The Last Boleyn (40 page)

“Hardly gave him permission!” She was so beside herself, she sputtered her words. “Get away from me. I am going to my room to spend the night alone. If you even entertained the slightest thought of asking me to visit the chambers of Francois du Roi, you can go to hell, and take Cromwell with you.” She spun away and ran for the safety of her room, gathering her full skirts as she went. To her profound dismay, couples were strolling the branching halls of the old castle, talking low and laughing, stopping in the dimness between wall sconces to kiss and nuzzle.

She yanked open the door to her room and scanned the small chamber quickly before she entered. The hearth fire had been lit, and fresh wine and fruit in a gleaming silver bowl sat on the small polished table. How desperately she wished she would find Staff sitting on her bed with his rakish grin, but she knew deep inside they had sent him somewhere. She shot the lock on her door and leaned against it. Whatever messengers they sent to ask her to go to Francois, even if it be the greedy-eyed Cromwell or Wolsey's ghost in its winding sheet, she would refuse.

She pulled her gown off her shoulders and breasts and shrugged out of it. She and two other ladies shared a maid, but she would not need her services. She would be deep in her bed before the girl came to help her undress. She twisted the gown around her waist so she could see the laces and untie them herself. She stepped out of the masses of brocades and satins and layers of petticoats and wrapped herself in her black satin bedrobe, bought with father's money, unfortunately. From now on, she would go naked and starve first.

She downed some wine and was amazed to find it was as fine as what she had been drinking at the feast. How unlike the wine and ale that had been left in her chambers the last week while the men were away. Tomorrow she would find Staff early and tell him everything. She would also make him believe that not only did she fervently wish to marry him as he had asked, for she had told him that clearly enough before, but that she would wed with him as soon as possible.

She poured more wine but slopped a considerable amount on the table when her hand jerked at the knock on the door. She held her breath, but she could hear her heart beat in the quiet above the low crackle of the fire. She pulled the black silk tighter around her.

“It is I, Mary, Jane. Will you not open the door?”

Then Jane was not with Rene de Brosse, Mary thought jubilantly. Could she trust Jane with the note to Staff? She and Anne had never gotten on, especially lately, so perhaps...

“Mary, I know you are in there.”

Mary shot the bolt back and opened the door. Jane Rochford stood there, indeed, but the velvet arm of Francois du Roi was draped over her half-bare shoulders. Mary's eyes grew wide and she almost slammed the door in their smiling faces.

“See, Mary, I have brought you a wonderful present.”

“Merci, merci beaucoup, cherie,”
Francois said in Jane's ear and bent to kiss the white skin of her shoulder. She giggled. Francois's hand went to the open edge of Mary's door. “I came to reminisce about old times, golden Marie,” he said with a wink. “Be gone, be gone,
madame charmante,
” he ordered the starry-eyed Jane and slowly pushed Mary's door back toward her as she stood like a statue.

“May we not recall old times tomorrow, Your Grace?” Mary heard herself say smoothly, and she fought to force a smile to her lips. “It is late and I am rather tired.” She was aware that Jane had halted but a few yards away in the dim corridor. If only there were someone else about to call to.

Mary either had to fall backward or loose the door, for Francois leaned the weight of his bent arm hard into it. He wore a black velvet robe intricately etched in silver filigree. He strode close past her into the room, but she staunchly held her place at the door.

He surveyed the room and then turned back to face her. “See, my sweet, we match again,
oui
?”

“What, Sire?”

“Just like the evening we first met when the genius da Vinci dressed you to match your king. At the Bastille. Do you not remember?”

“Yes, I remember, but that was not the first time we had met.”

“Really? I could not have forgotten another.” He smiled and she did not.

He raised a graceful arm to her chamber. “Then do you not recall a little room like this one where we used to meet on chill winter afternoons? Close the door,
si vous plait, ma
Marie. You are letting in a terrible chill and, if you are so tired, you had best take to your bed.”

Still she did not move. He approached slowly and swung the door closed himself. It thudded hollowly. “You are shy after so many years,
oui
? It has been long. I have missed you.”

Mary smiled then, for the lie was so bold she could not resist. Suddenly, her fear left her. This man could do her harm, no doubt, but not in the way he once had.

“I was sorry to hear of Queen Claude's death, Your Grace. I hope you are happy with your new queen. My sister was disappointed she could not come to meet us.”

“
Oui,
of course. But it is a tiny problem that she is Henri's ex-queen's niece.” He hesitated. “What is it they call Catherine now?”

“The Princess of Wales, Sire.”

“Ah,
oui
.”

“So that means you are on the former Queen Catherine's side of family necessity,” Mary continued.

“Well, my sweet, family necessity can be bent where one's own heart is involved.”

“Exactly, Your Grace. And tonight I must explain to you that the family necessity which has me here in this room with you must be bent. I am sorry if there have been misunderstandings, Your Grace.”

He came closer and stared warmly down at her. “You are talking in riddles, my golden one. Still so beautiful after a husband and a child.”

“Two children, Your Majesty.”

“I thought there was only the lad your king spoke of.”

Mary felt her pulse quicken.

“And let us face the truth, Mary, you held the Tudor for five years, though now he is the heritage you leave your sister.”

“My relationship with Henry Tudor, Your Grace, was truly none of my doing, except for the fact that I used to be a frightened little pawn of my father—and my kings.”

“Ah, this is another Marie indeed, but one so beautiful still, so tempting, just as your goddess rising from the foam of the sea tonight, my Venus. I pictured you then without your garments and recalled the lovely days we spent together.”

She moved to step aside, but he was too quick for her. His long hands darted to her silken waist. He bent to kiss her, but she turned her head. “Please, Sire, I cannot know what Anne or the king or even my father has said to you. The memories are one thing, but I wish for no others. Please, let me free and leave this chamber.”

His arched brows descended over his deep-set eyes. “Why would you deny me?”

“I loved you once, Your Grace, or thought I did, but no more. The years have changed me. I ask of you, Francois du Roi, to...” As he suddenly parted her robe, her hands darted to tug at his wrists. “No, Your Grace, I will not—”

“Love, my Venus, has nothing to do with what joy we can give each other in the privacy of this room tonight. I have chosen you from all the women here. Whomever you fear, they need not know.”

He massaged the curve of her hip as he covered her mouth with his. She bit his lip and tried to twist away, but he slammed her back into the wood-paneled wall, then pressed her there with his big body.

“Damn, vixen!” He touched his fingers to his lower lip and brought away his own blood.

“I cannot help what they have told you or promised, Sire,” she repeated. “I will scream, and everyone will come. Everyone will know the Great Whore's sister, who was the English king's mistress before her sister, does not wish to lie with Francois du Roi!”

He stood stock-still against her. She felt smothered by his weight; he had such a stomach and great chest on him that she could hardly draw a breath where he pressed her bosoms flat. He stepped back, and she feared he would strike her. She raised her chin, for anything would be better than his caresses.

Instead, he yanked her several steps after him into the room where the firelight fell on them. She stood straight facing him, afraid to dart back toward the bed.

“It is obvious to me, Marie,” he voice came coldly, “that your sister is succeeding where you did not. You used to ask for nothing, but she wins a kingdom, eh? You see, she is a clever whore and you are—as ever—a foolish one.”

“I was foolish once when I played the whore for you, Sire, but no more. Say what you will and then be gone to make your complaint of my actions to my sister or whomever you are to report to.”

His jeweled hand came at her, and she crashed to the floor. She tasted blood; her cheek stung. The ceiling seemed to tilt. He towered over her, and his slippered foot kicked at her derriere as he gritted out his words.

“Here is what I report to you, Marie. Your grand Henri du Roi is demented to wed instead of just bed your skinny sister and ruin the holy church in the process. You keep that secret, and I shall keep the one that the ripe, blonde Bullen refused Francois du Roi her sweet body to plunder as he used to when it amused him.”

Wrapping his velvet robe tighter around his girth, he turned away. “I will amuse brother Henri and his concubine tomorrow with an elaborate tale of how well you served me any way I would have you, eh? They will be very pleased to hear of your—your groveling—performance.”

He shouted a strangled laugh, and the door slammed. She lay stunned, but relieved, totally free of him. Let him lie to her family or his amused and jaded cronies, for her good name had been long trod in the royal dust of France and England too. It only mattered that Staff must know the French king told lies, terrible lies.

The chill of the castle snatched at her again, and she scrambled to her feet. She shot the bolt on her door, then stripped naked and scrubbed herself with cold water from her wash basin until the tingle became a rough ache. Mary Bullen belonged body and mind to William Stafford only, and she would die before anyone else ever touched her again.

She donned her crumpled mauve and beige gown, not stopping to put on undergarments. Wherever they had sent Staff or maybe even locked him away, she would find him. She smoothed her mussed hair and seized the silver fruit knife from the table. The fruit and fine wine, of course, were for the French king. The whole thing had been calculated by her sister. The dull pain in her stomach twisted sharp again.

The knock was so quiet on the door that she hardly thought she had heard it at first. Not even the sneaky Cromwell would knock that quietly. Perhaps her father had found out that she had failed the Boleyns now and would tell black Cromwell he could claim his prize to punish her. The knock came again. Maybe it was only the foolish maid. “Isabelle, is that you?” Her voice quavered in the room, barely discernible over the low snapping of the hearth fire.

“Lass, it is I.”

Half fearing a trick, she cracked the door and peered out, her knife poised just out of the visitor's sight. It was Staff's voice, but perhaps that was another trick.

“Staff. Oh, Staff!”

She was in his arms the moment he closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Cold still clung to his garments and skin, but he felt wonderful against her.

“Come on, sweetheart. You and I are going to hide out for the night in a place they will never think to look,” he was saying. “Your dangerous little sister has some sort of dire plan for you, I fear, and we had best get out of here before it happens.”

He craned his head to survey the hall through a cracked door. When he turned back to take her hand, his eyes widened in surprise as though he were seeing her for the first time. “What the hell has happened,” he shot out. “Are you dressing or undressing? Why the knife? Cromwell? Francois?” Anger stained his tanned face livid and he took the knife from her unresisting fingers and hurled it behind her. “I shall kill your father.”

“No, no, my love. Everything is all right now, truly. Francois was here, but I denied him and he left in a huff.”

“In a huff? And what did the royal bastard do before he left?”

“Please, Staff, do not look so awful. He, well, he said some terrible things and tried to seduce me, but I dissuaded him.”

His eyes widened further. “With a fruit knife?”

“No. With a refusal—and the truth. It hurt his pride.”

“And did he hurt you, my little tigress?”

“He tried. I fear him no more, Staff, though he did threaten to tell the Boleyns I submitted to his every whim.”

“I am sure he will and probably believe it himself rather than ever grasp the fact that he faced a real woman tonight and she saw him for the whoreson bastard that he is. Swear to me he did not hurt you. Did he try to pull this dress off?” He tugged the still-loosened gown slightly off her shoulder.

“I was in my robe then. I was just getting dressed now in a hurry to come see where they had sent you. I knew my father meant to get you out of the way somehow.”

“Yes. Lord Thomas Boleyn sent me on a king's errand to see if the royal party could visit the flagship of his navy on the tide tomorrow. I doubt if they really mean to visit, but I had no choice. He even walked me to my horse and watched me canter away.” He stuck his head slowly out the door into the hall again.

“Where are we going?”

“I do not know what will happen now that you have set Francois back on his royal heel, but we had best stick to my original plan. No one is ever getting hands on you again unless it is a certain William Stafford, love. Who knows if your father shall send someone else to your door?”

“But where will we hide? Did you find some place outside the castle? The gates are secured by two armies.”

“Hush, love. Come on.”