Mary felt a stab of hurt deep inside, but the great waves of disgust overwhelmed that pain. “Anne, how dare you think and talk so to me. Seduce your king if you will. Heaven knows he has wanted you long enough and has done overmuch to earn your love, but I shall have no part of Francois!”
“Do not speak to me that way, Mary. He is your old lover—oh, yes, I knew of it at the time though I was young and pondered it and wondered ever since. He must be magnificent in bed. You have no one now but William Stafford, and he is so obviously beneath you that I cannot believe that affair is serious. Francois is the king, Mary, and he deserves to be humbled. It can be your revenge for his casual handling of you. Think of the fun we shall have together laughing about it after.”
“Your anger and fears have gotten the best of you, Anne. You should rest and I will see to the plans for the banquet.” Mary fought an urge to reach out and shake the girl, but she was obviously sick and distraught—poisoned by revenge. Wolsey’s death and Catherine’s fall had not yet appeased her. “Please, Anne, sit and I will call Lady Guildford.”
“I do not want that old watchdog here! She is still loyal to the Spanish princess. And do not patronize me, Mary. I know father thinks you are here to watch me, to calm me as if I am not responsible for myself. Well, I am responsible for the rise of the Boleyns and you had best not forget it! Both you and father must do what I say now, for I shall soon be queen and you must do what I say then. Be gone and see you hold your tongue about my plans. And that goes for you too, my lovely lutenist. You are much too much of a gossiper.”
She patted his cheek and spun away. The smooth-faced Smeaton gazed up at her slim back adoringly. “Yes, my dear Lady Anne,” he said only.
“Go on, Mary,” Anne prodded with her hands, then pressed them to her slim hips through her voluminous yellow skirts. “I will have no more of your lectures. You are hardly one to warn me of traps and indiscretions, sister.”
It was like a final slap across the face. Mary almost feared her, feared for them all. She turned swiftly as tears stung her eyes. If only Staff were here, but he was off riding at the king’s elbow somewhere. She nearly tripped as she hurried from Anne’s sumptuous chamber. She threw herself down on the narrow bed in her own small room, but the tears she thought would overwhelm her would not come. She kept thinking over and over how strange it was to wish for father to be here to stop this revenge-ridden foolishness, this mad precipice to which the laughing Anne pulled them all.
As the messenger had promised, the kings and their men rode into Calais before dinner on the next day. The watchmen had shouted their arrival throughout the waiting palace as the Lady Anne had bidden and the well-rehearsed ladies scurried to their appointed stations along the great staircase rising from the courtyard. Mary had kept to her room during most of the hurried preparations, and it had only been in the last hours of the frantic practices for the evening’s mimes that Anne had insisted Mary join the others. Mary could tell by the ominous narrowing of Anne’s almond-shaped eyes that she was angry with her older sister. Let her know how I feel, Mary had thought vehemently, as she had walked through her given parts in the tableaus of Greek and Roman scenes. Now perhaps Anne would drop her crazed plans or at least leave her well out of it. Mary smoothed her lavender skirts which rustled in the still October breeze on the cliffs of Calais. Her eyes quickly scanned the laughing bunches of men for Staff.