The Last Boleyn(33)

Her heart stopped at his last word, and she began to tremble inside.

“Your reputation has preceded you, beautiful Mary, and may be unfair, but you must realize the quagmire ahead.”

She ceased trying to pull away, and he led her back to the bench.

“I will listen. What do you have to say?”

“You realize, I am sure, the French court knows you have been one of Francois’s several latest young mistresses—in addition to his about-to-be-discarded du Foix.”

Mary looked intently at her folded hands in her lap. “Yes, I know. Secrets are hard to keep when they involve the king.”

“What French court gossips know, English court gossips soon know also, Mary.”

She looked up, startled. “But Amboise is so far away from London!”

“The way at court—any nation’s court—is to know all the business of one’s own king and other kings. Pope Leo X in the Vatican probably knows how many times Francois bedded you.”

Her face went white and a shudder ran through her body. Mother could even know, but at least she was never at the English court. How could she ever face the English king now?

“But father said,” she began and then stopped, realizing what William Stafford might think of her father if he knew she had been urged to continue her affair with the king.

“I knew it! I guessed it!” His words were angry and he hit his knee hard with his fist. “He no doubt counseled you that it was in your best interest,” he hissed.

She could not lift her face to him, but she wanted to defend her father. How dare he question his betters, but she could not afford to anger him further since he knew so much already.

“You mentioned others, William.” Her use of his first name seemed to soften his rugged features. “I pray you will not mention the others to my father,” she went on. “I had no control over what the king expected of me with his friends. He gave me no choice. But, please do not tell my father.”

“I promise I will not, Mary. I need not, for he has known no doubt longer than I have, or has King Henry.”

She cried aloud as though she had been hit in the stomach. “You are lying. The others—father could not have known about the others. I never heard it about the court from anyone else!”

“Then you have not only been treading on quicksand, Mary, but you have had your beautiful blonde head in it.”

“He could not know! He said nothing!” Her voice rose and, angered beyond further words at his lies, she raised her hand and slapped his face with all her strength. The crack resounded in the lofty room and she shrank back from him on the bench. A red mark slowly suffused his cheek.

He reached calmly for her wrists with his huge hands and pulled her closer to him on the bench. She went stiff, but her skirts made her slide to him across the polished wood. “Did striking me help the pain, Mary?” His voice was gentle and she longed to collapse against him, to sob her shame on his shoulder.

“I am not finished. Hate me if you will, but listen carefully. King Henry, my master whom I serve closely everyday, will find you most entrancing when your father dangles you before him. What red-blooded man would not? He knows of your reputation, but contrary to what you are thinking, it intrigues him, it titillates his sometimes jaded senses and bored mind.”

She stared into William Stafford’s dark eyes, mesmerized. How could he speak of his king this way?

“And when he sees you, sweet, your naive beauty, your youth, and blonde innocence, he will be quite ensnared. If your father should try to bring you home to England, and I predict he will, it will be a fine path to escape the trap into which you have fallen. But go home with your eyes wide open, not to let such entrapment happen again.” He reached for her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so. I would wish to go home.”

“Home, Mary, but home to what? That is the danger. The time is ripe for the great Henry to think he loves you. He is long tired of Spanish Catherine, who gives him dead sons. His mistress Bessie Blount—blonde and fair as yourself—bore him a son last year and his interest in her is also dead. Tread carefully, sweet

Mary, with both eyes open, and do not trust the king or your father.”

“Then whom am I to trust?” she challenged him. She lifted her head as she heard their fellow visitors approaching, her father’s voice distinct among the others.

William Stafford pulled her to her feet. “I would tell you to trust me, Mary Bullen, but I do not savor another slap when I have you aroused. Still, I promise you that you will pay dearly someday for whatever slaps or scratches or sharp words you give me. You will pay, sweet Mary, but in a time and manner of my choosing.”

She blushed and sputtered, but the others were in the room now and she turned away to compose herself.

“Mary, there is a secret passageway should the king need to escape from the gallery clear to Guines Castle! They dug it underground,” Anne blurted as she hurried to Mary.

“There you are, Stafford,” her father way saying. “We are going to swing around by Francois’s golden tent on our return. ’Sblood, I wish the fountains spurted wine already. It is a damned hot day. Have you seen enough of the king’s Palace of Illusions, Mary?”

“Yes, father,” she spoke at last. “Quite enough for now.”