The Last Boleyn(2)
“Dear Annie, Semmonet said only that father had an important message for mother and that we shall learn of his tidings later. I am certain you can manage to wait until supper, for he will no doubt stay at least until the morrow, so you may ask him then, minx.”
The pale child bit her lower lip, and Mary knew another question would follow. Did she never tire of her endless probings of everything? Her mind is quick and her French and Latin may soon overtake mine, she thought.
“Mary,” Anne began in her childish voice, “do you believe the king looks in true life as he does in the portrait? He always seems to look sideways at me as I come down the stairs or go in the solar. His hands are so big and strong and he looks very frightening.”
Her eyes looked like wet black brook pebbles, and Mary reached out to touch her white cheek. “Well, little one, I have not seen His Majesty either, but father is proud of that portrait copy by Master van Cleve, you know, so I would guess it catches the king in truth. And I agree, Annie, the eyes and the hands do look most frightening, especially at night when the hall lies in shadow with only candle gleams.” She hesitated. “Is there anything else you would ask, Annie?”
Mary smiled at her little sister and the dazzling beauty that angered George, worried her mother, and pleased her father, simply amazed the younger child. Why could she not have golden hair and sky colored eyes and an angel’s face like those in the stained glass windows at grandmother’s chapel?
“I was only hoping, Mary, that he comes not back to take me to the king’s court, for I should be afraid to go from mother and Semmonet and George and you. Even if father were there, I should be afraid, for father has eyes and hands like the king.” Her lip quivered, and her fears, so plainly spoken, tugged on Mary’s love though she herself felt no such childish worries.
“No, Annie. Do not be afraid. We are all too young to leave here now. George will surely go first and though you and I are not too young to be engaged, there has been no word of this. Maybe father comes to tell of a fine promotion above being Esquire of the King’s Body. Father wishes to rise far, I know.”
“Yes, Mary. And mother says he shall. Does she miss him as much as we, do you think?”
“Yes. No doubt even more. But she loves it here and has almost no desire to be at court, though I do not know why. But who would not love life at our Hever, Annie?” Mary’s eyes skipped swiftly across the low boxwood hedges and the carefully tended beds of riotous marigolds, snapdragons and sweet heartsease.
“Father will soon ride back to the king’s business, and we shall be safe with mother and Semmonet. You shall see,” she comforted.
The child shot her a sunbeam smile and darted off, eager to follow George and the pups around the other side of the garden. Soon her lilting laugh and George’s sharp tones floated through the air again punctuated by excited yelps from the litter of spaniels.
Mary grimaced as she rose, but walked away from their play. She did not want another rude encounter with George if she scolded him again. Then, too, Anne’s innocent questions had unsettled her more than George’s bloodless cruelty to the pups could.
Her father had ridden in hard from Greenwich and most unexpected. He did have special news for the family, that she knew. But what puzzled and bothered her the most was that he had sent the children out to play yet had summoned Semmonet. Why would his words be of import to their governess unless it concerned one of her three Bullen charges? Her heart beat slightly faster as she paced the squared outer edge of the heady-scented boxwood walk toward the house.
As she emerged from the gardens, the brightly painted ornamental facade of Hever rose up before her set like a gaudy jewel in the clear blue frame of cloudless sky. Its blond brick walls and decorative chimneys and water lily studded moat rested in the meadows at the fork of the gentle River Eden. Mary knew well the heritage of the house, for it was the same proud heritage of her family, and she and George and Annie had been taught to rehearse it well.
“Built by great-grandsire Geoffrey Bullen, lord mayor of London, who married the proud daughter of Lord Hoo,” she recited half aloud. “Once a mere hunt lodge, but now the family seat of his grandson Lord Thomas Bullen of King Henry’s great court and his Lady Elizabeth Bullen.”
She went in step to her chant toward the house from which she and the other Bullen children had been temporarily banished. She crossed the now-useless drawbridge and went beneath the rusty pointed teeth of the raised portcullis. As a younger child of Anne’s age, she had pictured that entry as the mouth of a terrible dragon whose jaws might snap shut in an instant and devour a fair maiden beneath. Long ago she had darted through, fearful that the iron jaws would trap or crush her, but she was much too old for such foolhardiness now.
The cobbled courtyard lay silent, and the shiny leaded windows of the hall and solar glinted in the afternoon sun and gave no hint of what dark secrets might be proudly announced within. She would await the parental summons in her bedchamber away from the howls of pups or George’s taunts or even Annie’s childish questions. Maybe Semmonet would be in the nursery now and could tell her of the special news, for did not Semmonet treasure the happiness of her three charges above all?
One oak door to the hall stood agape. The warm fresh air of the day was a blessing in the frequently shut-up house. A sunbeam-dusted shaft of light poured onto the worn oak floor inside the entry as the girl stepped inside and looked guardedly about. The low hum of her parents’ voices drifted from the solar, still lifted in earnest conversation. She continued to the great banister and put one slippered foot on the first stair, but halted in the huge square of sunlight as her mother’s raised voice pierced the silence.