The Last Boleyn(59)
“I am sorry, Jane. What did you say?”
“I said, the cheering from the courts is so loud that they must have started the match without you.”
“Well, that is fine. They last a good long time anyway.”
Jane had taken to brazenly flirting with Mark Gostwick but, except for pitying poor George even more, Mary ignored it. She was relieved when Jane excused herself and went to sit with him on the far side of the court.
“I must warn you, there is a rumor that the queen will appear this afternoon, Mary,” Anne Basset whispered to her as they waved to the beaming king and his opponent, Norris. They sat on a padded bench which was quickly vacated for them. Mary self-consciously draped her pelisse closer about her. This canopied area was much too warm with the courtiers packed in like this.
“I do not believe she favors the embarrassment when she knows the blonde Bullen is about the area,” Mary replied carefully, “though she always handles the encounters beautifully by smiling and nodding and, if she must speak, inquiring sweetly after my father and mother.”
“She knows His Grace has given you his heart. All she has now is half a daughter. And, with the king’s illegitimate son being raised so royally, she fears.”
“She has always been gracious enough to me, Lady Anne. She is not here, so we will let it rest, please.”
Anne Basset nodded, but her eyes showed her dismay at never being able to taunt Mary Carey enough to get some bit of information for gossip. Was the woman also so sweet and tolerant in the king’s arms? What was it like to bed with the Tudor stallion? She had wanted to ask Mary in private, but her blue eyes seemed distant again, lost in some reverie in the midst of the crowded court.
The king played tennis with much power and verve. But then, so did Norris. Henry grunted and threw his huge body several steps into the court each time he served, and he often cursed loudly or flailed the air with his racquet if the leather ball did not land where he intended. She had watched him play for hours in the closed courts at Greenwich. Only last week he had played a two-hour game with Staff, winning only in the last set to the deafening cheer and applause of the assembled crowd. At least in that interminable game she had had Staff to study. His lithe body was angular and lean compared to the king’s, although his muscles bulged across his back and chest. He was there across the court with that fawning Lady Fitzgerald at this very moment. It annoyed her the way the raven-haired woman clung to him and brushed against him all the time. Well, what did she care? She pulled her eyes away and forced herself to refocus on the game.
Tennis players always wore white on the Tudor courts, pure white, a fashion begun by the king, she supposed. Henry hated to play up to the net and was content to stand firm on the back line, smashing drive after powerful drive into his opponent’s court with his quick, rapid thrusts. She smiled and hoped no one noticed how her thoughts always went to her face no matter how hard she tried to look indifferent. That was exactly the way the king made love. Quick, powerful thrusts and then it was over before his passionate kisses or fierce caresses could work the magic on a woman of which a man was capable. And Will was so self-disciplined, even in bed, she could not imagine the babe that grew within her could be a Carey son. Her throat constricted in fear again. If the baby looked like the king, whatever would she do? At least Will and His Grace had similar coloring, but the Tudor hair was a deeper red. If the king sent her away from court, she would be lost. And father might even turn against her.
She was making herself sick from worry. It was too hot in here. All the people so near, looking at her and the king. But her cloak was her protection. She wiped her damp brow again and shifted nervously in her seat. Who was winning? She must put her mind on the game.
Worst of all, Staff was sauntering over, and he could always see right through her. She valued his advice about others in the intricately woven web of courtiers, but she needed none of his lectures on her own behavior now. Besides, there was an unbreakable magnetic pull of attraction between them of which he had long teased her, and she had stopped fighting with him on the point. When he brought it up in jest or in earnest, she raised her armor of silence, but he knew he had won.
She remembered, particularly last month, when Will had been suddenly summoned by the king. She, Will, and Staff had been together on a crisp, clear evening drinking hot mulled cider in front of a fire in the Carey suite of rooms. Will had scurried away with a brief peck on her cheek and a quick word to Staff about the good fortune to be summoned by the great Henry more frequently now that the Carey rise to power had begun.
“I shall just sit a few minutes with Mary, Will,” Staff had called after his retreating friend and then waited until the door banged shut to add, “and then head home to my lonely little bed while sweet Mary sleeps alone tonight.” He had given her a forlorn, doleful look, his hand over his heart and she had burst out laughing instead of scolding him.
“More mulled cider, sweet?” he asked, and leaned over to pour her some from the metal flagon before she answered. She held her mug out for him, annoyed that her hand shook a little.
His next words startled her. “I swear, your husband is as blind as a bat and as foggy as the Thames marshes, sweetheart.” He turned toward her, “If I were Will, I would not let you out of my sight around a ravenous blackguard like myself.”
“Oh, Staff,” she said, trying to sound amused. Then, foolishly she turned to smile at him. The impact of his gaze, his very presence made her insides tilt.