The Last Boleyn(123)

“Fear not, little sister. ‘The dark outside the window is never so dark when you go out,’ dear old Semmonet would say if she were here. I tell you true, Anne, when His Grace gets right down to possession, he makes short work of it. That can have its rewards, but then it can mean tragedy too—if you love him.”

“Of course I love His Grace, sister,” Anne returned heatedly.

That sounded more like the new Anne. The mood of intimacy and warmth was broken. Mary rose slowly.

“Mary,” Anne’s voice floated to her as she blew out the cresset lamp and moved toward the door. “You were not speaking of love for this king just then, were you—about love having its rewards? Nor Will, I warrant.”

“Please, Anne, let it be.”

“But will you tell me sometime what true passionate love is like? To really feel the desire to lie with a man?”

Mary felt stunned anew. Anne had lived all those years in the bawdy French court a virgin and now kept private company with Henry Tudor as she had with Harry Percy in secret, and still sounded like an ignorant child. “It will come, Anne,” Mary said quietly, framed in the light of the doorway. “You will come to know all the answers and joys when you wed with His Grace and bear his children.” Liar, Mary thought to herself, liar, tell her now. She hesitated to turn back into the room, and a large black form of a man blocked her path in the dimness and shot his arm around her waist. She gasped and her heart crashed against her ribs.

“I am sorry I gave you a start, girl. I wanted to make certain you had settled her down. I am proud of the advice you gave her. It will help,” her father said quietly in her ear. She relaxed against his arm, and he squeezed her gently. How different this was of him, the caress, the gentle thanks.

“We must keep her calm. She panics the closer she gets to consummating her bargain with His Grace,” he went on. He released her waist as though he was surprised he still held her against him. He motioned her silently toward the hall.

“I will send Lucinda Ashton in case you need anything, Anne,” Mary turned to call back. “Good night.”

There was no answer. Her father closed the door quietly behind them. His eyes searched Mary’s face, and she stood still under his scrutiny. “I was thinking tonight how much you look like your mother when I first knew her, Mary. Would that Anne’s wily little brain had your beautiful wrapping.”

“I do not care for the implication that I am nothing but pretty wrapping, father. There is a thinking person in here, too.”

“I did not mean it that way. I know that only too well, but I meant that you are more gentle, yet wayward from the cause lately too.”

She felt her anger rise. “The cause? I assume you mean the Boleyn cause. I have not heard that phrase since Will died and left his precious Carey cause undone.”

“Do not get your hackles up. I would have us be much closer than we have been these last few years, Mary. You are so good with Anne and I appreciate it.”

“You mean, of course, that you would like to use me to keep her in line.”

“Damn it, Mary. Can we not have a civil conversation? She needs your quiet influence. That is what I meant.”

“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.