“I was foolish once when I played the whore for you, Sire, but no more. Say what you will and then be gone to make your complaint of my actions to my sister or whomever you are to report to.”
His jeweled hand came at her, and she crashed to the floor. She tasted blood; her cheek stung. The ceiling seemed to tilt. He towered over her, and his slippered foot kicked at her derriere as he gritted out his words.
“Here is what I report to you, Marie. Your grand Henri du Roi is demented to wed instead of just bed your skinny sister and ruin the holy church in the process. You keep that secret, and I shall keep the one that the ripe, blonde Bullen refused Francois du Roi her sweet body to plunder as he used to when it amused him.”
Wrapping his velvet robe tighter around his girth, he turned away. “I will amuse brother Henri and his concubine tomorrow with an elaborate tale of how well you served me any way I would have you, eh? They will be very pleased to hear of your—your groveling—performance.”
He shouted a strangled laugh, and the door slammed. She lay stunned, but relieved, totally free of him. Let him lie to her family or his amused and jaded cronies, for her good name had been long trod in the royal dust of France and England too. It only mattered that Staff must know the French king told lies, terrible lies.
The chill of the castle snatched at her again, and she scrambled to her feet. She shot the bolt on her door, then stripped naked and scrubbed herself with cold water from her wash basin until the tingle became a rough ache. Mary Bullen belonged body and mind to William Stafford only, and she would die before anyone else ever touched her again.
She donned her crumpled mauve and beige gown, not stopping to put on undergarments. Wherever they had sent Staff or maybe even locked him away, she would find him. She smoothed her mussed hair and seized the silver fruit knife from the table. The fruit and fine wine, of course, were for the French king. The whole thing had been calculated by her sister. The dull pain in her stomach twisted sharp again.
The knock was so quiet on the door that she hardly thought she had heard it at first. Not even the sneaky Cromwell would knock that quietly. Perhaps her father had found out that she had failed the Boleyns now and would tell black Cromwell he could claim his prize to punish her. The knock came again. Maybe it was only the foolish maid. “Isabelle, is that you?” Her voice quavered in the room, barely discernible over the low snapping of the hearth fire.
“Lass, it is I.”
Half fearing a trick, she cracked the door and peered out, her knife poised just out of the visitor’s sight. It was Staff’s voice, but perhaps that was another trick.
“Staff. Oh, Staff!”
She was in his arms the moment he closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Cold still clung to his garments and skin, but he felt wonderful against her.
“Come on, sweetheart. You and I are going to hide out for the night in a place they will never think to look,” he was saying. “Your dangerous little sister has some sort of dire plan for you, I fear, and we had best get out of here before it happens.”
He craned his head to survey the hall through a cracked door. When he turned back to take her hand, his eyes widened in surprise as though he were seeing her for the first time. “What the hell has happened,” he shot out. “Are you dressing or undressing? Why the knife? Cromwell? Francois?” Anger stained his tanned face livid and he took the knife from her unresisting fingers and hurled it behind her. “I shall kill your father.”
“No, no, my love. Everything is all right now, truly. Francois was here, but I denied him and he left in a huff.”
“In a huff? And what did the royal bastard do before he left?”
“Please, Staff, do not look so awful. He, well, he said some terrible things and tried to seduce me, but I dissuaded him.”
His eyes widened further. “With a fruit knife?”
“No. With a refusal—and the truth. It hurt his pride.”
“And did he hurt you, my little tigress?”
“He tried. I fear him no more, Staff, though he did threaten to tell the Boleyns I submitted to his every whim.”
“I am sure he will and probably believe it himself rather than ever grasp the fact that he faced a real woman tonight and she saw him for the whoreson bastard that he is. Swear to me he did not hurt you. Did he try to pull this dress off?” He tugged the still-loosened gown slightly off her shoulder.
“I was in my robe then. I was just getting dressed now in a hurry to come see where they had sent you. I knew my father meant to get you out of the way somehow.”
“Yes. Lord Thomas Boleyn sent me on a king’s errand to see if the royal party could visit the flagship of his navy on the tide tomorrow. I doubt if they really mean to visit, but I had no choice. He even walked me to my horse and watched me canter away.” He stuck his head slowly out the door into the hall again.