The Last Boleyn (20 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

June 19, 1525

Hampton Court

T
he entire court was in an uproar the day after the king's blatant move against his lawful queen and his daring elevation of those forces which could cause her harm. Ignoring his six-year-old daughter, Mary Tudor by Queen Catherine, the king had invested Henry Fitzroy, his six-year-old illegitimate son by Bessie Blount, as Duke of Richmond and Earl of Nottingham and Somerset. The boy was assigned a vast household of his own. The chess move was clear to all observers who knew the rules. Bessie Blount's son was being groomed as the next Tudor king. And in that elaborate investiture ceremony, a spate of other courtiers were advanced who were the current rooks, knights, and pawns about the great Henry. To allay the alarm of Thomas Bullen, who knew the proper moves as well as any, the king bestowed a viscountcy. Mary had expected her father to be in an expansive mood from the honor and was hardly prepared for the irate display he was giving in Will Carey's suite of rooms as she made ready to answer a summons from the king.

“But you are Viscount Rochford now, father, and the diplomatic missions are a great honor and responsibility His Grace gives. You have never shown a care for the queen's feelings before. I cannot see...”

“No, you would not. Will, can you teach her nothing of political intelligence, as close as she has lived to the seat of power these five years?” He turned back to Mary and slapped his palms down on her little oak dressing table so that the bottles, mirror and enamelled jewel box jumped and shuddered. “Damn it, Mary. You too have a son who could be His Grace's flesh and blood just as well. Do not protest, Will. You know it. Baby Catherine—well indeed, she is yours, for the king was obviously in a wandering mood those months, but the boy is Tudor through and through.”

“Little Harry is not so far from Will's coloring, and you know it, father.”

“Bessie Blount came and went in a season like a single, pretty flower, but you, Mary, you are yet his favorite who blooms anew after five years. Bullen stock is of better mettle than the Blounts!”

“If Harry should be His Grace's son, my lord, you must admit that Henry Fitzroy was the first born,” Mary shot back.

“Whose side are you on in this struggle, girl? You have always been too fond and sweet, accepting and content. Do you have no ambitions for your son or for you and Will? Have you ever advanced the Carey cause to which your husband is so dedicated?”

“Yes, my lord, I have spoken to her of it often,” Will put in.

“Rightly so. Mary, must I do all your thinking? Must I tell you every move to make? The diplomatic missions keep both me and George away from court more than I would like, and I fear you grow too headstrong for Will to handle.” He ignored Will's fidgeting and growing annoyance as he berated his wife while she sat stonelike at her dressing table.

“Have you heard a word I have said?” Thomas Bullen demanded. He pulled her to her feet facing him and suddenly the wall she had learned to build against him crumbled and she feared he would strike her.

“Yes, of course, I hear you, father. Only...”

“Only what?”

“I have done...I will do what you say, but I will not risk little Harry by insisting or even hinting as you would have me do that he is His Grace's child.”

“Risk him! The king has only two living sons, madam, and you bore him one. The Fitzroy boy is a weakling. Anything is possible.”

“Please, father. You are hurting me. Will, please help me to...”

Her father dropped his hands from her arms, and she stepped away from him.

“We had best tell her what we have decided and be done with these foolish arguings, Will. The king's boating party to see his new gift from his dear Cardinal Wolsey will not wait for one silly woman.”

“Tell me what? What have you done? Will, tell me!”

“Mary,” Will stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulders. She froze, waiting. “I have told you that this court is no place to raise a son.”

“He is not even four years old and he needs us, Will. He stays.”

“You have won that bout before, Mary, but not now.”

She shrugged his arm off her shoulders and moved several steps away. “Harry stays here with his parents, my lord father, or the king is likely to hear hints that the boy is indeed Will Carey's son and no other.”

Thomas Bullen clenched his fist, and she knew he would hit her, but he restrained himself. His long face was livid and a huge vein throbbed in his neck.

Will's agitated voice broke the thread of passion between the Bullens as they stood there frozen. “You must not gainsay your father on this point, Mary. We are agreed. You know you wish for a fine education for our son, and it is long overdue to begin. Next month the boy joins the household of the new heir to the throne at Hatfield House. He will have playmates there, a fine tutor, and we can easily ride to see him often if you wish.”

“And he will be where he should be, daughter. Close to the heir and sharing Fitzroy's education should it ever happen he needs it. Wipe those tears. The king will want a happy face on his jaunt upriver.”

“You do not take Catherine! She does not even say her sentences yet. She is still in leading strings.” Her voice was pleading when she meant to be so strong. She was afraid to threaten father as she did Will. They were all she had to love. Well, almost all, but the other was impossible.

“Of course Catherine stays, Mary,” her father reassured her, trying to pat her arm, but she recoiled from his touch. “Her position is hardly at stake. And, Mary, I am trusting you to be wise in this with His Grace. There are others to whom he has turned and can turn again, you know.”

“Why do you threaten me with that? It frightens you more than it does me, father.”

“I am not threatening you, dear Mary. Only warning. Your own sister, for example, seems to have much influence over him. Not only has she had her marriage promise to the Ormonds rescinded, but she has been brought back to the king's good graces after that foolish Percy affair. Anne is bright and smiling and is much about, so dry those tears. No doubt, His Grace's retinue gathers at the royal barge now, so be quick.” He clapped Will twice on the shoulder and strode from the room.

Mary sank onto her bench, leaning her elbows on the dressing table. Even when she tried desperately to erect barriers to keep herself from hurt, she failed. Failed to hold the king's attentions, failed to please Will, failed to communicate with Anne, failed even to protect her little son.

“Mary, your father is right. We must hurry. You will have to remake your eyes. Come on now. It is all for the best. You will greatly disappoint the king, your cousin and Staff, whom His Grace put in charge of this tour today.”

She said nothing. Mechanically, she began to reapply her eye colors.

Mary felt like a wooden doll that little Catherine had dragged through the gravel or stepped on, as she joined the gathering group of courtiers. Jane Rochford greeted her gaily with a swift hug, and Anne waved brightly, surrounded by a little cluster of men including Weston, Norris, and their tall cousin, Sir Francis Bryan. William Stafford came up from behind with the lovely fair-haired Maud Jennings on his arm, and Mary felt another sharp twist inside.

It suddenly annoyed Mary that she and the Jennings woman had both chosen gold for this barge trip to Hampton. Really, Mary thought, and glared at Maud through slitted lids, anyone who knew anything about fashion at court knew the king's mistress Mary Carey often wore gold as her color and, out of deference, chose others. Mary's gown was a particularly elaborate satin and brocade one she had worn only once before. Her filmy, short veil set far back on her small, jeweled headpiece rustled in the river breeze as she tossed her head to pull her gaze away from the flirty Maud Jennings.

But her eyes had taken in the girl, and Staff with her, all too well. Maud's dress might not be as expensively made or as fashionable, but Mary had to admit it showed the maid's flagrant charms to best advantage. She had a most annoying habit of swishing those velvet and brocade-covered hips entirely too much when she walked or leaned into Staff as she did now.

Of course, he was probably encouraging Maud's display of tasteless possessiveness in front of them all, Mary fumed. His huge chest and shoulders were finely encased in perfectly fitting, almost iridescent peacock blue which melded to green when he flexed those big muscles as he did now. His white lace and linen shirt showed slightly above his V-cut doublet to emphasize the bronze coloring of his face and throat. As Mary darted a glance at Staff to drink in his face, lithe body, and brawny legs displayed in the same bright blue, to her dismay, she saw that they were approaching. How dare he drag his latest little minx over here by me, she thought, but she nodded politely enough to them both. Maud gave a little sigh when Staff halted by Mary, but the girl did not see Staff's gaze so swiftly, but completely, go over Mary Carey.

“It is somewhat cloudy for the outing, but His Grace is so happy, he will not even notice,” Staff observed. Maud's other hand rested possessively on his arm. She almost clung to him. It amazed Mary how angry and hateful she felt toward Staff for his smiles and his obvious attention to the young maid who was newly arrived at court. She herself had no one to cling to—no one but a sixteen-month-old daughter, and how long would they let her keep her?

“Are you well today, Lady Mary?” Staff inquired, searching her face.

“Yes, quite,” she returned icily. She refused to look into those eyes which always pretended concern. “Which barge are we to ride on, Will?” she asked her husband, turning her back on Staff.

Staff answered the question. “Will, His Grace has asked Francis and me to ride the royal barge since he sent us to Hampton to be certain the Cardinal had vacated his household for this visit, so would you do me the great favor of escorting Maud on the second boat? I promise I will take her off your hands when we arrive.” Maud laughed musically and squeezed the arm she held. “The king, of course, will want Mary on his barge and, since I can see him coming now, we had best get on. My thanks, Will.”

“I am used to partnering court ladies, Staff, but none so sweet and new to our court as this,” Will replied graciously.

Mary turned away and strode toward the gilded barge decked in green and white banners and awnings. Staff had her arm before the boatman could help her in.

“What ails you, Mary?”

“Do not touch me, please. I wish to sit with the Duchess of Suffolk.”

“You will sit with His Grace, unfortunately for me—that is, unless your little wren of a sister tempts him to take her away from the string of admirers she always flaunts.”

“At least Anne is happy now. When the king and the Cardinal took Harry Percy away from her, I doubted she ever would be again.”

“I am not so certain she is truly happy now. She seethes inside, Mary. But she is adept at putting on a happy face while you never seem able to manage it lately. Did your father berate you that your son was not given a title yesterday with Fitzroy?”

She turned to look fully into his face for the first time today. His eyes were in shadow, but he looked perfectly serious. “Are you a spy, William Stafford? Why does it seem you always know the business of the Bullens?”

“When will you learn that it takes no spying, sweet Mary? It is all so easy to read.”

“Not to me. But then, who would expect such a foolish woman to understand the goings-on of the great world outside her empty little head?”

“I have told you not to let your father get to you like this.”

“Take your hand off me. The king is here. Go back to your fair-haired, cow-eyed Maud!”

“I hope we can talk later, Mary, without Will or the king.” He half-turned away from her and bowed low with the rest of the courtiers on the royal barge as the king, Duke and Duchess of Suffolk mounted the barge. But he said out of the side of his mouth before he left her. “I do not love Maud Jennings, Mary.”

Carefully, Mary composed her face and, when she caught sight of the Duchess's warm smile, her own joy was genuine. “Mary, it has been two days since I last saw you. Is little Catherine's fever abated?”

“Yes, Your Grace. It passed in but a few hours. I prayed that your Margaret would not catch it.”

“I keep her out of the night air, and she is healthy as a pup. My dear Charles dotes on her, though I know he wanted a son. Now, if we can just get through the summer without anyone catching the foul sweating sickness, I shall be able to face anything.”

“What do I hear?” the king boomed so close in Mary's ear that she jumped. “We are about to go on a fine outing to see my new palace at Hampton, and I hear mention of the damned sweating sickness. Pray God, it does not strike the court this year. Besides, ladies, we shall all sit it out safe hunting at Eltham. Charles, sit with your lady there behind me and do keep her off such vile topics, or I shall personally toss her into the Thames.” Everyone laughed and Mary went through the motions. “Mary, here with me. I cannot wait to show you how magnificent my Hampton is. We shall move the court there soon, though I may let Wolsey use it from time to time when we are elsewhere.”

Mary sat obediently at his left and carefully arranged her stylish dress fold by satin fold.

“You look lovely, lovely as always, Mary. I have just the pair of topaz earrings which would set off your eyes in a color such as that. The color of golden sunlight, eh?” His narrow eyes caressed her openly.

“Thank you, Sire. You look spectacular today.”

He beamed like a schoolboy and Mary returned his smile willingly. As usual, he did indeed look impressive in Tudor green and blinding white to match his barge and, probably, the pennants which would mark this new palace they would visit.

“Where is that little minx of a sister of yours, Mary?” he asked, suddenly craning his huge neck. “There she is! Next to an unmarried courtier, of course, flirting. Staff! Here, to me!”