“No, Your Grace.”
“Then we shall make her a good English marriage before some French fop gobbles her up, Thomas. Catherine could use a lady-in-waiting from a fine family such as your own.”
Thomas Bullen bent low in gratitude, and the queen kept silent.
“I always hearken to your advice, Sire. I shall think on the possibilities. Anne, of course, should stay longer, as she is but thirteen.”
“Anne? Ah, yes, but it was Mary we were speaking of.”
“I understand, Your Grace.”
“And Thomas, though I have heard from you and my cardinal, I would like to hear about the character of Francois du Roi from the lips of one who has lived in his court recently. It may help me to deal better with him if I know how much we are alike,” he said loudly, for the curious crowd near the Bullens had grown two and three heads deep.
“In intelligence and wit there is no comparison, Sire,” Thomas Bullen put in grandly. “And Mary shall be available to offer you her opinion should you desire it.”
“Do not stray far, Thomas,” were the last distinct words Mary heard as others took their place near the king and the voices behind them became a dull steady buzz.
“Where was your tongue, girl?” her father inquired out of the side of his mouth as they departed the press of the crowd. “Even Anne spoke. I thought you knew how to handle kings by now. Flattery and smiles and speak up sweetly. You are not to stand there like a hollow golden goddess. Your beauty will take you only so far, and he does not fancy ninnies!”
Tears stung her eyes at the sudden rebuke and a lump caught in her throat. “I was not bid to speak, father. You spoke only of me, not to me.”
“At least he will probably speak to you later. See that you find a sweet tongue by then!”
“Yes, I will, father.”
“Perhaps Marie was too much in awe, father. With her beauty she need not cultivate wittiness as much as I,” put in wide-eyed, serious Anne.
“Yes. Well, both of you at least look your best for the Bullens today. You know your brother would give his best falcon to be here, so make us all proud. I do not intend to have Mary leaving one royal court unless it is to enter another. Do you understand, Mary? You are not going home to embroider with your mother in the long afternoons at Hever nor to breed children on some rural estate.”
He sighed and patted Mary’s shoulder. “Dry your eyes, child. I meant not to be harsh on this wonderful evening. It is only that I will have the best for you and for Anne. I should have explained this all before, but I have been much taken with king’s business. Do you understand?”
“I think I understand much more now, father,” Mary said quietly.
“Fine, fine. Now we shall just bide our time for the king to remember he wishes to talk to you about Francois. Would you like to go back near the throne and speak to your former mistress Princess Mary? You were once aggrieved to leave her, I recall. She is much in the king’s favor again.”
“Yes, I would appreciate that, and she has never met Anne.”
They wound their way back through the clusters of courtiers toward the dais, and the beautiful Tudor Rose sighted Mary and her father. How lovely the king’s sister looked, Mary thought. Her gown was dazzling crimson to offset the rich hue of her lips and cheeks. Golden ribbons were threaded through the slashes in the red, tight bodice of the gown, and emeralds in gold filigree rosettes hung from her slender neck and her tight, chain-link girdle. Twisted strips of fox and whitest ermine lined the puffed outer sleeves and ornate crimson headpiece, separating the dark, rich velvets and brocades from her creamy skin, like a beautiful painting set in a precious frame. Princess Mary Tudor, now the adored Duchess of Suffolk, held out her graceful hand to her old friend Mary Bullen before they had emerged from the press of people.
“Mary, my dear, how you have blossomed!” the princess marvelled. “My lord, do you remember the charming girl who was my English maid of honor when first we wed in Paris?”
Charles Brandon’s dark eyes surveyed Mary’s flushed face and the warm embrace his wife offered the girl. “Of course, I remember, and she is much grown to a beauty. You have conquered the king’s heart, I hear.”
For an instant Mary thought he spoke of King Henry and then blushed to realize that William Stafford’s words must have been true. The English court knew of her affair with Francois du Roi.
“Hush, my lord,” his wife put in. “Anyone would be taken with her beauty, and we need not your commentary on it.”
She turned intimately to Mary and lowered her voice. “You must forgive him, my dear, for he still bears enmity against the French king and your father. I shall see you do not suffer for his feelings.”