The Last Boleyn(73)

“Well,” the king intoned smoothly, “if everyone is pairing off for a garden walk, that leaves us, sweet Mary.” He bent to kiss her lips, but stopped poised above her, his eyes darting off into the distance. “Your little sister can hardly practice her French-learned wiles on your Will, sweet, and that appears to be the only victim left to her.”

Mary turned her head slowly and saw Will seated with Anne in earnest conversation on a marble bench surrounded by a riot of lilies, cornflowers and broom. The scene reminded her of a painting that hung at Francois’s Amboise of a pair of Italian lovers in a flowered frame.

“Damn! But I should have seen to it that Will had someone to be with. Where has that little Jane Rochford gone?”

“Jane Rochford is another sister-in-law to Will, Sire, but I will admit it does seem strange to see Anne unattended by at least two gentlemen.”

“Yes—yes. Perhaps you had best stroll with Will just for a while. She will talk the poor devil’s ear off, though I do not wonder that it is witty talk. Will! Mistress Anne!”

Mary felt nothing but amusement at the situation. Nineteen-year-old Anne had caught the eye of the restless king. She had seen it happen before. He would spin off for several days in a romantic whirl and she would have a small rest until the conquest was complete and he returned to her. Each time father had seen it happen, he had been in a tizzy of worry. Mary nearly laughed aloud as Anne and Will sauntered up to them. Her father would be trapped because both of the ladies in question were his daughters. And His Grace—well, there was obviously no way this little passion for the sleek Anne could be satisfied, since the whole civilized world knew the king had bedded Mary Bullen for five years now, as his favored mistress.

Mary gladly took Will’s arm as the king offered his to the radiant Anne. Anne made a sudden move to lift her left hand to wave as they turned away, but Mary saw her catch herself and jerk her fingers down into the folds of her dress. Never, since Anne had been a very young girl, had she nearly shown her tiny deformed finger. The situation must indeed be a heady one for the girl.

“I pray she does not get herself in this too deep, Will,” Mary observed quietly as they strolled in the opposite direction and heard Anne’s lilting laughter float back to them.

“She trapped him this time, the little fool. She insisted we sit right there on that bench where we could watch His Grace.”

“Oh, no. She cannot be taken with him.”

“I think not, but did you catch her comment against the cardinal in there?”

“Who could have missed it?”

“I think she has some half-hatched plan in that pert little head, to have revenge on the cardinal through the king for taking Percy away from her.”

“That is too far-fetched. That was almost three years ago and...”

“Why else would she question Staff and me about how His Grace regards the cardinal, if anyone else has power over Wolsey and so on?”

“Silly girl, I will talk with her, Will. We do not speak much lately and I did not know. She will get into quicksand if she has thoughts like that. And if she meddles, father will have her head on a platter.”

“Perhaps, Mary. Or else the little nymph realizes that if she has Henry Tudor’s ear, she need fear your father no longer. But it never works to try to use this king. You might warn her of that, Mary. He is the user.” Will’s voice was bitter. He pulled her arm and held her close against his ribs. “I would not have you angry with me, wife, over sending Harry to Hatfield. I truly believe the lad needs sound schooling if he is to go far, and we can see him much there.”

“Even if your motives are pure, I know father’s are not. He did not coerce or bribe you to get you to agree with him?”

“I do not buckle to the Bullens, Mary, least of all to your father. If I seem to agree with his tactics, it is only when the Careys will benefit too.”

“I should know that by now.”

He turned and carefully eyed her impassive face. “See that you remember that, madam.”

“And when His Grace goes on to someone else as mistress en titre, will the Careys mourn with the Bullens, or will there be a parting of the ways?” she heard herself plunge on, and all the frustrations of this long day made her voice shake with anger.

“I serve His Grace, separate from any bargain you may have with him, lady. I have my own ties to him and I will not hear you imply otherwise.” He stopped and faced her squarely. His face was as cloudy as the sky behind his head.

She drew in a quick breath and the scent of roses nearly overpowered her. She pulled her eyes away and there, across the tall arbors and through a whitened trellis decked with yellow roses, William Stafford crushed Maud Jennings to him in a passionate embrace.

“I am speaking to you, Mary. Your father may think what he damn pleases of the Careys, but I will not have the mother of my children against the Carey cause!”

Mary stared at his chest, her eyes burning with unspilled tears. “I meant nothing by it, Will. I only, well, I only wish you would stand against my father with me when he threatens me or little Harry.” She had to get away from this garden. She would not put it past Staff to seduce the wench right there on the grassy turf.

“My sister and I have worked hard for what we have now, and we intend that the Careys shall be even further restored in the next generation. You birthed them, madam, but they bear my name. And I am lord of them even though I cannot, at times, control where their mother makes her bed.”