The Last Boleyn (38 page)

“To this lofty point on the ladder, father, you and Anne have done quite well without me. I see you so infrequently that I hardly feel I know you as a person, only as some powerful force pulling this way, pushing another.”

He stared at her tight-lipped and the avid look in his eyes hardened.

“By the way,” she plunged on, “am I to assume that you stood at the door while Anne got undressed and then listened to all the private things we had to say to each other?”

“That is enough. You are exhausted and testy, so you can take to your bed too. And you are accompanying your sister to France when she goes. I will not have your denial of that obligation.”

She turned away and started toward her room. The hall was deserted except for the usual sentries who stood stonelike as though they heard nothing on either side of Anne's door. “Obligation? It will be an honor and I shall go gladly, but only because my sister asked me to go, father. It has nothing to do with your ordering me to do so. Good night.”

She turned the corner in a rustle of skirts and breathed a sigh of relief. She was exhausted and drained. At least he had not dared to scream at her or shake her. If he thought a little hug would bribe her to start trusting him again, he was a fool. Yes, Anne did have more brains than she did, for Anne had learned to distrust their father far younger than her older, blind sister Mary.

She pulled the latch on the door to her chamber expecting to find Nancy dozing by the fire, but the girl was not in sight. Indeed it was late, but it was not like her to leave before her mistress was safe abed. She sighed and shot the bolt. She stretched her hands to the low flames at the hearth. The fire took the chill from the brisk October night, but not from her thoughts. Then something moved in the dark.

“I was about ready to fetch you myself even if I had to tangle with your father and Cromwell.” He sat up on her bed. His shirt was open to his waist and his eyes glowed strangely golden in the firelight.

“Staff!”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“That is not funny.”

“I would have joined you when I first arrived, but I hesitated to interrupt the Boleyn revels at the happy news of Wolsey's death,” he went on.

“It made me sick to see them cavorting around like that,” she admitted. “Anne was absolutely jubilant. But I imagine you were having your own revels tonight, since you mention it.”

“I hardly hated the old man the way your sister and father did.”

“I meant with sweet, cow-eyed Dorothy Cobham, of course.”

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and sauntered toward her. “Oh, of course, especially since I have loved Dorothy Cobham for some ten years now and visit her bed in Whitehall whenever I can, despite the danger and the damned cold weather,” he mocked. He bent to kiss her and she turned swiftly sideways to him, evading his mouth and hands.

“I know full well of your attentions to her. Everyone could see at the masque—the public nuzzling, the hand holding, her rude giggles which everyone heard.”

“I have no doubts your sister embellished the details well for you on the barge on your way back tonight. Perhaps since the grand Lady Anne was watching me so closely tonight I allowed Dorothy to put on a show for her.” Mary bit her lower lip guiltily and was glad it was too dim for him to see her face clearly.

“Or did your father tell you how I spent the afternoon riding with His Grace and that Dorothy was one of the women who went along? Well, whoever told you, I am pleased to have you jealous.” His hands crept to her waist.

“I am not jealous of that little twit.” She pulled from his grasp.

“What happened in Anne's room tonight? Did they say something to hurt you?” he inquired.

“No more than usual, and I am pleased to say I handled my father rather well. He had more plans for me, you see.”

His voice came taut and hard in the low dancing firelight. “Like what?”

“To keep Anne calm and to accompany her to France.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you meant with His Grace or a marriage. The trip to France will be fun. I am going too.”

“And that is supposed to make it fun for me, or did you mean for yourself? Is little Dorothy going along? You surely do not think I relish seeing you fawning all over her whether in France or here, do you?”

“That is quite enough of this foolishness and your temper, sweetheart. The wind on the river was cold and I have missed you.”

She walked over to the table and sloshed wine in a goblet. “Did you hitch a ride with that dark raven Cromwell?”

“I would not ride with Cromwell if my life depended on it, lass. I will not have him know I visit here, though the man seems to breed spies and might know already. While I am in His Grace's favor, I fear him not. Did Cromwell say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“About anything personal. I can tell by the way he looks you over every time he lays eyes on you he desires you, though I cannot blame him there.”

“Desires me? You think so?”

“Yes. The man would like to have you in every sense of the term, love, though I give him more credit than to actually ask for you as some sort of reward from your father or the king. He is clever. He does not openly covet advancement the way others have. Poor Wolsey's riches pulled him into the mire as much as this damned divorce or the Boleyns.”

She felt icy at the thought of Cromwell's eyes on her, so coldly, so completely. She drank her wine. “Did you send Nancy to bed?” she inquired while pouring another glass of wine.

“No. I told her where Stephen was awaiting me, and she went down to see him. She misses him. We really ought to find a way to merge our two meager households so they could be together.” His arms came around her from behind and he nuzzled her neck.

“I do not intend to be so easy for you when you are so sweet on that Cobham wench,” she said.

“And I do not intend to take long rides on the cold Thames and be turned out of the bed of the woman I love,” he returned, and his arms tightened.

“You may have the bed. I shall sleep elsewhere.”

“My temper is right on the edge, sweet. You have seldom seen my temper and you would not like it. Turn around, and I will unlace you.”

She began to tremble at his tone, but she was angry. What right did he have to order her into bed with him? Anne was lying down the hall thinking that William Stafford was the fondest, gentlest lover. And her father still meant to use her for whatever suited his plans. Play the whore for Stafford if you must, he had told her once. She did not belong to any of them to command like this!

She felt his hands on the laces at her back, and she pushed out hard against him. Startled, he dropped his arms, and she darted from his grasp toward the fireplace. She was instantly grabbed off her feet and plopped down on the bed in a tumble of skirts and loosed hair. Staff threw himself down beside her.

“Take your hands off m—,” she began, but he held her so close that their noses touched. He would not dare force her at Whitehall with people all around and her sister's guards within shouting distance. Everyone would find out about them, and he would never allow that. He was bluffing.

She shoved him away, and it was the last thing she could remember doing for a long while after. She had intended to struggle but she only met his ardor with her own. When it all ended, her cheek was tight against his, and her lips rested in the short hair at his temple. She began to laugh, happily, crazily.

“What is it, my love?” he asked.

“It is not only you who are too strong for me, Staff. It is my love for you.”

This was the one man in the whole world she wanted to possess her, to use her, she thought deep in the swirl of her emotions. But the difference was she chose to have it so.

As soon as he stopped kissing her, she would tell him. She would tell him that she would choose to wed him as he had asked, whenever they could escape the lions in their surrounding dens.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

October 24, 1532

Calais Castle

A
lthough the quaint coastal town of Calais, France, was wrapped in clear blue skies and sunny days that October, inside the great white castle on the cliffs the weather was sharp and dark. Anne Boleyn raged and stormed for almost an entire week at what she termed the greatest affront and most cruel desertion she had ever had to bear. Her ladies cowered or fumed beneath her nasty temper or, if they secretly yet championed Queen Catherine, they smirked behind their hands. None dared to walk within the boundaries of Anne's thundering wrath—no one but her sister Mary, who understood full well the agonies of politics when they clashed with the agonies of a woman's heart and pride.

“How dare they? How dare they?” Anne repeated for the hundredth time in the five days since Henry Tudor and the men of his English retinue had ridden off to hunt and carouse with the French king's all-male entourage. “I shall be Queen of England and we shall see then if they dare to snub me the next time we meet! I will have the French in the dust at my feet for this!”

“Anne,” Mary's voice came low in the lull of passion, “Francois's new Queen Eleanor is Queen Catherine's niece. She dare not welcome you for her family pride. Despite it all, you can see that.”

“Francois should have made her come here to greet us. And that is no reason his too-fond sister Marguerite should not have come in the queen's place. Does Marguerite grow so bold now that she is Queen of Navarre? She knew me when I was here. She loves Francois far better than any queen of his anyway. And to think I read her damned bawdy book to discuss it with her!”

Anne flounced by Mary and her full skirts swished as she turned to pace again. “The wily French never sent Henry word that there would be no ladies of their court to visit us in this—this prison. I have a good nerve to throw all my trunks of new gowns off the castle parapet and let the fish wear them. Then Henry would know how much this meant to me, and he will be sorry!”

She was past tears now and stared sullen-eyed at Mary. Mark Smeaton had long ceased his gentle strumming on his lute as the tirade swelled, broke, and passed into a hushed stillness. They sat, as they had these last long days, in Anne's fine bedroom perfectly transported over the English Channel from Whitehall for her comfort and, some thought, for the king's, too. Her woven tapestries of Roman goddesses graced the stone walls of ancient Calais Castle and the flowered plush carpet stretched from hearth to bedstead. Draped in ermine and gold, the coverlet of the massive eight-foot-square bed bore Anne's new falcon and rose crest. The polished furniture and golden plate in the chamber seemed to dance with hidden light within while the wall sconces and burned tapers lent a soft glow to the entire scene.

“I would ordinarily be the last one to say this, Anne, but I think you would do best to heed father's last whispered words to you.”

“Oh? What? ‘Buck up girl and smile His Grace all the way out the door as he goes to meet Francois'?”

“Yes. And to have this huge place elaborately decked and ready to entertain your two kings when they return from the hunt and the conferences.”

“Conferences! Pooh! They are having the time of their lives—probably dancing, gambling, and having bawdy masques every night besides fine hunting in the French forests just outside the English pale where we cannot follow. Do not forget I knew Francois too, Mary. His idea of a great amusement is to go in disguise to some little fishing village or vineyard-decked hamlet—I am certain little Calais which lies below the cliffs would do quite well—and throw eggs at the men and rape the women. There! Did you know that of France's precious
du Roi
?”

“He told me something of the kind once about some little wine town across the Loire valley from Amboise. He could not remember the name of the place but said he would have to go back again some day.”

“He could not even remember the name of the place. How like him, Mary.” A tiny smile crept to Anne's pouting lips and Mary found the courage to smile back.

“He shall probably not remember my name either, Anne. But my pride for such treatment has gone long ago. I cannot say I miss any of it.”

Anne regarded her sister sideways through her black lashes. “And I cannot say I fully believe you, Mary, though I know your thoughts are hardly on the lusty French king. 'Tis more like you miss your Stafford.”

Mary kept her tongue. She had learned weeks ago to refuse to rise to the tease as she too often had, and lately Anne had taken to amusing herself by wondering aloud in Mary's hearing how true passion would feel on the body and the heart.

“Well, so much for that topic. You are as testy as I am, Mary, only you have the sweet disposition and you choose to suffer in silence. You are right to spout father's fine advice to me like a dutiful daughter, and I shall be a dutiful daughter in return. I have won His Grace and others before and I shall do it again. They are only men. When they clatter up the winding road to the postern gate and see what awaits them, they will curse the day they deserted the next queen of England to ride sweaty and dirty after boar or deer or the sluts in some French village. They will find far lustier game here.” She motioned impatiently to Smeaton, who immediately broke into a romping galliard tune. Her dark eyes dancing with plans, she flounced out her skirts and began to pace again in little quick circles around Mary's chair.

“Listen well now, Mary. I need your help. I could not possibly stand Jane's simpering face right now, and some of the others are not to be trusted. I may have Catherine's—I mean the newly declared Duchess of Wales's—royal jewels in my coffers now, but she still has some of their hearts and well I know it. Now, we will have the most elaborate banquet this old place has ever seen—hundreds of French delicacies and some English. I shall visit the kitchens myself to see that the French dishes are prepared properly. You could check those too, Mary, for you ate at Francois's royal banquets as long as I. We will have dancing, masked I think, and a wonderful mime, maybe some charades. Yes, how appropriate. Something about the loving French and English relations, though that is a wretched lie. Some mimes from mythology. I know! We can hang these tapestries in the banquet hall instead of the silver and gold arras which are there now—we shall use those for table cloths—and put on mimes of every tapestry scene!”

“It sounds wonderful, Anne. I will help you any way I can.”

“In any way? Remember you said that, Mary.” Anne whirled and clapped her hands together once. “Can you see it all now, Mary? A feast and fun, yes, but revenge pure and simple on all of them, not the least on their foolish women who choose to let their French lords go gallivanting off to visit the English king's latest concubine. We shall show them.”

Mary stood to stop Anne's nervous pacing. She took a step into her swirling path and touched her sister's slender arm. “Just what kind of revenge are you thinking of, Anne? It is one thing that they will miss the festivities and the chance to meet the English king and his future wife—that loss shall be theirs whether they know it or not—but you seem to be implying another.”

Anne smiled devastatingly at her taller sister. “You had best get the ladies assembled for rehearsals for the mimes, Mary, while I care for the other orders. Do not concern yourself now with the minute details.”

Mary's fingers tightened slightly on Anne's arm. “Anne, I think you had better tell me what you are thinking. There is something you have not said, of revenge, I think. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Can you, sister? I thought I was rather good at hiding what I would hide. Then I shall tell you since you have no way of stopping me. The sweetest revenge shall be this. Let the pious ladies of this fair realm stay away from contact with the English King's Great Whore! Oh yes, I know what they are thinking now they do not come as they are bidden. Their husbands and sons will all go back to them awed and humbled by their evening here with Anne Boleyn—and they will all go back having been quite unfaithful to their pious little snobs.” Her voice broke in anger. Smeaton had long given up playing and sat stock-still, listening to their heated exchange.

“You had best consider this again, Anne. You are starting to sound like you are opening a brothel. His Grace will never permit it.”

“Which His Grace, Mary? Well enough you know that Francois's court has no scruples about a quick conquest of any lovely, willing lady, and I have brought enough of those—single and beautiful women with dazzling dresses. Add that to wine, dancing and a man away from his home and wife and we shall see.” She yanked her arm from Mary's grasp and began her rapid pacing again.

“As for Their Graces, sister,” Anne went on with an increasingly sharp edge on her voice, “you and I shall see to them personally. How perfect—it will certainly amuse father. Two kings in bed with two Boleyns at the same time, though maybe not in the same place.” She smothered a giggle.

Mary felt a stab of hurt deep inside, but the great waves of disgust overwhelmed that pain. “Anne, how dare you think and talk so to me. Seduce your king if you will. Heaven knows he has wanted you long enough and has done overmuch to earn your love, but I shall have no part of Francois!”

“Do not speak to me that way, Mary. He is your old lover—oh, yes, I knew of it at the time though I was young and pondered it and wondered ever since. He must be magnificent in bed. You have no one now but William Stafford, and he is so obviously beneath you that I cannot believe that affair is serious. Francois is the king, Mary, and he deserves to be humbled. It can be your revenge for his casual handling of you. Think of the fun we shall have together laughing about it after.”

“Your anger and fears have gotten the best of you, Anne. You should rest and I will see to the plans for the banquet.” Mary fought an urge to reach out and shake the girl, but she was obviously sick and distraught—poisoned by revenge. Wolsey's death and Catherine's fall had not yet appeased her. “Please, Anne, sit and I will call Lady Guildford.”

“I do not want that old watchdog here! She is still loyal to the Spanish princess. And do not patronize me, Mary. I know father thinks you are here to watch me, to calm me as if I am not responsible for myself. Well, I am responsible for the rise of the Boleyns and you had best not forget it! Both you and father must do what I say now, for I shall soon be queen and you must do what I say then. Be gone and see you hold your tongue about my plans. And that goes for you too, my lovely lutenist. You are much too much of a gossiper.”

She patted his cheek and spun away. The smooth-faced Smeaton gazed up at her slim back adoringly. “Yes, my dear Lady Anne,” he said only.

“Go on, Mary,” Anne prodded with her hands, then pressed them to her slim hips through her voluminous yellow skirts. “I will have no more of your lectures. You are hardly one to warn me of traps and indiscretions, sister.”

It was like a final slap across the face. Mary almost feared her, feared for them all. She turned swiftly as tears stung her eyes. If only Staff were here, but he was off riding at the king's elbow somewhere. She nearly tripped as she hurried from Anne's sumptuous chamber. She threw herself down on the narrow bed in her own small room, but the tears she thought would overwhelm her would not come. She kept thinking over and over how strange it was to wish for father to be here to stop this revenge-ridden foolishness, this mad precipice to which the laughing Anne pulled them all.

As the messenger had promised, the kings and their men rode into Calais before dinner on the next day. The watchmen had shouted their arrival throughout the waiting palace as the Lady Anne had bidden and the well-rehearsed ladies scurried to their appointed stations along the great staircase rising from the courtyard. Mary had kept to her room during most of the hurried preparations, and it had only been in the last hours of the frantic practices for the evening's mimes that Anne had insisted Mary join the others. Mary could tell by the ominous narrowing of Anne's almond-shaped eyes that she was angry with her older sister. Let her know how I feel, Mary had thought vehemently, as she had walked through her given parts in the tableaus of Greek and Roman scenes. Now perhaps Anne would drop her crazed plans or at least leave her well out of it. Mary smoothed her lavender skirts which rustled in the still October breeze on the cliffs of Calais. Her eyes quickly scanned the laughing bunches of men for Staff.

Anne swept down the center of the steps in her stunning striped dress of Tudor green and white with white puffed sleeves and slashings of glittering gold. She walked under a green-boughed arch at the bottom of the staircase and curtseyed to the beaming English king and the wide-eyed Francois du Roi. Mary squinted into the sun and spotted George just dismounting. There was Norris and Weston and—yes, there he was standing beside her cousin Francis Bryan and not looking her way at all. Then the king's dark raven Cromwell blocked her view of Staff as he dismounted, and she silently cursed the king for dragging that man along to always hover nearby and stare.

Whatever pretty snares Anne was weaving for the two tall monarchs, they looked well pleased to be stepping wide-eyed into them. Now as the men streamed up the stairs, the English women joined them taking a proffered arm here, bestowing a kiss there, and laughing, laughing. At least Anne had allowed the women who were married to men of His Grace's court to walk with them, Mary noted grimly. She would wait for Staff to come by and take his arm no matter what they thought if she lagged that far back. She stiffened her knees to stop their trembling as Anne approached holding on to both the kings, Tudor and Valois. Francois had aged and the magnificent physique had faded. She had heard he had been to war and held a prisoner, but there was so much change in so little time. Still the face was the same—and the piercing eyes which bored into Anne's dazzling smile. He was speaking to them. His fine French floated to Mary's ears: “...so as I say, Mademoiselle de Boleyn, my advice to my dearest brother Henri du Roi was to wed now and then—
voila!—
see what the Pope and Charles of Spain will do afterwards,
oui,
Henri?”