The Last Boleyn(116)
“I always keep in mind, my beautiful cousin, that appearances can be deceiving.”
“So do I, Francis, though it is a lesson I have learned rather late.”
“Do not look now, Mary, but here comes trouble.”
“The king with Anne? I did not think she would dare to drag him over here,” she said low without turning to look.
“No, lady. I am referring to your father. He looks like the worst winter storm I have seen in a while.”
Mary’s heart lurched as she pivoted slowly to face Thomas Boleyn. Perhaps I should give him lessons in hiding his feelings from the court, she thought when she caught his grim expression. Had Anne blurted out her plan to help the Carey woman already, and it had unsettled him so?
“Good evening, Francis,” her father nodded. “Daughter, I want to speak with you. His Grace is busy and no one dares to sit until he does. Will you walk with me?”
“I think you are poorly informed, father,” she returned calmly. “It looks to me that Anne and the king have made as much conversation as they please for now, and will sit to eat. I would be pleased to walk with you now though, if you wish.”
“No, no, I must go back then, but I will see you after the meal. See to it that you do not go skipping off to see your child before I talk to you.”
“I will be looking forward to our interview, my lord. It is so seldom I am able to find time to see you.” She smiled up at him and dared to hold the look while his dark eyes narrowed dangerously.
“You will not be so pert when you hear what I have to say,” he threatened low so Francis could not catch his words. Then his head jerked up sharply as the royal trumpet fanfare blared again. “Judas Priest,” she heard him say and his face turned ashen. “It cannot be the queen. She would not dare come here where she is not wanted.” He darted off toward the dais, bobbing and weaving on his swift path through the astounded crowd.
It was indeed Queen Catherine and four of her ladies, all dressed in black like harbingers from hell’s gates. The king went red and looked as though he would choke from anger, and Anne’s ebony eyes blazed defiance as she held her ground at the king’s elbow. The hiss of whispers dulled to a low buzz as the fanfare ceased.
“But she does dare!” Francis Bryan said at Mary’s side. “She does dare!”
The queen bowed low to the king, ignoring the haughty cluster of Boleyns and their supporters perched at the king’s side on the dais. “I have missed my husband,” her clear voice rang out with its unmistakable Spanish accent. “I have missed him sorely and our daughter Mary misses him also.” She gathered her heavy skirts and mounted the two steps to the dais. She sank slowly into the huge chair to the right of the king’s, where Anne would have sat, and two of her women hastened to arrange her skirts and move the chair closer to the table.
The king stood stock-still, a frozen statue of pent-up rage. He spun his vast back to the hushed crowd and bent low over the gold-and-silver-laden table in front of his wife. If he meant his words to be low enough that no one could hear, he failed utterly.
“Madam,” he said distinctly, “you are not bidden here, nor have you been announced.”
“But I never see you otherwise, my husband,” she returned bravely. Mary’s eyes caught Anne’s for an instant as they swept the crowd helplessly. Mary read the controlled panic in them.
The king’s voice went on, dripping with venom. “The king will see you when he chooses, madam, and he does not choose so now. You have your own household and you may go anywhere you want within it, but...not here!” His back shook and his piercing voice seemed to echo off the rafters of the timbered hall.
Mary’s nails bit deep into her palms and she was amazed to find herself so torn for this proud queen who had lost the man she had loved and whose desperation made her brave enough to hazard all. Mary tried to summon up her natural sympathy for Anne, but she was bereft of feeling for the slender, dark-haired girl who stood so straight between her father and her king. No wonder others risked all for the queen’s cause in the face of His Grace’s wrath and ruin of their dreams!
There was a grating scrape as the queen slid back her chair and rose unsteadily to her feet. “I was not truly hungry for the feast, my king, just for the sight of you. I will await you in the privy chamber and after you are finished here with your—friends—we shall talk. I shall be waiting.” She nodded slowly to the crowd. She looked so tiny on the dais, especially next to His Grace and the clump of Boleyns on his other side, two forces tugging at the power between them.
Queen Catherine descended the dais, and Mary’s eyes followed her black-covered head as she exited behind the huge metal screen set to stop the winter drafts. The exit was quite near where she still stood with Francis Bryan, the doorway which led to the king’s privy chamber off the Great Hall.
Everyone sat awkwardly, silently at the head steward’s signal and Mary noted the king apologizing profusely to Anne, who suddenly smiled no more. The meal was interminable and Mary could not even catch a glimpse of Staff from where she sat. She and Francis made hushed conversation about everything trivial as did the rest of the feasters until, gratefully, they were released to stream into the long gallery for dancing.
Mary rose and stretched, her eyes quickly scanning the crowd for Staff and for Norris, to whom she had promised the first dance. Before she was even in sight of the doorway, though, her father was at her elbow again. “Let us step into the hall,” he said bluntly. “Everyone else is hurrying the other way. They will not miss us for a moment.”