The Last Boleyn(160)

“At first I thought it was just a pretty ghost from the past,” he began, and the voices around them hushed in rapt attention. “Have you been summoned back to court, Lady Mary?” he asked directly.

She raised her eyes to his, hooded with thick red brows and sandy lashes. “Only for a day or two to visit my sister, Your Grace. My lord and I will be returning to our home very shortly.”

“If you have come to give the queen advice on breeding sons, it is quite too late, madam,” he growled. Then he pivoted his head to take in the circle of courtiers. “Come with me, Lady Stafford,” he said low. “I would speak with you.”

Mary caught George’s worried face as she swept after the king through the crowd. This would surely alarm Anne if he told her—and Staff. She clutched the corded purse strings tight in her hand. The king had always taken long strides, and it was quite impossible to walk apace with him. She had no choice but to follow, to try to keep calm and to bluff it out if need be. She prayed he had no dire designs on sixteen-year-old Harry, who was now being educated at Lincoln’s Inn Field not so far away.

The privy room to which he led her was close to the queen’s wing—the room in which he had put her to await him after the masque for Queen Catherine when he had first seduced her while his wife slept nearby. Surely he would not...

“Would you sit, lady?” he asked bluntly when he had closed the door on Norris’s and Weston’s faces.

“If you wish me to, Your Grace,” she said, and remained standing.

“I only ask, not order, lady. Suit yourself.” He sat on the edge of a huge carved chair and, as she looked at him squarely, his head appeared to be in the very center of the small bed in the chamber.

Ironically, she thought, she and the king were dressed in the same colors even as they used to do years ago on foolish whims: and both wore traveling gear and riding boots. The bulky muscles of his chest and shoulders swelled his brown Spanish leather jerkin over doublet and hose of dark burgundy hue in echo to her own warm gown of the dark wine color.

“The queen sent for you, you said, Lady Mary?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You are still very beautiful. You have hardly changed over the years.”

“I am much changed in truth, Sire, only the changes are inside and do not show.”

“Are you so changed? A flagrant affair and secret marriage with Stafford under my nose all those months. And before that, I recall you served Francois du Roi in your bed at Calais quite to his utter satisfaction.”

She gripped her fists tightly around the purse strings. “Francois du Roi lied to you and the queen, Your Grace. I refused his advances and he left cursing me and the English—and vowing he would tell you I had done everything he asked.”

A strange grin lit his face and his eyes shifted. “Do you swear it? Francois lied?”

“Yes.”

He laughed sharply. “I knew you would never bed with that wily jackal after you had been mine.”

The words hit her like a blow in the stomach, but she stood still, fighting the desire to flee.

“Did you tell him you loved another king, lady? You still love your king, do you not?”

“All good and loyal subjects love their king, Sire, and I have always been your good and loyal subject.”

His open palm cracked hard on the table. “’Sblood, Mary! Do not be clever with me! Yes, you have changed. All of Boleyn’s clever children change and for the worse. Sit, madam. I do not wish to knock you down, for it is surely another I would strike at. Sit.”

She looked behind her, then sat slowly in the chair on the other side of the table instead of the one nearer him.

“Pretty women about the court are a plague. See that you are gone by the morrow.” His voice softened suddenly. “I would have you away and out of danger. You are innocent still, compared to the rest, and have done me no wrong.”

“Wrong? I do not understand, Sire.” Surely, she thought, he refers to his dead son and blames Anne for that.

“How does your son, Mary?” he said calmly as though he had read her thoughts of sons.

Which son of mine? she wanted to ask impudently, but she knew which one and would not risk his wrath on that. “He is a fine student at Lincoln’s Court, Your Grace. He is tall and a good athlete. He is nearly sixteen and one half, Sire.”

“I know how old the lad is, madam. They say,” he said, leaning forward to watch her face closely, “that he has red hair.”

“It is somewhat reddish, Sire, with auburn touches, much as Will Carey’s, you remember.”

“I do remember, golden Mary. I remember much, including that your father has implied off and on that the lad was not Will Carey’s child. I trust him not, so I will have it once and for all from your lovely lips, madam. Was the boy Will Carey’s son indeed? Will Carey was no fine athlete and not so clever either, and if the boy has those traits...well, I would have you tell me the truth.”

She fought to control her voice and face. This was the moment that could save or condemn Harry. Father would be forever grateful if she would only tearfully vow to her king that the child was his. Then the Boleyns might sit more secure in the dangerous saddle of the king’s volatile affections. Then a birthright to money and power would be assured, especially now that the ailing Fitzroy was so desperately ill.