The Last Boleyn(130)

“How dare you set him on me!” she began the minute they were out of the press of people.

“Calm down, Mary. You are getting as nervous as Anne used to be. Let him have his little rewards for serving the Boleyns. He is a good ally to have. Any fond dreams he may have about you will amount to nothing. Be nice to him. I hardly gave him permission to bed with you, so do not look so outraged.”

“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?”