The Last Boleyn (26 page)

“But we decided we must do that now to be together.”

“Yes. Yes, shh. It is only that I wish so desperately that I could give you your own house and stables—and bedroom. What were you doing when the boy came with the note from ‘mother'?”

“You rogue! Actually, if you want to know, I was cutting my old wedding dress to shreds.”

“So it has come to that, has it? Making a new gown from it, I suppose you mean. Mary, I have told you before and I shall tell you now again. You are without exception the most ravishingly beautiful woman at this court whatever you wear—or do not wear.”

A lump caught in her throat at the verbal caress. When he talked to her, even looked at her, it was always as though he touched her all over, stroked her bare skin, even thrust his love keep within her.

“If you think we have come here for a mere stroll among His Grace's ponies, sweet, you are in for a bit of a surprise, and I hope a pleasant one,” he was saying. “I have told you that I am not a patient man and I am afraid you are about to see the results of that. In here, Mary.”

She followed him trustingly through a small door in the back of the stables. It was a low, long, narrow room with a row of pallets covered with deep straw. There was a small table with a bench, a braided rag rug on the floor, and several open grates along the outside wall to let in air and light. Still it was very dim in here. Staff shot the bolt on the door behind them and then shoved a heavy bench to rest against it.

“The man in charge of the grooms stays here, and he owes me a favor,” he explained. “He knows I have a lady with me, but he will keep himself and the grooms clear for a while. They are busy enough with all the French mounts in the west stables anyway. The straw is all fresh on the pallets, love. I hauled it in myself from the loft this morning. See, over here.”

She stepped forward and saw three of the low wooden pallets on their sturdy, squat legs had been shoved together, piled with deep straw and covered with his big, black velvet cloak. She knew he was watching her intently, one hand still lightly touching her elbow.

“You know, my dear Lord Stafford,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling, “you can absolutely ruin good velvet in the rain. I am so glad you found a warm, dry place for that cape. And I love the feel of velvet on my back.”

May Day dawned glorious and golden at Hampton Court on the springtime banks of the broad River Thames. All morning the air had been split with the racket of workmen putting up the May poles and wrapping them with twelve-foot lengths of alternating strips of Tudor green and white. Trestle tables were laid outside and covered with long white tableclothes soon to be laden with food for over a thousand May Day revelers. From two newly installed, temporary fountains at the edge of the rose gardens, streams of the king's two favorite wines, Osney and Compolet, spouted in noisy trickles awaiting the thrust of goblets or parted lips of thirsty imbibers.

At eleven in the morning the greens, gardens and the elaborate maze would burst with the light-hearted, laughing courtiers who now kept to their chambers to dress and primp and prepare for this extravaganza to welcome the onset of spring and the temporary return to court of the Lady Anne Bullen. The eternally repeated topics of how many lands or titles or preferments the Lady Anne would get and how long she would last with the king on this one day took second place to the scuttling whispers of fashion and merriment.

“The dress is perfect, just perfect, Lady Mary,” Nancy crooned as she sat back proudly on her heels to admire their four-day creation. “I warrant even the Lady Anne shall not be as talked about and noted today!”

Mary pirouetted slowly as Nancy held their only small mirror so that she could catch at least a sideways glimpse of herself. She had to admit the gown was lovely. The shimmery blend of delicate shell pink and ivory in the bodice set off her milk and peaches complexion, and the light blonde tresses arranged so carefully. The press of the taut bodice pushed the creamy tops of her graceful, full breasts up over the lace and rosebud edging of the low, square-cut gown. Rustling satin skirts belled out in the graceful French style every time she swayed her hips slightly. Her full outer sleeves over the tight fitted ones dripped Belgian lace plundered from the wedding dress also, and a silver belt with clinking, delicate links which had once been a long neck chain dangled from her tiny waist. They had even covered a pair of old, worn white dance slippers in the pale pink satin. They both knew grass stains from the dancing on the lawn would surely ruin the slippers, but for today it was worth it.

Will stepped in from the hall dressed in his best beige doublet, matching hose and white lace and embroidered shirt and his mouth dropped. “A new dress, Mary? Is there a secret admirer, or did your avaricious little sister send you down a cast-off bolt from her coffers?”

“Will, I do not need your snide remarks today. Mother brought me this pink satin from Hever when she came last week and if you had been anywhere about these last four days, you would have seen Nancy and me personally slaving over it.”

“Well, it is lovely. You look fine. That will set them back on their heels when they see how Lady Carey looks, eh?”

No thanks to you, she wanted to say, but she did not intend to ruin this beautiful, exciting day carping at Will.

“You are evidently ready then, wife. Yes, you and Nancy did a very pretty job here. Those little roses at the neckline and hairpiece remind me of another gown you had once, but for the life of me I cannot think which one. Let us be off then. It is almost eleven and it will not do to keep His Grace waiting. I did tell you I am to go with John Ashton, Thomas Darcy and a small contingent of guards to fetch the Princess Mary for her father later this afternoon, did I not, Mary?”

“No. No, you did not, my lord.” She took his offered arm as they went out into the hall increasingly full of courtiers heading downstairs. “But she is at Beaulieu, Will. You cannot possibly get back until tomorrow.”

“True, madam,” he said tight-lipped. “See what you can make of the respite then.”

She darted a sideways look at him through her thick lashes, suddenly afraid. Could he know about Staff and her? But no, since things were bad in their marriage, he had probably meant that she would not miss him. Besides, he said no more about it and Staff and she had been so careful.

Still, she felt the first tiny stab of guilt for a long time. The moment he had told her he would be away, had not her first thought been to somehow tell Staff?

The sun dazzled them as they stepped out the big back doors facing the pond garden on the south front lawns. Mary blinked and squinted until her eyes adjusted. Courtiers were streaming in their springtime pastels like gentle trails of ribbons down to the burgeoning tables and waiting May poles on the river. The poignant fragrances of boxwood and sweet lilies-of-the-valley permeated the air everywhere here.

Her eyes skimmed the clusters of chatting, strolling people for Staff. He was always ridiculously easy to pick out, of course, because he was so tall, but she saw him nowhere here. Perhaps the king had attached him to his retinue at the last minute, and the big, brazen sovereign had hardly put in his appearance here yet among these still somewhat subdued courtiers. Do not panic and do not show dismay, Staff had warned her, when you see I am escorting Dorothy Cobham and Isabelle Dorsey. It would look most suspicious for me to attend May Day like a single stag among the does, only to shoot soulful looks at the married lady Lady Carey all afternoon. She knew he was right. At least there would be two women with him, she breathed, and that was infinitely better than one.

“Well, wife, steady yourself for the onslaught,” Will was chuckling and Mary's eyes foolishly searched the path for Staff with his two females in tow until she realized Will could not possibly know of that. Then she saw what he meant: in an elaborately ruffled and embroidered gown of light green and pale yellow, a laughing Anne Bullen pulled Henry Tudor decked in blinding white and gold down the path directly behind them with the rest of the Bullen family in their broad wake.

Will took Mary's arm firmly and they both bowed low as the royal entourage approached. Anne giggled; George nodded and tried to shift away from his clinging wife, Jane Rochford; Lady Bullen clasped her hands in delight and nodded at Mary over the perfection of the dress. The king and Thomas Bullen both stared wide-eyed at Mary.

“Well, well,” the king's voice came to Mary's ears uncharacteristically raspy. “Thomas, you rogue, how did you ever do it? Two beautiful, ravishing daughters. Lady Mary, my greetings this fine May Day and to you Will, of course, whom I see more often.” His eyes, in shadow, went deliberately over Mary, but Anne's head jerked toward the king and she possessively took his white satin-covered arm.

“My dear lord king, everyone awaits,” she said, and tugged his arm. He pulled his eyes away from Mary like a guilty schoolboy caught cheating at sums and with another mumbled word and quick backward glance went on.

Thomas Bullen dropped behind the departing king and spoke first to Will, as if Mary were not even there. “Did you mark all that, Will?” he demanded low. “I would advise you and your lady here to patch things up and put on a good front. Anne seems so willful and nervous I never know what she is going to do next. You
do
look spectacular, Mary dear. See to her, Will.”

Mary stared at her father's retreating back through slitted eyes as he hurried to catch up with the king. “Do you have anything to say, madam?” Will probed the minute they were all out of earshot.

“About what, Will? My father's cryptic comments or His Grace's greedy eyes?”

“Do not raise your voice out here like that, Mary. I was referring to how your father knew things were—well, unsettled between us.”

She started to walk toward the festival green and he had to hurry to keep up. “Honestly, Will, you ought to be used to father's knowing everything by now. It can hardly be a secret at court that you bed elsewhere but in the Lady Carey's room.”

His hand shot out and seized her wrist, whirling her around to face him. “And you, madam?”

She faced him squarely, calmly, fighting to keep panic and disdain from her face. Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of Staff in a tawny and gold doublet on the path a little way behind Will. Staff—with a lovely woman on each arm. If they approached Will and her while Will probed so suspiciously, she would be lost for certain.

“Will! Will Carey!” Will turned away and squinted into the late morning sun. It was Sir Francis Weston in the most incongruous yellow for such a masculine sporter and soldier, and quite out of breath. “Will and Mary! His Grace has asked me to fetch you to his table directly. He said the entire Bullen family should be together today to please the Lady Anne.”

They set off across the path at a good clip, and Mary could feel Staff's eyes boring into her from behind. To please the Lady Anne, in a pig's eye, Mary thought grimly. She had been the king's mistress off and on for five years and she could still read his thoughts well enough. He had ogled her but briefly on the path and now meant to use her either to set Anne back on her heels a bit, confuse her father's wily brain—or, or...No, the other possibility could never be that he had looked on her with real interest for himself after all this time. No. Never that again. She would run away first, drown herself in the muddy Thames despite this new dress! Later, in the dancing, she must somehow get to Staff. Staff always knew what to do.

“Mary, are you all right? I did not mean to ruin this happy day. And here, the Careys fully back in His Grace's goodwill! Eleanor will be so pleased when she hears.”

Mary only nodded, tight-lipped as they were seated down the table from the king. She could not see Staff, as he no doubt seated himself somewhere in the swelling crowd behind them.

The May Day sun slipped on golden slippered feet across the blue, blue sky as the day wore on with feasting and dancing. A new May queen and king were chosen each year. Mary watched as Isabelle Dorsey, whom Staff had once said the king had wanted him to marry, was chosen to serve with the youngest Guildford son. She remembered, as if in a distant dream, she had been selected for the honor her first year back from Francois's gilded court.

She danced around the May pole with many partners, weaving, then unweaving the ribbons each pair of cavorting revelers held while following the simple running and bowing patterns of the dance. Will partnered her first, then George, then Weston, then Norris, even the king—then, finally, there was Staff.

One hand was firm on her back, his other grasped hers and their ribbon as they moved together around the circle. “Will is leaving for Beaulieu,” she whispered.

“I know. You look absolutely ravishing, Mary, like a spring angel I could find in the gardens, if there was such a thing as spring garden angels.”

“How much wine have you and your charming little ladies had, my lord?” she asked. They were both out of breath. Oh no, she thought, the musicians are stopping. It was over too soon. Everyone around them was applauding and laughing. She knew her disappointment showed clearly on her face and here Staff dared to grin down at her like that. Only a few moments with him, and he looked so happy to be going back to squire that insufferable Dorothy Cobham and the flighty May queen about the gardens or into the lovers' maze.

“My beloved, sweet Mary, will you never learn to hide your feelings?” he was scolding low with a distinct glint of devilment in each dark brown eye. “I said I know Will is leaving. As soon as he does and you can hie yourself away from your loving family and avid-eyed king, do so. Only, do not go back to your own suite and do not get entangled with the sticky Bullen clan for supper later. Come to Lord Aberganny's rooms on the third floor directly under the south turret. If you turn your lovely head, you can see the windows to the room now. It seems,” he ended his whispered recital of instructions, “Lord Aberganny's father has died in Yorkshire and I promised to watch their rooms while their household is away this week.”