The Last Boleyn(34)
They returned to the tethered horses and, much to her dismay, William Stafford helped her mount. “Did you hear that, Mary,” he whispered in her ear. “It is rightly called the Palace of Illusions.”
“I heard clearly enough, Master Stafford.”
“Then heed what you have heard,” he added, and turned away to smoothly mount his own waiting steed.
Mary knew the moment she surveyed the glittering room she would never forget the sight. The clothes and coiffures were not as grand as those of the French, but she was in the dazzling midst of the Tudor court and her exiled English blood moved her beyond belief. If only father had brought her mother, she thought, her life would be complete for this one lovely moment.
Mary wore a blue satin gown with side slashings, and one of the deepest square necklines she had ever dared. Her golden tresses were swept back and piled layer upon layer above her fair brow and at her throat she wore a single huge pearl drop which had once been her grandmother’s. Anne, too, looked vibrant in crimson and white, her pale skin setting off her dark, eager eyes, her long sleeves characteristically dripping extra lace to hide the tiny deformity of her left hand.
Father ushered them into the opulent, buzzing crowd which awaited the arrival of the king. Mary recognized few faces in the velvet, gilded swarm except her Uncle Norfolk and her cousin Sir Francis Bryan, who kissed her cheek lingeringly and complimented them all. Despite William Stafford’s cruel words earlier in the day at Ardres, Mary was pleased to have her father hovering so close, and she summoned the courage to ask him her pressing question.
“What, Mary?” he responded, as she began to speak, his head swiveling slowly, his eyes far past her as he surveyed the assembly.
“I asked if I shall be going home soon, my lord father.”
“Why did you think that, girl?”
“I am older now than many of the girls, and I—I just wondered.”
“It is possible. I shall think about it tonight, or soon.”
“I should love to go home to Hever, father.”
“Hever is hardly what I had in mind for you, Mary. After your fine opportunities in the French court, I hardly...” His eyes darted to the back of the room in the sudden hush. “The king comes,” he whispered.
Mary strained to see. Trumpet blasts split the close air, heads turned and people bowed in a surging wave as the Tudors entered and moved toward their chairs. Thomas Bullen had positioned his little brood well, for soon Mary could see the tall dark husband of Mary Tudor, and then the red-blond smiling giant, the king himself.
They curtseyed low and did not rise again until the royal family had seated themselves. Instantly, Mary saw her dear friend and guardian of earlier days, the king’s beautiful sister, and her eyes filled with joyous tears. Her brother-king had forgiven her and she and her beloved Charles Brandon looked radiant side by side.
But Mary’s adoring gaze was mostly for the king. It was hard to believe her father had served this great master for so long. She had only seen him once when she had held the Princess Mary’s cloak and heard him promise her that if the French king died, she might wed elsewhere of her own choosing. She had quite forgotten he was so well proportioned. His golden-red beard set off his ruddy complexion and slate-blue eyes. A blond giant to overcome his rival the dark satyr king, she thought proudly. The English monarch wore silver and white silks and massy golden chains draped across his powerful chest and shoulders in perfect balance to the brawny thighs and calf muscles bulging the silk of his hose and emphasized by gilded and jeweled garters. The flagrant, massive codpiece over the king’s manhood was covered with a matching gold with jewels to offset his gold and jewel-edged collar as if to call special attention to his powerful face and loins.
It was only when father urged them forward that she noted the queen, pale and heavy in dark green, with a large crucifix leaning on her ample bosom. Another Claude, Mary thought, stunned by the yawning gap in vitality between this dynamic king and his quiet queen.
Even as the three Bullens approached the dais, they caught the king’s eye, and he motioned his ambassador forward, his jeweled fingers sparkling in the light. “Thomas, where in Christendom is Wolsey? He should have been here for this reception!” His voice seemed to rise and fall in each sentence. Mary stood slightly behind her father, and Anne stood apart from them both, watching.
“Your Grace, I saw him in early afternoon and he yet had much to do at Ardres. He will be back soon, I am sure, with final arrangements.”
“He had better be. These are his doing, all of it, and I will not be arriving in the morn before my brother Francois does. I will not be there standing about and waiting for the arrival of the French!”
“Even the finest details have received our close attention, Your Grace. And may I say your marvelous Palace of Illusions far outshines Francois’s silken tent.”
“Well, I mean to show them all the power and greatness of England. And what say our young English beauties, though raised at the French court? These are your daughters, are they not, my clever ambassador? A pox on you to hide such delights from our eyes.”
His narrowed gaze glittered over them swiftly, and Mary was relieved to feel no romantic lure. William Stafford was quite mistaken, she thought, as King Henry turned to introduce them to his wife.
“My dear, Bullen’s lovely flowers. Bred and raised behind your moated walls at Hever, eh?”