They were to call it The Field of the Cloth of Gold, a magnificent meeting of sovereigns and nations on the smooth grassy plain between Guines and Ardres. Mary and Anne Bullen were thrilled to have been given over to the care of their father for the three-week spectacle. They were among their own countrymen, although Anne thought them crude and coarse in manners next to French courtiers. Most importantly, father had promised they would be presented to King Henry.
Mary was elated to be temporarily free of Francois’s fickle whims for her presence. And what wonderful diversion the feasting, jousting, and elaborate entertainments would be—a far cry from Queen Claude’s stuffy court. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “there is only one cloud in the sky.” William Stafford was serving as liaison between her father and the English king, and she was going to have to put up with his annoying presence.
“Why have you attached yourself to this particular duty?” she asked Stafford coldly as soon as she had the opportunity. She intended to settle him in his place as quickly as possible, so he would not bother her over the days to come. She had learned to set Rene de Brosse back by copying some of Jeanne’s and Francoise du Foix’s cattiness, and she meant to be rid of the ever-watchful Master Stafford immediately.
“I have not attached myself, Mistress Bullen. It is only slugs and snails and sticky courtiers which do that. I have been attached by His Grace, though a more pleasant and scenic assignment I could not have imagined.” He had his hands linked behind his back and his muscular legs spread as he regarded her with amusement.
“Do you not consider yourself a sticky courtier, sir?”
“I serve His Grace at court not by design, Mary. He keeps me about him at his choosing—for his safety, he believes. I would be a well-content midlands farmer had I control of my life. But I will tell you of all that another time.”
He turned away to gather the ambassador’s papers as he heard Thomas Bullen’s strident voice in the next room. A farmer? She was much puzzled by such foolishness from a man who obviously had the king’s eye. And she was angry with herself that she felt intrigued by what he said when she had fully intended to dispense with him completely.
She turned and smiled vibrantly at her father, who bustled in with several men in his wake, followed by her vivacious thirteen-year-old sister.
“Father says we may go to survey the royal arrangements, Marie. Everything is prepared for the arrival of Francois du Roi and Henry Rex on the morrow. We are even to enter King Henry’s beautiful palace!”
“Settle down, both of you, and get riding gear if you wish to go,” came her father’s voice over Anne’s. “Stafford, I am glad to see you are prompt. His Grace calls you Staff, I believe.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Then I shall too. I recall you were an able privy aide two years ago in Paris. I can use you well here. Keep close as we survey preparations and keep an eye on the girls, will you?”
“With greatest pleasure, my lord.”
Mary was chagrined to see that last impudent remark amuse her father, who was usually so stern, but everyone seemed to be in a fine mood on this day. She hurried to get her riding gloves and a large brimmed hat to shade her face on this hot, sunny day.
Their inspection party was not so intimate as Mary had visualized as they clattered fifteen strong out of old Guines Castle and followed the narrow road down toward the sloping plain. She and Anne rode lovely palfreys brought last week from England.
“There are some forty-five hundred courtiers or servants arrived at Calais to accompany His Majesty, including two thousand horses,” William Stafford said at her side as they cantered along.
“Tell us all about it and the court and His Grace if you please,” Anne said, riding on Stafford’s other flank.
He laughed. “Well, Mistress Anne, I fear we have not the time for all of that now as we are nearly arrived, but I would consider it an honor to converse at length with you later.”
“We would be grateful, sir.”
Mary thought of a scathing remark, but held her tongue.
They halted in awe at the view spread before them. Striped tents, hundreds of them, looking like fluted sea shells, sprang from the plain. A huge gilded tent which glittered in the sun pointed skyward. There were tournament fields and brightly painted tilt rails and flags, flags fluttered everywhere. The entire panorama was dominated by the English king’s newly finished Palace of Illusions.
“It is marvelous,” breathed Mary.
“Indeed, but I would expect as much from eleven thousand Dutch workmen, Wolsey’s brain, and millions of treasury pounds,” William Stafford commented.
They rode down toward the fabulous palace, and Stafford helped the two ladies dismount. Mary gazed up at the shiny glass windows, the battlemented walls and the four huge towers with mock arrow slits. Four golden lions topped the gatehouse pillars and Tudor pennants danced aloft in the gentle breeze.
“They say it was all built in England and then shipped over in parts,” Mary put in. “But it looks like stone.”