The Last Boleyn(53)
Tears stung Mary’s eyes and she did not look up. “I shall remember it, sir.”
“I am counting on it. One day I will have you all to myself, and then we shall see!”
His bitter vehemence almost frightened her, but what did she expect? He was a man with pride, especially family pride. He cares not as much for me as he does for his Carey escutcheon being tarnished, she thought.
The queen, as far as Mary could tell, looked very pleased to be at home. She gazed on her husband often, nodded and chatted. Did he love her still? Surely he had loved her once in these ten years of their marriage, but when did love cease? She looked heavy and tired next to her exuberant lord, but she had borne him seven children and their little girl, Mary, was said to be her father’s pride. But like Francois, he could nod and smile to his queen and then turn and leer at Mary from across the expanse of laden tables.
She hoped the queen would like her part in the revel of honor. They would wear masks, but they were all to unmask at the finale and be presented to Her Grace. Would she hate her when she heard court gossip? Could she ever understand that Mary Bullen had not chosen to warm the king’s bed, but it had just happened somehow?
“Stop staring, foolish wench. You had better learn to be more discreet here. Our king does not parade his mistresses under the nose of his consort as did your fine Francois du Roi!”
Mary kept her stubborn silence for a moment, then said, “I was only looking at the queen. I have not seen her for a long time, you know.”
“She is a fine and patient lady with her bullish lord,” Will whispered. “And I do not give a whit who you are staring at, but the king obviously thinks it is at him. There, he rises. Come, let us get this farce over with. It will take us long enough to change.”
Mary wanted to ask him why he bothered to participate in the masque if he thought it all foolishness, but she knew better. The king commanded, and that was that. Besides, she did not wish to cross Will while he displayed this nasty temper. She hoped he would get used to things and be more himself. If she could face up to it, he must learn to.
She donned her silken green-and-white dress and pinned the gauzy veil on her loosed hair. Her mask, as the king’s and the villain sheriff’s, was golden to separate them from the minor characters. That was the only bad point of this whole marvelous endeavor, she thought, smoothing her full skirts over her hips—for some perverse reason, the king had appointed William Stafford to play the Sheriff of Nottingham, and that meant he was her kidnapper and she had to stay wedged with him in the castle scaffolding while the other ladies were rescued first. Then Robin Hood came to personally challenge the sheriff for her release.
“At least good Robin beats the scoundrel in the end,” she said aloud to comfort herself. Will had said the king chose Staff because it pleased his sense of adventure to become an outlaw himself while making the blackguard the symbol of law and order in the realm. But Mary knew better. The Sheriff of Nottingham was a wretched villain, and the king saw clearly enough to typecast the part. She had quietly told Staff that very thing at a rehearsal in the morning, though he just laughed at her and the snub gave her no pleasure.
They lined up in order; the lights dimmed; the music began. The settings of forest and castle creaked into the cleared center of the room and the dancing between the Merry Men of Sherwood and the ladies began. The steps were mostly those of a well-known pavan, for they had had little time to practice. The masks were secured by tied ribbons, but Mary’s kept slipping to obscure her vision. Everyone looked strange and distant in their masks. She suddenly felt as though she had never known any of them at all. The men’s hair color was hidden by their green forest caps, and the women’s heads were almost completely covered by their filmy, floating veils.
In the first dancing encounter, Mary partnered the king proudly, wishing her father could see her here at Henry’s court—surely, he would love to see her like this. Through the eye slits in her mask she could see little four-year-old Mary Tudor standing on a chair next to her mother, her eyes wide in awe at the beauty of the event.
The music quickened, the sheriff and his men attacked the dancing group and temporarily threw the outlaw band into disarray. Robin Hood, of course, had already departed on business into the green forest, for it would never do for this Robin to be vanquished, even if that had been the original story. The ladies were seized and taken to the castle with shouts and cries from the audience.
As he had done at the two rehearsals, Staff made certain that he was the one to abduct the blonde Maid Marian. The king had encouraged it, for the arch villain of the piece should take the love of the hero, so that they might fight in the end.
Mary kept her tongue while in front of the group, for she saw no way out of the situation. But each time he wedged her tightly between his strong body and the inner wooden framework of the castle, as they awaited the final challenge of Robin Hood, she told him to keep his hands to himself and off her waist and hips.
Tonight she had intended to put someone else between her and Staff while they stood, eight of them, packed in the mock castle. But her mask slipped again and, in the shadows of the inner void, he had her tight against him again. She raised her mask above her eyebrows and tried to thrust an elbow into his ribs.
“Loose me,” she whispered.
“Hush, sweet Maid Marian. There is a full audience tonight and we must not ruin the king’s fun—unfortunately.” His voice was low, but his mouth was so close, he rustled her hair and veil when he spoke.