She shoved him away, and it was the last thing she could remember doing for a long while after. She had intended to struggle but she only met his ardor with her own. When it all ended, her cheek was tight against his, and her lips rested in the short hair at his temple. She began to laugh, happily, crazily.
“What is it, my love?” he asked.
“It is not only you who are too strong for me, Staff. It is my love for you.”
This was the one man in the whole world she wanted to possess her, to use her, she thought deep in the swirl of her emotions. But the difference was she chose to have it so.
As soon as he stopped kissing her, she would tell him. She would tell him that she would choose to wed him as he had asked, whenever they could escape the lions in their surrounding dens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
October 24, 1532
Calais Castle
Although the quaint coastal town of Calais, France, was wrapped in clear blue skies and sunny days that October, inside the great white castle on the cliffs the weather was sharp and dark. Anne Boleyn raged and stormed for almost an entire week at what she termed the greatest affront and most cruel desertion she had ever had to bear. Her ladies cowered or fumed beneath her nasty temper or, if they secretly yet championed Queen Catherine, they smirked behind their hands. None dared to walk within the boundaries of Anne’s thundering wrath—no one but her sister Mary, who understood full well the agonies of politics when they clashed with the agonies of a woman’s heart and pride.
“How dare they? How dare they?” Anne repeated for the hundredth time in the five days since Henry Tudor and the men of his English retinue had ridden off to hunt and carouse with the French king’s all-male entourage. “I shall be Queen of England and we shall see then if they dare to snub me the next time we meet! I will have the French in the dust at my feet for this!”
“Anne,” Mary’s voice came low in the lull of passion, “Francois’s new Queen Eleanor is Queen Catherine’s niece. She dare not welcome you for her family pride. Despite it all, you can see that.”
“Francois should have made her come here to greet us. And that is no reason his too-fond sister Marguerite should not have come in the queen’s place. Does Marguerite grow so bold now that she is Queen of Navarre? She knew me when I was here. She loves Francois far better than any queen of his anyway. And to think I read her damned bawdy book to discuss it with her!”
Anne flounced by Mary and her full skirts swished as she turned to pace again. “The wily French never sent Henry word that there would be no ladies of their court to visit us in this—this prison. I have a good nerve to throw all my trunks of new gowns off the castle parapet and let the fish wear them. Then Henry would know how much this meant to me, and he will be sorry!”
She was past tears now and stared sullen-eyed at Mary. Mark Smeaton had long ceased his gentle strumming on his lute as the tirade swelled, broke, and passed into a hushed stillness. They sat, as they had these last long days, in Anne’s fine bedroom perfectly transported over the English Channel from Whitehall for her comfort and, some thought, for the king’s, too. Her woven tapestries of Roman goddesses graced the stone walls of ancient Calais Castle and the flowered plush carpet stretched from hearth to bedstead. Draped in ermine and gold, the coverlet of the massive eight-foot-square bed bore Anne’s new falcon and rose crest. The polished furniture and golden plate in the chamber seemed to dance with hidden light within while the wall sconces and burned tapers lent a soft glow to the entire scene.
“I would ordinarily be the last one to say this, Anne, but I think you would do best to heed father’s last whispered words to you.”
“Oh? What? ‘Buck up girl and smile His Grace all the way out the door as he goes to meet Francois’?”
“Yes. And to have this huge place elaborately decked and ready to entertain your two kings when they return from the hunt and the conferences.”
“Conferences! Pooh! They are having the time of their lives—probably dancing, gambling, and having bawdy masques every night besides fine hunting in the French forests just outside the English pale where we cannot follow. Do not forget I knew Francois too, Mary. His idea of a great amusement is to go in disguise to some little fishing village or vineyard-decked hamlet—I am certain little Calais which lies below the cliffs would do quite well—and throw eggs at the men and rape the women. There! Did you know that of France’s precious du Roi?”
“He told me something of the kind once about some little wine town across the Loire valley from Amboise. He could not remember the name of the place but said he would have to go back again some day.”
“He could not even remember the name of the place. How like him, Mary.” A tiny smile crept to Anne’s pouting lips and Mary found the courage to smile back.
“He shall probably not remember my name either, Anne. But my pride for such treatment has gone long ago. I cannot say I miss any of it.”