The Last Boleyn by Karen Harper Page A

Claude’s voice floated to her again.
    â€œDo not let Madam du Alencon tease, nor the queen mother frighten you,
petite
Boullaine. But have a care not to cross them either.”
    Mary turned and her silken skirts rustled loudly in the quiet room. “
Merci,
Your Grace.”
    But Queen Claude leaned as though she drowsed heavily, her bulky form outlined before the low-burning hearth.

    Mary soon found she was foolish to think she could hide from facing the restive king by hovering close to the queen’s well-guarded chamber. The arm of
du Roi,
she learned that same day, could reach anywhere.
    â€œMarie, Monsieur du Fragonard is here in the blue room—to see you alone,” came Jeanne’s excited words. She lowered her voice cautiously as she leaned closer. “No doubt, he bears a message from His Grace, Marie, for Fragonard is most intimate to royal business—in private matters.”
    Mary could feel her heart beat a distinct thud, thud. “Then I must speak to Monsieur Fragonard,” she said only.
    Jeanne trailed along down the narrow hallway to the reception room, one in a series of formal receiving chambers which the sequestered Claude seldom used. Jeanne lingered at the door while Mary rapped and entered.
    Monsieur Fragonard had silver hair and his doublet and hose were of shimmery gray satin. He bowed elaborately and unnecessarily low.
    â€œMademoiselle Marie Boullaine.” He seemed to breathe her name rather than speak it. “May we sit together for a moment? I have a message for you from
du Roi.
” He smiled smoothly and she sat where he had indicated. “A message for your ears only.”
    He leaned one lace-cuffed hand on his silver-headed walking stick. “Our king is still charmed by the memory of your warmth and beauty from your too brief time together in Paris last month. You, ah, no doubt, think fondly of him too.”
    There was a tiny silence while her mind darted wildly about for a way to draw back from the looming precipice. Fool, she told herself, was this not what you have dreamed of for these last four years?
    â€œ
Oui,
monsieur. Of course I think fondly of
du Roi.
”
    â€œI would explain to you as a friend, Mademoiselle, that the king is very busy lately and bears much upon his shoulders. It would be a joyous duty to lighten his burden and give him pleasant conversation and diversion, would it not?”
    â€œAll would wish to serve the king, monsieur.”
    He searched her face carefully. “
Oui.
Then, I must inform you that His Grace requests the privilege of your company, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” He stood and meticulously pulled his lace shirt through the silver slashings of his doublet.
    â€œWhen, monsieur?” Mary asked as she rose.
    â€œNow. Can you not leave your duties now? The hour is long before supper or the queen’s evening prayers. May I accompany you?”
    He pulled the door open, and Mary half expected to see Jeanne du Lac poised on the threshold, but the adjoining rooms and hall were quite deserted. Mary took shallow breaths to steady herself. She was distinctly aware of each step she took along the gallery leading to the king’s wing of the palace. At least it was broad daylight and not a summons in the night she had dreaded would mean that he had other plans for her than conversation. Monsieur Fragonard’s silver walking stick made regular tap-taps on the inlaid floor to punctuate her breaths and heartbeats.
    â€œHere,
mademoiselle,
” he said finally. “This is a private way to His Grace’s afternoon study.” He pushed open the narrow door and they came face-to-face with a tall
gendarme,
his sword at his side. Her guide merely bobbed his head to the soldier, and they went on through two tiny rooms lined with books and containing several low tables each laden with strange globes, mechanisms or clocks.
    â€œ
Adieu
for now, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” His words came