The Last Boleyn(50)

“Stafford? William Stafford?”

“Of course. He is unattached and a close courtier, though I am sure His Grace considers him a greater rebel and harder to control than I.”

Yes, no doubt William Stafford would be harder to bribe if the king wanted to bed his wife, she thought bitterly. So, the great Henry had explained it all to Will Carey. He understands I shall be the king’s mistress, and he will accept it for his lands and monies and his hateful sister. Then, we are all to be pitied, so what does it matter? But I love no one like poor George, who will have to bed with giggly Jane Rochford while dreaming of long-legged Margot Wyatt. So why not Will Carey for me?

Will had stripped off his shoes and hose and blew out several candles, leaving only two by the huge oaken bedstead. “I trust we can be of help to each other, Mary. The court can be a frightening place. I will keep my place, my beautiful wife, but you must remember, king or no, you bear my name.”

He tugged on the ribbons at the lacy neckline of her robe and helped her shrug out of it. He pulled her tight against his lightly-haired chest, tucking her head under his chin. “I will try to be gentle, Mary, but on the nights when you are mine, then you are mine only. I have told myself so time and time again these last few days.”

He rolled her onto her back and tugged her thin chemise up above her waist, spreading her legs and mounting her immediately. “This night will be a long one, I promise you, my little bride.”

It was a long night, as Will Carey made calm, deliberate, possessive love to his wife more than once, more than twice. She submitted in body, but her heart was free, as she had told herself time and time again these last few days.

But what angered her as she closed her eyes to finally sleep, was that she dreamed not of the quiet, serious Will Carey, nor of the lusty king. It was the handsome, rough face of William Stafford which laughed and stared and haunted her sleep.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


August 26, 1520


Greenwich

Mary was swept through the next few days at the royal court on a wave of frothing excitement. She strolled, she danced, she smiled and laughed in a sea of new faces. The king took the newlyweds hunting in the blue-green forests of Kentish Eltham. She watched His Grace and his closest circle of comrades tilt, bowl on the green, and shoot at butts. The king taught Mary to gamble at Primero and Gleek and to dice for coins and kisses at the Hazard tables. The whirl of fun and flirtations from Henry Tudor went on and on. Mary was content to ride the wave of the royal affections forever.

Her entire first week at court, Mary never once saw the queen, who summered with her young daughter, Mary, at Beaulieu for several weeks of respite and contemplation. It was whispered that Spanish Catherine was most pious and beloved by the people of her realm, though Mary caught the undercurrent of gossip against her from some courtiers. Though they said she used to display a winning smile and fine sense of humor, the past two years, since the sixth stillborn child she had delivered to His Grace, she had grown heavy and wore out-of-date gowns, crucifixes, and top-weighty jeweled headresses. Jane Rochford had even whispered that the poor, sad queen wore a haircloth of the Third Order of Saint Francis under her opulent clothes, even in the hot summer months. Beyond such chatter, the distant life of Henry’s queen touched the laughing Mary Carey not at all.

Will Carey was kind and attentive when the king was not about, and that other Will—everyone called him Staff, and he seemed to be vastly popular—seldom bothered her. He appeared to be a fast friend to her husband, so she steeled herself to be kinder to him, since she would no doubt see him much. He was right about one thing, the rogue. She would have to hide her contempt for his outrageous actions now that she lived at such a civilized court. At first it had amazed her that King Henry wanted such a cynical man from a dangerous family around him all the time. But the more she studied Stafford, the more she understood. Staff was witty, an excellent horseman and sporter, and what better place for a king to put someone he did not trust than next to him at butts, or as the opponent on the other side of the tennis net? As far as Mary could tell, Staff was the only man who had the nerve or the stupidity to always tell the king what he thought and beat him at bowls too. She would follow her clever king’s lead: they would allow Staff near, but never trust him.

Even now Staff leaned against a gilded gaming table, rakishly at ease, his eyes alternately on her and his casts of his ivory dice. Mary leaned lightly against her husband’s arm as she threw her dice. A lucky seven! She laughed and scooped the coppery coins from the little painted Hazard circle.

“Will, you have the only lady I know who can make money living at court instead of losing it,” Henry Norris gibed. Several others laughed, but Will Carey’s mouth only forced a tight smile. “It is time the Carey fortunes shot upward, gentlemen.”

“I do not worry about my husband’s family’s stakes at the game, Sir Henry,” Mary shook her dice violently and blew on them for luck as the king had taught her. “It is my brother George I would keep out of the poor house, before our father returns and strings him from The Tower for his foolhardiness at the tables.”

Francis Weston’s voice came teasingly over the clicks of dice, “I would not be too hard on him, Lady Carey. I would drink and gamble the evenings away too, if I had a little magpie forever chattering in my ear. Besides, he told me when I helped him back to his room last night that he favors Thomas Wyatt’s sister, Margot.”