The Last Boleyn (16 page)

“Mary. 'Sblood, you smell wonderful, but I hope that is not some damned French perfume. Worse and worse relationships with Francois's minions, it seems. Sit here by the fire a moment. I will play servant and pour us some wine, my love.”

She laid her blue velvet cape on the back of a chair facing his huge, carved one across the table. “But I would be happy to serve you, Your Grace. You looked very busy when I came in. I shall get the wine.”

Like a big, scolded schoolboy, he did as she said, awkwardly covering his bare legs by folding his robe over them. She realized his eyes were on the pile of papers on the table and not her as she poured two goblets of his favorite sweet Osney from Alsace. Their fingers touched when she handed him his goblet, and he smiled up at her. Before she could move to the chair across from him, he pulled her gently toward him, indicating she should sit on his lap. Careful with her wine, she did so.

“I am afraid the wine is French, Sire, but I promise you my fragrance is not. Pure English dried lavender, lilies-of-the-valley and rose petals. I store my gowns in it.”

“Ah, is that it? A pity, sweet Mary,” his voice wrapped around her as warm as his hand on her hip, “for we shall have to dispense with this lovely yellow silk thing soon enough.” He nuzzled her silken shoulder and they sat quietly for a moment, content in their physical contact, listening to the warm crackle of the fire in this intimate moment.

He drained his wine and took her half-finished goblet from her unresisting fingers. “Sweet Mary, so beautiful and yet so untouched,” he said low.

“Hardly untouched, my lord king,” she chided and poked him playfully in his hard-muscled belly, but she saw then on his earnest face a fleeting mood of seriousness or sadness. She sat still to listen to what else would come.

“All the roistering about, all the gaming,” he began, evidently searching to express some difficult or new thought. “Well, you know how busy and demanding it is for me, especially now that I am taking over more from Chancellor Wolsey, keeping a closer eye on him and the realm's business, as it were.”

She listened carefully, thinking how often her father tried to pry from her anything of import the king might say to her in a trusted or unguarded moment. She nodded to encourage him, but really, she had no idea where this confession would go.

“I mean to say, I do not know why an anointed king of the earth's greatest realm has to be so set upon with petitioners and petty papers to read and sign, and tricky foreign realms to watch like Charles's Spain and Margaret's Austria and your wily Francois's damned France!”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but neither the French king nor France are ‘mine.'”

“I did not mean it that way, sweet, really, only it galls me sore to think you were once his .”

She tried to scoot off his big lap but his hands held her hips against his strong thighs. “Sit, sit, madam. I meant not to rile you. We all make foolish errors, I warrant. Sit still, I say, Mary. I apologize.” He pulled her fiercely to him, his lips moving in her loose hair along her right temple, his hands stroking her silken back and hips.

“There now,” he crooned. “You are the last one in the world I want to turn argumentative, sweet. It is only that I get pent-up with all this business. I meant not to scold. By the saints, I need your serenity and beauty at the end of a day.”

She relaxed and shifted against his body, encircling his bull neck with her arms. There were so few quiet moments with this volatile, active man, yet he was telling her he craved them. She cuddled against him, savoring the affectionate caress Will had never given in his quick movements over her body. Peace and serenity, yes, like a little girl in her father's arms.

But after she lay with him that night, she watched him move away and bend instantly over his papers. She had never seen this side of him, so distracted, yet filled with fierce concentration. She yawned and stretched luxuriously in the massive bed under the carved and gilded crest of the Tudor kings. She was tired and she could feel herself slipping away. It must be nearly midnight now.

Through a fog of her thoughts, she heard his quill pen occasionally scratch “Henry Rex” even as he had on that impassioned love letter. Henry Rex of England impassioned, passionate. Then why don't I feel that way? she wondered, with one foot on the hazy edge of dreamy unreality.

She was full of his seed now as she was almost every night, and what would become of her if she conceived a child? But she never had all those times with Francois, that one terrible night with Lautrec, and now with Henry.

Proud, so proud, these kings. Never admitting they could be wrong except in little things, always having to be masterful and in charge. A paper rustled somewhere on the fringe of her thoughts, and a chair scraped back. Maybe he was coming to bed again. He had never before done work in the middle of the night.

She drifted softly, silently through the sweet-smelling rose gardens of Greenwich, or was it Hever? No, she must be at court, for everyone stood about shooting arrows at one another, laughing cruelly when someone was pierced. The king was laughing too, drawing his strong bow at everyone, and then she saw her father shooting his full brace of arrows from a never-empty quiver.

Arrows flew at her from everywhere—the air was black with them, and she was afraid. But none hit her.

Then she saw Staff by the tree, his arrows like his eyes. He raised his bow directly at her; she held up her arms and tried to scream but no sound came. She tried to run, but her feet were as heavy as lead.

His arrow whirred at her; she saw it coming and to her own amazement, she moved to meet it. It pierced her sweetly, deeply, and a rolling wave of rapture beat in her like coursing blood. Staff's arrow penetrated her very soul and brought a note she now held in her trembling hands:
I love you desperately and eternally.
She looked up in amazement, but he had turned and was walking away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

October 14, 1521

Whitehall

A
brightly clad bevy of court ladies trailed after Mary as she left her apartment and went out into the crisp autumn sunshine. As at Greenwich, the swards at Whitehall slanted down to the river, though the once-clear vista was now cluttered with tiltyard, archery range, and the close-cropped alley of grass for bowls, and a tall maze nearer the river. The crowd clustered on this clear afternoon at the newly built tennis courts of which the king was so proud. Whitehall was the newest palace given outright as a love gift—a policy gift, Staff called it—by His Grace's Lord Chancellor, the Cardinal Wolsey, who had moved his busy household upstream to his country palace Hampton Court. Mary favored Richmond and Greenwich of all the palaces, but on a day such as this, who could not love Whitehall?

“His Grace was anxious for you to come to see him play against my Lord Francis,” Joan Norris said for the second time, hurrying to keep pace with Mary's strides. Mary had learned to walk and dance faster, much faster, in the year she had been the energetic king's mistress.

“Actually, I believe he promised he would beat Sir Francis soundly,” joked Lady Joan, and Mary forced a laugh.

“Your Lord William is much from court this past week, Mary,” observed Jane Rochford tagging close behind.

“Yes, Jane, but it is Father sent him this time and not the king. As you know, Jane,” Mary said, turning her head to the girl, “Father asked Will to accompany him to visit the Bullens' new revenue posts at Essex and Nottinghamshire. They are due back today. Are you quite certain you have enough to occupy your time without George before the wedding?”

“Of course I do, Mary, now I can be with you everyday. Lord Bullen is pleased, too, and I do so wish to make him happy.”

“So do we all, Jane,” Mary shot back quickly and then regretted the sharp tone to her voice. No wonder Father and George had had a tremendous row over the Bullen-Rochford betrothal a few months ago. George had evidently been forced to see the wisdom in the marriage, but she could hardly blame him for his impatience with the meddling little Rochford. But George's sulkiness had worsened since, and he seldom came to court now that Jane was here to attend Mary. Jane Rochford saw Lord Bullen as her protector and deliverer. If only the wench knew the salvation of her coming marriage had nothing to do with herself and all to do with her family title and lands, who knew what she would say or do then.

Several young men tilted at the quintain on the joust practice grounds trying to learn the timing and placement of the thrust of the lance from a moving horse. The wood and leather mock opponent twirled and spun on its pivot as they made passes at it. They were so confident, so awkward, and Mary remembered George, gangly and skinny at Hever years ago. She favored stopping to watch their serious antics, but she had been summoned to the tennis courts again.

The archery range where she had shot at target with the king only yesterday was nearly deserted. Her aim was much improved and it annoyed her to have to wear the proper lady's half-gloves when she shot. Henry was much pleased at her progress since the last contest, but she did not tell him that both Will and Staff had given her lessons while he was in council.

Despite the brisk river breeze, she felt warm in her fawn-colored pelisse. Still she wanted to wear it over her dress whenever she was in public where someone might notice her slightly expanded waistline. Soon someone would see, then everyone would know, and the king would put her aside as he had Bessie Blount. He pledged eternal love and had been relatively faithful for over a year, but Mary was no country-bred wench who trusted in men anymore. And her greatest fear—the thing that kept her awake nights when His Grace or Will rolled over and went to sleep—was that there would be no way to truly know who had fathered the babe.

“I am sorry, Jane. What did you say?”

“I said, the cheering from the courts is so loud that they must have started the match without you.”

“Well, that is fine. They last a good long time anyway.”

Jane had taken to brazenly flirting with Mark Gostwick but, except for pitying poor George even more, Mary ignored it. She was relieved when Jane excused herself and went to sit with him on the far side of the court.

“I must warn you, there is a rumor that the queen will appear this afternoon, Mary,” Anne Basset whispered to her as they waved to the beaming king and his opponent, Norris. They sat on a padded bench which was quickly vacated for them. Mary self-consciously draped her pelisse closer about her. This canopied area was much too warm with the courtiers packed in like this.

“I do not believe she favors the embarrassment when she knows the blonde Bullen is about the area,” Mary replied carefully, “though she always handles the encounters beautifully by smiling and nodding and, if she must speak, inquiring sweetly after my father and mother.”

“She knows His Grace has given you his heart. All she has now is half a daughter. And, with the king's illegitimate son being raised so royally, she fears.”

“She has always been gracious enough to me, Lady Anne. She is not here, so we will let it rest, please.”

Anne Basset nodded, but her eyes showed her dismay at never being able to taunt Mary Carey enough to get some bit of information for gossip. Was the woman also so sweet and tolerant in the king's arms? What was it like to bed with the Tudor stallion? She had wanted to ask Mary in private, but her blue eyes seemed distant again, lost in some reverie in the midst of the crowded court.

The king played tennis with much power and verve. But then, so did Norris. Henry grunted and threw his huge body several steps into the court each time he served, and he often cursed loudly or flailed the air with his racquet if the leather ball did not land where he intended. She had watched him play for hours in the closed courts at Greenwich. Only last week he had played a two-hour game with Staff, winning only in the last set to the deafening cheer and applause of the assembled crowd. At least in that interminable game she had had Staff to study. His lithe body was angular and lean compared to the king's, although his muscles bulged across his back and chest. He was there across the court with that fawning Lady Fitzgerald at this very moment. It annoyed her the way the raven-haired woman clung to him and brushed against him all the time. Well, what did she care? She pulled her eyes away and forced herself to refocus on the game.

Tennis players always wore white on the Tudor courts, pure white, a fashion begun by the king, she supposed. Henry hated to play up to the net and was content to stand firm on the back line, smashing drive after powerful drive into his opponent's court with his quick, rapid thrusts. She smiled and hoped no one noticed how her thoughts always went to her face no matter how hard she tried to look indifferent. That was exactly the way the king made love. Quick, powerful thrusts and then it was over before his passionate kisses or fierce caresses could work the magic on a woman of which a man was capable. And Will was so self-disciplined, even in bed, she could not imagine the babe that grew within her could be a Carey son. Her throat constricted in fear again. If the baby looked like the king, whatever would she do? At least Will and His Grace had similar coloring, but the Tudor hair was a deeper red. If the king sent her away from court, she would be lost. And father might even turn against her.

She was making herself sick from worry. It was too hot in here. All the people so near, looking at her and the king. But her cloak was her protection. She wiped her damp brow again and shifted nervously in her seat. Who was winning? She must put her mind on the game.

Worst of all, Staff was sauntering over, and he could always see right through her. She valued his advice about others in the intricately woven web of courtiers, but she needed none of his lectures on her own behavior now. Besides, there was an unbreakable magnetic pull of attraction between them of which he had long teased her, and she had stopped fighting with him on the point. When he brought it up in jest or in earnest, she raised her armor of silence, but he knew he had won.

She remembered, particularly last month, when Will had been suddenly summoned by the king. She, Will, and Staff had been together on a crisp, clear evening drinking hot mulled cider in front of a fire in the Carey suite of rooms. Will had scurried away with a brief peck on her cheek and a quick word to Staff about the good fortune to be summoned by the great Henry more frequently now that the Carey rise to power had begun.

“I shall just sit a few minutes with Mary, Will,” Staff had called after his retreating friend and then waited until the door banged shut to add, “and then head home to my lonely little bed while sweet Mary sleeps alone tonight.” He had given her a forlorn, doleful look, his hand over his heart and she had burst out laughing instead of scolding him.

“More mulled cider, sweet?” he asked, and leaned over to pour her some from the metal flagon before she answered. She held her mug out for him, annoyed that her hand shook a little.

His next words startled her. “I swear, your husband is as blind as a bat and as foggy as the Thames marshes, sweetheart.” He turned toward her, “If I were Will, I would not let you out of my sight around a ravenous blackguard like myself.”

“Oh, Staff,” she said, trying to sound amused. Then, foolishly she turned to smile at him. The impact of his gaze, his very presence made her insides tilt.

He jerked his head away first, staring wide-eyed into the fire, then downing his cider in several huge gulps. “I have to leave now, Mary, before I do something very, very foolish. And, considering with whom you sleep when you are not with Will, damned dangerous, too.”

“Must you go?” she had said before she could stop herself.

He looked at her again, the firelight edging his rugged profile and dusting his black velvet shoulders with a rosy glow. “Yes, Mary, I really must. The time is not ripe yet, as they say, though heaven knows I would almost hazard it all for one sweet—”

She leaned forward, entranced by his words, unaware of how lovely and vulnerable she looked in the golden glow of firelight. “For one what, Staff?”

He rose and moved away from her, walking around the backs of the three chairs facing the hearth as if he were afraid of being near her. “For more than one kiss, that is certain, love. This little game you and I play is a serious one and do not ever make a mistake about that, Mary. Let us just say I would almost risk it all for one sweet, little—more than you are willing to give me right now. I think you know how I feel and what I want from you, lass. Goodnight, then.”

The door had closed on him and disappointment instantly overwhelmed her. Why did he have to run like that when they had some quiet time together? Did he fear the king's spies as he had mentioned once? But his last earnest words echoed in her mind: she
did
know what he wanted, and the prospect thrilled her. Suddenly, the delicious sweet cider had turned very sour and the firelit room had gone very cold.

She no longer feared Staff would do anything to hurt her. Besides, she was well protected by her relationship with her husband, who was one of Staff's best friends, and by the king whom he served. He had not touched her for an entire fourteen months, but to take her arm, since that foolish Robin Hood masque. He knew his place now, so she could usually relax and genuinely enjoy the time he spent with her and Will. At least he had had the kindness to fob that vine-like Emily Fitzgerald off on Edward Courtenay and not drag her over here.

Ignoring Anne Basset's eager gaze, he bent over Mary's shoulder from behind her. “Will you walk with me briefly? His Grace will not mind. He is winning and we will tell him you did not feel well. You do not, do you? Come on. Excuse me, Anne,” he added to the Basset girl.

“Oh yes,” she breathed, smiling up at him. “Shall I come too? I would be pleased to help if Lady Mary does not feel well.”

“Thank you, but she only needs a bit of fresh air,” he answered.

The girl's breathy sigh greatly irritated Mary. She rose to join Staff. “Has she been in your bed, too, Staff?” she inquired more icily than she had intended.

“Too, Mary? I am sorry you cannot mean in addition to yourself, so to whom are you referring?”

Her head was beginning to hurt and he was intentionally annoying her when she needed his support. If she could only tell him of the baby. He had been around the court enough, and knew the king well. At least she could listen to his advice and take it into consideration.

“Lady Fitzgerald, of course,” she answered after a long pause. “And, no doubt, others.”

“You cannot expect me to live like a monk while I am waiting for the king to toss you out and for you to realize you love me, Mary.” He turned his head and looked straight at her. His brown eyes were suddenly flecked with tiny shards of gold. It frightened her how much she loved to have him talk so foolishly. She lowered her eyes to her hand resting on his blue velvet arm.

“This is a surprise. Silence and smokey stares have become your favorite weapons against me, but never when I speak of loving you. No tart words? Let us face the truth, sweetheart. You have two men at your beck and call, so why should I be celibate?”

“Why do you not marry then?”

“The truth? I cannot afford it and I cannot hope that His Grace would see fit to drench me in revenues and lands as he does my fortunate friend Will Carey. And why should I wed someone I cannot tolerate when it is so easy to bed others I can?”

Mary could feel the color mount to her cheeks at his words. She had heard others speak and jest bawdily at court, but the truth, plainly spoken from Staff, often embarrassed her. They were almost to the privet maze. She had not realized they had come so far from the tennis court. Surely he would not take her into the lover's maze in broad daylight.

“Imagine a lover's maze shaped like a cardinal's hat, Mary? Well, the esteemed Cardinal Wolsey has had lovers and a wife, so I should not be so surprised at it. Do not balk. I am not foolish enough to take you in, although there is little I would like better right now. Neither of us needs to be banished from court, at least not now.”