“You can tell the king it kicked you and he will be most guilty and solicitous for days, Marie. Oh, look at the path of his blood!”
Mary stood silently at the back of the courtiers crowding the doorway to the lovely salon now transformed into a trampled battleground between king and victim. Perhaps Francois will be injured or killed, Mary thought suddenly, and then crossed herself hastily for the wicked idea.
The beast ran in circles now, and nearly vaulted out of corners when Francois had almost trapped him. “Stay back! Stay back!” the king warned between gasps as he chased the terrified boar. “This is king’s business alone!”
The curved tusks of the animal ripped a velvet drape as it charged, and its flying hoofs spun him madly on the thick carpet and polished floors. The king’s third thrust went true. The hilt of Francois’s sword drove into the stretched throat of the beast and it sank to its knees impaling itself further. It shuddered and heaved over on its side, one tusk digging into the plush carpet. Francois approached dramatically. He withdrew the bloodied sword and plunged it deep into the heart where it stayed, its silver hilt bobbing merrily above the slaughtered boar.
A tremendous cheer went up for the begrimed, sweating hero. His dark eyes gleamed, and his breath came swiftly through parted teeth. All were in awe of his nerve and prowess, but Mary felt suddenly sick, queasy and weak at her knees. She leaned against Jeanne for support.
“Does the blood sicken you, Marie? I thought Englishmen were marvelous hunters, too. Here, Marie, sit here and it will pass.”
Jeanne helped Mary to a carved bench in the huge entryway of the chateau, then scurried back to the room where Francois was soaking in the adulation of his mignons.
Mary leaned her head back against the carved panelling and kept her eyes tight shut until the feeling passed. How foolish. She had seen animals trapped and slaughtered before, and it would be a popular pastime at King Henry’s court when she went home.
Home. Home was Hever, not London. Sometimes she thought she would never go home to Hever. If only her father would wed her to some English lord who would be kinder than Francois—someone truly affectionate and protecting. Her gaze drifted out the front doors over the ruined barricade and sought the deep blue-green of Fontainebleau’s vast forests.
Jeanne scuttled back and broke her reverie. “They are coming this way, Marie. We are to have a banquet and dancing tonight and eat the very boar we saw killed!”
Mary stood as courtiers trooped back through the entry and down the steps to survey the fated barricade. Several bent to touch her bloodied skirts and to praise the bravery and finesse of their king again.
Then Francois swept by laughing, his beaming sister Marguerite on his arm and a frantic Francoise du Foix following behind. He stopped when he saw Mary’s white face and offered her his other hand. “Marie, they tell me the boar bloodied your dress as he charged past with the king in hot pursuit. He did not harm you?”
“No. Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.” The sweet words turned to dust on her lips, but she had said them.
“Fine. I would not wish to begin better relations with your country by harming one of their most charming treasures, eh?”
As Mary took his arm, the king’s eye caught Francoise’s face. “And you, Madam, may go find your damned Bonnivet and warm his bed. I am certain he shall have need of such solicitation after his miserable failure in Germany.”
Francoise’s jade eyes showed no pain or anger as far as Mary could tell. She swept her king a low curtsey, still holding her proud head erect so that her full breasts were almost completely visible above her low-cut neckline. “Better to send me to far Muscovy and let me freeze to death, Your Grace. Though in shame or disfavor, I would dwell near the sun.” She smiled brilliantly at her king, and Mary could feel him waver.
“Well, then,” he returned, “see that you do not get so close that your lovely dress becomes singed by the sun, or that your fair skin feels its full heat.”
“I would welcome it, Your Majesty, even if it meant I would be burned.”
Francois laughed in delight and responded gaily, “Well, come along all of you. We have much activity left today.”
Though Mary held the king’s arm on the opposite side of Marguerite, Francoise du Foix’s full swaying skirts nearly pushed her away as she chatted and laughed alongside her king.
CHAPTER NINE
June 6, 1520
Picardy