The Last Boleyn (12 page)

She was about to recite the entire incident excluding her sharp comments, when King Henry loomed large at the curtained doorway. Her father and Stafford swept low bows.

“She was marvelous, Thomas, marvelous! She put the French king back on his heel like I never could have imagined from a mere sweet wench!” It was then Mary noticed that the king had brought with him a short, muscular man she had seen often about the king's retinue.

“Mary has been telling me that you will select a husband for her upon her return, Sire. The Bullen family is most honored at your concern.”

“Not shall, Thomas. Have. I have the perfect choice—a most loving and loyal man with a proud name for himself at the court of his king.” He motioned with a quick jerk of his raised wrist, and the man behind him stepped forward and bowed.

Mary's eyes widened and she was aware that behind them all, William Stafford had crossed his arms on his chest and stood with his legs spread.

“My Lord Bullen knows of the fine reputation of William Carey, Esquire to the King's Body, Mary. That is an important position at court, of course, dear Mary, for the Esquires keep watch outside the king's bedroom door at night and attend to his wardrobe and attiring, too.”

He paused and Mary's nervous eyes flickered over the sandy-haired, serious-faced William Carey. He was pleasant-looking, if somewhat round-faced in contrast to the square, strong chin Stafford sported. Oh why, she cursed herself silently, did she have to think of that wretch right now!

“Mary Bullen,” the king was saying, “I would proudly present Will Carey to you as your future and most loving husband.”

Mary stemmed her desire to burst into tears. She curtseyed. Henry beamed and her father's face was unreadable. And in the shadows, William Stafford looked angrier than she had ever seen him.

“Now, I know you have much to say to each other, but if Sir William will wait outside, I promise him I shall turn over his lovely fiancee momentarily. Thomas, I told him he might only walk her back to the castle tonight. You understand, I know.” He turned his great reddish head slightly. “Staff, is that you? What the deuce are you doing here?”

Stafford's voice came rough and low. “Lord Bullen sent for me, Sire. I will be going. I wish the Mistress Bullen much happiness in her coming marriage.” He bowed from the waist and was gone.

“Out, out, you two! We will be but a moment. I wish to thank the lady for her clever handling of that French fox when the knave thought he had bested the English. Ha!”

She was alone with the king, but the thrilling reality seemed not to make the proper dent on her consciousness. She could not even smile at him though her brain told her to do so.

He approached her slowly and took her hands in his huge ones. “Mary, I hope the choice of husband will please you. He is a good man, patient, and his position keeps him much about court circles—and his king. You will live at court after the brief honeymoon. 'Tis tradition, you know, honeymoons. Will you like living at our court, do you think, Mary?”

“Of course, Your Grace. I shall be honored.”

He bent his head nearer to her impassive face. “I want you to be more than honored, beautiful Mary. I want you to be happy. You and I shall be great friends, you know.”

She lifted her gaze at last. His eyes were set deep in shadow and she could not see them though she sensed he watched, waited. Suddenly, she felt happy, relieved. She was going home to mother and Hever. And as for marriage, what had she expected? William Carey would have to be good to her if the king himself had chosen him. She would be at court and away from Francois and all the gossip.

“I am excited to be going home, Your Grace. I know it will all be wonderful. I thank you for your care on my behalf.” She smiled radiantly at him, and he grinned like a boy. Why, it will be as easy to please this man as if he were that silly Rene de Brosse, she thought, much relieved.

“You are so lovely, Mary,” Henry Tudor said breathlessly. “So lovely and so dear.” He raised her hands slowly to his mustached mouth and kissed them lingeringly.

I feel nothing, she assured herself. He cannot sweep me off my feet the way Francois did when I was a mere girl. William Stafford was wrong about this king's snares and traps for me.

He leaned to brush her lips gently and, without another word, led her through the lifted flap of curtain. William Carey seemed to stand at attention and her father sat on a bench a little farther off waiting for his king. The hall was greatly deserted now. Yeoman guards snapped to attention when they saw their king emerge and servants cleared the scattered remains of the feast.

“I entrust her to you, Will. I shall have two guards follow you on your walk back to Guines, for this is mighty precious cargo, eh, Thomas?” She curtseyed, William bowed, and they were out in the clear night.

She drank in a breath of fresh air and saw the vast heavens stretched overhead sparkling down on King Henry's silvery Palace of Illusions. How like a fantasy it all was, like poor dear Signor da Vinci's lovely painted waxen canvas sky.

Will Carey took her arm gently and they began to pick their way through the torch-lit lanes toward the dark castle beyond.

PART TWO

Pastime With Good Company

Pastime with good company I love and shall until I die.

Grudge who will, but none deny,

So God be pleas'd, this life will I

For my pastance hunt, sing, and dance.

My heart is set on goodly sport,

To my comfort, who shall me let?

Youth will needs have dalliance,

Of good or ill some pastance;

Company me thinketh the best

All thoughts and Fantasies to digest.

For idleness is chief mistress of vices all;

Then who can say but pass the day is best of all?

Company with honesty is virtue, and vice to flee.

Company is good or ill,

But every man has his free will.

The best I sue, the worst eschew.

My mind shall be virtue to use,

Vice to refuse,

I shall use me.

—King Henry VIII

CHAPTER ELEVEN

July 28, 1520

Hever Castle, Kent

T
he intermittent sun streamed through the oriel window in the solar, turning the floor rainbow hued. The Bullen and Howard crests, set in the skillfully leaded panes, stamped their vibrant stains on Mary's tawny skin and pale yellow skirts. It was a humid, close day and the air stirred fitfully in sudden gusts. Puffy clouds prophesied rain, but not a drop hit the gardens or gravel walkways.

Mary saw Semmonet below on the path, and she swung open the latched panes of the lower window and stuck her head out. “Semmonet. I am up here! Michael found me!”

The wiry, quick governess squinted up at the disembodied voice in the sun. “Lord Bullen is not there already?”

“No, Semmonet, just I.”

“Then stay put, my girl. I shall be right up.” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared.

Summoned again by father. Would things never change? At least her mother was delighted to have her home, and now Lord Bullen had arrived without even the usual warning. How wonderful these three weeks had been since Mary's return from France. Home at beautiful Hever to relax, to think, to ride the sloping hills and pick buttercups by the gentle Eden. To talk to mother and tease Semmonet and pretend that the eight long years away had never happened. To imagine all was well and secure and there was no quiet man named Will Carey to wed, and no king to take over one's life. She shuddered, for another stone-gray cloud had smothered the sun and the lovely room went leaden-hued.

“Mary, I could not find you anywhere,” Semmonet shot out in her rapid fire way as she entered. “The grooms said you were not riding. Where did Michael find you?”

“I was just sitting by the sundial in the herb garden—thinking.”

“About your wedding with a king's man,” Semmonet prodded.

“No, Semmonet. About time.”

The little wren-like governess knit her thin brows. “I thank Saint George we found you before the lord came down from doing his papers to see you. He has important news!”

“Perhaps the wedding is off, and I am free to marry whom I will choose.” She could not keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. “I think Michael the gardener or Ian the blacksmith would do, for I know both of them better than Mister Will Carey.”

Semmonet did not laugh at the tease, but wrung her small hands. “My sweet Mary, surely any bride feels nervous. You will love him. It is best to get to know one's lord after the marriage. A fine arranged marriage by the king! Ah, who could ask for more? You will live at the great Henry's court.”

“Well, yes, there is that. The king's sister will be there much. Perhaps we shall be friends with her and the Duke.”

“And the king favors you, little one, the king!” She hesitated and wiped her palms nervously on her purple skirts. “Does he look like his portrait, Mary, the one in the hall? I heard Lord Bullen say His Grace might visit here before you are wed. Does he look very like the painting?”

“Well, rather more blond, I would say, but huge and intent with piercing blue eyes. But whenever I try to recall him clearly, all I can see is that picture. I guess I looked on it too much as a child.”

“A little girl's dream come true, my Mary.” Semmonet smiled and rested her hand on Mary's shoulder.

But the young woman did not hear Semmonet's last words. It was true. She could recall the satyr face of Francois du Roi and poor Claude's pasty face and that of old Master da Vinci. That damned smirking face of William Stafford even taunted her in her dreams, but to recall King Henry—the harder she tried, the more his face swam behind a filmy mask in her mind.

“I say, Mary, did that wag Michael tell you to await Lord Bullen here in the solar when he finishes? I warrant it is important news!”

“Yes, Semmonet. That is why I am here. I would much rather be out riding, you know.”

Mary instantly regretted her tart tone, but Semmonet patted her shoulder and bustled off. She thinks all my actions are a bride's nervousness now, Mary thought, suddenly annoyed at the woman.

She had not ridden much in France the past years. The king had never taken her hunting as he had his du Foix, and since Queen Claude seldom rode, neither did her maids. How wonderful it was to ride at Hever and have the wind streaming through her loose hair and the secure feel of Donette's rhythmic canter under her. Donette was the foal of a horse she had loved years ago, gentle, quiet Westron, dead last year, mother said. Mary rode every day, free and happy. She would ride today if father would ever come.

Thomas Bullen brusquely pushed open the door, as though she had summoned him with her thoughts. He smiled broadly and a stab of quick joy shot through her. He had parted from her tenderly at Calais. Her good fortune still held, for he was obviously glad to see her.

“My dear girl,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. He put a black linen arm awkwardly around her shoulders as she rose. “You look more beautiful than I had remembered, Mary.”

“Hever is good for the soul and the body, my lord.”

He looked surprised at her answer. “And a king's attentions, how are those for the spirit, Mary? I have exciting news.” The glowing colors danced across his black hair and dark garments as he talked.

“The king has bestowed more honors on us than we could have ever hoped at this early stage. He gives William Carey the offices and revenues of Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, Constable of the Castle of Plashy, and Keeper of two other great parks—I cannot even recall which ones.”

He ticked the prizes off on his beringed fingers under Mary's steady gaze. “Also, as you heard from His Grace's own lips, Carey is named Esquire to the Body so that you two may live well at court. And, it is only the beginning. Your husband and, of course, your family, will benefit mightily from your good graces with the king.”

“Then I wish you and him all happiness,” she heard herself say tonelessly.

“And as for you, my girl, I must be certain you understand the honor. There will be jewels, beautiful clothes, exciting, important friends—and power, if we play the game well, Mary. Power.”

She could feel the distinct thud of her heart. She felt nothing but frustration at her father, Semmonet, Will Carey, yes, even the king whose face she could not picture.

“He comes to visit, today, Mary. Here, at Hever at last.”

“Will Carey,” she said testily, knowing full well her intent to take the eager look from his eyes.

“No, girl! The king, here! He rides from Eltham where he has a fine hunt park. You shall see it soon, no doubt. It is mid morn now. They should be here by noon.”

He glanced up at the fretful sky through the leaded panes. “I pray he is not put out of his humor by getting drenched in a sudden cloudburst.”

He rubbed his large hands together rapidly. “Your mother has much to prepare for the royal dinner. God only knows how big a retinue he will bring.” He strode toward the door.

“Wear your most beautiful dress and you shall walk with him in the gardens. The gold and white from the great banquet in Paris will do.”

“That is much too formal for Hever in the summer, father,” she countered as he disappeared through the door.

His head popped back in. “This is the king, girl, the king himself. If you seem to forget that in any way, you shall answer to me.”

“Yes, father,” she replied, but he was gone. She sat stock-still and watched one blood-red pane of glass change from dull to crimson. The rainclouds
did
threaten the day. She cared not if the whole retinue drowned on their merry jaunt from Eltham. She felt it again, the slow, growing panic, the anger. She had tried to reason it out, to examine her feelings, but really, she had none. Her thoughts never got her anywhere.

She bounded up and raced to her room for her straw hat and riding gloves. She jammed her feet into boots and rushed to the door. She would clear her mind by riding Donette before they came. She could at least decide that for herself. She nearly collided with her mother as she darted from her bedroom. Elizabeth Bullen looked worried and distracted.

“Mary, you are not...you cannot be going riding!”

“Yes, mother, only for a little while. I must.” She stood nervously facing the lovely, fragile-looking woman whose azure eyes and high cheekbones she had so clearly inherited.

“I have so much to do. Your father wants to make certain you will wear a particular dress. He told you the one?”

“Yes, mother, he told me. I shall wear it to please him.” She hesitated. “I will wear it if I may ride Donette just for a little while, mother. They will not arrive until high noon. Father said so.”

Her mother's slender fingers stroked her arm briefly. “I do understand your desire to get out of the house, Mary, but it will not sit well if you are not here when His Grace comes. That is the way it is, Mary. We must accept.”

“I will be here, dearest mother, and in the chosen dress.”

Elizabeth Bullen nodded her silvered blonde head. “Then take care on the horse, my Mary.”

We must accept. The words echoed through Mary's brain in rhythm to her steps as she hurried toward the stable block. We must accept—we must accept. We must—we must.

How clearly now she remembered the forbidden knowledge she had stored up all these years, that her own lovely mother had turned down this very king's invitation—the honor of being his mistress. How angry father had been, but she had weathered his anger somehow. Now she, Mary, was perhaps her father's last chance, for Anne was but thirteen, off at the French court and likely to remain there for years. She felt it clearly, coldly. She was father's golden opportunity and she dare not fail him. Even mother now counseled that she must accept. We must accept.

Donette was unusually nervous and jumpy but Mary turned her head toward the river across the meadows. She wanted to ride away from the north road, the direction from which the king would come.

The chestnut bay broke into a sweat sooner than usual, for the air was muggy. Mary would rest her by the Eden in the shade of the leafy poplars. She did not look back at gemlike Hever with its painted facade set in its lilied moat. She wanted to go on forever.

The breeze had picked up and the poplar leaves rattled noisily against each other as she dismounted. Low rumblings seemed to come from the very roots of the massive trees.

“Thunder. Perhaps it will rain now, Donette,” she comforted the stamping mare with her soothing voice.

Lightning etched the graying sky over the forest, and Mary counted slowly until she heard the resulting thunder. Her Uncle James had taught them the sailor's trick of counting between the lightning and thunder to judge the distance of the storm. “At least seven miles yet. Good horse. Good Donette.”

How marvelous the breeze felt flapping her full skirts stiffly about her legs. She should never have worn this color of dress riding, but she had been in such a hurry. Well, the washmaids would get it clean.

My precious gold and white dress on a day like this, she mused. It is because father knows it impressed Francois that he asks me to wear it for Henry Tudor. “He hopes it will work its magic again, Donette,” she shouted over the windy rustle, and Donette whinnied in return.

But that dress would always bring to mind old Master da Vinci and not Francois, she vowed. How little she had known the old man; yet it was as though she had known him always. He had asked her once how an English landscape looked. He would not like to see this scene, nature-whipped and blurred. He preferred the tranquil and the balanced.

Several drops hit her face and pelted Donette's smooth brown flanks. Mary sighed and, as she mounted, a tremendous crash of lightning splintered a tall poplar nearby. She could even smell the acrid, charred wood.

Donette reared and Mary clung to her arched neck. The reins slipped for an instant and the mare started for home at a swift gallop, cutting through the trees.

“Whoa, girl! No, Donette, no. Whoa!” Mary knew better than to be in a forest in a storm. Even if they were soaked, the grassy valley was the safest place to be. Suddenly, King Henry's face sprang before her mind's eye in his finery, as she had seen him last. She grabbed for her horse's reins and missed. Did this storm seize him as he approached? Was his reddish-blond hair sticking wet to his forehead?

A strangled cry escaped her parted lips as she seized the reins and struggled to turn Donette around. Thunder echoed deeply through the huge tree trunks as she yanked the horse to the left. She turned obediently, but went, as one drunk, through the low-limbed trees. She ducked and shielded her face as the wind whipped sopping leaves at her face and hair.

She started to laugh uncontrollably at the scene she must make, the scene she would make when she returned to Hever. Her long blonde locks hung down her soaking back, and she was bruised and cut.

They emerged in the meadow and Mary dismounted. Grasping Donette's bridle, she led her down into the tiny grassy depression they had called “our valley” when they played here as children. George, of course, always had to be the leader. George, who was in London at Lincoln's Inn obediently studying law.

Mary slipped to her knees in the slick grass, pulling Donette's head down with a jerk. She rose and stood shakily as the storm surged around them. Drenched, she huddled close to Donette. Mother would be worried, but she most feared what father would say. Even her best dress could not save her now.

Swiftly, suddenly, it ended. The thunder rumbled off over the hills and the downpour diminished to gentleness. Mary mounted and carefully walked the mare toward home. She would tether Donette by the green garden and go in through the kitchens. With Semmonet's aid she would somehow become presentable.

The bricks of Hever were glazed by the downpour and iron drainpipes spouted noisy shafts into the moat. The wet leather reins squeaked as she tied them to a post. She gathered her cold, wet skirts tightly and hurried across the wooden ramp.