The Last Boleyn(55)
“Mary! Mary, His Grace is waiting for you under your window and half the court is in tow,” Jane Rochford squealed and darted to help Mary pin her new green velvet riding hat on her heavy piled gold curls. “You had best give him a quick wave from the window if you intend to keep him waiting so patiently.”
“There, I am ready, Jane, but I shall perhaps wave anyway. What a beautiful autumn day!” Mary shoved open a thick glass and leaded window and leaned her head out to wave. Her bright Kendal green riding gown and green plumed hat looked perfect for this day, she thought, as the king and several of his closest courtiers caught sight of her, waved and shouted their greetings.
“I am on my way down and I feel lucky at shooting today!” she called. They had all looked so excited and happy, like children, she thought: George standing proudly by His Grace, the king smiling, everyone eager to be off for the mounded, grassy hills where the painted bulls-eye targets were ready to be studded with their arrows. It had only been the avid-eyed William Stafford leaning on that big oak behind the king who did not smile up at her.
She hurried down the huge east staircase with Jane Rochford and several other friends trailing behind. Mary was proud of the effect of this dress that she had taken hours to select colors and materials for. This was her most simply cut dress as it was for riding or shooting. The velvet gored skirt was only moderately full and it was the long-sleeved, tight-fitting jacket with the row of molded brass buttons that set the whole outfit apart from others she had seen. The smooth cut of skirt showed off the top curve of her hips and a pleated cuff draped from the waist of the jacket. It emphasized her flat stomach and full breasts to perfection, despite the fact that the bodice styles imported from France and Spain were all rather tight with the cleavage pushed up above the daring low necklines. But, not for a morning of shooting arrows at targets, Mary thought. The king will have to leer at pushed-up breasts elsewhere today!
The air was crystal clear, the sun like some cut jewel set in the blue velvet sky. She had been told England was often rainy and foggy in the autumn here along these great, rambling palaces on the twisting Thames. But today, all was beautiful in Mary’s world. His Grace had even sent Will away again, probably for a week this time, so she would not have to put up with his grim looks and sour disposition today.
“Good morning, sweet Mary,” the king boomed out the moment she emerged with her trailing ladies. As if, Mary thought, she had not been in his bed all last night, and as if most of the courtiers standing about did not know it.
Arm in arm despite the twitters, winks, and murmurs—and Staff’s pointed stare—they strolled across the green lawns and cut through the rose gardens to the shooting range. The late summer gardens had greatly gone to riot now, and the leggy stemmed roses were making their last stands before frost time.
The king pulled his dagger and, with a flourish, cut her a full-budded white rose. “Put this rose here in your sweet bosom which that green velvet so naughtily hides, my Mary, where I may stoop and inhale its wonderful fragrance today,” he said low, and shot her that devilish, little boy grin of his she so adored. “Besides,” he went on as they continued walking, “I like for you to be in Tudor green and white. The king’s dearest possessions, you know.”
With his upper arm, he brushed her left breast firmly, deliberately, despite all the pairs of eyes, as they strolled the last yards to where squires had set up all the equipment for the shooting match. Yes, the quivers of arrows bore the Tudor colors and green-and-white Tudor pennants sprouted from the great, tall walls of Greenwich behind them. The king’s possessions, he had said, and rightly so, as everyone, especially her father, viewed things. Only, despite her exciting days and long nights with Henry, King of all England, she never really felt he possessed her. Her body yes—he took that repeatedly, but she still felt only flattered and touched. There was something yet to really being possessed that she knew was missing with this generous Tudor, and even with the selfish, handsome Francois before him. And, although her name might be Carey now, poor solemn Will hardly played a part in these thoughts.
“My dear Lady Carey,” the king’s voice boomed at her. “Have you taken to daydreaming so early in the day?”
“Oh, Your Grace, I am sorry. What did you say?” She shot him a dazzling smile and lowered her voice for the next words. “I am sorry, Sire, but the lack of sleep at night that makes me like this today is hardly all my fault.”
He threw back his golden-red head bellowing a laugh, so that everyone who was not staring already soon was. Henry Tudor looked overpowering in size, elaborate clothing, and the magnetic aura he always exuded. The peacock blue velvet which stretched across his muscular shoulders pulled taut when he bent to choose an arrow, as he did now. His loose-fitting back cape, which he would probably discard soon enough from the heat and exertion of his endeavors, swung easily to his gold-belted hips, and his brawny-thewed legs in dark blue hose were planted firmly apart in square-cut slashed velvet slippers as he shot his traditional first arrow to signal the start of their impromptu tourney. Gloved hands applauded madly though the shot was barely to the edge of the central red eye of the circles.
“’Sblood, I hope the entire morn will not be off target like that,” he groused.
“You are too fine a shot to even hint at such things,” Mary comforted, and was rewarded with another big Tudor grin.
“True, sweetheart, but some days can bring a terrible run of bad luck even to the best of us. But how your sweet face and words always cheer me, my golden Mary.” He bent to select another metal-tipped arrow from his green and white quiver, and fitted it carefully onto the string of the huge, polished oaken bow.