“Oh, oui, Marie,” he said as he pushed her back upon her bed. “Oui and oui, whenever I would have it so—whenever I send for you. You will come running next time, will you not?”
He’d punished her that day, but was this not all punishment in truth? Now in his bed some five months later at the vast hunt lodge of Fountainebleau, she shed no tears for the foolish Mary Bullen. Instead, she turned her head and glared at the sleeping man. Carefully, she pulled her rampant tresses from under his extended left arm. He groaned, and she froze as the sleeping man muttered incoherently. She smiled to know that even kings had fears and nightmares, even as she and Annie.
The last few months had skimmed by, first with the thrill and danger of the king’s avid attentions and then with apprehension as he grew restive with her and sampled other bon-bons at his court, bouncing back to Francoise du Foix’s luxurious bed whenever his appetite waned. The bitter shredding of each girlish fancy—that he adored her only, that she could keep this handsome king forever, that he would be her knight protector—had given her months of agony. Francois du Roi enjoyed his Marie when the whim took him, but she was no more dear to him than one fine palfrey from a whole stable or one blooded hound from his pedigree pack.
Sometimes she thought that she could have withstood all the disenchantment except when he expected her to amuse one of his cronies. Then she was certain she could die from shame. Once she had heard them snickering as they compared the secret charms of their pretty pack of jeune filles. In that crashing second, something sweet and vital inside her withered, and her long-tended love for Francois du Roi died. Knowing how to see clearly could be one’s very survival at court, Signor da Vinci had told her long ago. Yet she had not seen Francois clearly until she had shared his bed, and she could not see how to draw back safely now.
She thanked the blessed Virgin her lord father knew not about the others besides the king. When she had sent to him for advice and help, he had encouraged her to share the glorious king’s bed, for was not such service an honor? She prayed fervently again her father would never know how Francois had once paid a gambling debt with her. She shuddered at the thought. The winner had been Lautrec, Francoise du Foix’s crafty brother, and the memory of his use of her was enough to make her draw far within herself.
She pulled farther away from Francois, rolled on her side, curling up her knees like a child, her back to him. An honor to be possessed by the King of France, father had said, a monarch almost as grand as King Henry. Her reputation would be much enhanced both here and at home, he’d promised. But Mary could too often picture her mother’s tears if she heard, Semmonet’s cluck-clucking in disapproval, William Stafford’s accusing look, and Signor da Vinci’s warning of the pain she showed in her eyes. Queen Claude knew, Mary was sure, but her kindness never wavered. Better to be sick, ugly Claude than pretty, healthy and so ensnared. Dear heavens, someday she would escape, somehow she would go home and show this man who consumed her body and crushed her pride that she favored him not.
If only she could be like the lady in the small portrait by Master da Vinci which Francois had hung in whatever bedchamber he inhabited—it hung here now—the lovely lady whose eyes and lips only hinted at her inward heart. La Gioconda, Francois called her. Mary sat to study the painting, but the sunlight had not yet reached it, and it still hung in dim obscurity. The king could never shatter La Gioconda’s calm as he crashed through the deep forests after stag or danced wild galliards or skewered his nymphs.
“Awake, golden Marie,” came his deep voice behind her. He ran his warm hand lazily down her bare spine. Gooseflesh rose on her arms; she turned slowly to face him. His eyes were languorous, heavy-lidded. “You were not leaving, were you, ma cherie, ma petite Anglaise, so different from that witch Francoise.”
At that thought, his voice rose and he exploded from the bed. “Damn her selfish little soul for being unfaithful to me with Bonnivet—Guillaume Bonnivet, one of my closest friends!”
Mary had known nothing of that. Is that why he had been especially cruel lately?
He swore a string of oaths and pulled on a white silk shirt, then stepped into his breeches. Mary sat huddled on the bed wrapped in the sheet like a protective cocoon.
“After I had punished her enough with others—nearly a fort-night,” he raged on, “I decided she had been tormented by the royal wrath long enough. But that, sweet Marie, is why I decided to send Bonnivet as my envoy to wheedle or buy the damned legates electing the new Holy Roman Emperor. I must be hearing any time now, for the election was four days ago.”