The Secret Bride (42 page)

She moved among the guests with Francois still beside her, seemingly uninterested in leaving her side. That fact did not bother her overly, with all of the activity—the music and the swirl of elegant gowns and jewels all around her—until she saw a flash of Claude’s sad young face amid the crowd as they passed her together. Francois could not have missed her doleful eyes, an expression full of betrayal on her young face.

Yet Francois neglected even to acknowledge her as his wife as they went by her. Beneath all of the French charm, he had such a cruel streak, Mary thought.

Only then did Mary realize that he seemed to be leading her not into the crowd of waiting guests, but through them and with another goal entirely. She tried to stop but he drew her skillfully, introducing her as they moved so that there was no way to turn from him, no moment to object. Ducs, viscomtes, comtes. Velvet, silk, rubies flashing. Smiles. Flattery. An overabundance of bows and curtsies. A blinding repetition of it all, and then they turned a corner and, as she feared, Mary was alone with him. Two studded leather chairs and a table with a burning candle lamp between them were framed by swags of fringed gold and forest green brocade drapery, making it a small and seductive alcove framed by heavy stone columns.

“I thought you might like to catch your breath,” he said in a slow, deep voice with which she had not heard him speak before.

Mary looked up at him as he leaned against one of the columns, crossing his arms and one leg casually over the other. “I was actually enjoying greeting my guests, Francois.

That is my role here, after all, is it not?” She had tried to insert a challenging tone into the question but the voice she heard echo back at her sounded defensive amid her rising sense of panic.

He reached out then and cupped a hand beneath her chin, then pressed himself closer. She did not want this man, who clearly had convinced himself otherwise. She tried to move away but there was nowhere to go between the chair and the column.

“We really must get back to the king’s guests.”

“Would you say that if Suffolk were standing here with you right now and not me?”

“The Duke of Suffolk,” she tried to chuckle blithely, as if she were not becoming terrified. “What has he to do with this?”

“Why do you not tell me?”

His expression was one of bitterness, his eyebrows raised in challenge. The tone of his question had sounded almost menacing to Mary. She tried to turn away but he brought her chin back around with a hand too powerful to resist.

“I would like to return to my guests now.”

“Not before I see if what they say is true, that an English rose has no thorns at all if you simply know how to hold it.”

As he pressed his mouth onto hers greedily then, she sensed as much anger as lust in his kiss. But Mary felt him suddenly being jerked back so forcefully that it shook the heavy brocade draperies that hid them on their iron rod. It was not, however, a man who had rescued her, but rather a woman in stiff black silk and a silver chain: Louise de Savoy, the dauphin’s own mother. Behind her stood Claude, her sad eyes filled with tears.

“Miserable fool!” Louise charged, not at Mary but at her own son, each word cold and severe. “Can you for once conduct yourself by your brain and not your ballocks!”

He shook his arm free of her hand with one hard snap.

“You understand nothing, Mother!”

“At least wait until the old lion is dead before you go chasing his quarry, or you could ruin everything for which you have struggled and worked!”

He arched a dark brow, then cast a glance at his wife, but there was nothing of sympathy in it. He looked back at Louise. “Everything for which
I
have worked? Do you not mean you, Mother? It has been your dream, your obsession, to make me King of France since the moment I drew my first breath!”

“And you would jeopardize something so grand for a woman when you are finally this close? Woman after woman, Francois, truly. If your ambition does not lead you any longer, can you not at least be led by a dose of guilt? Think of your poor wife and how you insult her in this continually if nothing else!”

“You care nothing for Claude,
Maman
,” he charged back at her, as if they were the only two there. “She has been a means to an end for us both, and you well know it!”

“That is a vulgar thing to say!” Mary cried, hands shooting onto her hips when she was unable to contain her anger at the paralyzing cruelty of their words. Before her were two people quite brutally unraveling the heart of the poor young woman with them, whom neither even seemed to notice. For Mary, that thought took the place of what had almost happened in the alcove with the heir to the throne of France.

Later, when Louise and Francois had both gone back to their guests, Mary remained behind with Claude. Now Mary stroked Claude’s hair as she wept, and tried to gain her own bearings about what had happened.

“The funny thing is,” Claude sniffed as she pressed Mary’s proffered handkerchief against one eye and then the other, “I don’t even want to be queen. I was foolish to actually believe, when we were nearly perfect strangers, that he loved me as well, and that was what mattered to me when I married him.”

“It is easy enough to be misled by your heart,” Mary said soothingly, thinking of poor Jane back in England, with Knyvet and Longueville, and of Katherine as well, who loved Henry still, in spite of how his attention had begun increasingly to wander.

“No matter whether you could ever love my father or not, I am glad you are his wife,” Claude said on a sniffle, dabbing at her eyes again.

“Thank you for that.”

“And do be cautious with my husband. He really does not lose well at all.”

“I will consider myself warned,” she said, rising back to her feet and lingering a moment over Claude, who had not moved from the leather chair in which she had first sat curled, knees to her chest.

Mary was tired now and miserable without Charles. Miserable in France. Knowing he was somewhere within the walls of this same great French palace, yet knowing they were apart, was its own kind of torture.

The risk was great but she had no other choice. Mary had decided to enlist the aid of Diane de Poitiers, who she discerned was not so much at the French court that her alliances there would be overly strong. Like herself, Diane had been given over to a strategic marriage with a powerful, much older man. Mary was not entirely certain this beautiful young woman could be trusted, but as the time grew short she needed to rely on someone. There really was no one else. And she had felt a indefinable kinship between them from that first introduction.

In elegant pale blue silk with a pearl-studded headdress, Diane came forward that evening into Mary’s private withdrawing chamber. The room was lit to a warm, golden glow by the blazing fire within the carved stone hearth. Louis’ symbol, the porcupine, prominently adorned the mantel.

Above it was a painting of the king in full battle armor, much as her father had once kept back in England, of himself, astride a great warrior bay, designed to remind his wife of the glory of his youth, and hopefully to impress her. With the painting looming before them, Mary directed Diane to sit beside her near the fire. Then she excused Madame d’Aumont, who had been teaching Anne Boleyn how to play cards at a small cloth-draped table across the room.

“I have need of a favor and, perhaps by the king’s own design, there is no one left to me at the court that I can ask.”

“How may I serve Your Majesty?” asked Diane, her voice rich with sincerity, her smile a half-moon.

Mary drew in a breath, feeling suddenly that she was in the very midst of one of those great games with Henry that they used to play, where she was about to gamble everything to win. She must do it all, say it all. Now would be her only opportunity. “You must seek out the duc de Longueville at once because he knows this old palace well. Tell him the queen has need of a private sanctuary within these walls, a little-known place where I may be alone and not be discovered. Once he has told you, you are to return to me with the information as quickly as you can, and you are to tell no one. Your discretion in this is of the utmost importance to me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I understand. My discretion goes without saying.”

“And finally—when you find him, you are to let no one see you give him this.” She drew forth a small folded missive and held it up, feeling the full weight now of all she risked.

“It is to be given by Longueville directly to the Duke of Suffolk and no other.” There was an awkward little silence before Mary added, “His Grace returns to England tomorrow and it is he who my brother, King Henry, bade should bring him word of circumstances with the King of France, so I need time to advise him.”

Diane curtsied deeply but her eyes never left Mary’s hopeful gaze, saying within it that she hoped with all her heart that she had chosen well. “It will be an honor, Your Majesty, to serve both you and the Duke of Suffolk with my fidelity and my discretion. I know the duc de Longueville will feel the same.”

Mary studied her a moment longer. Diane’s was a kind face . . . sincere . . . intelligent . . . meant for so much more than the life she had. Mary was afraid to trust someone so completely with what was so dear. But there was no other choice. The risk had been taken. Now she had only to wait, and hope that she had gambled well.

The king lay in his grand tester bed, his left leg, the one that pained him most severely, elevated on a stack of velvet pillows, and the ever present scent of camphor strong around him. Glowing candle lamps dotted the vast room and sent shadows onto the walls.

“Did you send for the queen?” he asked his groom, who approached the great bed, bowing deeply.

“The Grande Seneschale de Normandie was just emerging from Her Majesty’s bedchamber when I arrived,” the servant dutifully reported. “I was informed that the queen had gone to sleep with a headache. Does Your Majesty wish me to have her woken and brought to you?”

Louis let out a heavy sigh and, for a moment, closed his eyes. He thought of nothing but Mary, his bright, precious treasure. He wished for her . . . longed for her . . . and craved mainly the youth that her nearness brought.
She might have come to bid me good night,
he thought, pressing back the disappointment that made him feel more old and foolish than he already did.
There is no fool quite like an old fool,
he thought.

Especially one who dares to yearn for a young and beautiful wife. . . .