She had stood like a wooden doll, frozen in increasing panic and grief as Isabelle’s steady hands divested her of her clothes and sponged her quickly with rose water. The king’s jerky voice went on explaining how he had wagered much to his boon companion Lautrec—explaining what he had wagered and lost.
Mary pulled away from the startled Isabelle as she tried to dust her with powder, and a fine, white cloud of it drifted to the carpeted floor. The king’s sneeze had nearly drowned out her protest at first: “No, my lord king! Not I! That is impossible.”
“Oui, Marie. One night. Look, sweet, he favors you, at least your blonde look of innocence and purity.”
“Innocence and —” She could not repeat his words and stared open-mouthed at his audacity. “No,” she said again. “No, you would not do this. I know I cannot.”
“Listen to me,” he said low, shaking her once. “You will do it for me. I have favored you, coddled you. I have given my word. Just go along and keep those tears off your face, or I swear, I will give some lurid report of your demeanor to your precious father—or see he is dismissed from his post.”
Her eyes focused on his then, and she hoped the utter contempt of her stare hid the naked fear she felt at that threat to tell or hurt her father.
Now the dreadful memories spun and twisted like the two wrestlers here at her feet. They rolled on the grass again. This time it was the Frenchman who rode Stafford’s powerful body. The Englishman’s great tawny shoulder almost brushed the chalked edge of the circle.
Mary shocked herself by shouting out for William Stafford. Ordinarily, she detested the man, but how wonderful it would be to see the smug Lautrec beaten and Francois’s honor diminished before all.
“Come on, Staff, you can beat him. Get up, get up, please!” she screeched like the lowest fishwife on the Paris streets.
The men lay nearly at her feet; she felt an overwhelming urge to kick out at Lautrec or shove him off Staff’s writhing form.
“Staff, Staff, come on!” she shouted again, oblivious to the stares of the princess and her sister.
Suddenly, Stafford gave a great grunting heave and threw Lautrec away. Stafford dove at the Frenchman’s shoulders and pinned him heavily as the marshall began to count, “One...”
Mary held her breath. To have Lautrec shamed was some vindication, though she could share it with no one. “Two...” Unfortunately, it had to be the meddling William Stafford who was her unknowing champion. “Three...Honor to King Henry and his gentleman usher, Master William Stafford.”
The crowd cheered and applauded as the men rose wearily and grasped hands. To Mary’s delight, Lautrec looked like a grass-stained field hand in his ruined tawny and white. The men bowed to the royal box and, before he followed the defeated Lautrec from the ring, Stafford turned in their direction and bowed low to Princess Mary, his eyes and teeth white against his sweaty, tanned face.
Francois was obviously annoyed, but Henry pounded him on his back good naturedly and reminded him that the French champions had earned many a fall and tournament point over the last week. Yet it was clear to all that the English, though from a smaller, poorer nation, held the balance of athletic prowess.
“My dear brother,” King Henry was saying in a booming voice, his arm still draped around Francois’s silken shoulder, “I would try you for a fall in a friendly bout. Will you accept?”
“Oh, no, my Henry,” Mary heard the princess beside her murmur under her breath, “this is not wise.”
“Indeed I accept, brother Henry,” intoned Francois loudly, bowing and smiling to the rapt gallery. As they stood and made their way down to the field, both queens put out their hands to detain their husbands and implore them to be seated, but the mood was set—the challenge lay there in the sun for all to see.
Bonnivet seconded his master, helping him remove his doublet and shirt while the crowd watched to see the powerful French king half stripped before them. The Duke of Suffolk hastened to assist his king, his dark smooth hair in sharp contrast to Henry Tudor’s mane and beard which gleamed in the light.
“Both are magnificent,” Rose Dacre said too loudly in the hush, and Mary nodded wordlessly. She hoped she never saw Francois’s bare chest again as long as she lived. Like a lion compared to a sleek fox, King Henry’s massive chest and arms were covered with golden hair.