The Last Boleyn(131)
“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.