The Last Boleyn(32)

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then I shall too. I recall you were an able privy aide two years ago in Paris. I can use you well here. Keep close as we survey preparations and keep an eye on the girls, will you?”

“With greatest pleasure, my lord.”

Mary was chagrined to see that last impudent remark amuse her father, who was usually so stern, but everyone seemed to be in a fine mood on this day. She hurried to get her riding gloves and a large brimmed hat to shade her face on this hot, sunny day.



Their inspection party was not so intimate as Mary had visualized as they clattered fifteen strong out of old Guines Castle and followed the narrow road down toward the sloping plain. She and Anne rode lovely palfreys brought last week from England.

“There are some forty-five hundred courtiers or servants arrived at Calais to accompany His Majesty, including two thousand horses,” William Stafford said at her side as they cantered along.

“Tell us all about it and the court and His Grace if you please,” Anne said, riding on Stafford’s other flank.

He laughed. “Well, Mistress Anne, I fear we have not the time for all of that now as we are nearly arrived, but I would consider it an honor to converse at length with you later.”

“We would be grateful, sir.”

Mary thought of a scathing remark, but held her tongue.

They halted in awe at the view spread before them. Striped tents, hundreds of them, looking like fluted sea shells, sprang from the plain. A huge gilded tent which glittered in the sun pointed skyward. There were tournament fields and brightly painted tilt rails and flags, flags fluttered everywhere. The entire panorama was dominated by the English king’s newly finished Palace of Illusions.

“It is marvelous,” breathed Mary.

“Indeed, but I would expect as much from eleven thousand Dutch workmen, Wolsey’s brain, and millions of treasury pounds,” William Stafford commented.

They rode down toward the fabulous palace, and Stafford helped the two ladies dismount. Mary gazed up at the shiny glass windows, the battlemented walls and the four huge towers with mock arrow slits. Four golden lions topped the gatehouse pillars and Tudor pennants danced aloft in the gentle breeze.

“They say it was all built in England and then shipped over in parts,” Mary put in. “But it looks like stone.”

“How things look are often not what they are, Mary,” William Stafford said, close in her ear. “It is only a beautiful sham—painted canvas over stout English timber. But stout English underpinnings may serve it well.”

She ignored his cryptic comments and looked about for her father. He had already disappeared inside with his entourage, and she was annoyed to see that Anne must have tagged after them.

“Should you not go inside, Master Stafford?”

“Shall we do so, Mistress Mary? And would you not call me Staff?”

“You said the king and your friends call you that, and—well, I am neither.”

“I would be your friend, Mary Bullen.”

She looked straight up into his eyes, and the impact nearly devastated her poise. The look was direct and piercing, yet so different from the wily scrutinies or lecherous looks to which she had become accustomed. Her legs felt like water, and she turned away to break the spell. “The fountains are lovely,” she said finally. “Bacchus and Cupid aloft.”

“Bacchus for good times and Cupid to show love between the English and the French, a tenuous love affair at best. Cardinal Wolsey has temporarily jumped off his secure seat on the fence between Francois I and the new Roman Emperor Charles, but it will not last. I prefer English-to-English marriages myself.”

“You are somewhat of a cynic, Master Stafford,” Mary chided.

“The fountains, by the way, spout white wine, malmsey, and claret. The French masses will love the English king for that alone whatever peace comes from this meeting. They have ordered the common folk to keep at a distance of six miles or face arrest, but they will swarm here. You see, Mary, I am a realist and not a cynic at all.”

They walked under the oval gatehouse entry and across a tiled floor. “They will think we are dawdling,” Mary remarked, and walked faster. “I would stay closer to my father.”

At her words William Stafford sat deliberately on a long banquet bench by the huge trestle table in the center of the great hall. “You may be certain he will never be far away the next few weeks, Mary, for he will want to be in charge whenever you are near His Grace.”

She stopped and turned toward him, annoyed that he could make simple statements sound so ominous.

“Before you scold me, Mary, I shall give you something to be angry about. But I hope you will think on my words and know they come from concern and not malice.”

“I have heard quite enough of your comments, Master Stafford.” Her voice sounded tremulous even though she sought to put him off with cold scorn. Damn them all for traipsing on ahead and leaving her here alone with this man!

“I must find the others,” she said, and turned to flee. But he was quicker than she. He darted off the bench and had her firmly by the arms before she had gone four strides.

“Loose me!”

“You will listen, Mary. Are you afraid of what you might hear?”

“I shall call the others!”

“Do so and then all may hear of my warnings of your relationships to Francois and selected others.”