The Last Boleyn(82)

Will had stopped bedding her after that. He moved to another bedroom down the narrow, crooked hall on the other side of baby Catherine’s room and fed his mind’s eye on his frustration for the ruin of the Carey cause. He blamed Mary’s failure to hold the king. He left once for three weeks to visit his beloved sister at her priory, but Staff had given up visiting and she had no way to send for him and no way to guess how long her husband would stay away with the only woman he truly loved and trusted.

So the days without a visit from Staff or word from court had dragged into weeks and months, and her well-tended love turned to doubt, frustration and then anger long after Will had returned and spring and summer had fled. They awaited the word from her father that they could return. She agonized in her lonely bed at night over Staff’s desertion. She dreamed of him kissing Maud Jennings in the rose garden at Hampton, Staff making love to the raven-haired Fitzgerald, Staff laughing with others...and loving others.

“I said, Mary, are you ready? Your sister sent word that we might stop in her rooms before the revels, and I think we should. Your father is there. I expect he will know about our other accommodations and my position. I would at least like to be informed before I have to face His Grace. I have not seen your dear friend Stafford anywhere today, but he assured me the position was mine when I—when we, actually—returned.”

The ever-taut edge was in Will’s voice, but she had given up the inward shudders she felt at his cold stares and indifference. “Yes. I am quite ready, Will.”

“Whatever there is lost between us, Mary, I am pleased to see you still make a fine appearance. You are a little pale and wan, but your fabulous face and body never fail you. Your clever little sister may be quite put out and banish you again if you dazzle her by comparison, you know.”

“I have no fear of that, Will. It is said she has splendid gifts from him, the best suite in the queen’s wing of the palace, notes from him daily at Hever, and his Tudor heart to trample on if it pleases her.”

She swept by him in her sky-blue dress and opened the door to their room herself. Even the archway to the main hall was narrow and she made certain that she carefully gathered her full skirts with their silken ribbon catches and slashes as they passed through. The dress was last year’s fashion, with a tight and low square-cut bodice which came to a point at the waist, but Mary Tudor had assured her that it was still stylish enough to wear. The matching blue silk slippers were slightly soiled from romping galliards long months ago at Whitehall. It was an endurance test for slippers to dance all night with the king, but she figured no one would notice if she danced with Will in a crowd tonight.

Will led her through the weblike corridors of Greenwich to the queen’s wing and to Anne’s spacious suite. The first thing her eyes saw when the painted door swung wide for them was Jane Rochford hovering over Anne and stroking her black tresses with a gilded hairbrush. Anne’s dark eyes caught Mary’s in the huge polished mirror she faced.

“Mary, dearest!” Anne’s face was alight with excitement and her eyes sparkled. “Now the holiday is perfect. You have seen mother this morning, I hear. We are all back together. And what fun the revels will be tonight! I am to be the lady with the Lord of Misrule, and you know who always takes that part!”

They embraced, almost formally, and Anne turned to kiss Will on the side of his cheek. Anne looked wonderful and words spilled from Mary in a rush. “Yes, Anne, I have seen His Grace play that boisterous part many times. Once,” she said almost to herself, “he stumbled and his whole arm flopped in the wassail bowl.”

“I remember that,” Jane Rochford put in, merely nodding to Mary and turning back to finish Anne’s coif.

“Will thought father would be here, Anne.” Mary stood aside and scrutinized Jane’s fussy ministrations over Anne’s headpiece and jewels.

“Oh, he is, somewhere, Mary. He is never far away, as you can imagine.” Anne giggled and her eyes sought Mary’s in the mirror again. “He was livid and fumed for days, sister. He threatened to beat me, but he never did. Not when he saw His Grace still cared, even if I held the cards.”

“And do you hold the cards still, Anne?” Will queried.

“Wait and see for yourself, Master Carey,” Anne teased. She bent to pick up her pomander ball on its velvet ribbon and added, “There are jewels and notes and flowers and great promises and I control father now—wait and see, Mary, if you do not believe me—and still His Grace has my refusal to share his bed and my word that I have only come for Yule festivities. I shall go back to Hever afterward and await my next move, however much father fusses. Wait and see.”

Your next move, Mary thought hollowly. But Anne, she wanted to cry, you are acting and talking exactly like father. She pictured again the tiny green and white chess pawn Mary Tudor had once given her which she still had in her jewel box and had stared at so often in the long afternoons at Plashy while Catherine played in the orchard outside the window.

“Here you are, Mary, Will. You look fine. It is good to have you both back.” Thomas Bullen patted Mary’s shoulder and shook Will’s hand. “Yes, you look well, Mary, as always. A little thinner perhaps.”

“And older, father. And wiser.”

He eyed her face carefully and turned to survey Anne. “Black and red for Yule, Anne? The slashings on the gown are very deep.”