The Last Boleyn

by Karen Harper

  “I must warn you, there is a rumor that the queen will appear this afternoon, Mary,” Anne Basset whispered to her as they waved to the beaming king and his opponent, Norris. They sat on a padded bench which was quickly vacated for them. Mary self-consciously draped her pelisse closer about her. This canopied area was much too warm with the courtiers packed in like this.

  “I do not believe she favors the embarrassment when she knows the blonde Bullen is about the area,” Mary replied carefully, “though she always handles the encounters beautifully by smiling and nodding and, if she must speak, inquiring sweetly after my father and mother.”

  “She knows His Grace has given you his heart. All she has now is half a daughter. And, with the king’s illegitimate son being raised so royally, she fears.”

  “She has always been gracious enough to me, Lady Anne. She is not here, so we will let it rest, please.”

  Anne Basset nodded, but her eyes showed her dismay at never being able to taunt Mary Carey enough to get some bit of information for gossip. Was the woman also so sweet and tolerant in the king’s arms? What was it like to bed with the Tudor stallion? She had wanted to ask Mary in private, but her blue eyes seemed distant again, lost in some reverie in the midst of the crowded court.

  The king played tennis with much power and verve. But then, so did Norris. Henry grunted and threw his huge body several steps into the court each time he served, and he often cursed loudly or flailed the air with his racquet if the leather ball did not land where he intended. She had watched him play for hours in the closed courts at Greenwich. Only last week he had played a two-hour game with Staff, winning only in the last set to the deafening cheer and applause of the assembled crowd. At least in that interminable game she had had Staff to study. His lithe body was angular and lean compared to the king’s, although his muscles bulged across his back and chest. He was there across the court with that fawning Lady Fitzgerald at this very moment. It annoyed her the way the raven-haired woman clung to him and brushed against him all the time. Well, what did she care? She pulled her eyes away and forced herself to refocus on the game.

  Tennis players always wore white on the Tudor courts, pure white, a fashion begun by the king, she supposed. Henry hated to play up to the net and was content to stand firm on the back line, smashing drive after powerful drive into his opponent’s court with his quick, rapid thrusts. She smiled and hoped no one noticed how her thoughts always went to her face no matter how hard she tried to look indifferent. That was exactly the way the king made love. Quick, powerful thrusts and then it was over before his passionate kisses or fierce caresses could work the magic on a woman of which a man was capable. And Will was so self-disciplined, even in bed, she could not imagine the babe that grew within her could be a Carey son. Her throat constricted in fear again. If the baby looked like the king, whatever would she do? At least Will and His Grace had similar coloring, but the Tudor hair was a deeper red. If the king sent her away from court, she would be lost. And father might even turn against her.

  She was making herself sick from worry. It was too hot in here. All the people so near, looking at her and the king. But her cloak was her protection. She wiped her damp brow again and shifted nervously in her seat. Who was winning? She must put her mind on the game.

  Worst of all, Staff was sauntering over, and he could always see right through her. She valued his advice about others in the intricately woven web of courtiers, but she needed none of his lectures on her own behavior now. Besides, there was an unbreakable magnetic pull of attraction between them of which he had long teased her, and she had stopped fighting with him on the point. When he brought it up in jest or in earnest, she raised her armor of silence, but he knew he had won.

  She remembered, particularly last month, when Will had been suddenly summoned by the king. She, Will, and Staff had been together on a crisp, clear evening drinking hot mulled cider in front of a fire in the Carey suite of rooms. Will had scurried away with a brief peck on her cheek and a quick word to Staff about the good fortune to be summoned by the great Henry more frequently now that the Carey rise to power had begun.

  “I shall just sit a few minutes with Mary, Will,” Staff had called after his retreating friend and then waited until the door banged shut to add, “and then head home to my lonely little bed while sweet Mary sleeps alone tonight.” He had given her a forlorn, doleful look, his hand over his heart and she had burst out laughing instead of scolding him.

  “More mulled cider, sweet?” he asked, and leaned over to pour her some from the metal flagon before she answered. She held her mug out for him, annoyed that her hand shook a little.

  His next words startled her. “I swear, your husband is as blind as a bat and as foggy as the Thames marshes, sweetheart.” He turned toward her, “If I were Will, I would not let you out of my sight around a ravenous blackguard like myself.”

  “Oh, Staff,” she said, trying to sound amused. Then, foolishly she turned to smile at him. The impact of his gaze, his very presence made her insides tilt.

  He jerked his head away first, staring wide-eyed into the fire, then downing his cider in several huge gulps. “I have to leave now, Mary, before I do something very, very foolish. And, considering with whom you sleep when you are not with Will, damned dangerous, too.”

  “Must you go?” she had said before she could stop herself.

  He looked at her again, the firelight edging his rugged profile and dusting his black velvet shoulders with a rosy glow. “Yes, Mary, I really must. The time is not ripe yet, as they say, though heaven knows I would almost hazard it all for one sweet—”

  She leaned forward, entranced by his words, unaware of how lovely and vulnerable she looked in the golden glow of firelight. “For one what, Staff?”

  He rose and moved away from her, walking around the backs of the three chairs facing the hearth as if he were afraid of being near her. “For more than one kiss, that is certain, love. This little game you and I play is a serious one and do not ever make a mistake about that, Mary. Let us just say I would almost risk it all for one sweet, little—more than you are willing to give me right now. I think you know how I feel and what I want from you, lass. Goodnight, then.”

  The door had closed on him and disappointment instantly overwhelmed her. Why did he have to run like that when they had some quiet time together? Did he fear the king’s spies as he had mentioned once? But his last earnest words echoed in her mind: she did know what he wanted, and the prospect thrilled her. Suddenly, the delicious sweet cider had turned very sour and the firelit room had gone very cold.

  She no longer feared Staff would do anything to hurt her. Besides, she was well protected by her relationship with her husband, who was one of Staff’s best friends, and by the king whom he served. He had not touched her for an entire fourteen months, but to take her arm, since that foolish Robin Hood masque. He knew his place now, so she could usually relax and genuinely enjoy the time he spent with her and Will. At least he had had the kindness to fob that vine-like Emily Fitzgerald off on Edward Courtenay and not drag her over here.

  Ignoring Anne Basset’s eager gaze, he bent over Mary’s shoulder from behind her. “Will you walk with me briefly? His Grace will not mind. He is winning and we will tell him you did not feel well. You do not, do you? Come on. Excuse me, Anne,” he added to the Basset girl.

  “Oh yes,” she breathed, smiling up at him. “Shall I come too? I would be pleased to help if Lady Mary does not feel well.”

  “Thank you, but she only needs a bit of fresh air,” he answered.

  The girl’s breathy sigh greatly irritated Mary. She rose to join Staff. “Has she been in your bed, too, Staff?” she inquired more icily than she had intended.

  “Too, Mary? I am sorry you cannot mean in addition to yourself, so to whom are you referring?”

  Her head was beginning to hurt and he was intentionally annoying her when she needed his support. If she could only tell him of the baby. He had been aroun
d the court enough, and knew the king well. At least she could listen to his advice and take it into consideration.

  “Lady Fitzgerald, of course,” she answered after a long pause. “And, no doubt, others.”

  “You cannot expect me to live like a monk while I am waiting for the king to toss you out and for you to realize you love me, Mary.” He turned his head and looked straight at her. His brown eyes were suddenly flecked with tiny shards of gold. It frightened her how much she loved to have him talk so foolishly. She lowered her eyes to her hand resting on his blue velvet arm.

  “This is a surprise. Silence and smokey stares have become your favorite weapons against me, but never when I speak of loving you. No tart words? Let us face the truth, sweetheart. You have two men at your beck and call, so why should I be celibate?”

  “Why do you not marry then?”

  “The truth? I cannot afford it and I cannot hope that His Grace would see fit to drench me in revenues and lands as he does my fortunate friend Will Carey. And why should I wed someone I cannot tolerate when it is so easy to bed others I can?”

  Mary could feel the color mount to her cheeks at his words. She had heard others speak and jest bawdily at court, but the truth, plainly spoken from Staff, often embarrassed her. They were almost to the privet maze. She had not realized they had come so far from the tennis court. Surely he would not take her into the lover’s maze in broad daylight.

  “Imagine a lover’s maze shaped like a cardinal’s hat, Mary? Well, the esteemed Cardinal Wolsey has had lovers and a wife, so I should not be so surprised at it. Do not balk. I am not foolish enough to take you in, although there is little I would like better right now. Neither of us needs to be banished from court, at least not now.”

  They sat outside the maze on a turf seat encircled by a bed of orange marigolds and yellow chrysanthemums. The shouts from the tennis area were distant and she suddenly felt tired and drowsy. The river glinted silver through the distant golden beeches and tall ashes.

  “It is lovely here,” she said to break the silence.

  “Does it remind you of Hever?”

  “Yes. Some, but it is so peaceful there and here it is usually so busy and confusing.”

  “I know. Mazes. Masks hiding masks, all more intricate than the crazy hedges in this cardinal’s hat.” He fingered a loose strand of hair on her shoulder and took his hand swiftly back. “Will and your father should return today, I would guess. Whom will you tell first, Mary? Your father, Will, or the king?”

  Her heart lurched. “Tell them what?”

  “About the babe you carry.”

  She raised her head wildly, her eyes wide in shock. Then she felt them fill with unbidden tears that coated her lashes and spilled down her flushed cheeks. “But I...is it so obvious, then? Dearest God in Heaven, everyone will know.”

  He scanned the area and then covered her clenched hands with his big one. “Of course everyone will know, Mary. This is the court and you sleep with the king. Do not cry. Everything will turn out for the best one way or the other.”

  “How can it? He will banish me like Bessie Blount and take the child away to raise.”

  “Maybe not. He has proved he can father a living son already. Bessie Blount was unmarried when she was unfortunate enough to conceive. You have a husband. It is only a question of the king’s continued affections which are at stake. He has never returned to a favorite after she bore him a child, damn it.”

  “But you said it would please you if he would put me aside.”

  “Not if he sends you and Will off to some impoverished castle on the Welsh border!”

  Before she could stop herself, she smiled at his impassioned words, but he was staring off in the distance, frowning. “I—Will and I—could always go to live at Hever with mother.”

  “That is entirely unlikely, Mary. If the king casts you off, your father will too.”

  “That is not true! My father loves me. We have never been closer than when he came home from France. I will not have you speak of him that way!”

  “I do not mean to hurt you, sweet, but of course he acts loving to you now. Through you come preferments, power and little goodies like new stewardships at Tonbridge, Brasted, Penshurst and another big promotion which is probably in the wind about now.”

  “Stop it! I will not listen to your slanders. Just because my father is successful and you...I will not listen to your jealous lies!” She put her hands to her ears.

  “I think you had better get control of yourself, Mary Bullen. You are acting like a spoiled little girl. We will have to go back now. Dry your tears and listen carefully.”

  “I do not wish to listen to you at all.”

  He reached for her arm and shook it like he would a rag doll’s. “I said listen, and I mean it! Or I shall take you into the maze and you will listen there.”

  Her eyes widened and she stared at him, the blue of her eyes melding with the azure October skies behind her golden hair.

  “Do you know who is the father of the babe? Well, do you?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “All right. When you tell Will does not really matter since he will see the import of it all. Tell your father as soon as you can do so. He will be upset, but you must weather it out. He will probably ask you to keep it from the king until His Grace publicly announces that he is to be appointed Treasurer of the Household at New Year. That way the king will be hard-pressed to rescind the position even when it gets around that you are pregnant and will be leaving court—only for a while, hopefully.”

  “But the king will see me and he will know. You did.”

  “I am a confirmed watcher of beautiful blondes with sweet faces and nasty tempers. No, I promise you it will be a while before His Grace notes your condition, if you are careful. I doubt that he will even notice that your monthly flows have ceased since he beds others lately.”

  She blushed hot that he would dare to mention her monthly flow. Was there nothing the man did not think, or would not say if it suited him?

  “It does not hurt you, Mary, that he sometimes seeks out others?”

  “Not really. Well, it hurts my pride a bit.”

  “But you do not love him?”

  “You notice everything about me, private or not, Staff, so you tell me,” she challenged.

  “Ah, there is my old Mary, sweet-faced and sharp-tongued.”

  “Only to you. You anger me beyond belief sometimes.”

  “I know. That pleases me, and to hear the truth from those tempting lips so much more than I used to. And since you were honest with me, I will tell you. You do not love the king. You loved another king once. He used and hurt you, and Mary Bullen decided never again. Come on, lass, we must go back.”

  They walked slowly toward the green and white canopy covering the tennis courts. “And do you love Will Carey?” he pursued.

  “In a way,” she drawled slowly.

  “If you do, ‘in a way’ you do not.” He stopped. “I shall not return you to your seat. It is enough that we walked off together. Say only that you dressed too warmly and needed fresh air. Smile that fabulous smile and all will be forgiven. Your servant, Lady Carey.” He bowed to her with a rakish teasing smile lighting his face and paced quickly toward the ruddy-bricked, turreted palace.

  The swelling sound of the cheering crowd had not abated when Mary re-entered the tennis grounds. Henry was beet red and gasping and Francis Norris looked gray and exhausted, but the game plunged on. Few heads turned to note her arrival and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it would be possible to keep the knowledge of her pregnancy from the court, at least for a while. Lady Guildford had taken her vacated seat, so she watched from the cluster of people behind Norris’s side of the net, where she was sure the king would notice her. She could tell him that she moved to be able to see him better. Norris dove for a ball which bounced along the corner line and missed. Henry switched sides and served again, his sharp grunt of exertion was heard throughout the
crowded area. Norris whacked a clean return, and the king returned it.

  “This is for game point,” Mary heard someone behind her say, and she was glad it would be over soon. She hoped the king would win, for when he was beaten he was quite out of his humor for the rest of the day. Surely Francis Norris would have the good sense not to defeat Henry Tudor in front of such a crowd. Whack, thump, still they volleyed. Then Norris missed a shot right in front of Mary and the hushed crowd exploded. The king embraced Norris at the net, beaming with joy. On the day I finally do tell His Grace I am pregnant, she thought, I shall be certain he has just won at tennis.

  A gentleman usher held the blue and purple velvet robe the king donned after heavy exertion. Nodding and bowing, he plunged through the press of courtiers, heading straight for Mary. The sense of thrill and power returned with stunning impact. The king, Henry Tudor, sought her out from the masses of adoring subjects.

  “Did you see that last serve, sweetheart?” he bellowed over the noise. “I never was in better form than today!”

  “You were marvelous, Sire. Atlas himself could not have bested you.”

  “Nor that sly Francois, eh? But that rogue Norris was good. He was excellent,” he admitted grandly, brandishing his racquet like a sword. “I had to be at my peak to beat him today!” He put one big arm over her shoulders, and they slowly strolled back toward the palace, acknowledging the compliments from groups and individuals. For once, he did not walk too quickly for her to keep up easily, and she kept her cloak wrapped firmly about her body.

  “Gads,” he said exuberantly in her ear, “if we could only go to bed now, I would show you how a victorious athlete behaves after a game like that one.”

  She laughed along with him for his boyish boast, and he grinned down at her. “There is your father, sweet,” he said suddenly and pointed with his raised racquet. “I do not see Will Carey anywhere. Thomas, did you find all well in my kingdom?”

  The king grasped Thomas Bullen’s shoulder in a rough masculine greeting as Thomas arose from his bow. He beamed to see Mary under His Grace’s other arm and kissed her warmly on the check.