The Last Boleyn (18 page)

“On or about New Year's Eve, Mary, His Grace will make me Treasurer of the Household. As you may know, that position entails power as well as grants. The Bullen name has never risen so high as that, and we must protect that position. I have hopes that if I hold that favored position, His Grace will return you to court after you bear your child, and you may be able to ensnare his heart again. I can tell from the way he greeted me today that he does not know of your condition. Am I correct?”

She nodded, peering at the leaden reflections of clouds on the dull jade surface of the river.

“Then I would ask you to keep the news from the king until he makes the announcement of my new position. It should be soon. Thank God, we do not have to wait until the appointment is final in January, or we would never make it.”

“Do you not think, father,” she inquired sweetly, “that His Grace values your service so much that he would still appoint you whether or not I am handy to warm his bed?”

He grabbed her wrist in a vise-like grip and jerked her hard up to his velvet and silken chest. “Damn it, girl, I am depending on you to handle this properly. However much fine service I give His Grace you are the important link right now, and I do not appreciate the implication. Have you been about this clever court so long you forget who got you these honors in the first place?”

“No, father, I have not forgotten. Please. You are hurting me. I just get frightened and homesick sometimes.”

“For Hever?”

“Yes. For Hever. And for mother.”

“Well, you can stop that now, for the odds are good you will go home to bear the child since it will be more natural and will cost His Grace no extra coinage, as did the Blount wench.” He patted her drooping shoulder awkwardly. “I meant not to hurt you, Mary, and I realize you must feel afraid sometimes, for the stakes are high. But I am back to stay for a time now, and you can rely on me for support. I ask you to keep your secret only for a little while. The announcement of the advancement must come soon. You will help, will you not, my Mary?”

“Of course, father. I always have.”

“And do not be sad, Mary. Times are bad with France, so I intend to fetch Anne home on the excuse of George's wedding. Then when His Grace calls you back to court after the child is born, you will have George, Anne, and Jane Rochford about to keep you company, as well as Carey and me. That will help.”

“Yes. It will be wonderful to have Anne home, but that Rochford girl can drive me to distraction at times.”

“Really? I think her a rather good soldier. She knows her place, and she is fond of you, Mary. I appreciate her. She often tells me what is going on. She will help to settle George down and help him forget that foolish Wyatt girl.”

Mary pressed her lips together tightly. He guided her up the path toward the tiltyards. “Let me see you without the cloak. Here, just hold your arms out.” He bent in front of her and peered at her waist and stomach as though she were a filly for sale. “Quite flat yet. We are in luck. No one has noticed, have they?”

“I would say I am much too small, father, for just anyone to notice.”

He squinted into the sunlight at her face. “Good. Then everything is settled. I imagine we can at least tell Will the news. Perhaps the Careys will rejoice at the prospect of an heir, and at least he will have the brains to hold his tongue until it is time for our next move. After all, you could be carrying the king's son. There might be fine possibilities in the years to come.”

They did not speak again as their footsteps crunched the gravel of the slanting path that linked the green-gray river to their king.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

April 6, 1522

Hever Castle

A
nother crunching pain seized Mary's belly and shot jaggedly along her spine. She clenched her hands and wrinkled her brow. It passed as swiftly as it had come.

Anne bent her sleek head toward her sister, but did not touch her. “Mary, is it time? Shall I summon mother or Semmonet?”

Mary shook her blonde head slowly, her loosed hair sliding along her back and shoulders. “I am certain it is just another false pain. I will not be put to bed, and the midwife called again for nothing. I felt so foolish. I can feel the babe has gone lower now. Perhaps soon.” Tiny tears trembled on her thick lashes but did not spill. “If only this wretched waiting were over, Anne, I would be so happy.”

“I can understand that, Mary. If I were in your exciting place in life, I would want to go back too. It is just too silent here—no dancing, no banquets, no
chevaliers charmants
to twist about one's little finger for mere amusement.”

“I did not mean that I was anxious to leave Hever, Anne. Have you not longed for home while at Francois's court all these years?”

“Oh, at first, when I was young, I suppose.”

“But you are only fourteen now.”

“Almost fifteen, sister, and old enough to long for the excitement of Amboise and Chambourg. Fortunately, this boorish exile shall not last long, for father has promised I go to the English court to serve the queen. They say in France that she is quite stuffy, mopes and wears haircloth under her unfashionable dresses, Mary. Is she truly another Claude?”

“She is not well loved by her lord, Anne, so she has that to share with the French queen. Only she seems to me much more tragic, for she was loved once, and she must have the memories of the loss to torment her. The king chose her, you know, though it is said the marriage was his father's death bed wish. I doubt that Francois du Roi ever cared a whit for poor Claude. And then, there are the babes. Her Grace has had six dead babes, Anne, and the man she adores gone from her too.” Mary put her hands on her huge stomach protectively.

“I am sorry I made you talk of dead babies, Mary. I did not mean to upset you.” Anne had long ago dumped her pile of embroidery on the turf, and she munched handfuls of the last of the winter walnuts as she spoke. “Truly, Mary, what is it like? I am old enough to know now.”

“To carry a child?”

“No, silly goose. To belong to Caesar, to share his bed, to have everyone defer to you—and, well, to have his child.”

“This babe is my lord Will Carey's child, Anne. I have told you that before.”

“Father says it can just as well be the king's and that we are to keep mum on it outside the family, and let them wonder.”

“Father is not birthing this child, and I do not wish you to have Will hear such talk.” She reached out her hand to Anne's arm. “Please, Anne, try to understand.”

“I do, Mary, truly. It is no wonder both Francois and His Grace desired to love you. Even when you are so, well,
enceinte,
and heavy at the waist, you are still beautiful, sister. I wish I had your Howard looks.” She leaned her slim body back on the bench and stretched her arms over her head. “Then I warrant I could have a new courtier every week.”

“Anne, you sound so heartless! You have become a real flirt. You have been about Francoise du Foix too long.”

“At least I came back a virgin from France, Mary, though Francois du Roi was beginning to give me those soulful, dark-eyed stares when Father called me home.” She giggled. “Besides,” she added when she saw her older sister's hurt expression at the reprimand, “Francoise du Foix is quite out of favor and has been these last six months. Anne du Heilly is the light of the king's life now. She is blonde and blue-eyed like you and was quite an innocent when
du Roi
first noticed her.”

“You have changed, Anne. You are much older than your years. Soon you must think seriously of marriage and of motherhood.”

“I hope not immediately. Some perfectly proper marriage father arranged would probably bore me, and I do not care if I never give birth.” Almost unconsciously, her slim hands went to her flat stomach. “I shall never be another Claude or even, like mother, to have the heirs and be shifted off. Will you not just die, Mary, if you are not summoned back to court—after?”

“Will has some lands now and a manorhouse I have never seen. Besides, Father says I shall be called back. My husband serves the king, so we must live at court.”

“You are the one talking like an innocent, Mary. Father says he can only hope you will be returned to court. And I am sure Esquires to the Body can be changed. But I would so like us all to be together at court especially with George. George needs consolation and diversion. He always did favor Margot Wyatt and now he has had to wed with that chatterbox Rochford. Father had best not try to arrange such a marriage for me, though I would consider it if it would mean I could live at court.”

Mary shifted her bulk and felt the child kick as hard as he had these last few months. The little fellow kicked and punched at her insides so hard sometimes that even Will could see the movement. At first it had frightened her that someone else had taken control of her body, but then it delighted her. Now it filled her heart with foreboding of the hours of pain to come. And Will was still kept at court. At least he should be here when the Carey heir was born.

“What did you say, Anne? He is moving, see?”

“Yes. Well, I was saying I wish you would tell me all about the king from your point of view. I am certain it would be more exciting than hearing it all from father's lectures.”

“I shall, Anne. I promise, for I wish someone would have told me the truth before I got involved in it all. There was only one who told me much about it, and I was too stubborn to listen to him.”

“Who? Will?”

“No, not Will. A friend of Will's, William Stafford. He was an aide to father in France. Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely. Tall and brown-haired with that roguish look?”

“Yes. That is Staff.” His face drifted through her mind as it often did, no longer jesting and taunting, but concerned and warm. She had not seen him for almost five months. Too often she found herself wondering if he still cared for her and would watch her from across the room and kiss her fondly on the cheek as he had when Will had taken her to Hever so long ago to await the child. You are really quite a fool, Mary, she told herself firmly. He is probably reveling in Lady Fitzgerald's bed or even that clinging Anne Basset's, and hardly giving his friend's pregnant wife a moment's thought.

“Why are we speaking of William Stafford anyway? I would like you to tell me about some important, exciting people, please. Personal things, not political things, like father always does.”

“I promise I will, Anne, but I am very tired now and just want to sit awhile before mother makes me go back to bed. The gardens at Hever are so restful. I can almost pretend nothing outside even exists.”

Anne's eyes grew wide with sudden knowledge. “Are you afraid, Mary? You mustn't be, you know. You are young and strong and everything will be well.”

“Thank you, Anne. Those sweet words mean much to me just now.”

“I meant not to tire you. Shall I fetch mother? She always knows what to say and do.”

“Yes, please, but do not hurry. I would like to be alone for a moment.”

“Semmonet said you are not to be alone.”

“Just walk slowly then, and that will take a little time. I will not be really alone.”

“All right. And we shall talk of the court and king tomorrow.” Anne bent her lithe body and scooped her embroidery from the grass. She swept down the gravel path, her head held high as always.

Yes, the girl would go far. She was so poised, spirited and clever. Even her needlework made Mary's look crude by comparison. Anne's stitches were tiny and delicate even though she secreted her deformed hand beneath her work. If she ever really dared to stand up to father when he chose to wed her to someone she did not favor, Mary would like to be there to see the scene. Anne had much to learn about many things, including their father.

Mary sighed and stood slowly. If only the child would come. If it could only be over! How she would like to mount Donette and ride like the wind across the meadows to the Eden and lie on her back under the beeches with her hands behind her head. Perhaps if she were not summoned back to court...but Will could manage to keep his position, she could just live with mother and raise her son here.

She walked slowly around the patches of mint and dill which encircled the stone sundial. Sky-blue morning glories clung to its fluted base. It was noon, dead noon, and the iron finger set to tell the time threw no shadows. Time, time. Another minute, another hour, another sharp shadow on the face on the stone dial. Five months away from court, two years away from France, so far away from safety, security and peace. The king had sent her a tiny enamelled box and one garnet necklace in those five months, but what did that assure? He might never want her back. Father had said they could arrange her return to London, but she was not certain of that. Will had made only four visits in five months. His sister Eleanor stayed on at court and he would probably rather be near her than his wife anyway, since her Carey blood is not from some forced marriage.

The April sun gave a warm embrace, but she wandered a bit off the path into the shade of a skinny-leafed weeping willow near the little pond. How she would love to stoop and pick those tight-clustered violets, but she could not. This time next year, pray God, she would have her babe in her arms, and could stoop to pick them.

A branch rustled behind her and she spun her head sharply. “Oh, Michael, you frightened me. What are you doing here?”

The thin, gangly boy smiled shyly at her. His front teeth gapped wide, and he seldom smiled outright. He reminded her of George years ago, before France, but his hair was flame-colored and masses of freckles dotted his long face.

“I didna' mean to scare you, Lady Mary. I was jus' walking through and I thought to see you be all right since the Lady Anne left you.”

“I appreciate that, Michael. And I have wanted to thank you for the cuttings of forsythia and pussywillow during the rains. They lightened my dark room and cheered me tremendously.”

He smiled again, his felt hat held nervously in his awkward hands. “I was tellin' my mother it is too bad the Lady Mary has to come back to visit in the winter months, for she always loved the gardens best of all the Bullens. I try my best to keep them nice for the lord and lady. The lord, he ne'er sees them, but Lady Elizabeth, she loves them, an' I know you do too.”

“We all appreciate the fine work the gardeners do, Michael. I am glad to see you so grown. Will you wed soon?”

“There be no one I fancy now, lady, but if I find someone, I will ask my mother and Lady Elizabeth for permission, and wed with her gladly.” He took a step closer in the spotted shade. “I remember the day we had to look for the lost spaniel in the box hedges, lady. And I remember best the day the king came to Hever and walked in my rose garden.”

Simple pride shone on his face, but Mary did not miss the fact that his eyes dropped swiftly, accusingly, to her rounded belly. Even the servants knew and whispered that the child the Lady Mary carried was the king's.

She turned away, suddenly terribly hurt by his simple face and gentle gaze. What honor could there be in bearing a bastard to the king if honest servant's eyes accused? Even peasants who worked the gardens with their hands were free to choose whom they wed.

A stab of pain gripped her at the waistline and spread swiftly downward, crushing the breath from her. This was no agony of guilt, memory, remorse or a false pain of birth. This was different. Her knees nearly buckled and she leaned heavily on the tree trunk. “Michael, fetch...my mother.”

“I can help you to sit, lady. I will fetch her.”

He grasped both arms above her elbows. She would have shouted at him not to touch her, but the next wave of pain staggered her and she toppled against his grimy chest. He backed carefully out onto the gravel path holding her up by her arms. Her legs followed wobbily, draggingly. Tears of fear and pain coursed down her cheeks, and she bit her lip.

If I were a true-bred court lady, she thought crazily between pangs, I would ask this gardener to take his hands off me and show no pain on my face at all. He half-sat, half-leaned her on the bench where she and Anne had been, and raced off saying something back over his shoulder. What had he said? Another pain seized her, and she heard herself scream. Truly, this was it, this was her time. Where were the men in her life when she needed them? Her father should be here for the birth of his first grandchild. Was Will on his way? This baby was not early. He should be here, too. Damn the king! Damn him who could send maids five months from his court just because they conceived and their waistlines no longer suited his roving hands.

The next pain swept over her like a huge wave and her ears rang, drowning out the garden sounds and all thoughts. Then mother, Semmonet, Michael and some other man were there. They carried her into the dark house and to bed.

It seemed she had long drifted on waves of pain and exhaustion. She screamed for them to take the bedclothes off and begged them for cool water to drink. Her body was not her own. She tried to hide from its strange revolution in the corner of her mind, but the agony pursued her, and she screamed again. There were two midwives, mother and Semmonet. Father had said two midwives. There must be two to make sure the child was delivered safely. How she hoped the child was a girl and had the identical look of a Carey to spite her father. How many hours on the sundial in the garden? Why could the tearing pains not end?

They told her to push, and she did with all her might. It helped, but the pain swept her back, so what did the tiny respite matter? How could women do this all the time? Claude. Poor Claude and the Spanish Catherine! All those dead children after so much pain. Please, God, do not let my baby be born dead. “Mother! Mother! Water!”