The Last Boleyn(40)
Her heart rose in her throat at the audacity of the reply she had so long desired to give. She tried to smile sweetly and look innocent of her motives. Francois glared but a moment and Henry’s voice was lighter, almost jovial as he spoke.
“Do not grieve the loss of one of your queen’s maids so greatly, brother Francois. I assure you, such beauty and wit will not be wasted. I personally shall find ‘golden Mary’ a suitable English husband, and she will serve at the court of her king.”
Mary could see the muscles in Francois’s jaw go taut and his slender fingers wrap tightly around his goblet filled with ruby wine. “I envy her husband his treasure,” he said. “Perhaps, my trusted Henry, if you and I are as alike as your dear sister claimed today, after you were thrown in our wrestling bout, I shall envy you too, eh?” Francois’s brittle laughter filled the air as Mary curtseyed and turned away, though she had not been formally dismissed. She could feel the myriad eyes of the room on her, but she had had quite enough of the tense banter between these two powerful magnets of influence.
“Mary,” King Henry’s voice floated to her, and she turned again.
“Your Grace?”
“I am sending for your father and intend to discuss some diplomatic matters with him in a few moments. I would wish you to wait for me—and your father—in the antechamber.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
“I do not order you, Mary,” came his now-hushed voice. “I only request.”
She thought instantly of Francois’s same words to her once—words that lied to her foolish heart before he seduced her in that tiny room at Amboise.
“I shall be there, Sire.” She managed a little smile but she felt drained now, embarrassed, proud and afraid. Relieved to see both queens still turned away from their husbands in continual conversation, she stepped from the dais.
When the confrontation with Francois that she had longed for was over and she had exited down the narrow hall lined with hanging tapestries, her knees went weak and she began to tremble uncontrollably. She sat gratefully on a velvet-cushioned chair in the anteroom. In the vast hall with its vipers and sly foxes, huge bearlike Henry seemed a distant dream. She closed her eyes to gain poise and control before they would be on her again—the king, her father. She prayed God she would never see Francois at close range again, the godlike Francois du Roi who shattered a little girl’s dreams for his own pleasure and amusement—and to pay gambling debts.
“Mary, are you feeling well enough to stay, or may I take you back to Guines?”
Her eyes shot open at the familiar voice—Staff! Up close, his more refined appearance in gold velvet and heavy brocade made him look every whit as handsome as he had while dirty and sweaty in the wrestling circle, she reluctantly admitted to herself. His huge shoulders stretched the costly materials taut and his doublet outlined the heavy muscles of his chest and tapered, flat belly as completely as his hose etched every sinew of his brawny thighs and calves. Despite the disdain she tried to show him, her eyes darted guiltily to the gold brocade-covered codpiece where his powerful loins joined. Then her eyes met his lazy perusal of her body with the usual resounding crack of energy which leapt between them.
“William Stafford, are you always about? Must I see you everywhere I look or turn? Did the king send you?”
“No, Mary. Your father did. Are you all right after your dangerous interview? How does it feel to be a little pawn tossed about between two kings?”
“I need none of your impudence, Master Stafford!”
“I am thrilled that the fire of spirit still burns beneath the pliant sweetness. And I had hoped that after this afternoon you had resolved to call me Staff.”
“Why should I?”
“Perhaps you will at least do so when you become aroused or excited, Mary. Was that not your clear voice I heard as I rolled about on the ground at your feet this afternoon: ‘Come on, Staff, you can do it’?”
Mary felt herself color instantly. “Do not be so conceited to think that I wanted you especially to be the victor. I am true English, you know, and would cheer for any English contender.”
“Alas, I had hoped your concern for me was of another sort.” He hung his head in mock grief and she almost burst into laughter. Then he said quietly, “I was hoping your good will was truly for me and not against poor Lautrec. Has he been an enemy to you?”
“No. No, indeed, and it is none of your concern.”
He flashed her an impudent smile. “Then he was something to you, but I shall console myself with the fact that you seem to detest him. You know, sweet Mary, you have never yet mastered telling lies, at least not lying and hiding it. And you still have a conscience. You had best learn to lie and to bury that conscience if you are to get on at great Henry’s court, lass.”
“You have no right, no right at all to counsel me. Why do you concern yourself anyway?”
“I assure you, Mary, it is not part of my duty to either your father or the king. Therefore, I must have my own motives. When you grow up a bit, from the foolish wisp of girl you are, perhaps we shall discuss my motives. Until then, you will have to wonder.”
Her hand tingled with the desire to slap him again, but would he take it as calmly this time? She wanted to beat on his chest, to kick at him, to scratch and scream. It frightened her that he aroused such feelings in her when he was so obviously beneath her concern.