The Last Boleyn(72)
The king was in a soaring mood. He mingled with everyone on the barge and waved to those on the following one. He threw coins to onlookers on the riverbank when they got close enough to shore. He chatted incessantly to Mary, kissed her and pinched her as though he were trying to lift her spirits too. He recounted at least twice the marvelous investiture service by which his son had become his heir and her father had become Viscount Rochford. He inquired how her little sister Anne got on and which of the courtiers she truly favored in her heart.
Wolsey’s massive Hampton Court Palace glowed almost rosy pink in the diffused sunlight. Its twisted sets of chimneys and crenellated roofline pointed toward the graying clouds. They disembarked and strolled parallel to the moat, through the watergate toward the huge house. Even as they approached, His Grace told stories of the times he had feasted here and recited some of the improvements he would make.
“One night a group of us invaded a banquet my lord cardinal was giving—do you remember, Norris?—disguised. We picked out the prettiest wenches there to dance with and unmasked after it was all over. Were you there, too, Weston?”
“Yes, Your Grace. What I recall best was that you immediately chose the most charming wench for yourself before the rest of us could even get into the room.” Everyone within earshot laughed in unison.
“Now, seriously, everyone, I mean to tell you we shall be on a progress to Hampton as soon as everything can be assembled and this great brick barn sufficiently prepared for a royal visit. Sir Francis, I meant to inquire about the jakes. Are they quite in sound shape? Wolsey built the place here on this stretch of river upstream from the City because it is the healthiest place around in the pestilent summer months—and closer than Eltham or Beaulieu. We shall summer here and the sweat shall never find us at all. Sir Francis?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The lackeys spent a week swabbing the jakes and priveys after the cardinal’s huge staff vacated. Besides, the palace has private water closets in each of the principal three hundred bed chambers, an elaborate sewer, drain system and fresh water brought from Coombe Hill three miles distant.”
“Ah, yes, Francis. I meant to tell them of that. It seems our busy Lord Chancellor was even more skilled at building than at doing the king’s business which was given over to his care.”
Mary saw her cousin Francis color slightly as he realized his exuberance had made him overstep his place. Everyone kept his peace wondering what marvels His Grace would point out next. Mary walked on his arm as they entered the great courtyard. She kept her eyes on Henry’s proud face, for she did not want to be caught by Staff stealing a glance at the way his demoiselle innocent draped herself against his body as they walked.
The king had now entirely taken over the tour himself, as though he had designed and built the monstrosity. It was typical of the king’s ebullience and acquisitive nature, and they were all used to it. Staff and Sir Francis, whom the king had ordered to organize the jaunt, dropped farther back in the group as they paraded from room to opulent room. There were close to one thousand rooms in the palace, but they traipsed through only the principal chambers. Rich Damascene carpets virtually littered the floors. Gold and silver plate encrusted the massive oaken hutches and sideboards. Tapestries from Flanders draped the walnut carved walls and mullioned windows lent a golden glow to the myriad hangings of gold and silk. Their eyes could not take it in, they who were well accustomed to the opulence of the king’s palaces.
“It seems the Lord Cardinal overstepped his place as a man of the cloth and a servant to the greatest king in the world,” Mary heard Anne say distinctly at the king’s elbow, and she held her breath at the tactless remark. There was a sudden silence as they stood under the heavy tapestry of Daniel in the lions’ den. Anne had hated the great cardinal ever since he had forced Harry Percy, the young son of Northumberland, whom Anne loved desperately, to renounce the Bullen wench and submit to the arranged and proper marriage his family had set with Shrewsbury’s daughter. Anne carried the bitter resentment against the cardinal in her heart, Mary knew, but to dare to voice it like this to the king was dangerous.
Henry Tudor’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Lady Anne is quite right, but the cardinal has learned his place with his king. This palace is the palace of the monarch, not of his servant, and he willingly bestowed it as a gift. The cardinal knows full well his lord is a hard taskmaster, and if he should forget again, we will remind him. Hampton Court is king’s court now, my Lady Anne.”
Anne’s dark head bent as though in acquiescence to his power, and when she lifted her face to him, her smile was brilliant. Mary was stunned at the fine line of tangible magnetism that crackled between the king and her little sister.
“We had best see the gardens before it rains. I have magnificent plans for a pond, tennis courts, a tiltground, and a huge lovers’ maze which I am sure you will all have memorized by this time next year. Come, Come.”
Mary felt him pull back and hesitate when Anne strolled by, as though he wished to disengage her arm and seize Anne’s. She lightened her arm against his instinctively, but he chose to move on. It was graying outside as they drifted out, and the lovely gardens seemed subdued and silent. The group splintered off in pairs or clusters, and Mary smiled to see the Duke and his beloved Duchess walk off toward the knot garden arm in arm, as the fondest lovers. But when her eyes took in the bright blue of Staff’s doublet as he led Mistress Jennings toward the rose beds, her smile faded and she bit her lip in anger at herself.