The Last Boleyn(3)
“My dear Lord Thomas, I grant it is an honor, and I am proud of your appointment as ambassador to the Archduchess of Savoy, but the other matter is out of the question.” Her clear voice stopped, and Mary sought to picture her lovely mother’s angry face. She had always seen her in control of herself, always calm and gentle. Surely father would not insist he take George abroad with him on this new business.
“Settle your feathers, my beautiful little mother hen,” came her father’s voice with its familiar edge of authority. “I have already obtained the placement. I have great plans for all three and, believe me, the opportunity is fortuitous. We dare not pass up this chance for the advancement and polish needed. Where else could the golden egg fall right in our laps and without cost to us? I had thought, of course, when the king’s sister should be sent abroad to marry, the time would come, but this is even sooner than I had hoped.”
Mesmerized by the voices, Mary edged closer to the huge door of the solar, set slightly ajar to seize the fresh air. Guiltily, she stared back at the piercing eyes of her king whose portrait hung in the dimness of the hall not washed by the sunlight which slanted in on her trembling body. Yes, indeed little Anne was right. The king’s eyes seemed to accuse and frighten.
Suddenly, her heart lurched and her mind grasped each single word of her mother’s quaking voice: “I pray you, my lord, let this honor go until she is at least in her tenth year. She is but a mere eight years and not a child fully raised yet.”
Mary’s slender frame leaned for support against the carved linen fold paneling of the hall. She crumpled wadded balls of her green skirts in tight fists. They spoke of her...and to be sent to...to...where is Savoy?
“Margaret of Austria and Regent to the Netherlands, Elizabeth, imagine it. It is the highest rung of the ladder for now, and when she is educated there, it will be a finishing school second only to the French court itself. When she returns, where else is there for her but among Queen Catherine’s ladies in His Grace’s very eyes?”
“Yes. Where else,” came Elizabeth Bullen’s low voice, and Mary was hurt and shocked by the anger of it.
Mary could hear her father pacing now as he often did when he thought out a problem or gave orders. His footsteps approached the door and turned back. She wanted to flee but her knees shook and her feet were rooted to the floor.
“Not all women as beautiful as you, Elizabeth, choose to live their lives away from the power and heat of the sun, however lovely their country homes like Hever.”
“There is sun here, my lord, and beauty—and peace of mind.”
“Do not bother to argue, Elizabeth, for you know my meaning and my mind. Thomas Bullen, of merchant stock—yes, let them laugh now, for they shall all be left behind as we mount the pinnacle of the realm tied to His Grace’s good will.”
Her mother’s quiet voice went on, and Mary marveled that she should dare to answer her lord back, for none of them ever dared to argue or deny him.
“The farther we all climb, my lord, the farther we may fall. I have seen this king at close range, even as you have, and I tell you he shall never be denied or the denier suffers. He never forgives and I fear...”
“Enough, lady. We have had all this discourse before, and to what end? Great Henry would have made you his mistress, the lovely blonde Howard beauty, Elizabeth, the Bullen bride, but you would have none of the honor. ’Sblood, madam, ’tis a miracle of cleverness and flattery we recovered from the blow at all. We would have been much farther on the road than this if you had accepted.”
“And it would have been only honor to you, my lord? It would not have caused you a moment’s stir that your wife was ridden abed by Prince Henry and maybe got his seed to give her babes and they of no true Bullen blood to make your name!” She had spoken the tirade quietly, but desperate sobs threatened to well up at each word. Mary’s eyes filled with tears at her tone rather than at the full impact of the meaning.
“Yes, of course I would have suffered, but it was the future king, lady, the present king. Well, it is ten years gone, but I promise you, I shall never let such a chance go by the wayside again!” There was a long silence, and Mary put a foot out to flee.
“Brussels is so far, Thomas. She is so young, so innocent.”
Innocent? Mary pondered the fear and shock she had felt in the last few minutes, her thoughts mingling with the excitement of her new importance and the thrill of the distant unknown. She turned toward the staircase but retreated back behind the door at her mother’s voice, suddenly so close.
“I shall fetch Mary since Semmonet has been sent to pack for her. The children are out by the knot garden.” Her mother brushed by on the other side of the door.
“And tell her nothing of it, lady,” came her father’s sharp voice after her. “I would tell her myself so she will understand the good fortune of it.”
Elizabeth Bullen’s slender form never turned back as she raised her head and departed from the hall to search for Mary. How beautiful her mother’s face and carriage, how lovely her golden hair now threaded with fine silver in the sunlight.
Mary decided to follow her and meet her as she returned. She would never know what her daughter had heard, or of her sadness. Should she say she was glad to go so mother would be comforted? Or would it hurt her to think her daughter would so easily leave her now—or ever?