The Last Boleyn(62)
“This is for game point,” Mary heard someone behind her say, and she was glad it would be over soon. She hoped the king would win, for when he was beaten he was quite out of his humor for the rest of the day. Surely Francis Norris would have the good sense not to defeat Henry Tudor in front of such a crowd. Whack, thump, still they volleyed. Then Norris missed a shot right in front of Mary and the hushed crowd exploded. The king embraced Norris at the net, beaming with joy. On the day I finally do tell His Grace I am pregnant, she thought, I shall be certain he has just won at tennis.
A gentleman usher held the blue and purple velvet robe the king donned after heavy exertion. Nodding and bowing, he plunged through the press of courtiers, heading straight for Mary. The sense of thrill and power returned with stunning impact. The king, Henry Tudor, sought her out from the masses of adoring subjects.
“Did you see that last serve, sweetheart?” he bellowed over the noise. “I never was in better form than today!”
“You were marvelous, Sire. Atlas himself could not have bested you.”
“Nor that sly Francois, eh? But that rogue Norris was good. He was excellent,” he admitted grandly, brandishing his racquet like a sword. “I had to be at my peak to beat him today!” He put one big arm over her shoulders, and they slowly strolled back toward the palace, acknowledging the compliments from groups and individuals. For once, he did not walk too quickly for her to keep up easily, and she kept her cloak wrapped firmly about her body.
“Gads,” he said exuberantly in her ear, “if we could only go to bed now, I would show you how a victorious athlete behaves after a game like that one.”
She laughed along with him for his boyish boast, and he grinned down at her. “There is your father, sweet,” he said suddenly and pointed with his raised racquet. “I do not see Will Carey anywhere. Thomas, did you find all well in my kingdom?”
The king grasped Thomas Bullen’s shoulder in a rough masculine greeting as Thomas arose from his bow. He beamed to see Mary under His Grace’s other arm and kissed her warmly on the check.
“And where is my man, Will Carey?” Henry asked.
“All is well in the realm, Your Grace. The commons love you. That was always obvious to Will and me. Will brought his sister back for a stay from the priory at Wilton, Sire, and he wanted to get her situated before he reported to you. The ride much tired her. And how is my beautiful daughter?”
“Well, as you see, as sweet and charming as ever, Thomas. Whatever services you lend your king, this is the dearest prize you could have given. See you have not come to take her away,” he laughed.
“Never, Your Grace. Mary would be desolate should she be taken away. The Bullens are only too honored to be able to share with our king who has blessed us with so much.”
“Then I shall trust you with her while I change for dinner. The queen shall attend the meal, I believe. Be certain, Thomas, you keep my golden Mary safe from my wily courtiers who lurk about. Especially the renegade Stafford needs a watch, eh, Mary?”
He turned and was gone in a cluster of men, slapping Weston on the back and recounting the match.
She took her father’s offered arm, and they drifted away from the bunches of people toward the river landing. Instinctively, she grasped her cloak tight again. Staff had told her to tell her father as soon as possible. If she told him out here but within earshot of others, he could not possibly berate her too long or too loudly.
Thomas Bullen broke the jumble of her thoughts. “How are you getting on with His Grace? He has not been near that Woodstock wench again I hear.”
“You are well informed for only having just returned, father. No, I think he has not seen her. He has been with me...at night, I mean.”
“Fine, Mary. I was hoping that would be one result of my taking Will away for a while. Your husband was only too glad to see lands and stewardships he hopes will bear the Carey name soon enough, though he never ceases to tell me that the return of his beloved lands at Durham are the final Carey dream. I am sorry you will have to put up with that sour sister of his for a while. Do not feel you have to take any of that snobby preaching on the greatness of the Careys from her. She ought to be smart enough to realize from where her bounty flows, but she seems terribly one-minded. They are both obsessed with their family name. Let me know if she bothers you.”
“Yes, father. I will.”
The barges rocked gently, rhythmically at the landing, gilded and brightly painted though now sadly stripped of their bunting and banners. Their feet made hollow sounds on the landing when they mounted it. The river rustled by calmly and gave the illusion that the sturdy landing was adrift in the currents.
“Now what is this gibing about wily courtiers lurking about, and especially William Stafford? Has he been bothering you? You must guard your position carefully, girl. Do I need to warn him to keep off?”
“No, father. His Grace was jesting. I took a little walk with Staff during the tennis match today, because I felt ill, rather faint. Stafford is only a friend of Will’s, so leave him be.”
“And I know damn well you have better sense than to care for someone of his questionable reputation and rank, so enough said. His Grace cares a great deal for him, or he would be out on his ear a poor country squire of a stoney farm on the borders somewhere.” He leaned on the painted rail along the landing and faced her squarely. “You say you were ill? Are you better now? Or is the illness just a clever ruse to keep Will Carey away from you?”