The Last Boleyn

by Karen Harper

  “Yes, Semmonet. That is why I am here. I would much rather be out riding, you know.”

  Mary instantly regretted her tart tone, but Semmonet patted her shoulder and bustled off. She thinks all my actions are a bride’s nervousness now, Mary thought, suddenly annoyed at the woman.

  She had not ridden much in France the past years. The king had never taken her hunting as he had his du Foix, and since Queen Claude seldom rode, neither did her maids. How wonderful it was to ride at Hever and have the wind streaming through her loose hair and the secure feel of Donette’s rhythmic canter under her. Donette was the foal of a horse she had loved years ago, gentle, quiet Westron, dead last year, mother said. Mary rode every day, free and happy. She would ride today if father would ever come.

  Thomas Bullen brusquely pushed open the door, as though she had summoned him with her thoughts. He smiled broadly and a stab of quick joy shot through her. He had parted from her tenderly at Calais. Her good fortune still held, for he was obviously glad to see her.

  “My dear girl,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. He put a black linen arm awkwardly around her shoulders as she rose. “You look more beautiful than I had remembered, Mary.”

  “Hever is good for the soul and the body, my lord.”

  He looked surprised at her answer. “And a king’s attentions, how are those for the spirit, Mary? I have exciting news.” The glowing colors danced across his black hair and dark garments as he talked.

  “The king has bestowed more honors on us than we could have ever hoped at this early stage. He gives William Carey the offices and revenues of Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, Constable of the Castle of Plashy, and Keeper of two other great parks—I cannot even recall which ones.”

  He ticked the prizes off on his beringed fingers under Mary’s steady gaze. “Also, as you heard from His Grace’s own lips, Carey is named Esquire to the Body so that you two may live well at court. And, it is only the beginning. Your husband and, of course, your family, will benefit mightily from your good graces with the king.”

  “Then I wish you and him all happiness,” she heard herself say tonelessly.

  “And as for you, my girl, I must be certain you understand the honor. There will be jewels, beautiful clothes, exciting, important friends—and power, if we play the game well, Mary. Power.”

  She could feel the distinct thud of her heart. She felt nothing but frustration at her father, Semmonet, Will Carey, yes, even the king whose face she could not picture.

  “He comes to visit, today, Mary. Here, at Hever at last.”

  “Will Carey,” she said testily, knowing full well her intent to take the eager look from his eyes.

  “No, girl! The king, here! He rides from Eltham where he has a fine hunt park. You shall see it soon, no doubt. It is mid morn now. They should be here by noon.”

  He glanced up at the fretful sky through the leaded panes. “I pray he is not put out of his humor by getting drenched in a sudden cloudburst.”

  He rubbed his large hands together rapidly. “Your mother has much to prepare for the royal dinner. God only knows how big a retinue he will bring.” He strode toward the door.

  “Wear your most beautiful dress and you shall walk with him in the gardens. The gold and white from the great banquet in Paris will do.”

  “That is much too formal for Hever in the summer, father,” she countered as he disappeared through the door.

  His head popped back in. “This is the king, girl, the king himself. If you seem to forget that in any way, you shall answer to me.”

  “Yes, father,” she replied, but he was gone. She sat stock-still and watched one blood-red pane of glass change from dull to crimson. The rainclouds did threaten the day. She cared not if the whole retinue drowned on their merry jaunt from Eltham. She felt it again, the slow, growing panic, the anger. She had tried to reason it out, to examine her feelings, but really, she had none. Her thoughts never got her anywhere.

  She bounded up and raced to her room for her straw hat and riding gloves. She jammed her feet into boots and rushed to the door. She would clear her mind by riding Donette before they came. She could at least decide that for herself. She nearly collided with her mother as she darted from her bedroom. Elizabeth Bullen looked worried and distracted.

  “Mary, you are not...you cannot be going riding!”

  “Yes, mother, only for a little while. I must.” She stood nervously facing the lovely, fragile-looking woman whose azure eyes and high cheekbones she had so clearly inherited.

  “I have so much to do. Your father wants to make certain you will wear a particular dress. He told you the one?”

  “Yes, mother, he told me. I shall wear it to please him.” She hesitated. “I will wear it if I may ride Donette just for a little while, mother. They will not arrive until high noon. Father said so.”

  Her mother’s slender fingers stroked her arm briefly. “I do understand your desire to get out of the house, Mary, but it will not sit well if you are not here when His Grace comes. That is the way it is, Mary. We must accept.”

  “I will be here, dearest mother, and in the chosen dress.”

  Elizabeth Bullen nodded her silvered blonde head. “Then take care on the horse, my Mary.”

  We must accept. The words echoed through Mary’s brain in rhythm to her steps as she hurried toward the stable block. We must accept—we must accept. We must—we must.

  How clearly now she remembered the forbidden knowledge she had stored up all these years, that her own lovely mother had turned down this very king’s invitation—the honor of being his mistress. How angry father had been, but she had weathered his anger somehow. Now she, Mary, was perhaps her father’s last chance, for Anne was but thirteen, off at the French court and likely to remain there for years. She felt it clearly, coldly. She was father’s golden opportunity and she dare not fail him. Even mother now counseled that she must accept. We must accept.

  Donette was unusually nervous and jumpy but Mary turned her head toward the river across the meadows. She wanted to ride away from the north road, the direction from which the king would come.

  The chestnut bay broke into a sweat sooner than usual, for the air was muggy. Mary would rest her by the Eden in the shade of the leafy poplars. She did not look back at gemlike Hever with its painted facade set in its lilied moat. She wanted to go on forever.

  The breeze had picked up and the poplar leaves rattled noisily against each other as she dismounted. Low rumblings seemed to come from the very roots of the massive trees.

  “Thunder. Perhaps it will rain now, Donette,” she comforted the stamping mare with her soothing voice.

  Lightning etched the graying sky over the forest, and Mary counted slowly until she heard the resulting thunder. Her Uncle James had taught them the sailor’s trick of counting between the lightning and thunder to judge the distance of the storm. “At least seven miles yet. Good horse. Good Donette.”

  How marvelous the breeze felt flapping her full skirts stiffly about her legs. She should never have worn this color of dress riding, but she had been in such a hurry. Well, the washmaids would get it clean.

  My precious gold and white dress on a day like this, she mused. It is because father knows it impressed Francois that he asks me to wear it for Henry Tudor. “He hopes it will work its magic again, Donette,” she shouted over the windy rustle, and Donette whinnied in return.

  But that dress would always bring to mind old Master da Vinci and not Francois, she vowed. How little she had known the old man; yet it was as though she had known him always. He had asked her once how an English landscape looked. He would not like to see this scene, nature-whipped and blurred. He preferred the tranquil and the balanced.

  Several drops hit her face and pelted Donette’s smooth brown flanks. Mary sighed and, as she mounted, a tremendous crash of lightning splintered a tall poplar nearby. She could even smell the acrid, charred wood.

  Donette reared and Mary clung to her arched neck
. The reins slipped for an instant and the mare started for home at a swift gallop, cutting through the trees.

  “Whoa, girl! No, Donette, no. Whoa!” Mary knew better than to be in a forest in a storm. Even if they were soaked, the grassy valley was the safest place to be. Suddenly, King Henry’s face sprang before her mind’s eye in his finery, as she had seen him last. She grabbed for her horse’s reins and missed. Did this storm seize him as he approached? Was his reddish-blond hair sticking wet to his forehead?

  A strangled cry escaped her parted lips as she seized the reins and struggled to turn Donette around. Thunder echoed deeply through the huge tree trunks as she yanked the horse to the left. She turned obediently, but went, as one drunk, through the low-limbed trees. She ducked and shielded her face as the wind whipped sopping leaves at her face and hair.

  She started to laugh uncontrollably at the scene she must make, the scene she would make when she returned to Hever. Her long blonde locks hung down her soaking back, and she was bruised and cut.

  They emerged in the meadow and Mary dismounted. Grasping Donette’s bridle, she led her down into the tiny grassy depression they had called “our valley” when they played here as children. George, of course, always had to be the leader. George, who was in London at Lincoln’s Inn obediently studying law.

  Mary slipped to her knees in the slick grass, pulling Donette’s head down with a jerk. She rose and stood shakily as the storm surged around them. Drenched, she huddled close to Donette. Mother would be worried, but she most feared what father would say. Even her best dress could not save her now.

  Swiftly, suddenly, it ended. The thunder rumbled off over the hills and the downpour diminished to gentleness. Mary mounted and carefully walked the mare toward home. She would tether Donette by the green garden and go in through the kitchens. With Semmonet’s aid she would somehow become presentable.

  The bricks of Hever were glazed by the downpour and iron drainpipes spouted noisy shafts into the moat. The wet leather reins squeaked as she tied them to a post. She gathered her cold, wet skirts tightly and hurried across the wooden ramp.

  The kitchen door stood agape and wonderful aromas floated everywhere. The dim room was packed with servants. Even father’s groom turned a spit, and wash girls stirred sauces and peeled peaches. The massive open hearth was crammed with kettles, skillets and spits, and its welcome warmth beckoned to the chilled woman.

  Only a few shocked servants looked up to notice their drenched, bedraggled mistress. She hurried down the dark passageway that led toward the foot of the great staircase, and stopped. The king must have arrived early, for several strange men lounged about outside the closed door to the solar. No doubt His Grace and her parents were waiting within, waiting for her.

  Embarrassed, she dared not look at the amused figures who stopped their conversation as she mounted the steps to flee. She was only a little way up when she heard a too-familiar voice.

  “The golden, the beautiful Mary Bullen. Beautiful and wet and cold. It was an unwise time to go for a ride, Mary.”

  She spun around, her eyes wide. “William Stafford! Who invited you to Hever?” She went hot crimson at the obvious answer to her question, and at the picture she must make for him as his cool gaze swept carefully over her. His two companions watched the confrontation with amusement. She would have to scold him later if he had dared to tell them anything evil about her.

  She tried another question to break the silence, to still the rapid pounding of her heart. “Did His Grace bring Will Carey also?”

  William Stafford lowered his voice, and his eyes went to her heaving breasts with the wet cloth sticking so close to her skin. “Why should His Grace bring someone as insignificant as Carey? He is only the man you will wed.” He hesitated at her silence. “Are you so anxious to see Will Carey, then? I shall tell the fortunate scoundrel when we return to Eltham. We left him angrily shooting at the butts. Some wondered why he was not included in this little visit, but why should he be, when the king only came to see his French Ambassador Bullen at his charming home?”

  He shrugged with mock indifference and the old urge to slap him returned with stunning impact.

  “I have tolerated far too much of your sarcasm and impudence in France,” she said, low enough that his two eager cronies could not hear. “Quite enough. And I shall hear none of it here!” She turned her back to him dramatically. And with as much poise as she could muster, she started up the endless stairs.

  “Is it so hard to admit that I was right about everything so far, Mary?” He raised his voice and she turned again, afraid they would hear in the solar. “And you will have to tolerate me, Mary, for I live at court too and as close to the king as I warrant you shall live.”

  How she hated him. His insinuations frightened and shamed her.

  “I would counsel you to say ‘no’ to all their rotten plans, sweet lady, but my selfishness wants you about the court and not banished in disgrace to this moated sanctuary where I could never see you.”

  Her mouth dropped open at his audacity. She wanted to run, but she was frozen to the steps.

  “I cannot help but fancy a wench who looks as beautiful soaked and muddy as she does on a king’s arm. Only, guard well your heart, Mary Bullen.”

  She turned and fled. How dare he address her like that in the hall of her father’s house with his lord king in the next room and two jackanapes looking on!

  She had been wrong. Mother was not in the solar with the king and her father. She and Semmonet were pacing Mary’s room, terrified. They did not scold her, and tears came to Elizabeth Bullen’s sky-blue eyes. If she was to be scolded or lectured or hugged or whatever, there would be time later. His Grace was waiting.

  They stripped Mary of her sodden garments and rubbed her skin with linen towels until it glowed. They powdered and perfumed her, for there was no time to wash anything but her face and arms. On went a silk chemise and flounced petticoats over her tingling body. Semmonet desperately tried to towel her hair dry but gave up and left it in damp ringlets and tight curls.

  “No. She shall go bareheaded, Semmonet,” came Elizabeth Bullen’s only words as the little woman reached for a gauzy headpiece. She wore the huge single Howard pearl at her breast, just above the low neckline.

  They hurried her into the hall. She went on steady legs, feeling dazed. It was as though she watched a play or some childhood fantasy from afar. It was a repetition of some little girl’s dream of once loving the handsome king of France.

  William Stafford still stood sentinel at the solar door, under the huge portrait of the king. He bowed gracefully to Elizabeth Bullen and opened the door for them. Surely he was not bowing to her. Well, what did it matter now?

  “Ah, here are the ladies at last, Your Grace. Mary was caught in the rainfall in the gardens and insisted on changing.”

  Both women swept a low curtsey to the dark shadow surrounded by patterned light.

  “You remember my wife, Lady Elizabeth, Sire?”

  Mary rose to face her king, who seemed to tower over them all. His narrowed eyes appraised her mother, then swung to her. A smile lit his strong features.

  “I do remember her well, Thomas, and her service to the queen. How like her mother your golden Mary is. That is what I remember now.”

  The king curled his huge jeweled fingers around Mary’s slender ones. He was not wet from the downpour at all. He looked elegant in his purple doublet with his ruffled golden shirt pulled through the numerous slashes. His hose were brightest blue. He was much too dressed up for a mere summer ride through woody Kent.

  “Now that the rain has ended, perhaps you will show me the lovely Hever gardens before dinner. There is time for a small tour, is there not, Lady Elizabeth?” Henry Tudor inquired politely.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” came her mother’s voice. “We shall wait on your return. Mary much favors the rose garden to the south.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Then we shall walk there. I have some wonde
rful news for Mary—news of honors to her betrothed and herself.”

  “Mary will be pleased, Sire,” her father said, and she caught his tone and stare like a threat, like an actual physical shake.

  She took the king’s proffered arm and smiled up at him through her lashes. His wariness, his propriety seemed to melt, and his boyish grin returned. She felt a strange power over him as she had once before and her fears ebbed. Perhaps this could be fun, a challenge. “Father brought me a lovely rose from your gardens at Greenwich once, Your Grace. You must have spectacular bushes there—Tudor roses, all.”

  Henry Tudor laughed deep in his throat, and she could hear her father’s audible sigh of relief. No, I shall not fail you, father, she thought. You will love me and be proud.

  She was pleased that the nasty Stafford was not in sight as they emerged in the rain-washed air.

  “You look ravishing with your hair in tiny curls, Mary. Is it a French style?”

  “No, Your Grace. I was quite drenched by the rain. The truth is, I was on a horse which bolted at the thunder.”

  His arm stole behind her and encircled her narrow waist. “Perhaps you need an expert to teach you riding, sweet.”

  Mary colored at the blatant double entendre but did not let on that she knew his intent. “The Princess Mary often praised your sportsmanship in all things, Sire.”

  “Did she now? Yes, you were first with the princess when she went to France.”

  “And I was permitted to stay when the other women were sent home.”

  “That damned rotting hulk of a king had the audacity to die but three months after their so carefully arranged marriage,” Henry groused as his great paw of a hand cradled a full-blown pink rose. He held the upturned face of the flower, but the scent which he inhaled was the sweet dampness of Mary’s hair. “The French all whispered that his young bride was too much for him, my spies told me. But I should think a sweet, willing young woman is good for the blood.”

  He pulled her to him and took her mouth gently at first and then pressed her to him with fierce intensity. Mary yielded coolly, inwardly amazed at his boldness here in the rose garden at high noon. But this was the king.