The Last Boleyn(44)

Donette was unusually nervous and jumpy but Mary turned her head toward the river across the meadows. She wanted to ride away from the north road, the direction from which the king would come.

The chestnut bay broke into a sweat sooner than usual, for the air was muggy. Mary would rest her by the Eden in the shade of the leafy poplars. She did not look back at gemlike Hever with its painted facade set in its lilied moat. She wanted to go on forever.

The breeze had picked up and the poplar leaves rattled noisily against each other as she dismounted. Low rumblings seemed to come from the very roots of the massive trees.

“Thunder. Perhaps it will rain now, Donette,” she comforted the stamping mare with her soothing voice.

Lightning etched the graying sky over the forest, and Mary counted slowly until she heard the resulting thunder. Her Uncle James had taught them the sailor’s trick of counting between the lightning and thunder to judge the distance of the storm. “At least seven miles yet. Good horse. Good Donette.”

How marvelous the breeze felt flapping her full skirts stiffly about her legs. She should never have worn this color of dress riding, but she had been in such a hurry. Well, the washmaids would get it clean.

My precious gold and white dress on a day like this, she mused. It is because father knows it impressed Francois that he asks me to wear it for Henry Tudor. “He hopes it will work its magic again, Donette,” she shouted over the windy rustle, and Donette whinnied in return.

But that dress would always bring to mind old Master da Vinci and not Francois, she vowed. How little she had known the old man; yet it was as though she had known him always. He had asked her once how an English landscape looked. He would not like to see this scene, nature-whipped and blurred. He preferred the tranquil and the balanced.

Several drops hit her face and pelted Donette’s smooth brown flanks. Mary sighed and, as she mounted, a tremendous crash of lightning splintered a tall poplar nearby. She could even smell the acrid, charred wood.

Donette reared and Mary clung to her arched neck. The reins slipped for an instant and the mare started for home at a swift gallop, cutting through the trees.

“Whoa, girl! No, Donette, no. Whoa!” Mary knew better than to be in a forest in a storm. Even if they were soaked, the grassy valley was the safest place to be. Suddenly, King Henry’s face sprang before her mind’s eye in his finery, as she had seen him last. She grabbed for her horse’s reins and missed. Did this storm seize him as he approached? Was his reddish-blond hair sticking wet to his forehead?

A strangled cry escaped her parted lips as she seized the reins and struggled to turn Donette around. Thunder echoed deeply through the huge tree trunks as she yanked the horse to the left. She turned obediently, but went, as one drunk, through the low-limbed trees. She ducked and shielded her face as the wind whipped sopping leaves at her face and hair.

She started to laugh uncontrollably at the scene she must make, the scene she would make when she returned to Hever. Her long blonde locks hung down her soaking back, and she was bruised and cut.

They emerged in the meadow and Mary dismounted. Grasping Donette’s bridle, she led her down into the tiny grassy depression they had called “our valley” when they played here as children. George, of course, always had to be the leader. George, who was in London at Lincoln’s Inn obediently studying law.

Mary slipped to her knees in the slick grass, pulling Donette’s head down with a jerk. She rose and stood shakily as the storm surged around them. Drenched, she huddled close to Donette. Mother would be worried, but she most feared what father would say. Even her best dress could not save her now.

Swiftly, suddenly, it ended. The thunder rumbled off over the hills and the downpour diminished to gentleness. Mary mounted and carefully walked the mare toward home. She would tether Donette by the green garden and go in through the kitchens. With Semmonet’s aid she would somehow become presentable.

The bricks of Hever were glazed by the downpour and iron drainpipes spouted noisy shafts into the moat. The wet leather reins squeaked as she tied them to a post. She gathered her cold, wet skirts tightly and hurried across the wooden ramp.

The kitchen door stood agape and wonderful aromas floated everywhere. The dim room was packed with servants. Even father’s groom turned a spit, and wash girls stirred sauces and peeled peaches. The massive open hearth was crammed with kettles, skillets and spits, and its welcome warmth beckoned to the chilled woman.

Only a few shocked servants looked up to notice their drenched, bedraggled mistress. She hurried down the dark passageway that led toward the foot of the great staircase, and stopped. The king must have arrived early, for several strange men lounged about outside the closed door to the solar. No doubt His Grace and her parents were waiting within, waiting for her.

Embarrassed, she dared not look at the amused figures who stopped their conversation as she mounted the steps to flee. She was only a little way up when she heard a too-familiar voice.

“The golden, the beautiful Mary Bullen. Beautiful and wet and cold. It was an unwise time to go for a ride, Mary.”

She spun around, her eyes wide. “William Stafford! Who invited you to Hever?” She went hot crimson at the obvious answer to her question, and at the picture she must make for him as his cool gaze swept carefully over her. His two companions watched the confrontation with amusement. She would have to scold him later if he had dared to tell them anything evil about her.