The Last Boleyn(127)
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?”
Mary moved back a step in the cluster of silken skirts about her and curtseyed low with the rest. She kept her eyes on her sister’s golden slippers as Anne lifted her emerald skirts and they climbed the stairs. Anne’s tiny feet halted.
“You do remember my dearest sister, Marie, Your Grace?” she heard Anne’s lilting voice say in flawless French. “She is a widow now, and I am pleased to bring her back to see you again as one of my ladies d’ honneur.”
There was a silence and Mary stood unwillingly, her long nails biting into the palms of her hands.
“But of course, the beautiful, golden Marie. How wonderfully these twelve years grace your face and form since I saw you last, Marie.”
Mary swept him another low curtsey, but she could not force a smile to her face. Henry Tudor cleared his throat and tugged gently on Anne’s arm behind Francois.
“My sister has been anxious to see her French king again,” Anne added directly at Francois. “Tonight, after you are rested, you will see much of each other.” She lifted her foot to the next step as Henry Tudor began to recount for her the skills of the two kings on their fine hunt.
“Charmed, ma Marie, charmed,” Francois du Roi repeated as he turned away from Mary and went on up the vast stairs.
Mary loosened her fists. She could have killed Anne. What possessed her to embarrass her, to hurt her like that? She should have believed Staff as usual and not defended Anne to him. The girl was dangerous and her whims were to be feared. She would never argue with him on that point again.
Mary could see Staff now and she held her ground although he was still far down the steps and most of the English women had attached themselves and climbed to the reception in the Great Hall. In her room she had hidden brief notes to both Staff and her father in case she had no chance to explain to them exactly what Anne intended in the way of final entertainment for the French flies in her fine spider’s web of revenge. If she had to ask someone else to fetch the notes, there were only two she thought she could trust.
She smiled to acknowledge George’s hello to her as he hurried up the steps in a crowd. His Jane had already draped herself on the arm of a much-improved Rene de Brosse, who, Mary remembered uncomfortably, had tried to undress her one afternoon at Amboise. At least George could not care less what Jane did, Mary reminded herself. He might even approve of Anne’s plan for massive seduction if it meant Jane would bed elsewhere. She turned to scan the remaining men for Staff again and saw her father making straight for her.