by Karen Harper
Everyone attended the banquet dressed in standard court dress, for they would don their costumes at a signal from the king. Once again, Mary was too excited to eat, although she kept dabbing at the marvelous porpoise in mustard sauce. His Grace and Queen Catherine sat on the dais with the Duke of Suffolk alone, for the Duchess was not yet recovered from the birth of her cherished new daughter.
“How wonderful to marry for love and still be loved,” Mary said aloud, instantly wishing she had not.
Will Carey had been brooding under a raincloud all day and she assumed it was because he had guessed or been told that tonight he must begin to pay for the bounty which had fallen into his eager hands. “The princess was damned fortunate the king loved Charles Brandon and that the crafty Lord Chancellor Wolsey made him realize that there were other ploys to keep England attached to both Francois and Charles of Spain. The king’s whims toward women blow whichever way and when. That goes for his once beloved sister and poor Bessie Blount who bore his son hidden at a priory, and has been packed away in a swiftly-arranged marriage ever since. You would do best to remember that, wife.”
Tears stung Mary’s eyes and she did not look up. “I shall remember it, sir.”
“I am counting on it. One day I will have you all to myself, and then we shall see!”
His bitter vehemence almost frightened her, but what did she expect? He was a man with pride, especially family pride. He cares not as much for me as he does for his Carey escutcheon being tarnished, she thought.
The queen, as far as Mary could tell, looked very pleased to be at home. She gazed on her husband often, nodded and chatted. Did he love her still? Surely he had loved her once in these ten years of their marriage, but when did love cease? She looked heavy and tired next to her exuberant lord, but she had borne him seven children and their little girl, Mary, was said to be her father’s pride. But like Francois, he could nod and smile to his queen and then turn and leer at Mary from across the expanse of laden tables.
She hoped the queen would like her part in the revel of honor. They would wear masks, but they were all to unmask at the finale and be presented to Her Grace. Would she hate her when she heard court gossip? Could she ever understand that Mary Bullen had not chosen to warm the king’s bed, but it had just happened somehow?
“Stop staring, foolish wench. You had better learn to be more discreet here. Our king does not parade his mistresses under the nose of his consort as did your fine Francois du Roi!”
Mary kept her stubborn silence for a moment, then said, “I was only looking at the queen. I have not seen her for a long time, you know.”
“She is a fine and patient lady with her bullish lord,” Will whispered. “And I do not give a whit who you are staring at, but the king obviously thinks it is at him. There, he rises. Come, let us get this farce over with. It will take us long enough to change.”
Mary wanted to ask him why he bothered to participate in the masque if he thought it all foolishness, but she knew better. The king commanded, and that was that. Besides, she did not wish to cross Will while he displayed this nasty temper. She hoped he would get used to things and be more himself. If she could face up to it, he must learn to.
She donned her silken green-and-white dress and pinned the gauzy veil on her loosed hair. Her mask, as the king’s and the villain sheriff’s, was golden to separate them from the minor characters. That was the only bad point of this whole marvelous endeavor, she thought, smoothing her full skirts over her hips—for some perverse reason, the king had appointed William Stafford to play the Sheriff of Nottingham, and that meant he was her kidnapper and she had to stay wedged with him in the castle scaffolding while the other ladies were rescued first. Then Robin Hood came to personally challenge the sheriff for her release.
“At least good Robin beats the scoundrel in the end,” she said aloud to comfort herself. Will had said the king chose Staff because it pleased his sense of adventure to become an outlaw himself while making the blackguard the symbol of law and order in the realm. But Mary knew better. The Sheriff of Nottingham was a wretched villain, and the king saw clearly enough to typecast the part. She had quietly told Staff that very thing at a rehearsal in the morning, though he just laughed at her and the snub gave her no pleasure.
They lined up in order; the lights dimmed; the music began. The settings of forest and castle creaked into the cleared center of the room and the dancing between the Merry Men of Sherwood and the ladies began. The steps were mostly those of a well-known pavan, for they had had little time to practice. The masks were secured by tied ribbons, but Mary’s kept slipping to obscure her vision. Everyone looked strange and distant in their masks. She suddenly felt as though she had never known any of them at all. The men’s hair color was hidden by their green forest caps, and the women’s heads were almost completely covered by their filmy, floating veils.
In the first dancing encounter, Mary partnered the king proudly, wishing her father could see her here at Henry’s court—surely, he would love to see her like this. Through the eye slits in her mask she could see little four-year-old Mary Tudor standing on a chair next to her mother, her eyes wide in awe at the beauty of the event.
The music quickened, the sheriff and his men attacked the dancing group and temporarily threw the outlaw band into disarray. Robin Hood, of course, had already departed on business into the green forest, for it would never do for this Robin to be vanquished, even if that had been the original story. The ladies were seized and taken to the castle with shouts and cries from the audience.
As he had done at the two rehearsals, Staff made certain that he was the one to abduct the blonde Maid Marian. The king had encouraged it, for the arch villain of the piece should take the love of the hero, so that they might fight in the end.
Mary kept her tongue while in front of the group, for she saw no way out of the situation. But each time he wedged her tightly between his strong body and the inner wooden framework of the castle, as they awaited the final challenge of Robin Hood, she told him to keep his hands to himself and off her waist and hips.
Tonight she had intended to put someone else between her and Staff while they stood, eight of them, packed in the mock castle. But her mask slipped again and, in the shadows of the inner void, he had her tight against him again. She raised her mask above her eyebrows and tried to thrust an elbow into his ribs.
“Loose me,” she whispered.
“Hush, sweet Maid Marian. There is a full audience tonight and we must not ruin the king’s fun—unfortunately.” His voice was low, but his mouth was so close, he rustled her hair and veil when he spoke.
“I am sure this amuses you!”
“No, sweetheart, it pleases me to have you so close and my captive. It is my fondest fantasy.”
She hated him for his mocking ways, but his voice seemed to be in earnest. She pushed out against him to free herself from his near embrace, but he did not budge and she felt his hard, flat stomach and muscular thighs press her back. Her heart began to pound distinctly from the strenuous dancing. He, too, seemed out of breath, breathing raggedly in her ear, standing close to her, touching her everywhere. His hands rested on the rough wood behind her against which her hips leaned. They stood silent while the music played on, and somewhere out there, Robin and his men searched the forest for their ladies. She wanted to threaten him, to say she would tell the king or her husband, but she did not. Her knees grew weak against his legs and she began to tremble from somewhere deep inside.
Then the music changed. The ladies and the sheriff’s men spilled out of the castle for combat, leaving only the sheriff and his prisoner for the outlaw hero to find a few moments later.
Neither of them moved, although the dim empty cavity of the castle now gave them room. Staff bent his head and his lips caressed hers once. “No,” she said. “No.”
He kissed her again, bringing both hands up behind her head to hold her still, and his hot lips slanted sideways across her open mouth. Her
head spun crazily. She was dizzy. She could not breathe in here. She would fall in front of the queen. They would all know what he had done. There was no time left, surely. The castle portcullis would swing up, the door would be opened and His Grace would see them!
He pulled his mouth away and said against her flushed cheek, “I have never envied any other man his bed before this long, long week. Now two men will possess you and neither really loves you, Mary Bullen. Think of me when you spread your sweet thighs for them!”
He pulled away from her abruptly, and she almost fell. His words spun in her head, but she could not grasp the meaning. He tugged her by her wrist to the door of the castle just as it swung wide and the king stood there, his golden sword held aloft and his mask obscuring his face. Mary thought to yank down her mask just as she followed the beleaguered sheriff into the pool of light at center stage. She stood with her hands clasped in mock fear as they parried and thrust at each other amid cheers and applause in the ring of dancers. It was sometime then, during their fierce battle, that she caught Staff’s words and grasped their meaning. Undoubtedly, he did not really care for her, but was only amusing himself by chasing the mistress of the king. Surely he must detest His Grace for his handling of him all these years, even as Will Carey resented it.
The sheriff was beaten and his sword was dropped at the feet of the victor. Applause exploded and everyone bowed before Queen Catherine and the tiny clapping princess. Mary took her curtseys between Staff and the king, but none of them looked anywhere but on the smiling Catherine. Finally, she was presented to Her Grace, who said some kind words about her father and her lovely mother, and then the room emptied swiftly. Henry escorted his queen from the table, and carried his smiling, babbling moppet on his great arm.
Mary had not expected that. Perhaps she had misunderstood him. Her husband was gone and, thank the blessed saints, so was Staff. But Francis Weston was at her side taking her elbow gently. “May I escort you, Lady Carey? His Grace said he would be but a moment.”
Her apprehension ebbed, but then embarrassment flooded in to think that they all knew. Weston, her husband, Staff, they all knew. She dreaded what the queen would say when someone told her about why the young Bullen girl was newly come to court.
Sir Francis said not another word, and Mary briefly wondered if he had done this for His Grace before. Maybe with poor banished Bessie Blount. Weston’s own wife? She began to tremble again. She thought suddenly of another who had been sent to fetch her for a king—the cold, snake-like man in gray silk. What was his name?
“Good evening, Lady Carey,” Sir Francis said with a quick glance that rested on her white face and heaving breasts. He quietly closed the door to the small room.
She leaned on the door for a full minute, her hands pressed to her breasts. The room was all linen-fold paneling and the wood seemed to glow in warm shadows from the low burning fire. There was a table and wine, three chairs—were they expecting a third? she thought irrationally—and a huge bed, high with a deep crimson coverlet. She sat in the nearest chair and leaned back on the stuffed blue velvet pillow.
William Stafford was crazy or he just meant to hurt her. Perhaps he was angered he had not been chosen to wed her and so be given the revenue and lands from the king. Perhaps, in that sense, he was jealous. How she would like to think he was jealous! She was grateful the king had not chosen him to wed with her, or deliver her here tonight. She could never have faced that.
Resolutely, she pushed William Stafford from her mind and banished the bitter, pinched face of Will Carey. Tonight she was waiting for the King of England. Father, I will sleep with your king tonight, she thought. Please come home soon, so you will see how well I am getting on.
Then a tall Robin Hood filled the doorway, his hair glowing red in the firelight, his gleaming narrow eyes upon her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
September 22, 1520
Greenwich
The summer weeks flitted by on butterfly wings for Mary Carey at King Henry’s busy court—and in his massive bed. Will Carey’s honeymoon with her had lasted but a week; this one, with the loud and laughing king, went on and on. They hunted, they rode bedecked barges up and down the Thames, they laughed and danced and sported and held hands. For Mary, it was truly the first courtship she had ever had, and she was wholly in love with being loved, if not with the effusive lover himself.
“Mary! Mary, His Grace is waiting for you under your window and half the court is in tow,” Jane Rochford squealed and darted to help Mary pin her new green velvet riding hat on her heavy piled gold curls. “You had best give him a quick wave from the window if you intend to keep him waiting so patiently.”
“There, I am ready, Jane, but I shall perhaps wave anyway. What a beautiful autumn day!” Mary shoved open a thick glass and leaded window and leaned her head out to wave. Her bright Kendal green riding gown and green plumed hat looked perfect for this day, she thought, as the king and several of his closest courtiers caught sight of her, waved and shouted their greetings.
“I am on my way down and I feel lucky at shooting today!” she called. They had all looked so excited and happy, like children, she thought: George standing proudly by His Grace, the king smiling, everyone eager to be off for the mounded, grassy hills where the painted bulls-eye targets were ready to be studded with their arrows. It had only been the avid-eyed William Stafford leaning on that big oak behind the king who did not smile up at her.
She hurried down the huge east staircase with Jane Rochford and several other friends trailing behind. Mary was proud of the effect of this dress that she had taken hours to select colors and materials for. This was her most simply cut dress as it was for riding or shooting. The velvet gored skirt was only moderately full and it was the long-sleeved, tight-fitting jacket with the row of molded brass buttons that set the whole outfit apart from others she had seen. The smooth cut of skirt showed off the top curve of her hips and a pleated cuff draped from the waist of the jacket. It emphasized her flat stomach and full breasts to perfection, despite the fact that the bodice styles imported from France and Spain were all rather tight with the cleavage pushed up above the daring low necklines. But, not for a morning of shooting arrows at targets, Mary thought. The king will have to leer at pushed-up breasts elsewhere today!
The air was crystal clear, the sun like some cut jewel set in the blue velvet sky. She had been told England was often rainy and foggy in the autumn here along these great, rambling palaces on the twisting Thames. But today, all was beautiful in Mary’s world. His Grace had even sent Will away again, probably for a week this time, so she would not have to put up with his grim looks and sour disposition today.
“Good morning, sweet Mary,” the king boomed out the moment she emerged with her trailing ladies. As if, Mary thought, she had not been in his bed all last night, and as if most of the courtiers standing about did not know it.
Arm in arm despite the twitters, winks, and murmurs—and Staff’s pointed stare—they strolled across the green lawns and cut through the rose gardens to the shooting range. The late summer gardens had greatly gone to riot now, and the leggy stemmed roses were making their last stands before frost time.
The king pulled his dagger and, with a flourish, cut her a full-budded white rose. “Put this rose here in your sweet bosom which that green velvet so naughtily hides, my Mary, where I may stoop and inhale its wonderful fragrance today,” he said low, and shot her that devilish, little boy grin of his she so adored. “Besides,” he went on as they continued walking, “I like for you to be in Tudor green and white. The king’s dearest possessions, you know.”
With his upper arm, he brushed her left breast firmly, deliberately, despite all the pairs of eyes, as they strolled the last yards to where squires had set up all the equipment for the shooting match. Yes, the quivers of arrows bore the Tudor colors and green-and-white Tudor pennants sprouted from the great, tall walls of Greenwich behind them. The king’s possessions, he had said, and righ
tly so, as everyone, especially her father, viewed things. Only, despite her exciting days and long nights with Henry, King of all England, she never really felt he possessed her. Her body yes—he took that repeatedly, but she still felt only flattered and touched. There was something yet to really being possessed that she knew was missing with this generous Tudor, and even with the selfish, handsome Francois before him. And, although her name might be Carey now, poor solemn Will hardly played a part in these thoughts.
“My dear Lady Carey,” the king’s voice boomed at her. “Have you taken to daydreaming so early in the day?”
“Oh, Your Grace, I am sorry. What did you say?” She shot him a dazzling smile and lowered her voice for the next words. “I am sorry, Sire, but the lack of sleep at night that makes me like this today is hardly all my fault.”
He threw back his golden-red head bellowing a laugh, so that everyone who was not staring already soon was. Henry Tudor looked overpowering in size, elaborate clothing, and the magnetic aura he always exuded. The peacock blue velvet which stretched across his muscular shoulders pulled taut when he bent to choose an arrow, as he did now. His loose-fitting back cape, which he would probably discard soon enough from the heat and exertion of his endeavors, swung easily to his gold-belted hips, and his brawny-thewed legs in dark blue hose were planted firmly apart in square-cut slashed velvet slippers as he shot his traditional first arrow to signal the start of their impromptu tourney. Gloved hands applauded madly though the shot was barely to the edge of the central red eye of the circles.
“’Sblood, I hope the entire morn will not be off target like that,” he groused.
“You are too fine a shot to even hint at such things,” Mary comforted, and was rewarded with another big Tudor grin.
“True, sweetheart, but some days can bring a terrible run of bad luck even to the best of us. But how your sweet face and words always cheer me, my golden Mary.” He bent to select another metal-tipped arrow from his green and white quiver, and fitted it carefully onto the string of the huge, polished oaken bow.
