince, venison bucknade, stuffed partridges, dolphin and thirty peacocks with lighted tapers in their beaks, and numerous toasts with heady glasses of sweet Osney from Alsace, the cupbearers and servers rolled in a massive subtlety of an exact miniature replica of the Palace of Illusions with orangeade moats and huge Tudor roses and Francois’s salamanders on all corners. A ripple of applause went up and King Henry glowed with pride.

  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 po
inted 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.