by Karen Harper
“Now, seriously, everyone, I mean to tell you we shall be on a progress to Hampton as soon as everything can be assembled and this great brick barn sufficiently prepared for a royal visit. Sir Francis, I meant to inquire about the jakes. Are they quite in sound shape? Wolsey built the place here on this stretch of river upstream from the City because it is the healthiest place around in the pestilent summer months—and closer than Eltham or Beaulieu. We shall summer here and the sweat shall never find us at all. Sir Francis?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The lackeys spent a week swabbing the jakes and priveys after the cardinal’s huge staff vacated. Besides, the palace has private water closets in each of the principal three hundred bed chambers, an elaborate sewer, drain system and fresh water brought from Coombe Hill three miles distant.”
“Ah, yes, Francis. I meant to tell them of that. It seems our busy Lord Chancellor was even more skilled at building than at doing the king’s business which was given over to his care.”
Mary saw her cousin Francis color slightly as he realized his exuberance had made him overstep his place. Everyone kept his peace wondering what marvels His Grace would point out next. Mary walked on his arm as they entered the great courtyard. She kept her eyes on Henry’s proud face, for she did not want to be caught by Staff stealing a glance at the way his demoiselle innocent draped herself against his body as they walked.
The king had now entirely taken over the tour himself, as though he had designed and built the monstrosity. It was typical of the king’s ebullience and acquisitive nature, and they were all used to it. Staff and Sir Francis, whom the king had ordered to organize the jaunt, dropped farther back in the group as they paraded from room to opulent room. There were close to one thousand rooms in the palace, but they traipsed through only the principal chambers. Rich Damascene carpets virtually littered the floors. Gold and silver plate encrusted the massive oaken hutches and sideboards. Tapestries from Flanders draped the walnut carved walls and mullioned windows lent a golden glow to the myriad hangings of gold and silk. Their eyes could not take it in, they who were well accustomed to the opulence of the king’s palaces.
“It seems the Lord Cardinal overstepped his place as a man of the cloth and a servant to the greatest king in the world,” Mary heard Anne say distinctly at the king’s elbow, and she held her breath at the tactless remark. There was a sudden silence as they stood under the heavy tapestry of Daniel in the lions’ den. Anne had hated the great cardinal ever since he had forced Harry Percy, the young son of Northumberland, whom Anne loved desperately, to renounce the Bullen wench and submit to the arranged and proper marriage his family had set with Shrewsbury’s daughter. Anne carried the bitter resentment against the cardinal in her heart, Mary knew, but to dare to voice it like this to the king was dangerous.
Henry Tudor’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Lady Anne is quite right, but the cardinal has learned his place with his king. This palace is the palace of the monarch, not of his servant, and he willingly bestowed it as a gift. The cardinal knows full well his lord is a hard taskmaster, and if he should forget again, we will remind him. Hampton Court is king’s court now, my Lady Anne.”
Anne’s dark head bent as though in acquiescence to his power, and when she lifted her face to him, her smile was brilliant. Mary was stunned at the fine line of tangible magnetism that crackled between the king and her little sister.
“We had best see the gardens before it rains. I have magnificent plans for a pond, tennis courts, a tiltground, and a huge lovers’ maze which I am sure you will all have memorized by this time next year. Come, Come.”
Mary felt him pull back and hesitate when Anne strolled by, as though he wished to disengage her arm and seize Anne’s. She lightened her arm against his instinctively, but he chose to move on. It was graying outside as they drifted out, and the lovely gardens seemed subdued and silent. The group splintered off in pairs or clusters, and Mary smiled to see the Duke and his beloved Duchess walk off toward the knot garden arm in arm, as the fondest lovers. But when her eyes took in the bright blue of Staff’s doublet as he led Mistress Jennings toward the rose beds, her smile faded and she bit her lip in anger at herself.
“Well,” the king intoned smoothly, “if everyone is pairing off for a garden walk, that leaves us, sweet Mary.” He bent to kiss her lips, but stopped poised above her, his eyes darting off into the distance. “Your little sister can hardly practice her French-learned wiles on your Will, sweet, and that appears to be the only victim left to her.”
Mary turned her head slowly and saw Will seated with Anne in earnest conversation on a marble bench surrounded by a riot of lilies, cornflowers and broom. The scene reminded her of a painting that hung at Francois’s Amboise of a pair of Italian lovers in a flowered frame.
“Damn! But I should have seen to it that Will had someone to be with. Where has that little Jane Rochford gone?”
“Jane Rochford is another sister-in-law to Will, Sire, but I will admit it does seem strange to see Anne unattended by at least two gentlemen.”
“Yes—yes. Perhaps you had best stroll with Will just for a while. She will talk the poor devil’s ear off, though I do not wonder that it is witty talk. Will! Mistress Anne!”
Mary felt nothing but amusement at the situation. Nineteen-year-old Anne had caught the eye of the restless king. She had seen it happen before. He would spin off for several days in a romantic whirl and she would have a small rest until the conquest was complete and he returned to her. Each time father had seen it happen, he had been in a tizzy of worry. Mary nearly laughed aloud as Anne and Will sauntered up to them. Her father would be trapped because both of the ladies in question were his daughters. And His Grace—well, there was obviously no way this little passion for the sleek Anne could be satisfied, since the whole civilized world knew the king had bedded Mary Bullen for five years now, as his favored mistress.
Mary gladly took Will’s arm as the king offered his to the radiant Anne. Anne made a sudden move to lift her left hand to wave as they turned away, but Mary saw her catch herself and jerk her fingers down into the folds of her dress. Never, since Anne had been a very young girl, had she nearly shown her tiny deformed finger. The situation must indeed be a heady one for the girl.
“I pray she does not get herself in this too deep, Will,” Mary observed quietly as they strolled in the opposite direction and heard Anne’s lilting laughter float back to them.
“She trapped him this time, the little fool. She insisted we sit right there on that bench where we could watch His Grace.”
“Oh, no. She cannot be taken with him.”
“I think not, but did you catch her comment against the cardinal in there?”
“Who could have missed it?”
“I think she has some half-hatched plan in that pert little head, to have revenge on the cardinal through the king for taking Percy away from her.”
“That is too far-fetched. That was almost three years ago and...”
“Why else would she question Staff and me about how His Grace regards the cardinal, if anyone else has power over Wolsey and so on?”
“Silly girl, I will talk with her, Will. We do not speak much lately and I did not know. She will get into quicksand if she has thoughts like that. And if she meddles, father will have her head on a platter.”
“Perhaps, Mary. Or else the little nymph realizes that if she has Henry Tudor’s ear, she need fear your father no longer. But it never works to try to use this king. You might warn her of that, Mary. He is the user.” Will’s voice was bitter. He pulled her arm and held her close against his ribs. “I would not have you angry with me, wife, over sending Harry to Hatfield. I truly believe the lad needs sound schooling if he is to go far, and we can see him much there.”
“Even if your motives are pure, I know father’s are not. He did not coerce or bribe you to get you to agree with him?”
“I do not buckle to the Bullens, Mary, least of all to your father. If I seem to ag
ree with his tactics, it is only when the Careys will benefit too.”
“I should know that by now.”
He turned and carefully eyed her impassive face. “See that you remember that, madam.”
“And when His Grace goes on to someone else as mistress en titre, will the Careys mourn with the Bullens, or will there be a parting of the ways?” she heard herself plunge on, and all the frustrations of this long day made her voice shake with anger.
“I serve His Grace, separate from any bargain you may have with him, lady. I have my own ties to him and I will not hear you imply otherwise.” He stopped and faced her squarely. His face was as cloudy as the sky behind his head.
She drew in a quick breath and the scent of roses nearly overpowered her. She pulled her eyes away and there, across the tall arbors and through a whitened trellis decked with yellow roses, William Stafford crushed Maud Jennings to him in a passionate embrace.
“I am speaking to you, Mary. Your father may think what he damn pleases of the Careys, but I will not have the mother of my children against the Carey cause!”
Mary stared at his chest, her eyes burning with unspilled tears. “I meant nothing by it, Will. I only, well, I only wish you would stand against my father with me when he threatens me or little Harry.” She had to get away from this garden. She would not put it past Staff to seduce the wench right there on the grassy turf.
“My sister and I have worked hard for what we have now, and we intend that the Careys shall be even further restored in the next generation. You birthed them, madam, but they bear my name. And I am lord of them even though I cannot, at times, control where their mother makes her bed.”
“Will, please. I do not need your reprimands. I need your love and understanding.”
“’You have my duty, wife. After that, things get most difficult. The barges wait on the other side of that hedge, beyond the roses. Since we undoubtedly ride back on different boats anyway, I am certain you can find your own path when you are finished crying for your little Harry and what the Bullens will say when they hear Anne walks at Hampton with Henry Tudor in place of golden Mary.” He mockingly bowed to her and spun on his heel.
Mary’s first impulse was to throw herself flat on the grass and scream and sob. His anger and bitterness astounded her. He kept it tightly bottled most of the time but when it exploded...He did hate her. He had finally admitted it. She crumpled weakly on a carved bench under a bewinged marble Cupid. The tears which would help release her agony did not come. She felt drained, totally enervated, and she dreaded raising her eyes again to the trellised arbor where Staff made passionate love to that woman.
She breathed hard in great quivering gasps drifting between outrage and desolation. Perhaps she was beyond crying ever again. She felt the urge to run away and hide, to flee like a child playing hide-and-seek in the gardens. They would wonder where she was, they would search, but they would have to return to the palace without her.
She craned her neck and looked at last. Staff and Maud had disappeared. Or maybe they were sprawled on the grass. She heaved a deep sigh. The garden was so unutterably beautiful, and she was so wretched. If anyone noticed her here alone, the gossip would be all over the court. The blonde Bullen sits alone and her husband and the king desert her. She thought to laugh at what father would say to that, but she heard a few huge raindrops plop on the gravel path and watched them bounce the green rose leaves. She tilted her head up to the pearl gray sky and blinked as a drop drenched her thick lashes. She moved to stand under the enclosed arched trellis and saw Mary Tudor and her Duke of Suffolk run laughing along the path to the watergate. She must go back. They would all be coming now, but she stepped back hidden in her tiny shelter in the rose garden.
She saw him then and instinctively took another step back into the thorns. He was so tall and the peacock blue of his garments stood out clearly in the riot of pinks and whites and greens at his back. But he was going the wrong way, not toward the barges. What had he done with his little paramour, Maud?
Mary watched him silently as he walked farther away from her. When he spun back, he caught sight of her and strode in huge steps through the rain to her. She thought to run, to lead him a chase through the gardens, but she was frozen in anguish and fascination. He put a hand on each side of the little enclosed bower blocking her in.
“It is going to pour, Mary. Why did you not come back with Will? He says His Grace chooses to take the little Bullen for a walk.”
“Yes. Will and I had an argument and he preferred not to enjoy my company either. Did he tell you that? I am returning to the barge now. Please do not concern yourself. I know you have more important people to look after. Let me pass.”
“Stop this nonsense. Everyone will be coming back soon and we have not much time.” He took a step closer to her in the cool protection of the sweet-scented bower. “They will not notice us here, and we will return separately in a moment. I should take the few minutes we have to give you one of my educational messages about being careful not to scold the king about his attentions to your sister, or doing something foolish like pleading with the king to restore little Harry to you, but I need this time for something far more important.”
He dropped his hands to her waist, and she took a step back, pressing closer into the leaves, blooms and prickers. He reached again and pulled her gently to him.
“Do not dare to ever touch me again!” she spat at him. “Go caress your Maud, go kiss her in the roses!” A little sob tore from her throat, and the stubborn tears sprang to her eyes again.
He loosed her waist and took one of her hands firmly in both of his warm ones. “I am in your bad graces, sweetheart, and rightly so. I did not know you and Will stood so close in the garden.”
“I am certain it would not have made one tiny difference to you if the cardinal himself would have stood there watching!”
His teeth shone white in the dim bower as he smiled and the rain splattered down around their protective arch of leaves. “I am elated that my attention to other ladies displeases you.”
“I could not care less what you do, William Stafford!”
“Really? Fine, because I am going to kiss you and if we had the time, I would carry you to one of those three hundred silken beds in that great pile of Wolsey’s bricks and make hot love to you whether you were willing or not. I told you I do not love the little Jennings, Mary, and I told you true. You know whom I do love, do you not, sweetheart?”
His voice was so low and caressing, his dark eyes so mesmerizing in the regular patter of raindrops that she almost relaxed against him. His strong hands went to her waist again, he gave a little pull and she leaned full on him as his lips descended. She went limp; her thoughts and fear subsided as she returned kiss for searing kiss. Her arms stole up his back, and she pressed her open palms against his iron muscles through the velvet doublet. He shifted his weight and tipped her back a bit in his encircling arms. His lips traced fire down her throat, down to where her breasts swelled above the tiny lace rim of her decolletage. Her head dropped back on his shoulder, and she savored the touch of his tongue. His breath scalded her there.
She closed her eyes desperately against the rampant assault on her senses. Her breath came in strange little gasps over which she had no control. Her legs were like jelly. A low flame burned in the pit of her stomach, yet a chill raced along her spine.
“Sweetheart, my sweetheart,” he repeated as he kissed the bare flesh where her breasts swelled. He raised his head and pulled her up straight against him, almost brutally, and kissed her again hard on the mouth. She could feel everywhere he touched or looked, distinctly, intimately. He kept her hard against him, and his voice shook when he spoke.
“We have to go back or we will have them beating the bushes for us. And if we stay any longer, what they will find is you flat on the ground with your skirts up in the rain.”
He released her and, under his hot gaze, she brushed back her tumbled hair and smoothed her dre
ss with little shaky tugs at the cloth.
“I truly meant to only find you and bring you back to the landing, sweet, but when I saw you here alone, I could not help myself. It has been so many years I have longed for the forbidden fruit, Mary, and I am not really a very patient man. You were angered with me today for kissing Maud, but years of smiling and laughing with you and breathing in your sweet scent and seeing that luscious face and body near me and then bidding you a curt goodnight as you go to Will’s or Henry’s bed is pure hell.” He reached over to smooth her hair. “I tell you, Mary, whomever I have slept with these past five years, I have dreamed it was you or, if not, your face came back to tease me—to haunt me—soon after. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. It was like a dream and she wanted to be hidden away with him forever. Then she heard her own voice say in a rush, “I rely on you above all others, my Staff, even though I try not to admit it to myself sometimes.”
He put his head out of the bower and looked both ways, then came back toward her and kissed her swiftly on the lips. “I want more, much more than your reliance, Mary Bullen, and I will have it. But we must be careful, very careful. I will not have your safety or our chances to be together at all ruined by one passionate mistake.”
He pulled her gently from under the arched trellis after him, and she was amazed to feel the rain had almost stopped. He held her arm so tightly it almost hurt.
“Perhaps there will be some day soon, some place where we will have time to finish what we only started today, sweet. I see no one on the path. Go back along that way. I shall come from another direction in a few moments. Go on. Now!”
She turned on wooden legs and hurried down the crunchy wet path toward the line of trees that hid the boat gate. Her heart pounded, and she forgot to lift her sodden skirt hems in her excitement. Let the king cast her out, let Will hate her, and her father storm. There was one who loved her and whom she could trust. She glanced back quickly but he was gone as though he had never been there at all.
