The Last Boleyn(4)
Mary stepped quietly to the door and, hesitating, peered carefully into the courtyard to see that her mother had departed. It was quite empty and peaceful, beige cobbles, brick honey-colored walls all awash with sun. How she would fear to depart, hate to depart!
“Mary!” came her father’s voice, nearly in her ear. She jumped. “Your lady mother said you were about the grounds. Where have you been?” He stood over her, tall and handsome and assured. His dark beard was precisely cut and his velvet-clad shoulders looked dazzling blood-red in the sun. His dark eyes regarded her carefully as he bent his head slightly. “Have you been about the hall long?”
“No, father. I was outside with George and Anne, but they went off and, well, I finally came in.”
“You have just missed your mother, but I have a wonderful surprise for you I would tell you alone.”
His slender, strong fingers fastened firmly on one of her shoulders, and he gestured toward the open solar door with his other jeweled hand. She walked unsteadily, suddenly wary, her excitement mixed with childish misgivings. She could feel King Henry’s side-glancing eyes pursue her into the solar. She was most unused to private audiences with her father, for he was not often at Hever. How much she loved him and wanted to please him, even as he sought to please his king!
He pointed to the scroll-work stool beneath the lead paned windows where mother often sat doing needlework. He took a step as if to pace, and then abruptly sat in the master’s chair and cleared his throat. It suddenly struck her funny that this great lord of the king might be afraid to inform her of the decision that his wife Elizabeth had protested.
“You are very beautiful, my Mary, your perfect oval face, your golden hair, the promise of your slender body. You are all I could ask in a lovely and obedient daughter.”
“I am glad, my lord. Semmonet declares I look as mother used to when you came new married from court to Hever.”
“Perhaps Semmonet remembers much it is better not to tell, Mary. Yes, you will favor your mother greatly as you grow to womanhood. Though I pray you have a more carefully molded character and may prove more pliable to your lord’s wishes. Will you indeed prove so, my little golden Mary?”
He leaned close and patted her hand as he spoke. Again, as over and over in the few hours she spent in his presence, Mary fell instantly in love with him, beyond the bounds of a daughter’s ties. For he was not a father she knew, this handsome, tall king’s man. He never looked on her with smiles like this, nor spoke to her privately, nor touched her trembling hand.
“Yes, my lord father. I would wish to please you, always.” Her voice was a mere whisper and her curved mouth a wan ghost of a smile.
“Then we are off for the royal court of Margaret, Archduchess of Austria, Mary, I as royal ambassador and you to be with her maids-of-honor and learn the fine arts of beautiful and accomplished ladies. You shall have pretty dresses and meet lovely people and perfect your French. You would like that adventure, would you not, my dear?”
The girl raised her blonde head, and her clear blue eyes filled with tears as they met his intent, piercing ones.
“Will it be much like Hever, father?”
“No, better, all more important and splendid and wonderful. Exciting people, great castles, lovely fountains and gardens. The archduchess shall be very pleased with your beauty and manners.”
Her voice quavered as she thought of her mother’s loving face and nasty, dear George and Annie and Semmonet and the quiet horse she loved to ride at Hever. “Will you be near, father?”
“Yes, as king’s ambassador, there whenever you would see me, child.”
“Then I know I shall be happy to be there with you,” she said in simple trust.
He rose swiftly and patted her slender shoulder. “Here, Mary,” he added quickly, reaching toward the table behind her. “Now that you are to set out in the fine world, I fetched you a Tudor rose from the king’s gardens at Greenwich. You shall someday belong to the English court, my girl, so remember this when you are steeped in the luxurious beauties of the Belgian court.”
She was touched by this act, so unlike anything her aloof, clever father had done before. Surely she would be close to him now, since they would be far away together. The rose was a lovely velvet red despite its slight droop from being carried so far from its garden.
“It is a wonderful rose, father,” she said, but as she reached for its stem, she recoiled from the tiny stab of a thorn. She squeezed her finger and a crimson drop of blood formed.
“You must learn to beware of the hidden thorns, foolish girl,” he chided. “Come, take your rose and up to Semmonet. She has been packing your things this past hour. We leave Hever tomorrow at dawn and sail from Dover on Monday. Be gone, girl.”
Mary rose gracefully and, gingerly holding the flower, curtseyed solemnly. Then she heard herself ask, “And what did my lady mother say of this honor?”
He faced her squarely and looked down into her clear blue eyes. “She is absolutely thrilled that you have this wonderful opportunity,” he said. “She only hopes you will be true to the aristocratic Butler and Howard blood that flows in your proud Bullen veins. Now, be gone.”
The girl spun swiftly in a rustle of skirts and a whirl of golden hair. She did not want her father or anyone to see the new-learned doubt and pain stamped on her brow and hidden in her eyes.