The Last Boleyn(46)
“You look ravishing with your hair in tiny curls, Mary. Is it a French style?”
“No, Your Grace. I was quite drenched by the rain. The truth is, I was on a horse which bolted at the thunder.”
His arm stole behind her and encircled her narrow waist. “Perhaps you need an expert to teach you riding, sweet.”
Mary colored at the blatant double entendre but did not let on that she knew his intent. “The Princess Mary often praised your sportsmanship in all things, Sire.”
“Did she now? Yes, you were first with the princess when she went to France.”
“And I was permitted to stay when the other women were sent home.”
“That damned rotting hulk of a king had the audacity to die but three months after their so carefully arranged marriage,” Henry groused as his great paw of a hand cradled a full-blown pink rose. He held the upturned face of the flower, but the scent which he inhaled was the sweet dampness of Mary’s hair. “The French all whispered that his young bride was too much for him, my spies told me. But I should think a sweet, willing young woman is good for the blood.”
He pulled her to him and took her mouth gently at first and then pressed her to him with fierce intensity. Mary yielded coolly, inwardly amazed at his boldness here in the rose garden at high noon. But this was the king.
He loosed her waist but seized both her hands in a grip which almost pained her. “Dearest Mary, you must see how entranced I am with you. I will see that you are cared for and protected always. You have ensnared my love. You will bear Will Carey’s name and perhaps his children, but I would sue for your love.”
He raised her hands to his lips and, straightening her curled fingers, kissed her open palms. “Your king is only a man in this, Mary. Fear him not. Yield yourself to him, and his gratitude will be eternal.”
Mary gazed up into his eyes and was ashamed to feel how much she enjoyed this. Francois had only taken and without such pretty words.
“Do you understand, Mary?”
“Yes, Your Grace, I believe so.”
“Will you be my love?”
She felt a nearly overwhelming urge to say “Perhaps,” or laugh and skip off to see if he would follow, but she dared not and father awaited dinner. “You are so direct, so—powerful, my king. I mean that as a compliment. You are so different from...from men in France.”
“I am English, Mary, and the king. Yet I beseech you to yield to me. I do not order.”
The old lie again, the tiny voice in her head warned. But unless you are pleased, Sire, destruction would surely follow, she thought.
“My heart belongs to no one else, my lord king. If given but a chance, I am sure...”
He swept her up in a huge bear hug and his warm, masculine affections melted her reserve. She preferred this openness to his hot kisses. Why could her father never be like this? How her love would flow out to him then. What she would not do for her father if he would only love her and show it like this.
“My father has always loved to serve you, King Henry, and so shall I, though I intend not to be an ambassador.” She blushed at her poor joke and her use of his Christian name.
Their laughter intertwined, his boyishly loud, hers sweetly musical.
“No, indeed, Mary, we shall find some service more suited to your lovely talents. And you shall call me your Henry when we are alone, as much we shall be, golden Mary.”
Her father waited on the front entrance steps all smiles, and Mary saw Semmonet peer from an upstairs window. She gave William Stafford her most condescending smile as they went into dinner where her mother hovered about the head table.
And while the Bullens ate and laughed and listened to their king through the long afternoon, another dark summer storm came to rend the peaceful landscape at Hever.
CHAPTER TWELVE
August 18, 1520
Greenwich
The great river glittered green in the hot summer air, but here on the barge the breeze was always delightful. “A perfectly lovely day,” her mother had said over and over. A perfect day for a wedding.
Mary looked down again at her hands resting in her lap and at the new gold band which glinted on her finger. She was Lady Carey now, and this quiet, solicitous man beside her was her new lord. She prayed God Will Carey would not hate her.
In the awkward silence she took to staring at her knees again, covered so elegantly and properly with the sleek ivory satin that reflected the glint of afternoon sunlight on the Thames and bespoke she was a bride. Was it a grim twist of fate that the color of mourning for the French indicated a bridal day in King Henry’s England? Her skirt was a graceful bell shape elongated in back so that she pulled a five-foot train when she walked. When she danced tonight, she would lift that traditional bridal train free of the floor with a clever hidden handstrap of silk the royal dressmaker had showed her. Decorative slashings in front of the skirt revealed a golden brocade kirtle underneath which also echoed in the gold linings of the loose second sleeves turned back fashionably from the fitted undersleeves edged with lace. Tiny satin-faced roses of delicate pink rimmed her square neckline and dotted the tight ivory satin bodice which pushed up the rounded, creamy tops of her breasts to full advantage. His Grace’s eyes had seemed to linger there today, but she was quite unsure of what Will Carey had seen when he scrutinized her. She tossed her waist-length golden hair, brushed free and studded with fancy ribbons and sweet flowers in the fashion of a bride, and Will shifted in his seat beside her as though he sensed she were restive.