The Last Boleyn(58)

But after she lay with him that night, she watched him move away and bend instantly over his papers. She had never seen this side of him, so distracted, yet filled with fierce concentration. She yawned and stretched luxuriously in the massive bed under the carved and gilded crest of the Tudor kings. She was tired and she could feel herself slipping away. It must be nearly midnight now.

Through a fog of her thoughts, she heard his quill pen occasionally scratch “Henry Rex” even as he had on that impassioned love letter. Henry Rex of England impassioned, passionate. Then why don’t I feel that way? she wondered, with one foot on the hazy edge of dreamy unreality.

She was full of his seed now as she was almost every night, and what would become of her if she conceived a child? But she never had all those times with Francois, that one terrible night with Lautrec, and now with Henry.

Proud, so proud, these kings. Never admitting they could be wrong except in little things, always having to be masterful and in charge. A paper rustled somewhere on the fringe of her thoughts, and a chair scraped back. Maybe he was coming to bed again. He had never before done work in the middle of the night.

She drifted softly, silently through the sweet-smelling rose gardens of Greenwich, or was it Hever? No, she must be at court, for everyone stood about shooting arrows at one another, laughing cruelly when someone was pierced. The king was laughing too, drawing his strong bow at everyone, and then she saw her father shooting his full brace of arrows from a never-empty quiver.

Arrows flew at her from everywhere—the air was black with them, and she was afraid. But none hit her.

Then she saw Staff by the tree, his arrows like his eyes. He raised his bow directly at her; she held up her arms and tried to scream but no sound came. She tried to run, but her feet were as heavy as lead.

His arrow whirred at her; she saw it coming and to her own amazement, she moved to meet it. It pierced her sweetly, deeply, and a rolling wave of rapture beat in her like coursing blood. Staff’s arrow penetrated her very soul and brought a note she now held in her trembling hands: I love you desperately and eternally. She looked up in amazement, but he had turned and was walking away.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


October 14, 1521


Whitehall

A brightly clad bevy of court ladies trailed after Mary as she left her apartment and went out into the crisp autumn sunshine. As at Greenwich, the swards at Whitehall slanted down to the river, though the once-clear vista was now cluttered with tiltyard, archery range, and the close-cropped alley of grass for bowls, and a tall maze nearer the river. The crowd clustered on this clear afternoon at the newly built tennis courts of which the king was so proud. Whitehall was the newest palace given outright as a love gift—a policy gift, Staff called it—by His Grace’s Lord Chancellor, the Cardinal Wolsey, who had moved his busy household upstream to his country palace Hampton Court. Mary favored Richmond and Greenwich of all the palaces, but on a day such as this, who could not love Whitehall?

“His Grace was anxious for you to come to see him play against my Lord Francis,” Joan Norris said for the second time, hurrying to keep pace with Mary’s strides. Mary had learned to walk and dance faster, much faster, in the year she had been the energetic king’s mistress.

“Actually, I believe he promised he would beat Sir Francis soundly,” joked Lady Joan, and Mary forced a laugh.

“Your Lord William is much from court this past week, Mary,” observed Jane Rochford tagging close behind.

“Yes, Jane, but it is Father sent him this time and not the king. As you know, Jane,” Mary said, turning her head to the girl, “Father asked Will to accompany him to visit the Bullens’ new revenue posts at Essex and Nottinghamshire. They are due back today. Are you quite certain you have enough to occupy your time without George before the wedding?”

“Of course I do, Mary, now I can be with you everyday. Lord Bullen is pleased, too, and I do so wish to make him happy.”

“So do we all, Jane,” Mary shot back quickly and then regretted the sharp tone to her voice. No wonder Father and George had had a tremendous row over the Bullen-Rochford betrothal a few months ago. George had evidently been forced to see the wisdom in the marriage, but she could hardly blame him for his impatience with the meddling little Rochford. But George’s sulkiness had worsened since, and he seldom came to court now that Jane was here to attend Mary. Jane Rochford saw Lord Bullen as her protector and deliverer. If only the wench knew the salvation of her coming marriage had nothing to do with herself and all to do with her family title and lands, who knew what she would say or do then.

Several young men tilted at the quintain on the joust practice grounds trying to learn the timing and placement of the thrust of the lance from a moving horse. The wood and leather mock opponent twirled and spun on its pivot as they made passes at it. They were so confident, so awkward, and Mary remembered George, gangly and skinny at Hever years ago. She favored stopping to watch their serious antics, but she had been summoned to the tennis courts again.

The archery range where she had shot at target with the king only yesterday was nearly deserted. Her aim was much improved and it annoyed her to have to wear the proper lady’s half-gloves when she shot. Henry was much pleased at her progress since the last contest, but she did not tell him that both Will and Staff had given her lessons while he was in council.

Despite the brisk river breeze, she felt warm in her fawn-colored pelisse. Still she wanted to wear it over her dress whenever she was in public where someone might notice her slightly expanded waistline. Soon someone would see, then everyone would know, and the king would put her aside as he had Bessie Blount. He pledged eternal love and had been relatively faithful for over a year, but Mary was no country-bred wench who trusted in men anymore. And her greatest fear—the thing that kept her awake nights when His Grace or Will rolled over and went to sleep—was that there would be no way to truly know who had fathered the babe.