“Paris is noisome and too near the church powers. It is another wise move. Needless to say, Princess Mary and the duke remain here until they can work out their difficulties one way or the other.”
“You are helping them?”
“I help only my king, child.” He turned to go, and she stood desperate for kinder words, for a gentle look. “And of course, the Bullens,” he added at the door.
“Dry your eyes, Mary. We are blessed that the new queen will take on two young English girls. She is pious and the people love her, though much as with our own king, Francois loves elsewhere.”
“You said two English girls, father?”
“Your sister Anne joins you this summer. I go home to fetch her when I take this bauble to His Grace. I expect you will know to take good care of Anne. She is witty and clever already, though her looks will never match your Howard beauty.”
At least I shall have Annie’s company, thought Mary, as he swung the door wide and the dozing linkboy jumped to attention in the hall behind. But Annie is only eight, and Annie is mother’s baby.
“Anne is young, my lord, younger than I when I went to Archduchess Margaret’s court.” Now mother will have empty gardens at Hever, she thought.
“Younger, but perhaps with more sense, Mary. Remember everything the two of you do can and will reflect on me and the Bullens. Make me—and your mother—proud, Mary. Bid farewell quickly to the Princess Mary. I will keep in touch.”
The door closed. Mary sank, drained, on her narrow bed. At least she would have Annie to get to know again, to help, to mother, to love.
He did not even remove his cloak while he was here, she thought bitterly. She began to sob.
CHAPTER FIVE
June 22, 1517
Chateau du Amboise
The ponderous, lumbering Medieval castle of Amboise was a miracle of rebirth. The massive stone walls had sprouted arabesques of arches and charming pinnacles pointed their creamy fingers into the tall blue skies of the sheltering Loire valley. Rich parquet floors and spacious windows graced the once gloomy chambers and spans of fragrant foliage edged the formal gardens of Persian roses and gentle scented lavender. From fountains arched tiny rivulets of clear water and Italian tapestries and paintings caressed the papered walls in gallery and chamber. Francois’s chateau stood proudly at the glowing dawn of the French Renaissance.
In the three years since the decrepit Louis XII and his ancient order had passed away, all of France had flourished under the promised hope of the new king’s ascension. On Francois’s badge stood the mythical salamander which could survive fire, and so far, Francois had been true to his motto: “I nourish and I quench.” In the past two years, the young king had marched south conquering the Swiss and making a triumphal entry into Milan. He had been honored by the pope, had breathed the learned, artistic air of Renaissance Italy and had returned victorious to Marseilles stuffed with new plans, laden with Italian styles, and accompanied by the sixty-four-year-old Leonardo da Vinci. Francois’s power and patronage gave great impetus to the new France. He both extinguished the settling ashes of the Middle Ages and nourished the glowing kindling of the Renaissance.
Transformation had touched Mary Bullen’s life, too, for she was a part of the upheavals and shifting times. Uprooted from her disgraced mistress and guardian, the young widowed French queen, she had joined the three hundred ladies in waiting to the pious, ever-pregnant Queen Claude. She had delighted at the queen’s belated coronation this past season and rejoiced with the realm when an heir was finally born this year after two darling but dynastically useless daughters. And finally, though she never fully understood why it had taken so long when her father had promised it three whole years ago, her eleven-year-old sister Anne had joined her at Francois’s fashionable court.
“But, Mary,” Anne had complained more than once since she had arrived a week ago, “why must we always be in chapel or studying Latin texts? Even the needlework is, well, so religious!”
Mary sighed, for Anne voiced the exact sentiments of most of Claude’s sheltered demoiselles du honneur. “Her Grace is a good and pious woman, Annie, and we are her charges. She will not always keep us from the other court. We are too many for her to watch, and some of us shall be noticed sooner or later. You will see.”
“The other court. Of du Roi Francois? Oui, ma Marie, but I am only of eleven years, and I doubt I shall see much beaute or gallantre. C’est grande dommage.”