The Last Boleyn(41)

The dark curtains parted in the awkward silence, and Thomas Bullen darted in. “Is she quite all right, Staff?”

“Ask the lady yourself, milord. I would say her spirits are quite high.”

“That is a good girl,” he nodded. “What exactly did the king say, Mary?”

“Which king, father?” Out of the corner of her eye she caught William Stafford’s delighted smile at her impudence.

“His Grace, of course. He said he would choose a husband for you. Did he give a name?”

“No. He said only to await him—and you—here.”

“Fine. Fine. Maybe you will be returning home with the royal party.”

“I should like to at least visit mother at Hever.”

“Indeed if there is to be a wedding, you shall return there to prepare...if that is permissable,” he said as an afterthought. “And what were Francois’s words? Did they argue?”

She was about to recite the entire incident excluding her sharp comments, when King Henry loomed large at the curtained doorway. Her father and Stafford swept low bows.

“She was marvelous, Thomas, marvelous! She put the French king back on his heel like I never could have imagined from a mere sweet wench!” It was then Mary noticed that the king had brought with him a short, muscular man she had seen often about the king’s retinue.

“Mary has been telling me that you will select a husband for her upon her return, Sire. The Bullen family is most honored at your concern.”

“Not shall, Thomas. Have. I have the perfect choice—a most loving and loyal man with a proud name for himself at the court of his king.” He motioned with a quick jerk of his raised wrist, and the man behind him stepped forward and bowed.

Mary’s eyes widened and she was aware that behind them all, William Stafford had crossed his arms on his chest and stood with his legs spread.

“My Lord Bullen knows of the fine reputation of William Carey, Esquire to the King’s Body, Mary. That is an important position at court, of course, dear Mary, for the Esquires keep watch outside the king’s bedroom door at night and attend to his wardrobe and attiring, too.”

He paused and Mary’s nervous eyes flickered over the sandy-haired, serious-faced William Carey. He was pleasant-looking, if somewhat round-faced in contrast to the square, strong chin Stafford sported. Oh why, she cursed herself silently, did she have to think of that wretch right now!

“Mary Bullen,” the king was saying, “I would proudly present Will Carey to you as your future and most loving husband.”

Mary stemmed her desire to burst into tears. She curtseyed. Henry beamed and her father’s face was unreadable. And in the shadows, William Stafford looked angrier than she had ever seen him.

“Now, I know you have much to say to each other, but if Sir William will wait outside, I promise him I shall turn over his lovely fiancee momentarily. Thomas, I told him he might only walk her back to the castle tonight. You understand, I know.” He turned his great reddish head slightly. “Staff, is that you? What the deuce are you doing here?”

Stafford’s voice came rough and low. “Lord Bullen sent for me, Sire. I will be going. I wish the Mistress Bullen much happiness in her coming marriage.” He bowed from the waist and was gone.

“Out, out, you two! We will be but a moment. I wish to thank the lady for her clever handling of that French fox when the knave thought he had bested the English. Ha!”

She was alone with the king, but the thrilling reality seemed not to make the proper dent on her consciousness. She could not even smile at him though her brain told her to do so.

He approached her slowly and took her hands in his huge ones. “Mary, I hope the choice of husband will please you. He is a good man, patient, and his position keeps him much about court circles—and his king. You will live at court after the brief honeymoon. ’Tis tradition, you know, honeymoons. Will you like living at our court, do you think, Mary?”

“Of course, Your Grace. I shall be honored.”

He bent his head nearer to her impassive face. “I want you to be more than honored, beautiful Mary. I want you to be happy. You and I shall be great friends, you know.”

She lifted her gaze at last. His eyes were set deep in shadow and she could not see them though she sensed he watched, waited. Suddenly, she felt happy, relieved. She was going home to mother and Hever. And as for marriage, what had she expected? William Carey would have to be good to her if the king himself had chosen him. She would be at court and away from Francois and all the gossip.

“I am excited to be going home, Your Grace. I know it will all be wonderful. I thank you for your care on my behalf.” She smiled radiantly at him, and he grinned like a boy. Why, it will be as easy to please this man as if he were that silly Rene de Brosse, she thought, much relieved.

“You are so lovely, Mary,” Henry Tudor said breathlessly. “So lovely and so dear.” He raised her hands slowly to his mustached mouth and kissed them lingeringly.

I feel nothing, she assured herself. He cannot sweep me off my feet the way Francois did when I was a mere girl. William Stafford was wrong about this king’s snares and traps for me.

He leaned to brush her lips gently and, without another word, led her through the lifted flap of curtain. William Carey seemed to stand at attention and her father sat on a bench a little farther off waiting for his king. The hall was greatly deserted now. Yeoman guards snapped to attention when they saw their king emerge and servants cleared the scattered remains of the feast.