by Karen Harper
There was no time for comfort or a hug, for Rose Dacre was telling everyone how swiftly the king liked to follow with the bridegroom as he had at this very palace when his sister Mary had formally remarried the Duke of Suffolk on English soil. “His Grace had the Duke at the door half undressed before we even had the princess in her robe,” Rose continued.
“It was their third marriage then,” Mary put in, her teeth chattering from her jangled nerves. “I was at her first secret wedding, and then they married later at Lent in Paris.”
“That is true,” Rose added, somewhat more icily, as the others turned to hang on Mary’s story. “You were such a child then, you were allowed to stay.”
“Oh no, the strewing herbs,” shrieked Jane Rochford as the boom of men’s voices sounded in the hall. “Oh no, get her in bed!”
Jane threw quick handfuls of dried lavender, daisies, fennel, and tansy on the floor, and their heady scent instantly permeated the air. Four great pounding knocks filled the room, and before Lady Bullen could touch the doorknob, the door swung wide to reveal the king bent over laughing and a blushing, bare-chested Will Carey.
“Husbands never need to knock, madam,” Will said boldly, and then blushed deeper realizing the import of his words. But the other men seemed not to hear as they shoved him into the chamber and followed on his heels. The room seemed packed, but Mary sat calmly in bed against a puffy bolster in her robe, covered to her lap by the sheets.
“There she is, you lucky dog, ready for you!... I wish I were you, Will!... Get yourself a fine son this night, Will Carey!” The raucous laughter swelled, and Mary was tempted to cover her ears.
Then the king shouted, “Out, out, all of you vagabonds!” and, obediently, the revelers streamed out into the hall.
Mary glimpsed her mother turn and smile, and Semmonet waved. Then there were only three, and Mary feared for one foolish instant that the king would dismiss the meek-looking Carey as well. Henry Tudor’s eyes devoured her, raked off the sheets, pulled at her chemise and...
“Good fortune to you, Carey. Use her gently. I envy you your warm bed.” The king pulled his hot gaze away, turned, and slammed the door.
Will went over and shot the bolt. Mary still felt His Grace’s eyes on her, sharp, powerful like the portrait in the hall at Hever. He had told her yesterday by the tiltyard that he would try to give her a week, but he loved her, so he could not promise. She felt much safer with Will Carey but, truly, the king excited her more.
“What are you thinking, Mary?” He took slow steps to the canopied bed. “You are so beautiful. I am a fortunate man. His Grace could have picked Compton or Hastings or Stafford, but he gave you to me.”
“Stafford? William Stafford?”
“Of course. He is unattached and a close courtier, though I am sure His Grace considers him a greater rebel and harder to control than I.”
Yes, no doubt William Stafford would be harder to bribe if the king wanted to bed his wife, she thought bitterly. So, the great Henry had explained it all to Will Carey. He understands I shall be the king’s mistress, and he will accept it for his lands and monies and his hateful sister. Then, we are all to be pitied, so what does it matter? But I love no one like poor George, who will have to bed with giggly Jane Rochford while dreaming of long-legged Margot Wyatt. So why not Will Carey for me?
Will had stripped off his shoes and hose and blew out several candles, leaving only two by the huge oaken bedstead. “I trust we can be of help to each other, Mary. The court can be a frightening place. I will keep my place, my beautiful wife, but you must remember, king or no, you bear my name.”
He tugged on the ribbons at the lacy neckline of her robe and helped her shrug out of it. He pulled her tight against his lightly-haired chest, tucking her head under his chin. “I will try to be gentle, Mary, but on the nights when you are mine, then you are mine only. I have told myself so time and time again these last few days.”
He rolled her onto her back and tugged her thin chemise up above her waist, spreading her legs and mounting her immediately. “This night will be a long one, I promise you, my little bride.”
It was a long night, as Will Carey made calm, deliberate, possessive love to his wife more than once, more than twice. She submitted in body, but her heart was free, as she had told herself time and time again these last few days.
But what angered her as she closed her eyes to finally sleep, was that she dreamed not of the quiet, serious Will Carey, nor of the lusty king. It was the handsome, rough face of William Stafford which laughed and stared and haunted her sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
August 26, 1520
Greenwich
Mary was swept through the next few days at the royal court on a wave of frothing excitement. She strolled, she danced, she smiled and laughed in a sea of new faces. The king took the newlyweds hunting in the blue-green forests of Kentish Eltham. She watched His Grace and his closest circle of comrades tilt, bowl on the green, and shoot at butts. The king taught Mary to gamble at Primero and Gleek and to dice for coins and kisses at the Hazard tables. The whirl of fun and flirtations from Henry Tudor went on and on. Mary was content to ride the wave of the royal affections forever.
Her entire first week at court, Mary never once saw the queen, who summered with her young daughter, Mary, at Beaulieu for several weeks of respite and contemplation. It was whispered that Spanish Catherine was most pious and beloved by the people of her realm, though Mary caught the undercurrent of gossip against her from some courtiers. Though they said she used to display a winning smile and fine sense of humor, the past two years, since the sixth stillborn child she had delivered to His Grace, she had grown heavy and wore out-of-date gowns, crucifixes, and top-weighty jeweled headresses. Jane Rochford had even whispered that the poor, sad queen wore a haircloth of the Third Order of Saint Francis under her opulent clothes, even in the hot summer months. Beyond such chatter, the distant life of Henry’s queen touched the laughing Mary Carey not at all.
Will Carey was kind and attentive when the king was not about, and that other Will—everyone called him Staff, and he seemed to be vastly popular—seldom bothered her. He appeared to be a fast friend to her husband, so she steeled herself to be kinder to him, since she would no doubt see him much. He was right about one thing, the rogue. She would have to hide her contempt for his outrageous actions now that she lived at such a civilized court. At first it had amazed her that King Henry wanted such a cynical man from a dangerous family around him all the time. But the more she studied Stafford, the more she understood. Staff was witty, an excellent horseman and sporter, and what better place for a king to put someone he did not trust than next to him at butts, or as the opponent on the other side of the tennis net? As far as Mary could tell, Staff was the only man who had the nerve or the stupidity to always tell the king what he thought and beat him at bowls too. She would follow her clever king’s lead: they would allow Staff near, but never trust him.
Even now Staff leaned against a gilded gaming table, rakishly at ease, his eyes alternately on her and his casts of his ivory dice. Mary leaned lightly against her husband’s arm as she threw her dice. A lucky seven! She laughed and scooped the coppery coins from the little painted Hazard circle.
“Will, you have the only lady I know who can make money living at court instead of losing it,” Henry Norris gibed. Several others laughed, but Will Carey’s mouth only forced a tight smile. “It is time the Carey fortunes shot upward, gentlemen.”
“I do not worry about my husband’s family’s stakes at the game, Sir Henry,” Mary shook her dice violently and blew on them for luck as the king had taught her. “It is my brother George I would keep out of the poor house, before our father returns and strings him from The Tower for his foolhardiness at the tables.”
Francis Weston’s voice came teasingly over the clicks of dice, “I would not be too hard on him, Lady Carey. I would drink and gamble the evenings away too, if I had a little magpie forever cha
ttering in my ear. Besides, he told me when I helped him back to his room last night that he favors Thomas Wyatt’s sister, Margot.”
Mary rolled a ten and her streak was broken. “I would appreciate it if you would not repeat George’s problems, Sir Francis.” She looked up at the tall, handsome man. “It is painful to love elsewhere from where one must wed. But it is not an uncommon pain, and George should not have spoken of it.” She suddenly had the oddest feeling that Weston would make a cutting remark of some kind to her. He seemed to hesitate. Would he accuse her of marrying one man and loving the king? Surely, he would not dare. Besides, he would be wrong, though she could not tell him so.
“My apologies, lady,” he said, and his green eyes searched her face briefly. She was annoyed that Will paid so little attention to her conversation. George was his brother-in-law. It would hurt his Carey pride to come to her aid.
Weston, Norris and their ladies moved to the other table and George, with Jane Rochford in tow, drifted toward the Careys. George had one hand on his sword and drummed his other fingers on the table edge as Will Carey cast his dice.
“Damn, Will, you are as ill-fortuned as I tonight. Where is His Grace anyway? He is usually in the thick of the action by now. He will not be pleased when he finds some of us are already down too many coins to take him on tonight.”
Mary answered George before Will could respond. “He is with a messenger from the queen at Beaulieu, George. Why do you not wager smaller amounts? It is still early. Here, but do not risk everything on one foolish throw.” She extended her palm to George, and he sheepishly took the little pile of copper coins.
“My dear, you should keep your winnings,” Will chided at her side. “When the king comes, you know he likes large wagers and you are his favorite partner.”
Mary blushed at the scolding and George noticed. “After all, the game is called Hazard,” George said with an edge on his voice. “You have to take risks and hazard a win—as in life, Will.”
Before Mary could change the subject, Jane Rochford’s light voice interrupted. “I think it is all tremendous fun, and George usually does very well. He studies so hard at Lincoln’s Inn, it is no wonder he likes to have a little fun sometimes.” She smiled sweetly at George, who chose to ignore her support as he headed toward the other table.
“He is bent on winning back the money he just lost to that handsome Will Stafford,” Jane explained over her shoulder as she followed him. “I just love to see the two of them bluff each other.”
“I wish George would dice with someone trustworthy,” Mary muttered to Will under her breath.
“If you mean Staff, Mary, he is one of the most trustworthy men I have ever known. Besides, your brother is old enough to take care of himself. He is a full year older than you, so let him be.”
“He does not act it,” she countered testily. “And I thought Stafford was a traitor.”
“Has His Grace spoken to you of Staff? No? Then you should remember that the way of it, with both Staff and the Careys, is that we pay for something our elders did—our dead elders. His Grace likes and respects Staff and me, or he would never have us about and in trusted positions. If he says otherwise, it is just bluff talk.” He took Mary’s arm and guided her away from the table. “As for your dear George, your father will settle him soon enough when he returns from France.”
Mary thought of many things to say in reproach of his lecture to her, but she held her tongue. All he thought of was the precious Careys earning their way back. He had no right to look down on George and the Bullens the way he did, and as some of his friends did too. He looked on her every night with eyes full of passion, but he was always so inwardly controlled whenever he touched her or spoke to her that she was not sure if red English blood flowed in his veins or not.
To make her temper worse, there stood that foolish Jane Rochford gazing up at Staff’s smiling face. There was always some woman trailing after him or on his arm. She should have known he would be a skirt chaser in addition to everything else. Will was wrong. His Grace would never trust such a man. She would ask him herself what he really thought of William Stafford when she got the chance.
Edward Guildford, Henry Clifford, and a few others were slowly vacating the Hazard tables to conserve their purses until His Grace appeared. Mary tapped her foot in impatience. Why did Will have to make her so upset tonight when she had been having such a fine time? Maybe she was used to having Henry around to cheer her and keep the court hounds at bay from their rude remarks and Will from his scolding lectures. Now, if only George had the sense to quit gambling with Stafford and await the king’s arrival!
Henry Tudor swept in at last, looking grand and huge as usual. He clapped his hands and summoned them all around him like a pack of spaniels.
“Wonderful news! We are to have a revel, and I have just been planning the entire thing myself. We have not had a fine one since May Day and this will be the most fantastic yet.” His narrow eyes glowed and he looked so confident. Mary felt better already for his mere presence.
“The setting will be Sherwood forest. We will have a marvelous Nottingham Castle, and we shall all wear masks. Mister Cornish who helped me with the idea will teach you the knight and lady parts tonight. We have no time for gambling tonight. The masque is tomorrow!”
The rapt audience murmured at the news. A pleasant diversion indeed, and Mary was thrilled. She had seen such elaborate masques at Francois’s court, but had only taken a small part while Francoise du Foix was given the exciting roles with the king.
“All right, everyone to the hall to see Mister Cornish. And do what he bids, all of you, with no arguing, or you will answer to me!” Everyone laughed and trooped off behind the Guildfords.
“I need Lady Carey to play Maid Marian, so you may leave her behind,” the king called out after them suddenly. Mary turned, her heart beating fast. What would Will say? “I know you will not mind,” the king rushed to Will. “Mister Cornish has a lovely lady for you to partner. And when you get to the hall, tell Staff not to get in the dancing either. I have another job for him.” He dismissed Carey with a wave of his hand. “So many details, Mary.”
“What a wonderful idea, Sire,” she smiled up at him. “Did you think of it just this evening? You said nothing of it earlier.”
He took her arm at the elbow and led her to a darkened windowseat in the crook of the huge bay window overlooking the black Thames down the sloping lawns. “I like surprises, my Mary, especially for one I love. Do you approve of being this Robin Hood’s Maid Marian?”
She nodded happily as he put his huge hand on her chin and tilted her head up. He bent to meet her mouth. His kiss was warm, then crushing, and his tongue probed her mouth in the French way. His other hand crept to her narrow waist, then slid up her breasts to the rim of her lacy neckline. He pulled her to him across the polished wood and slipped his hand down into the dress between her full breasts. Her eyes flew open in surprise at his bold tactic here in the public room of the palace. But it was dark and the windowseat gave some privacy. He was king and he had sent them all away—George, her husband, Staff, all.
His breathing was loud and deep. “Mary, I have waited so long, willing myself not to touch you, waiting as I had promised I would. But the king is only a man in love, and he can wait no longer. You would not have me wait longer, would you, my love?”
“I was so happy when you walked into the room tonight, Your Grace. I have been so thrilled this last week at your court. I thank you for, well, for all this.”
I have told the truth, she thought. Can I tell him I do not love him?
“All for me, sweetheart, the happiness, the thrill? It is not because of your new husband?”
“No, Sire. Will is kind and considerate, but the happiness is you.”
He crushed her against his iron chest so tightly she could hardly breathe. His hands ran wildly over her back, down her hips, and one palm cupped her derriere, smashing the voluminous skirts. “Mary, you will yield
to me! Tomorrow will be the beginning of our love in truth. Tonight we must join the others and smile and dance and plan for the revels on the morrow. Then, tomorrow night after the masque, after the welcome home banquet, you will stay the night with me and Will goes home alone! I shall send him on a mission if I must. I have waited too long. ’Sblood, I will take you before the whole audience at the feast or on the jousting green if I am held off longer!”
Mary smiled tremulously at him as he released her. She carefully straightened her mussed clothes and hair from his fervent attack. They rose reluctantly to join the others.
“Did you say, Sire, the masque is for a welcome home feast?”
“Yes, my luscious Maid Marian. The queen returns from Beaulieu tomorrow morn. It will be her first night back at court for a fortnight, so it is all in her honor.”
A tiny hurt bit at Mary’s insides somewhere. On the good queen’s first night at home she would dance for her and bow to her and then become her dear husband’s mistress in deed as well as name.
Mary could scarcely believe the swiftness with which the masque fell together. By the next evening everything had been assembled as if through sorcery. The framework of a great machine, which had obviously been employed for other revels, was garlanded with saplings and foliage to create a rich green forest setting which could be rolled out into the middle of the room. Another vast contraption on wheels was built from scaffolding and covered with canvas painted like stone to serve as the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham’s castle where the maidens would be imprisoned to be rescued by the brave band of Merry Men from Sherwood. Costumes for the men and ladies appeared as if from nowhere. Intricate initials of H and C were embroidered on the bodices, entwined with roses in honor of the queen. In the morning the revelers rehearsed their parts and the leads practiced their few lines of speaking with musical accompaniment. The queen’s retinue had arrived in the hour before noon. All was magically ready.
