by Karen Harper
The April sun gave a warm embrace, but she wandered a bit off the path into the shade of a skinny-leafed weeping willow near the little pond. How she would love to stoop and pick those tight-clustered violets, but she could not. This time next year, pray God, she would have her babe in her arms, and could stoop to pick them.
A branch rustled behind her and she spun her head sharply. “Oh, Michael, you frightened me. What are you doing here?”
The thin, gangly boy smiled shyly at her. His front teeth gapped wide, and he seldom smiled outright. He reminded her of George years ago, before France, but his hair was flame-colored and masses of freckles dotted his long face.
“I didna’ mean to scare you, Lady Mary. I was jus’ walking through and I thought to see you be all right since the Lady Anne left you.”
“I appreciate that, Michael. And I have wanted to thank you for the cuttings of forsythia and pussywillow during the rains. They lightened my dark room and cheered me tremendously.”
He smiled again, his felt hat held nervously in his awkward hands. “I was tellin’ my mother it is too bad the Lady Mary has to come back to visit in the winter months, for she always loved the gardens best of all the Bullens. I try my best to keep them nice for the lord and lady. The lord, he ne’er sees them, but Lady Elizabeth, she loves them, an’ I know you do too.”
“We all appreciate the fine work the gardeners do, Michael. I am glad to see you so grown. Will you wed soon?”
“There be no one I fancy now, lady, but if I find someone, I will ask my mother and Lady Elizabeth for permission, and wed with her gladly.” He took a step closer in the spotted shade. “I remember the day we had to look for the lost spaniel in the box hedges, lady. And I remember best the day the king came to Hever and walked in my rose garden.”
Simple pride shone on his face, but Mary did not miss the fact that his eyes dropped swiftly, accusingly, to her rounded belly. Even the servants knew and whispered that the child the Lady Mary carried was the king’s.
She turned away, suddenly terribly hurt by his simple face and gentle gaze. What honor could there be in bearing a bastard to the king if honest servant’s eyes accused? Even peasants who worked the gardens with their hands were free to choose whom they wed.
A stab of pain gripped her at the waistline and spread swiftly downward, crushing the breath from her. This was no agony of guilt, memory, remorse or a false pain of birth. This was different. Her knees nearly buckled and she leaned heavily on the tree trunk. “Michael, fetch...my mother.”
“I can help you to sit, lady. I will fetch her.”
He grasped both arms above her elbows. She would have shouted at him not to touch her, but the next wave of pain staggered her and she toppled against his grimy chest. He backed carefully out onto the gravel path holding her up by her arms. Her legs followed wobbily, draggingly. Tears of fear and pain coursed down her cheeks, and she bit her lip.
If I were a true-bred court lady, she thought crazily between pangs, I would ask this gardener to take his hands off me and show no pain on my face at all. He half-sat, half-leaned her on the bench where she and Anne had been, and raced off saying something back over his shoulder. What had he said? Another pain seized her, and she heard herself scream. Truly, this was it, this was her time. Where were the men in her life when she needed them? Her father should be here for the birth of his first grandchild. Was Will on his way? This baby was not early. He should be here, too. Damn the king! Damn him who could send maids five months from his court just because they conceived and their waistlines no longer suited his roving hands.
The next pain swept over her like a huge wave and her ears rang, drowning out the garden sounds and all thoughts. Then mother, Semmonet, Michael and some other man were there. They carried her into the dark house and to bed.
It seemed she had long drifted on waves of pain and exhaustion. She screamed for them to take the bedclothes off and begged them for cool water to drink. Her body was not her own. She tried to hide from its strange revolution in the corner of her mind, but the agony pursued her, and she screamed again. There were two midwives, mother and Semmonet. Father had said two midwives. There must be two to make sure the child was delivered safely. How she hoped the child was a girl and had the identical look of a Carey to spite her father. How many hours on the sundial in the garden? Why could the tearing pains not end?
They told her to push, and she did with all her might. It helped, but the pain swept her back, so what did the tiny respite matter? How could women do this all the time? Claude. Poor Claude and the Spanish Catherine! All those dead children after so much pain. Please, God, do not let my baby be born dead. “Mother! Mother! Water!”
Elizabeth held the goblet to her lips and she drank greedily, spilling half the water down her chin and neck. It felt good. The only thing that felt good. “You are doing fine, dearest Mary, just fine. Push harder next time.”
She bore down as hard as she could. When she dared to open her eyes again, she could have laughed at the crazy sight of her legs spread and the midwives peering at her intently, if another pain had not washed her laugh away. What was it that Staff had said to her that night? When you spread your thighs for the others, think of me.
“It crowns, lady. Push harder, hard,” the voice came to her.
Crowns, who cared about crowns except Henry and father? Push hard, push, push!
A huge black wave rolled over her, and she felt herself break in two jagged pieces. Then there was a loud cry, and she no longer felt the need to scream. Would they leave her alone now? She was so exhausted.
“Mary, Mary, everything is fine.” It was mother’s voice, mother crying and shaking her shoulder.
She opened her eyes. They had let light into the room, and it almost blinded her. But there in her mother’s arms lay a child. Her child, with a tiny red face screwed up to a pouting circle at its mouth and one balled-up fist against its cheek.
“It is a son, Mary, a beautiful, fine son.”
Mary smiled in her mind and opened the fingers of her hands as Elizabeth Bullen placed the tiny bundle next to her on the vast bed. She touched the little hand. “Father and Will decided his name is to be Henry, mother. Henry Carey.” She wanted to hold the babe to her, but she drifted off, floating on the bed in helpless exhaustion.
The utter joy which coursed through her with the milk which suckled the babe was unbelievable. She held him carefully to keep him secure and to be certain he would not break. He had little reddish-golden fuzz on his head and his eyes were the clearest blue, although mother said all babies looked so for the first weeks. It would please father and probably Will, too. The babe’s coloring could be construed to be pure Tudor, but was not so far from the Carey looks. So let them wonder.
Will Carey and several other riders came pounding into the courtyard the morning after the baby was born. Will looked so in awe of the tiny bundle of reddish gold that Mary felt a jab of guilt for cursing him for his absence. The king, no doubt, the king had kept him. George had come, Anne said probably just to escape his wife’s flapping mouth for a few days, but father would follow later in the day. The king had sent his good wishes and a silver christening spoon. Mary enjoyed the proud comments and pleasure of George and Will, and then she slept again with the baby’s cradle next to her bed.
She was famished that afternoon and downed a huge bowl of frumenty while Anne sat by the bed and repeated all Will, George and their comrades had been telling her of life at court.
“George is so unhappy, Mary. I tell you, if father tries to marry me to someone as silly as Jane Rochford, I shall run all the way back to France! Oh, by the way,” Anne added as she took a swift peek in the cradle on her way out, “that man you spoke of, the tall and charming Will Stafford, came with Will. You are right. They are fast friends. See you when father arrives.”
Mary put her spoon on her emptied pewter plate. Staff here with Will? However did they both get away? Would he come to see the baby or think it was on
ly for the family to see? Suddenly, for the first time since the birth, she thought of how she must look. Her stomach was so much flatter but, even tightly bound, she had a long way to go to get back to her normal waistline. “Mother! Semmonet!”
“Mary, are you all right? Hush, sweet, or you will wake Master Henry Carey,” Semmonet scolded lightly as she bustled in. “Still hungry? Your father has just ridden in.”
“Semmonet, I need a mirror, comb and rice powder. I must look terrible!”
“You must not do too much so fast, dear. You just look a little pale. Here, look in the mirror.”
“Rosewater, too, please.”
“Maybe Lord Bullen will be more interested in the baby than in how you look, child. Or, is this for someone else?” She narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion, but Mary ignored the stare and Semmonet darted out again.
Indeed her hair looked like a Kentish haystack, but her face was not too pale. Somehow she thought she showed good color. And she knew the robe looked well, for it was the lovely lace and ribboned one from her wedding night.
George appeared, then mother. Then father swept in with a broad smile. Perhaps he had heard the child had the king’s hair.
He bent to kiss her forehead and gave her hair a quick caress. He studied the baby at length, leaning close over the cradle. “A fine son, Mary. I know Will is proud.” The statement hung there, and he said no more.
“We shall unwrap him for you to see, father,” Mary said with a nod to Semmonet.
“Let the lad sleep, daughter.” He clapped his hands together loudly as if to silence all the little conversations in the room. “The Bullens are fortunate—again. Mary bore a fine son and still looks beautiful, which is another blessing because in June Will is to fetch you back to court. The king himself told me he misses your golden smile, my dear, and,” he lowered his voice, “no doubt, he would like to catch a glimpse of little Henry, too.”
George chortled deep in his throat, and Anne’s shapely eyebrows arched up as if to say, “I knew it all the time.” Mary said nothing, but she did feel relieved. It was not that she would see the king again or even that the news pleased her father so much. Perhaps she had missed the excitement of life at court.
“Mary.” Thomas Bullen leaned both palms on the bed beside her so firmly that she almost rolled against his arms. “I know you are tired now, but this is a wonderful day for the Bullens. No one has gone back into favor like this before, but I had faith we could do it. And, as I promised, Anne and George will be there too, so you have absolutely nothing to fear. All right?”
She smiled in the direction of the cradle although she could not see the tiny head from where she was. “All right, father.”
“Excellent. Now, one more fortunate piece of news. Anne, His Grace has been thinking of your happiness as well as Mary’s.”
“Yes, Father?” Anne stepped forward near the foot of the bed with her hands clasped to her breasts and her dark eyes dancing in anticipation.
“His Grace has set a most favorable match for you with a fine title and estates. You will come to court with George next week, serve the queen and be wed, in the autumn, in Dublin.”
Anne looked stunned. Her eyes glittered and then hardened dangerously. “To whom have I been promised in Dublin, Father?”
“To James Butler, a fine match. He is heir to the entire Ormond estates. You will live at Kilkenny Castle on the Rive Noire. He is handsome, red-haired, an Irishman of course, and you will be a fine lady.”
“Should I not have been consulted? At least Mary gets to live at court. I should like to also and not for just a few months while preparations are made to ship me off to some man I have never seen and do not wish to wed.”
“We shall talk further of this honor, this royal command, Anne. Later.” He glanced down eagerly into the cradle as if the subject were closed, but Mary saw clearly that it was not.
“I have only arrived from France, my lord, where you sent me to be schooled and groomed to return to the English court, and then, perhaps, marry some landed Englishman. I do not favor being sent to the barbarous Irish in some dark castle I have never seen to breed red-haired sons for some lord I cannot love. If you will not listen and I must plead with the king directly, I shall do so!”
“Elizabeth, settle the girl down. I should have realized it would be too much of a surprise and she would need time to think.”
“No, father, I need no time to know what I think. George has married Jane Rochford as you ordered, and he pines away for the girl he truly loves. Mary is wed to Will Carey, but,” she lowered her voice ominously as though Will could hear from the solar below, where he waited, “she beds with His Grace and somehow bears sons to them both.”
“Anne, I warn you...” Thomas Bullen’s voice came low and he motioned to his wife to take Anne from the room.
Great tears came to Mary’s eyes. Anne’s words hurt. They were thoughtless, brash and cruel, but they were true. George looked stunned. Anne turned and fled before Elizabeth could get to her, and George followed the women through the open door.
Her father studied Mary’s face briefly. “I am sorry to have this happen here to upset you, Mary. It is a wonder the boy still sleeps after that screaming. Anne will be all right. I shall see to it.”
“Anne is right, father.”
“Right about what?”
“George is desperately unhappy. Anne has only returned. She is but fourteen and she wants to live here, to experience court life for herself.”
“She will, Mary, she will. The wedding is not until autumn and she will have you to set her a good example. It is just that she is the youngest, and your mother has spoiled her. The lad is beautiful. May I hold him later?” He turned and strode from the room without waiting for her answer.
The door stood open, and she felt a desperate urge to call for Semmonet. She must hold the baby and rock him to set right all the conflict and unhappiness. But she did not wish to see any of them now. She only wanted her baby close to her, away from Anne or George or even mother.
She lifted the sheet and carefully slid one leg over the side of her bed, then the other. The cradle was so near. This would be easy. She slid her hips off, her feet touched the floor and she stood. A spinning hit her and swept her around so she could not even see the cradle. She put her hands out to break her fall, but strong arms caught her and lifted her high.
“Foolish girl,” came the low voice in her ear as she was laid back, on her bed. She opened one eye slowly and looked up at the tilting ceiling. Staff leaned over her, serious concern stamped on his face. “Shall I call your mother? Are you all right now?”
“Yes. I did not think it would be so difficult to stand. I am glad you came.” She put one arm over her eyes to stop the rushing whirl of the room.
“So am I, Mary Bullen.”
She realized how she must look to him stretched out under his gaze on the bed in her thin chemise and lacy robe.
“Will said I might come up to wish you well. I saw the door stood open with no one about, and you, ready to topple over,” he explained as if to apologize for his sudden appearance.
“You just missed a fine display of Bullen family politics,” she said grimly with her eyes still covered.
“I did not truly miss it, sweet. It was quite discernible from the front stairs.”
Her eyes shot open and stared up into his. “Did Will hear?”
“I think not. The solar door is closed. Here, you had best get back into bed before someone comes in and wonders.” He pulled her to a sitting position, plumped the bolster behind her back, and covered her legs with the rumpled sheet.
“Thank you for your care,” she said. “You would make a fine bedroom nurse.”
“Anytime you want someone to help you into your bed, remember me then.”
“Really, Staff,” she scolded lightly, unable to keep the smile from her face that he would still tease her so. “Now tell me, how is everyone at court?”
He pulled
a chair close to the foot of her bed, carefully avoiding the end of the cradle, and she thought foolishly how far away he felt now. “If I told you about everyone at court, lady, it would take hours and I would have your governess on my back, so I will be brief. The king has gone through three quick romances in your absence and he misses you. If your father tells you he has set up your return, do not believe it. His Grace misses his golden Mary.”
“And how many quick romances has Will Stafford gone through in these five months?”
“And does he miss his golden Mary, do you mean?”
She felt herself blush under his steady stare. What had gotten into her to encourage him like this?
“Well, since you ask directly, sweet, you shall have a direct answer. I long for you to come back and tease me and insult me. If there were room for three men in your busy little life, I am afraid I would be most insistent on where you spent your time and at least some of your nights.”
She pulled in her breath sharply. He dared to imply that he wanted her for a lover! It was madness. She should be insulted and tell him his place the way she had often before, but she was so glad to see him.
There was a lengthening silence and raised voices came from somewhere down the hallway. Coward, she ranted at herself. Say something. Tell him the truth. “Would you like to see the child, Staff? I was trying to get him to hold when I...fell.”
“I have found in my experience that babies all look alike when they are born, but I hear this one is special, with Tudor-colored hair. So let’s have a look.”
She meant to protest as he bent and handed her the bundle, but he seemed to do it expertly. “In your experience, Staff? Do you mean to tell me you have children hidden somewhere about the kingdom?”
