Even the sunlight of December looks chilling, thought Mary Bullen as she gazed at the slate sky over the stony balustrades of Cluny. At least she could bundle up and walk the old Roman ruins in the frozen gardens again today. “If this Hotel de Cluny were on the river, we would freeze indeed, Your Grace,” she observed to her mistress as she sat stiffly in her carved oak chair awaiting the new king. Her heavily brocaded skirts with their stuffed folds looked like carved marble, but Mary knew she was no cold statue. She could see Mary Tudor’s quick breathing move the tight-fitted ivory silk bodice under the folds of tulle and white crepe draped gracefully from her shoulders. Jewels winked steadily from both layers of brocade sleeves where they were slashed for decoration, and heavy girdle and rosary chains drooped to the carpeted floor by the tips of her velvet slippers.
Mary Bullen herself felt cold and colorless in her heavy white velvet and brocade gown which clung to her yet slender form which promised the full curves of a woman’s body. How still the room was until her dear queen and friend spoke again.
“I fear we might freeze anyway, Mary, in our hearts at least, if we do not escape this place soon. He knows full well I am not with child. How I long to burn this colorless brocade and silk and tulle and crepe before his eyes and dance laughing at his consecration at Reims!”
Her vehemence frightened Mary, and she felt the knot in the pit of her stomach tighten. “You are only tired, Your Grace. There will be good news, and soon. How is your toothache?”
“Worse, Mary, worse and worse. This oil of peppermint and camphor helps not at all. But then, I pain all over, so who is to tell its cause or remedy?” She laughed strangely, and Mary was grateful for the knock on the door. She moved carefully back against the wall to appear as unobtrusive as possible in this confrontation of her powerful betters. Her white skirts rustled surprisingly loudly.
The door glided open as if of its own volition and he was there, larger and grander than Mary had ever seen him at banquet or masque or gaming. His massive shoulders stretched the white velvet taut, and his sleek black head with the fine-chiseled features towered near the ceiling as she stared, mesmerized. In that stunning instant she tried not to gape, but his agile legs and hips below his short, white velvet, ermine-edged cloak fascinated her as he swept past and approached her waiting mistress. White embroidery, lace, delicate tuckings, and elaborate ribbings rioted across the white of his short doubtlet, breech, and tight stockings. Despite the fact that he, like them, was clothed entirely in white, he radiated warmth and vitality. His muscular legs were revealed in each sinewy twist and turn by the golden filigree material of his garters. He swept off his ermine cap flowing with pure white heron plumes and his golden belt, dagger, and the decorated codpiece that covered his manhood, all emanated a richness and heat that neither Englishwoman felt in her mourning whites.
Mary Bullen drew in her breath swiftly in the tiny silence of the room before anyone spoke. If her dear mistress Mary Tudor felt anything of the impact this Valois king had on her, this interview would be interesting indeed!
Francois bent gracefully to kiss both of the pale woman’s cheeks and his embrace seemed to linger. “Ma cherie Marie. How is it with you, my most beautiful queen?”
“I am queen no longer, Your Grace, as well you know. But I thank you. I am well.”
“But so pale, ma charmante? Would that Francois could bring sweet roses to those fair lips and white cheeks.”
His voice seemed of deepest velvet as the cloak he wore, and his caressing tone so intimate and personal that Mary felt a rush of embarrassment even as she saw her mistress blush hot under his intense scrutiny.
“Your Majesty, I request that my English maid be permitted to stay. She is most dear to me.”
His sleek head rotated smoothly, and the fierce, dark eyes were on Mary. Unlike anything she had ever experienced, they seemed to sweep over her in a moment, probing, piercing. She remembered to curtsy.
“La petite blonde Anglaise Boullaine. Oui. I remember. She grows into a Venus, does she not?”
The sensual mouth under the long aquiline nose had formed the remark smoothly, and Mary’s heart nearly fell to her feet. To be so complimented by the King of France! But then, she thought, he is merely being charming. What a little fool is the “petite Boullaine,” she told herself firmly.
The new king and old queen sat together near the window under the huge tapestry of Orpheus and Eurydice trying to escape from the black reaches of Hades. Mary perched nervously on a gilt chair in the corner and tried to pretend she took no notice of their passionate interview.