The Last Boleyn by Karen Harper

her eyes lowered. His huge feet almost brushed the hems of her skirts as they walked.
    â€œYou have become shy, Mary Bullen. But a moment ago I was certain your fiery glance could match my own.”
    She lifted her head jerkily to face him and met those deep brown probing eyes again. He seemed young, yet somehow worldly.
    â€œAre you someone’s English secretary, sir,” she parried, hoping the point of her barb would sting.
    But he just gave a shouted laugh, and she desperately hoped that the other girls and her father could not see them or hear his rudeness.
    â€œI am a ward and often companion to our great King Henry, Mary, whom we all serve even when we are safely esconced in the cloistered court of Queen Claude.” His teeth shone very white when he smiled. It suddenly annoyed her that he could have sun color on his face in December when most Englishmen were silken pale.
    â€œIndeed, sir, I meant not to offend, I...”
    â€œBut you
did
mean to offend, golden Mary.
Touche!
” He chuckled again at her, and she disliked him more than ever. How dare he gibe at her and read her thoughts. She had taken quite enough of his ill-timed wit, King Henry’s courtier or not.
    â€œYour clear blue eyes give you away, Mary,” he was saying, apparently with all seriousness as she turned in a rustle of mauve brocade.
    She did not look back even when his last words floated to her alert ears. “William Stafford at your service always, Mademoiselle Mary Bullen.”
    It annoyed her that the impromptu interview had unsettled her so, and especially that William Stafford had seen her father dash off as though he cared not at all for his daughter. Still, her father had complimented her appearance, and she knew he felt proud that she was a part of this important international occasion.
    She soon forgot the annoyance at being ignored by her father and teased by William Stafford in the pomp and glory of the afternoon. The king looked more godlike than ever, and she could watch his aquiline profile clearly over the queen’s plump shoulder from the screened platform in the corner of the stage. He sat enshrined on a royal dais, his silver cloak lined with herons’ feathers setting off his muscular body encased in golden silk. He nodded and raised his hand in salute to the Englishmen who displayed their official papers and recited the English king’s salutations in deep-voiced Latin. When it was over Francois, his advisors, and his trinity of bedecked and bejeweled women descended from the stage and retreated down the lengthy purple velvet path edged with two hundred
gendarmes,
gilt battle axes held perpendicularly before their grim faces.
    Mary shuddered with excitement. Her eyes darted proudly to see her father’s alert gaze as she swept by poised on the left rim of Queen Claude’s heavy train. But she fought to control a grimace when she caught the intent stare of that rude William Stafford only one aisle beyond King Henry’s royal ambassadors.

    The second day of the English visit continued in a marvelous fantasy of beauty, glory and grandeur. After an elaborate formal mass at Notre Dame early in the day, the crystal afternoon air resounded with the trumpet blares, crashes and rumbling clinks of a formal joust. Though Mary and the other maids of honor had not been able to attend the gay tournament, the loss was easy to bear, for they spent the afternoon in final fittings of their lovely Florentine gowns and in rehearsal for their roles at the evening banquet.
    â€œIt is the most beautiful gown I have ever had,” Mary admitted to Eugenie, fair, blonde and blue-eyed like herself. “The queen said Signor da Vinci sketched each costume separately to blend with his masque scenery. I cannot wait to see it all!”
    â€œIt will be magnificent,” responded the petite Eugenie as she stretched her silken arms luxuriously over her head. “I detest standing about for