The Last Boleyn(49)

“Have you not heard of the Colchester Rebellion, Lady Carey? My uncle swung from the hanging tree at Tyburn and my father, being but a lad, was pardoned. As they are both dead now, I pay for their guilt.”

“Their poor ghosts still haunt the Stafford family manor, Mary,” Will put in.

“Or so my elderly aunt claims. She says one or the other of the dead rebels’ spirits still goes up and down the staircase at night wailing ‘down with this wretched king!’” William Stafford stared fixedly into her face.

“Which king?” Mary asked wide-eyed.

“I know not, Lady Carey. I have yet to see or hear the ghost. It does not amuse it to walk about in bedrooms during the days I am home at Wivenhoe.”

Though he recited the incidents in a straightforward way, it seemed to Mary that William Stafford’s mocking undercurrent was still there. “But you are not in prison as heir to their rebellion, Master Stafford. You serve closely to the king in his court.”

“Exactly, lady. She will learn fast here, Will. And maybe we should be watched. Those of us who are paying the price of some great indiscretion never fear committing the little ones,” he said, his gaze still on Mary’s face despite Will Carey’s growing unease. “A good evening to you both.” Stafford bowed suddenly and was gone, as though he had sensed the approach of the king behind his back.

“It is fair time, everybody, time indeed,” Henry Tudor bellowed and the music ceased instantly. He seized Mary’s hand and pulled her under one great arm and Will Carey under the other in a massive hug.

“Ladies, hasten to put the bride to bed, for we men shall be up soon and a new lord likes to find his wench awaiting him and ready!”

Everyone laughed and Henry Tudor bent his head to kiss her hotly on the mouth. His breath smelled of cloves and wine. Horrified in front of the clapping crowd, she yielded, annoyed and ashamed. She was suddenly grateful that her dear friend the Duchess of Suffolk was in childbed and could not see her triumphal wedding feast, a gift from the king. And, of course, had Queen Catherine chosen to attend, Mary would have died from shame this very moment.

“Come on, Mary, run,” cried Jane Rochford as she seized Mary’s dangling arm and pulled. Her mother, Rose Dacre, and several giggling women behind her, Mary fled. Breathless, they mounted the steps to the room where Will had slept these last two nights she had been at Greenwich, while she had bedded with her mother.

A waiting Semmonet had already turned down the smooth linen sheets. The younger ladies peeled Mary out of her bridal dress, and, through her own tears, Mary saw the tears on her mother’s face.

“Be happy for me, mother,” she pleaded quietly while the laughing women fetched her night chemise and lacy robe.

“I am, my dearest. I was only remembering my wedding night and all my dreams then.”

There was no time for comfort or a hug, for Rose Dacre was telling everyone how swiftly the king liked to follow with the bridegroom as he had at this very palace when his sister Mary had formally remarried the Duke of Suffolk on English soil. “His Grace had the Duke at the door half undressed before we even had the princess in her robe,” Rose continued.

“It was their third marriage then,” Mary put in, her teeth chattering from her jangled nerves. “I was at her first secret wedding, and then they married later at Lent in Paris.”

“That is true,” Rose added, somewhat more icily, as the others turned to hang on Mary’s story. “You were such a child then, you were allowed to stay.”

“Oh no, the strewing herbs,” shrieked Jane Rochford as the boom of men’s voices sounded in the hall. “Oh no, get her in bed!”

Jane threw quick handfuls of dried lavender, daisies, fennel, and tansy on the floor, and their heady scent instantly permeated the air. Four great pounding knocks filled the room, and before Lady Bullen could touch the doorknob, the door swung wide to reveal the king bent over laughing and a blushing, bare-chested Will Carey.

“Husbands never need to knock, madam,” Will said boldly, and then blushed deeper realizing the import of his words. But the other men seemed not to hear as they shoved him into the chamber and followed on his heels. The room seemed packed, but Mary sat calmly in bed against a puffy bolster in her robe, covered to her lap by the sheets.

“There she is, you lucky dog, ready for you!... I wish I were you, Will!... Get yourself a fine son this night, Will Carey!” The raucous laughter swelled, and Mary was tempted to cover her ears.

Then the king shouted, “Out, out, all of you vagabonds!” and, obediently, the revelers streamed out into the hall.

Mary glimpsed her mother turn and smile, and Semmonet waved. Then there were only three, and Mary feared for one foolish instant that the king would dismiss the meek-looking Carey as well. Henry Tudor’s eyes devoured her, raked off the sheets, pulled at her chemise and...

“Good fortune to you, Carey. Use her gently. I envy you your warm bed.” The king pulled his hot gaze away, turned, and slammed the door.

Will went over and shot the bolt. Mary still felt His Grace’s eyes on her, sharp, powerful like the portrait in the hall at Hever. He had told her yesterday by the tiltyard that he would try to give her a week, but he loved her, so he could not promise. She felt much safer with Will Carey but, truly, the king excited her more.

“What are you thinking, Mary?” He took slow steps to the canopied bed. “You are so beautiful. I am a fortunate man. His Grace could have picked Compton or Hastings or Stafford, but he gave you to me.”