The Last Boleyn(65)

“What did you say, Anne? He is moving, see?”

“Yes. Well, I was saying I wish you would tell me all about the king from your point of view. I am certain it would be more exciting than hearing it all from father’s lectures.”

“I shall, Anne. I promise, for I wish someone would have told me the truth before I got involved in it all. There was only one who told me much about it, and I was too stubborn to listen to him.”

“Who? Will?”

“No, not Will. A friend of Will’s, William Stafford. He was an aide to father in France. Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely. Tall and brown-haired with that roguish look?”

“Yes. That is Staff.” His face drifted through her mind as it often did, no longer jesting and taunting, but concerned and warm. She had not seen him for almost five months. Too often she found herself wondering if he still cared for her and would watch her from across the room and kiss her fondly on the cheek as he had when Will had taken her to Hever so long ago to await the child. You are really quite a fool, Mary, she told herself firmly. He is probably reveling in Lady Fitzgerald’s bed or even that clinging Anne Basset’s, and hardly giving his friend’s pregnant wife a moment’s thought.

“Why are we speaking of William Stafford anyway? I would like you to tell me about some important, exciting people, please. Personal things, not political things, like father always does.”

“I promise I will, Anne, but I am very tired now and just want to sit awhile before mother makes me go back to bed. The gardens at Hever are so restful. I can almost pretend nothing outside even exists.”

Anne’s eyes grew wide with sudden knowledge. “Are you afraid, Mary? You mustn’t be, you know. You are young and strong and everything will be well.”

“Thank you, Anne. Those sweet words mean much to me just now.”

“I meant not to tire you. Shall I fetch mother? She always knows what to say and do.”

“Yes, please, but do not hurry. I would like to be alone for a moment.”

“Semmonet said you are not to be alone.”

“Just walk slowly then, and that will take a little time. I will not be really alone.”

“All right. And we shall talk of the court and king tomorrow.” Anne bent her lithe body and scooped her embroidery from the grass. She swept down the gravel path, her head held high as always.

Yes, the girl would go far. She was so poised, spirited and clever. Even her needlework made Mary’s look crude by comparison. Anne’s stitches were tiny and delicate even though she secreted her deformed hand beneath her work. If she ever really dared to stand up to father when he chose to wed her to someone she did not favor, Mary would like to be there to see the scene. Anne had much to learn about many things, including their father.

Mary sighed and stood slowly. If only the child would come. If it could only be over! How she would like to mount Donette and ride like the wind across the meadows to the Eden and lie on her back under the beeches with her hands behind her head. Perhaps if she were not summoned back to court...but Will could manage to keep his position, she could just live with mother and raise her son here.

She walked slowly around the patches of mint and dill which encircled the stone sundial. Sky-blue morning glories clung to its fluted base. It was noon, dead noon, and the iron finger set to tell the time threw no shadows. Time, time. Another minute, another hour, another sharp shadow on the face on the stone dial. Five months away from court, two years away from France, so far away from safety, security and peace. The king had sent her a tiny enamelled box and one garnet necklace in those five months, but what did that assure? He might never want her back. Father had said they could arrange her return to London, but she was not certain of that. Will had made only four visits in five months. His sister Eleanor stayed on at court and he would probably rather be near her than his wife anyway, since her Carey blood is not from some forced marriage.

The April sun gave a warm embrace, but she wandered a bit off the path into the shade of a skinny-leafed weeping willow near the little pond. How she would love to stoop and pick those tight-clustered violets, but she could not. This time next year, pray God, she would have her babe in her arms, and could stoop to pick them.

A branch rustled behind her and she spun her head sharply. “Oh, Michael, you frightened me. What are you doing here?”

The thin, gangly boy smiled shyly at her. His front teeth gapped wide, and he seldom smiled outright. He reminded her of George years ago, before France, but his hair was flame-colored and masses of freckles dotted his long face.

“I didna’ mean to scare you, Lady Mary. I was jus’ walking through and I thought to see you be all right since the Lady Anne left you.”

“I appreciate that, Michael. And I have wanted to thank you for the cuttings of forsythia and *willow during the rains. They lightened my dark room and cheered me tremendously.”

He smiled again, his felt hat held nervously in his awkward hands. “I was tellin’ my mother it is too bad the Lady Mary has to come back to visit in the winter months, for she always loved the gardens best of all the Bullens. I try my best to keep them nice for the lord and lady. The lord, he ne’er sees them, but Lady Elizabeth, she loves them, an’ I know you do too.”

“We all appreciate the fine work the gardeners do, Michael. I am glad to see you so grown. Will you wed soon?”