The Last Boleyn(43)
Mary instantly regretted her tart tone, but Semmonet patted her shoulder and bustled off. She thinks all my actions are a bride’s nervousness now, Mary thought, suddenly annoyed at the woman.
She had not ridden much in France the past years. The king had never taken her hunting as he had his du Foix, and since Queen Claude seldom rode, neither did her maids. How wonderful it was to ride at Hever and have the wind streaming through her loose hair and the secure feel of Donette’s rhythmic canter under her. Donette was the foal of a horse she had loved years ago, gentle, quiet Westron, dead last year, mother said. Mary rode every day, free and happy. She would ride today if father would ever come.
Thomas Bullen brusquely pushed open the door, as though she had summoned him with her thoughts. He smiled broadly and a stab of quick joy shot through her. He had parted from her tenderly at Calais. Her good fortune still held, for he was obviously glad to see her.
“My dear girl,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. He put a black linen arm awkwardly around her shoulders as she rose. “You look more beautiful than I had remembered, Mary.”
“Hever is good for the soul and the body, my lord.”
He looked surprised at her answer. “And a king’s attentions, how are those for the spirit, Mary? I have exciting news.” The glowing colors danced across his black hair and dark garments as he talked.
“The king has bestowed more honors on us than we could have ever hoped at this early stage. He gives William Carey the offices and revenues of Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, Constable of the Castle of Plashy, and Keeper of two other great parks—I cannot even recall which ones.”
He ticked the prizes off on his beringed fingers under Mary’s steady gaze. “Also, as you heard from His Grace’s own lips, Carey is named Esquire to the Body so that you two may live well at court. And, it is only the beginning. Your husband and, of course, your family, will benefit mightily from your good graces with the king.”
“Then I wish you and him all happiness,” she heard herself say tonelessly.
“And as for you, my girl, I must be certain you understand the honor. There will be jewels, beautiful clothes, exciting, important friends—and power, if we play the game well, Mary. Power.”
She could feel the distinct thud of her heart. She felt nothing but frustration at her father, Semmonet, Will Carey, yes, even the king whose face she could not picture.
“He comes to visit, today, Mary. Here, at Hever at last.”
“Will Carey,” she said testily, knowing full well her intent to take the eager look from his eyes.
“No, girl! The king, here! He rides from Eltham where he has a fine hunt park. You shall see it soon, no doubt. It is mid morn now. They should be here by noon.”
He glanced up at the fretful sky through the leaded panes. “I pray he is not put out of his humor by getting drenched in a sudden cloudburst.”
He rubbed his large hands together rapidly. “Your mother has much to prepare for the royal dinner. God only knows how big a retinue he will bring.” He strode toward the door.
“Wear your most beautiful dress and you shall walk with him in the gardens. The gold and white from the great banquet in Paris will do.”
“That is much too formal for Hever in the summer, father,” she countered as he disappeared through the door.
His head popped back in. “This is the king, girl, the king himself. If you seem to forget that in any way, you shall answer to me.”
“Yes, father,” she replied, but he was gone. She sat stock-still and watched one blood-red pane of glass change from dull to crimson. The rainclouds did threaten the day. She cared not if the whole retinue drowned on their merry jaunt from Eltham. She felt it again, the slow, growing panic, the anger. She had tried to reason it out, to examine her feelings, but really, she had none. Her thoughts never got her anywhere.
She bounded up and raced to her room for her straw hat and riding gloves. She jammed her feet into boots and rushed to the door. She would clear her mind by riding Donette before they came. She could at least decide that for herself. She nearly collided with her mother as she darted from her bedroom. Elizabeth Bullen looked worried and distracted.
“Mary, you are not...you cannot be going riding!”
“Yes, mother, only for a little while. I must.” She stood nervously facing the lovely, fragile-looking woman whose azure eyes and high cheekbones she had so clearly inherited.
“I have so much to do. Your father wants to make certain you will wear a particular dress. He told you the one?”
“Yes, mother, he told me. I shall wear it to please him.” She hesitated. “I will wear it if I may ride Donette just for a little while, mother. They will not arrive until high noon. Father said so.”
Her mother’s slender fingers stroked her arm briefly. “I do understand your desire to get out of the house, Mary, but it will not sit well if you are not here when His Grace comes. That is the way it is, Mary. We must accept.”
“I will be here, dearest mother, and in the chosen dress.”
Elizabeth Bullen nodded her silvered blonde head. “Then take care on the horse, my Mary.”
We must accept. The words echoed through Mary’s brain in rhythm to her steps as she hurried toward the stable block. We must accept—we must accept. We must—we must.
How clearly now she remembered the forbidden knowledge she had stored up all these years, that her own lovely mother had turned down this very king’s invitation—the honor of being his mistress. How angry father had been, but she had weathered his anger somehow. Now she, Mary, was perhaps her father’s last chance, for Anne was but thirteen, off at the French court and likely to remain there for years. She felt it clearly, coldly. She was father’s golden opportunity and she dare not fail him. Even mother now counseled that she must accept. We must accept.