The Last Boleyn(128)
“Mary, walk with me. Did Francois remember you after all this time?”
Her voice went instantly cold. She suddenly feared father would not rescue her from the dire plan if she told him of it. “Yes, father. But he is much changed.”
“Well, of course. So are we all, Mary, and you would be the first to tell me so. But now, to it—how did Anne snap back so well after her temper tantrum when she heard there was to be no visit from the queen’s court? She looks fabulous and she is spouting enticing plans for the evening. Do I have you to thank for her fortunate recovery of spirits?”
“I was with her much, father, but I do not wish to claim any responsibility for her plans.”
He narrowed his eyes as he caught her tone. “At least she saw the wisdom in my advice to her to buck up,” he said.
“No, father. To tell you true, she saw revenge in this path. She has every intention of getting even with the French ladies who declined to come to Calais.” She watched his face to see if he caught her meaning. Staff hovered near on the other side of her cousin watching her, but she dared not rush to him as she wished. His dark head turned away in earnest conversation with someone shorter.
“Go on, Mary. You are afraid. What sort of revenge?” She faced him squarely but kept her voice low in the buzz of noise around them in the hall.
“After dinner and the entertainment, then mass seduction if I understand her aright.”
“Judas Priest!” he said, and Mary’s eyes widened with shock as his serious face broke into a grin. “That would set the French bitches back on their pretty heels!”
“Father, please, she cannot just...”
“Mary, hush. Tell me this. Does she include herself in the scheme? Will she at long last bed with His Grace, I mean? Well?”
“It seems so.”
“In that case, I do not give a tinker’s damn if she has the whole lot of them hung up by their thumbs outside her window. That is what I have been urging. If this brought her to it, so be it.” His eyes refocused on Mary’s distraught face. “And you, Mary?”
“I think it is horrendous, and I am ashamed to my very soul that you seem to approve!”
“I meant, what role does Anne see for you in all this?”
Mary could feel herself color under his scrutiny. She would lock herself in her room and say she was ill. She would have no part of it even if they cast her off from the family forever. She would tell Staff and they would flee into the countryside to live in exile from England.
“Has she suggested that you, ah, entertain Francois?”
“I have said enough. I am sorry I thought you would wish to speak with Anne for her vengeful actions. I will be in my room. I am quite unwell.”
He seized her wrist tight while he turned and smiled at someone behind her. “I will let you go now to compose yourself, Mary, but do not make me fetch you for dinner. Everyone is starved. They will be washed and eat very soon. And now, I intend to talk to William Stafford, so you need not greet him. Go straight to your room.”
He let go of her wrist, and she had no choice but to lift her head and walk from the hall. She did not even dare to glance in Staff’s direction, and her father clearly meant to cut her off from any aid Staff could give. She prayed that he saw their confrontation and would somehow get to her to ask what was amiss. If the feasting and banquet began, she might never tell him of her plight until it was too late for his interference with Anne and her father—and the sloe-eyed Francois du Roi.
In her room she shoved her note to Staff in her bodice and tore the one to her father to ragged bits. She cast them into the swirling chill air outside her tiny window. She could clearly hear the surf pounding on the rocks far down the cliffs to which the vast white castle clung. Screams of sea gulls pierced the wind as it whistled around stone corners and into lofty crevices. She took a huge gulp of fresh air to clear her head. Whatever they did to her, she would not bed with the French king or give him one moment to think she would.
The thoughts came distinctly to her now. She and Staff must not wait to be wed, hoping for some miracle. She was deeply ensnared by who she was and her ties to the Boleyns, but he had loved her and waited for her all these years despite the danger. A secret wedding it would have to be, but they would never dare to wrest it from them once she was his wife. They might send them to exile from court—so much the better. She would be a manor wife at Wivenhoe the rest of her days and be well quit of their treacheries and traps. Little Harry might be lost to them if they were not careful, but he seemed almost a stranger to her now. At least, thank God, he did not see the other Boleyns either, tucked away at Hatfield. And little Catherine must be taken with them. The rewards of two loving parents would be rich compensation for the loss of plush royal surroundings and a tutor shared with the king’s niece. If they could only flee tonight!
Two quick raps sounded on the door. She slammed the tiny window shut and dashed to yank on the latch. “Oh! Master Cromwell.”
He bowed his close-cropped sleek head, his hat held in his big hands. “Lady Mary, I apologize at having startled you. Maybe you were expecting someone else. Your father asked me to fetch you to dinner.” His quick eyes went past her, surveyed her little room, then scanned her from slippers to bodice. Suddenly, Mary wished she had not chosen the dress so carefully. Cromwell’s gaze flickered over her once again and snagged where her full breasts revealed deep cleavage above the taut thrust of her bodice.