The Nymph from Heaven, page 55
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
Henry had no idea what François might be thinking in that moment; but the thought struck him that his own forebears, redoubtable kings such as Henry V and Edward the Third, each of whom had sworn to conquer France and make her their own, must be spinning in their graves at the sight of Henry of England kissing a French king! Ah well, thought Henry, the game is not over yet.
Mary and Katharine and their entourages sat on their horses at the top of the ridge watching the ceremonial. As the two kings disappeared into the golden tent, Katharine said, “I wonder what they will speak of.”
Mary envisioned Brandon charging down into this very valley into a rain of arrows to face a horde of shouting French soldiers brandishing swords. It must never be. “Peace, I hope,” she replied.
“Amen to that,” said Katharine, crossing herself. For peace was their only hope. If Henry proved unable to hold the delicate balance of European politics between François and her nephew, the result would be war, and that could only mean misery and ruination for untold thousands. Only the fragile Treaty of London could save them all from the horrors of war. Katharine wanted peace, prayed for peace, and she truly believed, as did Henry, that it could be achieved.
But Katharine had felt a shiver of fear wrack her at the moment Henry and François touched, so far away down in the valley that they looked like little toy kings. She was not a woman given to premonitions, and she dismissed the feeling as the chimera it was. But a tiny seed of doubt had been planted. She only hoped that it would never bear fruit, for what a bitter harvest it would be.
# # #
“The man is insufferable!” shouted Henry. He stamped into the queen’s apartments throwing his velvet bonnet, with its cherished adornments, to the floor.
Katharine, who was stitching an altar cloth, looked up serenely. There was no need to reply; when Henry was in one of his moods, he could sustain an entire conversation by himself. In fact, it was better to let him rant until he spent his anger. To speak, to comment at all, served only to invite one into the fray.
“I do not know why François even bothered to sign the Treaty of London,” said Henry. “He has made it obvious to me that he has no intention of honoring it. Do you know what he suggested? He asks for England’s help in waging war against the Empire. France is completely surrounded by Imperial holdings, you see, and this makes him nervous. And, he says, if I am not willing to fight Charles at his side, then he would be satisfied with England’s neutrality. As if I would ever consider betraying a treaty that I myself brokered to all of Europe on behalf of His Holiness, the Pope! The man is insufferable!”
Katharine was gratified to hear of her husband’s indignance at the perfidy of the French king. But she knew all too well that Wolsey drew a substantial French pension and that he would be loath to lose it. She did not trust Wolsey and his French leanings. She believed most fervently that Wolsey could be sold to the highest bidder, and that he could not be trusted to uphold his own treaty if there was a ducat to be had by gainsaying it. She guessed that Wolsey would soon be putting pressure to bear upon Henry to go along with François’ suggestions. When that happened, she must be ready.
Oh, she had no objection to this childish meeting of the kings of France and England. She did not mind if Henry sought friendship with François as long as he was equally friendly with her nephew, Charles. She also believed in her heart of hearts that François would not break the peace, for if he did, Henry was certain to enforce the non-aggression pact of the Treaty of London to the letter. Was he not raving at this very instant about François’ seeming disloyalty to the pact?
Many had hoped that this meeting would truly be a turning point in Anglo-French relations, that it would serve to lay to rest old enmities and promote permanent peace. But Katharine knew it for the vain, posturing, expensive game that it was. Still, many others thought that it was better to play with the French in the tiltyard than to fight them on the battlefield, and with this she wholeheartedly agreed.
“And you, Madam,” railed Henry, his face now very red and the spittle flying from his mouth, “need not look so smug! Your own beloved nephew tried the same tactics on me at Canterbury, I’ll have you know! And he has one hell of a lot more to offer me than that vain cock, François! Do you know what Charles offered me to betray the treaty? Do you? I will tell you. He tempted me with French lands, and Wolsey with his support when the time comes once again for the earth’s cardinals to bid for the papal tiara! So please do not think that your beloved nephew is any better than that French snake, François!”
Katharine wisely did not take up the gauntlet and make a reply in defense of her nephew. She would have been surprised indeed if Charles and François had not each attempted to sway Henry to their side. This was all good news, really; she was determined to ensure that Henry reached no secret understandings with the French king during this potentially dangerous visit between the two monarchs. Now François had ensured that for her by angering Henry. But why was Henry so angry with François for suggesting the very same thing that Charles had suggested, he who had parted so cordially with her nephew on that gray, brooding day when they had ridden out from Canterbury, Henry making for Dover and Calais, and Charles for Sandwich, and then on to his coronation?
Suddenly she thought she knew the answer. Complicated puzzles often had the simplest of solutions. Henry was jealous of François, bitterly jealous, in a way that he never could be of poor, deformed Charles. Charles was slight of build, quiet, and no good at the tilt. François was handsome and excelled at all forms of war and games. And he had…tears welled up in her eyes at the thought; he had a son, two of them, in fact; indisputably legitimate heirs to the French throne, ensuring the French succession. And Henry hated him for it.
“And I will tell you this,” sputtered Henry in his rage, “I will never, never give my daughter, and through her, England to that…that…evil French demon! He is the devil incarnate! I have heard it said that he resembles the devil, now I know why! That blackguard who calls himself king of France is the devil himself!”
Katharine continued her sewing as Henry raged on. She hoped that he would not take his effusive anger at François out upon the poor French queen when he met her on the morrow.
# # #
Henry twisted his velvet cap in his hands as he awaited the arrival of the French queen. He was prepared to hate her every bit as much as he did François, but he knew that was unfair. Why, oh why, had Wolsey insisted on these intimate dinners between the royals and the nobility? He claimed it was to foster better acquaintance between the principals of the two nations before they met at the tilt, which was, after all, a competition. Perhaps Thomas was right. It was better to have made friends before all of that began. But what in God’s name would he find to talk about with Good Queen Claude?
He looked about him at the interior of the Queen’s presence chamber. It was lined with a delightful shade of sky-blue velvet, and sewn upon it were hundreds of tiny gold foil stars. Queen Claude’s apartments took up the entire right wing of the giant gold brocade tent that he had glimpsed from afar on that first day. The center was her and François’ reception hall, and the left side housed François’ own quarters. Henry had observed wryly as he approached the French encampment that the elaborate silver and lilac tent of Françoise de Chateaubriand was connected directly to the French king’s tent so that he could come and go as he pleased to his mistress, while his pregnant wife stayed not thirty feet away. Poor Claude! Suddenly Henry felt all his chivalric instincts rise within him. He had been right not to bring Bessie, even had he wanted to. He may not love Katharine anymore, bedding her might border on the disgusting, but he would never, never, have insulted her in such a way.
A rustling sound and a subtle scent of roses caused him to turn his head, and standing before him at the entrance to the Queen’s privy chamber was the smallest, most dainty woman he had ever seen. She was so small that she could have been mistaken for a child, but her royal bearing immediately informed him that this was not so. She had soft brown eyes and light brown hair. Her hair was loosely curly, naturally so, he guessed, and little brown crescents of it framed her lovely, heart-shaped face. Her skin was creamy pale, and upon each cheek burned a little pink patch. Poor child, he thought, she is pregnant and not feeling well. He knew all the signs. Had he not been through it all repeatedly with Katharine these past eleven years?
For some reason quite unknown to him, instead of simply bowing, he knelt before her. He took the tiny, proffered little hand into his own beefy ones, kissed it, and said, “Madam, if you are unwell…”
“Oh, no,” she said, and her voice sounded as soft as her hair, like honey poured upon silk, the poet in him thought. “I am quite well. And I have so looked forward to making Your Grace’s better acquaintance.”
And then he realized that this could not be the ugly, deformed French queen after all. This must be someone else. This woman was delightfully beautiful, and that tiny, bejeweled white hand was not the deformed claw from which he had expected to shrink. But when she turned towards the table that had been set for their repast, her hand still in his, he noticed that despite her diminutive size, she wore a heavy silver brocade train, attached at the shoulders to her gown with diamond brooches and falling in thick folds behind her. His heart smote him as he caught just a glimpse of her slightly curved spine. She wears the train, he realized in a flash of insight, to hide her deformity, despite the fact that it must be devilishly heavy and uncomfortable in such heat, and in her condition. She wore the stomacher of the pregnant woman, silver to match the heavy train, and studded with tiny diamonds, so that as she moved in the soft candlelight of the dim tent, she glittered. Her voluminous sleeves matched her train and stomacher, and were sewn with tiny seed pearls. Everything about her, it seemed, was so very small, but elegant and graceful in the extreme.
“But I am forgetting Mary,” said Claude. She had to look up quite a distance to meet Henry’s eyes, he was so much taller than she. Henry had been half-way aware of another presence in the room, but Claude had so commanded his attention, that he had not even looked at this other person. She stepped forward now with lowered eyes. “Although Your Grace’s French is so perfect,” smiled Claude, “that I daresay we will not need an interpreter. Mistress Boleyn, have you met His Grace of England?”
Mary Boleyn lifted her eyes to Henry’s and it was as if a silent thunderclap exploded inside his head. Here, in the flesh, was that shadowy, perfect creature he had dreamed of as he made love to Katharine. She had wide, luminous golden-brown eyes with small green flecks dancing in them; her hair was the color of fresh honey. She was slightly plump but pleasingly so. He was silent for so long as she held out her hand to be kissed that her expression changed from one of eager anticipation to one of confusion and dismay.
“I beg your pardon, Madam,” said Henry, taking the warm, dimpled hand into his and resting his lips upon it lingeringly. “It is just that I never knew that Thomas Boleyn had such a beautiful daughter. I am indeed awestruck. Had I known how lovely you are, I would not have allowed you stay so long in France.” He said this with just the right degree of flippancy to be amusing, and for his words to be taken in jest. The two women smiled brightly.
He vaguely remembered a lanky young girl, all hair and eyes, following in his sister Mary’s train at Dover when she left for France for her marriage to Louis. He had paid that girl no mind at the time. And then Mary had returned when Louis died, leaving the Boleyn girls behind to wait upon Queen Claude.
He suddenly realized that he was staring at Mary, and not making any conversation. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “My Lady, I understand that you have a sister at the French court?” It was all he could think of to say.
Instead of answering, Mary looked at Claude, who said, “Indeed yes. Mary’s sister Anne is one of my favorite ladies. It is a pity that we had to leave her behind in Paris. She was suffering most sore from an ague when we departed.” It was true; Claude liked both the Boleyn girls enormously, although she was aware that Mary was not as chaste as she liked her ladies to be. Still, it was hard to scold Mary; she took everything so much to heart. Claude had never been free of her own emotions, and in a way, she was glad that Mary was able to be free with hers, even if her reputation suffered for it.
Henry was enchanted with the French queen, and even more so with Mary Boleyn. The time passed so quickly that before he knew it, the shadows outside were becoming long. Still he was loath to go. He admired Claude tremendously and enjoyed listening to her intelligent, subtle discourse on a wide variety of subjects. Mary seemed delightfully shy and blushed a great deal whenever she realized that the king’s eyes were upon her.
And it was obvious that the French queen had given much thought to the food she served him; they had dined upon creamed congers, pickled scafflings, and flaky truffles filled with beaten snuggs, all his favorite eel dishes. There had even been raspberry tart with thick cream, his favorite dessert.
Claude sipped her wine and as she reached out to place the goblet back onto the table, she made a move that in another woman, seven months pregnant, would have been an effort to arch her back. The poor dear, thought Henry. How trying it must be for her to sit so long in her condition and with her deformity. Deformity! He refused to think of it as such. The French queen was beautiful, charming, delightful…and Mary Boleyn was a sheer joy to look upon. Both women had that indefinable quality that separated all women into two groups, those who took and those who gave. Both of these sweet, fascinating females were givers. Whatever it was their personalities lacked that prevented them from being scheming was what made them so sweet, so unassuming, and so enchanting.
Mary, who had hitherto said nothing without looking to Claude to see if the queen desired to speak first or for her, now stood up and said, in a tone so assertive that Henry almost laughed out loud, “I am afraid that Her Grace is very tired but that she is too polite to say so, Your Grace. She must rest now.” Mary bustled around Claude like a protective mother hen, helping her to rise.
“I have so enjoyed His Grace of England’s company that I had no desire to end the merrymaking,” said Claude. “I cannot remember when I have so enjoyed a meal.” Suddenly her face twisted in pain. “I…I fear that I cannot rise. I must have sat too long…” Mary, dismayed, looked at Henry.
“There, there,” he said. “There is no need for you to rise. I would be honored beyond words if Your Grace would allow me to carry you.” Without hesitation, without any of the repugnance he had expected to feel, he stepped up to her chair and lifted the little queen in his arms.
“Oh, would you?” said Claude, the sincerity evident in her voice. “I would be so grateful. My, how strong you are!”
Mary led the way to the heavy arras that served as the tent flap between Claude’s presence and privy chambers. Inside the chamber there was an elaborate bed which Mary was already turning down. Henry instinctively laid the little queen on her side; if she had been unable to rise, she would not be able to straighten herself to lie down. Once Claude was on the bed, Mary, on the other side, leaned over to remove the pins from the brooches and slid the heavy train away. She quickly replaced it with the silken counterpane, but not quite fast enough, and Henry had another glimpse at that poor, curved back. Instead of looking away, his eyes rested upon the stomacher, under which was visible a tiny protuberance. Was it another prince she carried?
Inexplicably, Henry’s eyes filled with tears. He looked across the bed at Mary, whose eyes were also filled to brimming. In that moment he knew that he loved the French queen as much as Mary did, and that forged a bond between them. They stood there, their gazes locked, for what seemed like an eternity. After a while, Henry became aware of Claude’s steady, even breathing. She was asleep.
Henry turned without a word and walked back out into the presence chamber. When he turned, Mary was behind him. He held his arms out silently and she melted into his embrace. “I must have you. Now,” he said. “Is there nowhere?”
Mary waved a silent hand around the chamber, whose perimeter was lined with soft sofas piled with cushions.
“But the queen…” whispered Henry.
“…is sleeping the sleep of exhaustion,” Mary replied. “She should not even have made this trip. I am so worried about her.” Henry’s eyes strayed to the outer tent flap. Guessing his concern, she said, “None would dare to enter the queen’s chamber while she dined privately with the king of England.”
“And her beautiful, but superfluous, interpreter,” said Henry, with a disarming smile. He put a finger under Mary’s chin and lifted her face to his. “Still, we must be very quiet.”
When it was over, Henry pulled Mary close to him and said, “You must leave with us. When we go back to Calais, you must come. I cannot do without you.”
Mary shook her head. “That I cannot do,” she replied. “I cannot leave Her Grace before the babe comes. She needs me. But, Your Grace, I do so want to come.”
Henry took Mary’s face into his hands and looked into her eyes. “You are not to call me that,” he said. “Except when we are in company. When we are alone, call me Henry. I am just your Henry.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Henry looked at her smiling eyes and realized that she had made a joke. It was a start. “I agree that you must stay with Queen Claude for now. But, Mary, you must come to me directly it is over. I am sending Sir Richard Wingfield to replace your father as my French Ambassador. I need such clever men as he with me in England right now. When he takes his leave of the French court, you come with him. Come home to me.”
# # #
Mary entered the Banqueting Hall on the arm of her dear old friend, the Duc de Longueville, and just behind her, Jane and Brandon walked together. It was protocol; none could be escorted by, or sit beside, one’s own partner at such functions. But her heart sank to her knees when she discovered that she must sit beside François at the elaborately decorated table on the royal dais.
Mary and Katharine and their entourages sat on their horses at the top of the ridge watching the ceremonial. As the two kings disappeared into the golden tent, Katharine said, “I wonder what they will speak of.”
Mary envisioned Brandon charging down into this very valley into a rain of arrows to face a horde of shouting French soldiers brandishing swords. It must never be. “Peace, I hope,” she replied.
“Amen to that,” said Katharine, crossing herself. For peace was their only hope. If Henry proved unable to hold the delicate balance of European politics between François and her nephew, the result would be war, and that could only mean misery and ruination for untold thousands. Only the fragile Treaty of London could save them all from the horrors of war. Katharine wanted peace, prayed for peace, and she truly believed, as did Henry, that it could be achieved.
But Katharine had felt a shiver of fear wrack her at the moment Henry and François touched, so far away down in the valley that they looked like little toy kings. She was not a woman given to premonitions, and she dismissed the feeling as the chimera it was. But a tiny seed of doubt had been planted. She only hoped that it would never bear fruit, for what a bitter harvest it would be.
# # #
“The man is insufferable!” shouted Henry. He stamped into the queen’s apartments throwing his velvet bonnet, with its cherished adornments, to the floor.
Katharine, who was stitching an altar cloth, looked up serenely. There was no need to reply; when Henry was in one of his moods, he could sustain an entire conversation by himself. In fact, it was better to let him rant until he spent his anger. To speak, to comment at all, served only to invite one into the fray.
“I do not know why François even bothered to sign the Treaty of London,” said Henry. “He has made it obvious to me that he has no intention of honoring it. Do you know what he suggested? He asks for England’s help in waging war against the Empire. France is completely surrounded by Imperial holdings, you see, and this makes him nervous. And, he says, if I am not willing to fight Charles at his side, then he would be satisfied with England’s neutrality. As if I would ever consider betraying a treaty that I myself brokered to all of Europe on behalf of His Holiness, the Pope! The man is insufferable!”
Katharine was gratified to hear of her husband’s indignance at the perfidy of the French king. But she knew all too well that Wolsey drew a substantial French pension and that he would be loath to lose it. She did not trust Wolsey and his French leanings. She believed most fervently that Wolsey could be sold to the highest bidder, and that he could not be trusted to uphold his own treaty if there was a ducat to be had by gainsaying it. She guessed that Wolsey would soon be putting pressure to bear upon Henry to go along with François’ suggestions. When that happened, she must be ready.
Oh, she had no objection to this childish meeting of the kings of France and England. She did not mind if Henry sought friendship with François as long as he was equally friendly with her nephew, Charles. She also believed in her heart of hearts that François would not break the peace, for if he did, Henry was certain to enforce the non-aggression pact of the Treaty of London to the letter. Was he not raving at this very instant about François’ seeming disloyalty to the pact?
Many had hoped that this meeting would truly be a turning point in Anglo-French relations, that it would serve to lay to rest old enmities and promote permanent peace. But Katharine knew it for the vain, posturing, expensive game that it was. Still, many others thought that it was better to play with the French in the tiltyard than to fight them on the battlefield, and with this she wholeheartedly agreed.
“And you, Madam,” railed Henry, his face now very red and the spittle flying from his mouth, “need not look so smug! Your own beloved nephew tried the same tactics on me at Canterbury, I’ll have you know! And he has one hell of a lot more to offer me than that vain cock, François! Do you know what Charles offered me to betray the treaty? Do you? I will tell you. He tempted me with French lands, and Wolsey with his support when the time comes once again for the earth’s cardinals to bid for the papal tiara! So please do not think that your beloved nephew is any better than that French snake, François!”
Katharine wisely did not take up the gauntlet and make a reply in defense of her nephew. She would have been surprised indeed if Charles and François had not each attempted to sway Henry to their side. This was all good news, really; she was determined to ensure that Henry reached no secret understandings with the French king during this potentially dangerous visit between the two monarchs. Now François had ensured that for her by angering Henry. But why was Henry so angry with François for suggesting the very same thing that Charles had suggested, he who had parted so cordially with her nephew on that gray, brooding day when they had ridden out from Canterbury, Henry making for Dover and Calais, and Charles for Sandwich, and then on to his coronation?
Suddenly she thought she knew the answer. Complicated puzzles often had the simplest of solutions. Henry was jealous of François, bitterly jealous, in a way that he never could be of poor, deformed Charles. Charles was slight of build, quiet, and no good at the tilt. François was handsome and excelled at all forms of war and games. And he had…tears welled up in her eyes at the thought; he had a son, two of them, in fact; indisputably legitimate heirs to the French throne, ensuring the French succession. And Henry hated him for it.
“And I will tell you this,” sputtered Henry in his rage, “I will never, never give my daughter, and through her, England to that…that…evil French demon! He is the devil incarnate! I have heard it said that he resembles the devil, now I know why! That blackguard who calls himself king of France is the devil himself!”
Katharine continued her sewing as Henry raged on. She hoped that he would not take his effusive anger at François out upon the poor French queen when he met her on the morrow.
# # #
Henry twisted his velvet cap in his hands as he awaited the arrival of the French queen. He was prepared to hate her every bit as much as he did François, but he knew that was unfair. Why, oh why, had Wolsey insisted on these intimate dinners between the royals and the nobility? He claimed it was to foster better acquaintance between the principals of the two nations before they met at the tilt, which was, after all, a competition. Perhaps Thomas was right. It was better to have made friends before all of that began. But what in God’s name would he find to talk about with Good Queen Claude?
He looked about him at the interior of the Queen’s presence chamber. It was lined with a delightful shade of sky-blue velvet, and sewn upon it were hundreds of tiny gold foil stars. Queen Claude’s apartments took up the entire right wing of the giant gold brocade tent that he had glimpsed from afar on that first day. The center was her and François’ reception hall, and the left side housed François’ own quarters. Henry had observed wryly as he approached the French encampment that the elaborate silver and lilac tent of Françoise de Chateaubriand was connected directly to the French king’s tent so that he could come and go as he pleased to his mistress, while his pregnant wife stayed not thirty feet away. Poor Claude! Suddenly Henry felt all his chivalric instincts rise within him. He had been right not to bring Bessie, even had he wanted to. He may not love Katharine anymore, bedding her might border on the disgusting, but he would never, never, have insulted her in such a way.
A rustling sound and a subtle scent of roses caused him to turn his head, and standing before him at the entrance to the Queen’s privy chamber was the smallest, most dainty woman he had ever seen. She was so small that she could have been mistaken for a child, but her royal bearing immediately informed him that this was not so. She had soft brown eyes and light brown hair. Her hair was loosely curly, naturally so, he guessed, and little brown crescents of it framed her lovely, heart-shaped face. Her skin was creamy pale, and upon each cheek burned a little pink patch. Poor child, he thought, she is pregnant and not feeling well. He knew all the signs. Had he not been through it all repeatedly with Katharine these past eleven years?
For some reason quite unknown to him, instead of simply bowing, he knelt before her. He took the tiny, proffered little hand into his own beefy ones, kissed it, and said, “Madam, if you are unwell…”
“Oh, no,” she said, and her voice sounded as soft as her hair, like honey poured upon silk, the poet in him thought. “I am quite well. And I have so looked forward to making Your Grace’s better acquaintance.”
And then he realized that this could not be the ugly, deformed French queen after all. This must be someone else. This woman was delightfully beautiful, and that tiny, bejeweled white hand was not the deformed claw from which he had expected to shrink. But when she turned towards the table that had been set for their repast, her hand still in his, he noticed that despite her diminutive size, she wore a heavy silver brocade train, attached at the shoulders to her gown with diamond brooches and falling in thick folds behind her. His heart smote him as he caught just a glimpse of her slightly curved spine. She wears the train, he realized in a flash of insight, to hide her deformity, despite the fact that it must be devilishly heavy and uncomfortable in such heat, and in her condition. She wore the stomacher of the pregnant woman, silver to match the heavy train, and studded with tiny diamonds, so that as she moved in the soft candlelight of the dim tent, she glittered. Her voluminous sleeves matched her train and stomacher, and were sewn with tiny seed pearls. Everything about her, it seemed, was so very small, but elegant and graceful in the extreme.
“But I am forgetting Mary,” said Claude. She had to look up quite a distance to meet Henry’s eyes, he was so much taller than she. Henry had been half-way aware of another presence in the room, but Claude had so commanded his attention, that he had not even looked at this other person. She stepped forward now with lowered eyes. “Although Your Grace’s French is so perfect,” smiled Claude, “that I daresay we will not need an interpreter. Mistress Boleyn, have you met His Grace of England?”
Mary Boleyn lifted her eyes to Henry’s and it was as if a silent thunderclap exploded inside his head. Here, in the flesh, was that shadowy, perfect creature he had dreamed of as he made love to Katharine. She had wide, luminous golden-brown eyes with small green flecks dancing in them; her hair was the color of fresh honey. She was slightly plump but pleasingly so. He was silent for so long as she held out her hand to be kissed that her expression changed from one of eager anticipation to one of confusion and dismay.
“I beg your pardon, Madam,” said Henry, taking the warm, dimpled hand into his and resting his lips upon it lingeringly. “It is just that I never knew that Thomas Boleyn had such a beautiful daughter. I am indeed awestruck. Had I known how lovely you are, I would not have allowed you stay so long in France.” He said this with just the right degree of flippancy to be amusing, and for his words to be taken in jest. The two women smiled brightly.
He vaguely remembered a lanky young girl, all hair and eyes, following in his sister Mary’s train at Dover when she left for France for her marriage to Louis. He had paid that girl no mind at the time. And then Mary had returned when Louis died, leaving the Boleyn girls behind to wait upon Queen Claude.
He suddenly realized that he was staring at Mary, and not making any conversation. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “My Lady, I understand that you have a sister at the French court?” It was all he could think of to say.
Instead of answering, Mary looked at Claude, who said, “Indeed yes. Mary’s sister Anne is one of my favorite ladies. It is a pity that we had to leave her behind in Paris. She was suffering most sore from an ague when we departed.” It was true; Claude liked both the Boleyn girls enormously, although she was aware that Mary was not as chaste as she liked her ladies to be. Still, it was hard to scold Mary; she took everything so much to heart. Claude had never been free of her own emotions, and in a way, she was glad that Mary was able to be free with hers, even if her reputation suffered for it.
Henry was enchanted with the French queen, and even more so with Mary Boleyn. The time passed so quickly that before he knew it, the shadows outside were becoming long. Still he was loath to go. He admired Claude tremendously and enjoyed listening to her intelligent, subtle discourse on a wide variety of subjects. Mary seemed delightfully shy and blushed a great deal whenever she realized that the king’s eyes were upon her.
And it was obvious that the French queen had given much thought to the food she served him; they had dined upon creamed congers, pickled scafflings, and flaky truffles filled with beaten snuggs, all his favorite eel dishes. There had even been raspberry tart with thick cream, his favorite dessert.
Claude sipped her wine and as she reached out to place the goblet back onto the table, she made a move that in another woman, seven months pregnant, would have been an effort to arch her back. The poor dear, thought Henry. How trying it must be for her to sit so long in her condition and with her deformity. Deformity! He refused to think of it as such. The French queen was beautiful, charming, delightful…and Mary Boleyn was a sheer joy to look upon. Both women had that indefinable quality that separated all women into two groups, those who took and those who gave. Both of these sweet, fascinating females were givers. Whatever it was their personalities lacked that prevented them from being scheming was what made them so sweet, so unassuming, and so enchanting.
Mary, who had hitherto said nothing without looking to Claude to see if the queen desired to speak first or for her, now stood up and said, in a tone so assertive that Henry almost laughed out loud, “I am afraid that Her Grace is very tired but that she is too polite to say so, Your Grace. She must rest now.” Mary bustled around Claude like a protective mother hen, helping her to rise.
“I have so enjoyed His Grace of England’s company that I had no desire to end the merrymaking,” said Claude. “I cannot remember when I have so enjoyed a meal.” Suddenly her face twisted in pain. “I…I fear that I cannot rise. I must have sat too long…” Mary, dismayed, looked at Henry.
“There, there,” he said. “There is no need for you to rise. I would be honored beyond words if Your Grace would allow me to carry you.” Without hesitation, without any of the repugnance he had expected to feel, he stepped up to her chair and lifted the little queen in his arms.
“Oh, would you?” said Claude, the sincerity evident in her voice. “I would be so grateful. My, how strong you are!”
Mary led the way to the heavy arras that served as the tent flap between Claude’s presence and privy chambers. Inside the chamber there was an elaborate bed which Mary was already turning down. Henry instinctively laid the little queen on her side; if she had been unable to rise, she would not be able to straighten herself to lie down. Once Claude was on the bed, Mary, on the other side, leaned over to remove the pins from the brooches and slid the heavy train away. She quickly replaced it with the silken counterpane, but not quite fast enough, and Henry had another glimpse at that poor, curved back. Instead of looking away, his eyes rested upon the stomacher, under which was visible a tiny protuberance. Was it another prince she carried?
Inexplicably, Henry’s eyes filled with tears. He looked across the bed at Mary, whose eyes were also filled to brimming. In that moment he knew that he loved the French queen as much as Mary did, and that forged a bond between them. They stood there, their gazes locked, for what seemed like an eternity. After a while, Henry became aware of Claude’s steady, even breathing. She was asleep.
Henry turned without a word and walked back out into the presence chamber. When he turned, Mary was behind him. He held his arms out silently and she melted into his embrace. “I must have you. Now,” he said. “Is there nowhere?”
Mary waved a silent hand around the chamber, whose perimeter was lined with soft sofas piled with cushions.
“But the queen…” whispered Henry.
“…is sleeping the sleep of exhaustion,” Mary replied. “She should not even have made this trip. I am so worried about her.” Henry’s eyes strayed to the outer tent flap. Guessing his concern, she said, “None would dare to enter the queen’s chamber while she dined privately with the king of England.”
“And her beautiful, but superfluous, interpreter,” said Henry, with a disarming smile. He put a finger under Mary’s chin and lifted her face to his. “Still, we must be very quiet.”
When it was over, Henry pulled Mary close to him and said, “You must leave with us. When we go back to Calais, you must come. I cannot do without you.”
Mary shook her head. “That I cannot do,” she replied. “I cannot leave Her Grace before the babe comes. She needs me. But, Your Grace, I do so want to come.”
Henry took Mary’s face into his hands and looked into her eyes. “You are not to call me that,” he said. “Except when we are in company. When we are alone, call me Henry. I am just your Henry.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Henry looked at her smiling eyes and realized that she had made a joke. It was a start. “I agree that you must stay with Queen Claude for now. But, Mary, you must come to me directly it is over. I am sending Sir Richard Wingfield to replace your father as my French Ambassador. I need such clever men as he with me in England right now. When he takes his leave of the French court, you come with him. Come home to me.”
# # #
Mary entered the Banqueting Hall on the arm of her dear old friend, the Duc de Longueville, and just behind her, Jane and Brandon walked together. It was protocol; none could be escorted by, or sit beside, one’s own partner at such functions. But her heart sank to her knees when she discovered that she must sit beside François at the elaborately decorated table on the royal dais.
