“How things look are often not what they are, Mary,” William Stafford said, close in her ear. “It is only a beautiful sham—painted canvas over stout English timber. But stout English underpinnings may serve it well.”
She ignored his cryptic comments and looked about for her father. He had already disappeared inside with his entourage, and she was annoyed to see that Anne must have tagged after them.
“Should you not go inside, Master Stafford?”
“Shall we do so, Mistress Mary? And would you not call me Staff?”
“You said the king and your friends call you that, and—well, I am neither.”
“I would be your friend, Mary Bullen.”
She looked straight up into his eyes, and the impact nearly devastated her poise. The look was direct and piercing, yet so different from the wily scrutinies or lecherous looks to which she had become accustomed. Her legs felt like water, and she turned away to break the spell. “The fountains are lovely,” she said finally. “Bacchus and Cupid aloft.”
“Bacchus for good times and Cupid to show love between the English and the French, a tenuous love affair at best. Cardinal Wolsey has temporarily jumped off his secure seat on the fence between Francois I and the new Roman Emperor Charles, but it will not last. I prefer English-to-English marriages myself.”
“You are somewhat of a cynic, Master Stafford,” Mary chided.
“The fountains, by the way, spout white wine, malmsey, and claret. The French masses will love the English king for that alone whatever peace comes from this meeting. They have ordered the common folk to keep at a distance of six miles or face arrest, but they will swarm here. You see, Mary, I am a realist and not a cynic at all.”
They walked under the oval gatehouse entry and across a tiled floor. “They will think we are dawdling,” Mary remarked, and walked faster. “I would stay closer to my father.”
At her words William Stafford sat deliberately on a long banquet bench by the huge trestle table in the center of the great hall. “You may be certain he will never be far away the next few weeks, Mary, for he will want to be in charge whenever you are near His Grace.”
She stopped and turned toward him, annoyed that he could make simple statements sound so ominous.
“Before you scold me, Mary, I shall give you something to be angry about. But I hope you will think on my words and know they come from concern and not malice.”
“I have heard quite enough of your comments, Master Stafford.” Her voice sounded tremulous even though she sought to put him off with cold scorn. Damn them all for traipsing on ahead and leaving her here alone with this man!
“I must find the others,” she said, and turned to flee. But he was quicker than she. He darted off the bench and had her firmly by the arms before she had gone four strides.
“Loose me!”
“You will listen, Mary. Are you afraid of what you might hear?”
“I shall call the others!”
“Do so and then all may hear of my warnings of your relationships to Francois and selected others.”
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.”