“You must have no fear for yourself, Marie,” Francois’s resonant voice assured her. “I shall see you are well cared for always.”
There was a tiny silence and the queen’s voice shook when she answered simply, “Merci, my king.”
“You know you will draw 80,000 francs yearly and have the revenues of Saintonge. You shall want for nothing. And I wish to have you loved and protected by a husband as well as by your adoring king, to remain here ever with us.”
Mary Tudor’s sharp intake of breath shredded the tiny calm. Although his eyes took on a new wariness, Francois du Roi held the pale woman’s hand tight in his own and plunged on. “My dear, the Duke of Savoy is from my own blessed mother’s family. He is honorable and true and he shall adore you.”
The queen shook her head violently so her raven curls bobbed free of her white lace angular headpiece. She could not find the voice to answer, and Mary desired to run to her and throw her arms about her shoulders in comfort. But it was the muscular arm of the King of France which was about Mary Tudor’s quaking body.
“No, cherie? You favor him not? Then one you know more intimately and who has loved you always, the Duke of Lorraine? So blond, so tall and handsome? You have laughed often with him before.”
The widowed queen stared now at her clenched hand in her white lap while Francois seemed to hold the other captive. Her youthful body sagged in exhaustion and dejection, and she heaved with silent sobs, but no tears came. Mary Bullen felt rooted in terror to her chair.
“You shall have the great monies of Blois too, and live like a queen indeed! Marie, ma cherie, which do you choose?”
The rush of tears came then, and Mary thought she could hear each as it pelted onto her ivory satin dress making a tiny silvery print on the material. Still, the distraught woman sat staring at her hand; Mary feared for them both.
The king sat like a statue and then rose suddenly over the sobbing woman and shook her shoulders. “Si vous plait, Marie, Marie.”
His body tensed like some marvelous great horse before it vaults. Then Mary Bullen could remain silent no longer whatever befell her.
“Please, Your Grace,” she breathed, striding to her mistress in a rush of silken skirts, “she has not slept well, and her teeth ache and she is—is, so in need of a strong friend!”
She knelt at her queen’s side as though oblivious to the frustrated king before them and caressed her shivering shoulder with one slender hand and held her tear-speckled fists in her other. “Your Grace, all will be well. Surely this great king can aid you if he knows your true heart, for have you not said he is the greatest chevalier in the kingdom? He is a true Christian king and will be most kind, my lady.”
Mary Tudor looked up from her lap, her eyes wide and almost unseeing. For one tiny second Mary feared her anger at her maid’s daring to urge her queen to share her heart with one she feared could ruin her only chance for happiness. Then the queen’s dark eyes focused on Mary’s blue earnest ones and the tension seemed to flow out of her body.
“Would that I were free to wed you myself, ma Marie,” came Francois’s voice so close to Mary’s ear she almost bolted. “Then your fears would not be so great.”
Will he believe that my mistress loves him only and, therefore, she will not wed with his courtiers, Mary wondered. But who would not love this godlike man?
“I do love and honor you, my Francois, but not just as you would have it. I would no doubt have loved you fully but for the duty we have owed to others and my admiration for your majesty.”
Mary Tudor rose suddenly as though to distance herself from the stunned young king. She stood behind her chair facing him, her cheeks still glistening with tears. Her maid still knelt by her empty chair, and Francois stood with his legs slightly apart and his hands at his sides, waiting.
“My dearest lord, before I ever beheld your fine face or was ever promised to King Louis, I loved another. I loved him honorably from afar, and I love him deeply still, with a true heart and would love him from afar no longer. Indeed, my brother king did promise once that if I were ever widowed, I might choose my second husband with his blessing.”
Mary felt Francois tense beside her. She could feel muscle and sinew stiffen, and she feared for them both again. Mary Tudor calmly stood her ground.
“And who is this most fortunate of men?” he queried.
She hesitated and then spoke his name in a rush of words and feelings. “The King of England’s dearest friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.”