Francois had arranged the amusement for the day, but the mood of the courtiers at Fontainebleau was anything but festive. Mary noted tight little groups whispering as though they were waiting for the other royal fist to strike after the initial outbreak.
Francois darted about ordering his guards to move the barriers or change the wooden poles which blocked the grand staircase from the arena in which he would confront the pawing, grunting boar they could all see freshly penned by his trappers. Courtiers jostled each other at the narrow windows for a good view, latecomers and ladies stood on the staircase behind the barricades for the best position. Mary, newly changed and coiffed, joined Jeanne du Lac there.
“Need I even ask where you have been, Marie?” Jeanne asked icily with a raised brow. “Francoise du Foix was quite incensed when she realized you were with him all night, you know. She worries her hold is slipping, and she does keep track of us.”
Mary could feel a hot blush spread on her cheeks, but she changed the subject. “Is the word well spread of Charles’s victory as the new emperor?”
“Oui. And I hear du Roi took it violently, even slapped the poor messenger from Bonnivet.” She laughed in her silvery tones.
“It is true, Jeanne. I was there.”
“Well! Will you tell me all of it?” There was a little silence. “Francoise declares you only interest him because you are different—English, I guess.”
“And because of her mock sweetness,” came Francoise’s catty voice behind them suddenly. “Any man needs a little rest from an exciting gourmet diet at times.” Her clear green eyes bored into Mary’s as though she were daring her to answer.
“Indeed, Madam du Chateaubriand,” Mary responded slowly, turning back to the wide-eyed Jeanne. “That is what His Grace indicates, too. Yet he finds it tiresome to have to knock and announce himself so that others can quickly vacate the place where he himself would rest.”
Francoise’s feline eyes narrowed, and she spun sharply away. Jeanne nearly sputtered in disbelief that the sweet-tempered Marie had so bested the confident Francoise.
“Marie, tell me what happened,” she begged as they settled themselves behind the other ladies. “To what do you refer? Tell me!”
“Later, Jeanne, I meant not to be so vicious. I fear I just wished to strike out, and, well—she was there.”
A gasp of anticipation rose from the gathering as the boar was pushed and shoved by four trappers into the crude arena. Francois appeared clothed for hunting as she had seen him this morning. He swept past the clusters of ladies and vaulted the barrier at the foot of the steps bravely, his single sword held aloft. Everyone else cheered mightily, though Mary kept her chagrined silence. It came to her that she knew how the boar felt, ensnared, terrified, about to be skewered for the king’s pleasure.
How Francois had laughed at her shame and fears that time in Queen Claude’s room when he had summoned her while Claude and most of her ladies were at chapel. How he had seemed to revel in her outright terror they would be discovered in the queen’s bed which he admitted he never visited anymore until it was time to get poor Claude with child again.
If one of the ladies had come in to see the English Mary Bullen with the French king astride her naked hips, or if the king’s mother or sister—or Claude, or worst of all, her own father had seen that!
She shrugged and shook her head, not realizing Jeanne studied her intently. How she had suffered from the knowledge that Francois did not value her except as an occasional amusement; how her hatred for him grew. Fantasies that he would love her as she had once loved him—shattered, all shattered now. And in the place of girlhood dreams grew a woman’s realization of a world where hurt and pain were not only possible but certain.
“He is so brave and magnificent,” Jeanne said loudly to no one in particular.
The boar pawed the cobbles of the courtyard, then charged at the king, who leapt from his path laughing wildly. Francois jabbed at it once, as it made a raucous pass. The sword drew a crimson puddle of blood on its bristled back. Wide-eyed in fear, it smashed the barricade before the steps and vaulted the low rubble of the crude wooden poles. Horrified, the ladies on the steps screamed and scattered as the boar smashed its way up the staircase. It slavered and wheezed and shoved past. Mary crushed against Jeanne in panic. Its terrified rush left a black smear of blood on Mary’s flying skirts. She heard herself scream as Francois and six armed courtiers charged past after the boar, now loose in the long gallery of the chateau. Mary trembled with fear and disgust as other people inquired of her well-being. Then they scurried after their king, and Jeanne pulled Mary along in their wake.