by Karen Harper
“I shall tell him all you have said, Francoise du Foix, now, in front of Queen Claude and my King Henry. Then perhaps I shall hear when I am at home in England of your retirement to your dear husband’s chateau far from court.” Mary turned away before the other woman could respond, and mounted the dais.
Francois, resplendent in deep purple velvet, contrasting with the English king’s rich crimson doublet and hose, held out his hand to her. She felt compelled to take it, though the raised red eyebrows of King Henry worried her. Francois immediately fired his first salvo in hearing range of his rival king. “You must come soon to visit my golden tent, Marie. I have not seen you much of late. Do the English keep you hostage? The ceiling of the tent is the wonderful star-lit sky Master da Vinci painted for our fine banquet, when you and I were dressed alike and strolled under our own heavens. Do you remember, Marie?”
Mary nodded and offered a shallow bow in silence. As she rose, Francois began a flowery thanks to Henry for the beautiful maids of England. “I urge you to send us all you can spare, my brother Henry,” Francois chortled.
Henry Tudor smiled thinly but did not laugh. Mary could sense the tangled tensions. She had never before been with them when they were together. Was the cause only the foolish wrestling bout, or more?
“Mary, of course, being of marriageable age now, will be coming home immediately,” Henry said flatly.
“Indeed? I had not heard of this. I am much grieved. And whose sudden decision is this? Golden Marie, how do you feel about this command,” Francois probed, his narrowed dark eyes upon her.
“I shall be happy to return to my home, Your Grace, for I am true-bred English, even though your court has given me French polish. Of course, I shall greatly miss the kindness of our dear Queen Claude. She has been most considerate of me always, no matter what foolish mistakes I have made.”
Her heart rose in her throat at the audacity of the reply she had so long desired to give. She tried to smile sweetly and look innocent of her motives. Francois glared but a moment and Henry’s voice was lighter, almost jovial as he spoke.
“Do not grieve the loss of one of your queen’s maids so greatly, brother Francois. I assure you, such beauty and wit will not be wasted. I personally shall find ‘golden Mary’ a suitable English husband, and she will serve at the court of her king.”
Mary could see the muscles in Francois’s jaw go taut and his slender fingers wrap tightly around his goblet filled with ruby wine. “I envy her husband his treasure,” he said. “Perhaps, my trusted Henry, if you and I are as alike as your dear sister claimed today, after you were thrown in our wrestling bout, I shall envy you too, eh?” Francois’s brittle laughter filled the air as Mary curtseyed and turned away, though she had not been formally dismissed. She could feel the myriad eyes of the room on her, but she had had quite enough of the tense banter between these two powerful magnets of influence.
“Mary,” King Henry’s voice floated to her, and she turned again.
“Your Grace?”
“I am sending for your father and intend to discuss some diplomatic matters with him in a few moments. I would wish you to wait for me—and your father—in the antechamber.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
“I do not order you, Mary,” came his now-hushed voice. “I only request.”
She thought instantly of Francois’s same words to her once—words that lied to her foolish heart before he seduced her in that tiny room at Amboise.
“I shall be there, Sire.” She managed a little smile but she felt drained now, embarrassed, proud and afraid. Relieved to see both queens still turned away from their husbands in continual conversation, she stepped from the dais.
When the confrontation with Francois that she had longed for was over and she had exited down the narrow hall lined with hanging tapestries, her knees went weak and she began to tremble uncontrollably. She sat gratefully on a velvet-cushioned chair in the anteroom. In the vast hall with its vipers and sly foxes, huge bearlike Henry seemed a distant dream. She closed her eyes to gain poise and control before they would be on her again—the king, her father. She prayed God she would never see Francois at close range again, the god-like Francois du Roi who shattered a little girl’s dreams for his own pleasure and amusement—and to pay gambling debts.
“Mary, are you feeling well enough to stay, or may I take you back to Guines?”
Her eyes shot open at the familiar voice—Staff! Up close, his more refined appearance in gold velvet and heavy brocade made him look every whit as handsome as he had while dirty and sweaty in the wrestling circle, she reluctantly admitted to herself. His huge shoulders stretched the costly materials taut and his doublet outlined the heavy muscles of his chest and tapered, flat belly as completely as his hose etched every sinew of his brawny thighs and calves. Despite the disdain she tried to show him, her eyes darted guiltily to the gold brocade-covered codpiece where his powerful loins joined. Then her eyes met his lazy perusal of her body with the usual resounding crack of energy which leapt between them.
“William Stafford, are you always about? Must I see you everywhere I look or turn? Did the king send you?”
“No, Mary. Your father did. Are you all right after your dangerous interview? How does it feel to be a little pawn tossed about between two kings?”
“I need none of your impudence, Master Stafford!”
“I am thrilled that the fire of spirit still burns beneath the pliant sweetness. And I had hoped that after this afternoon you had resolved to call me Staff.”
“Why should I?”
“Perhaps you will at least do so when you become aroused or excited, Mary. Was that not your clear voice I heard as I rolled about on the ground at your feet this afternoon: ‘Come on, Staff, you can do it’?”
Mary felt herself color instantly. “Do not be so conceited to think that I wanted you especially to be the victor. I am true English, you know, and would cheer for any English contender.”
“Alas, I had hoped your concern for me was of another sort.” He hung his head in mock grief and she almost burst into laughter. Then he said quietly, “I was hoping your good will was truly for me and not against poor Lautrec. Has he been an enemy to you?”
“No. No, indeed, and it is none of your concern.”
He flashed her an impudent smile. “Then he was something to you, but I shall console myself with the fact that you seem to detest him. You know, sweet Mary, you have never yet mastered telling lies, at least not lying and hiding it. And you still have a conscience. You had best learn to lie and to bury that conscience if you are to get on at great Henry’s court, lass.”
“You have no right, no right at all to counsel me. Why do you concern yourself anyway?”
“I assure you, Mary, it is not part of my duty to either your father or the king. Therefore, I must have my own motives. When you grow up a bit, from the foolish wisp of girl you are, perhaps we shall discuss my motives. Until then, you will have to wonder.”
Her hand tingled with the desire to slap him again, but would he take it as calmly this time? She wanted to beat on his chest, to kick at him, to scratch and scream. It frightened her that he aroused such feelings in her when he was so obviously beneath her concern.
The dark curtains parted in the awkward silence, and Thomas Bullen darted in. “Is she quite all right, Staff?”
“Ask the lady yourself, milord. I would say her spirits are quite high.”
“That is a good girl,” he nodded. “What exactly did the king say, Mary?”
“Which king, father?” Out of the corner of her eye she caught William Stafford’s delighted smile at her impudence.
“His Grace, of course. He said he would choose a husband for you. Did he give a name?”
“No. He said only to await him—and you—here.”
“Fine. Fine. Maybe you will be returning home with the royal party.”
“I should like to at least visit mother at Hever.”
“I
ndeed if there is to be a wedding, you shall return there to prepare...if that is permissable,” he said as an afterthought. “And what were Francois’s words? Did they argue?”
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
The 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 y
ou?”
“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!”
