The Last Boleyn(89)
A lump caught in her throat at the verbal caress. When he talked to her, even looked at her, it was always as though he touched her all over, stroked her bare skin, even thrust his love keep within her.
“If you think we have come here for a mere stroll among His Grace’s ponies, sweet, you are in for a bit of a surprise, and I hope a pleasant one,” he was saying. “I have told you that I am not a patient man and I am afraid you are about to see the results of that. In here, Mary.”
She followed him trustingly through a small door in the back of the stables. It was a low, long, narrow room with a row of pallets covered with deep straw. There was a small table with a bench, a braided rag rug on the floor, and several open grates along the outside wall to let in air and light. Still it was very dim in here. Staff shot the bolt on the door behind them and then shoved a heavy bench to rest against it.
“The man in charge of the grooms stays here, and he owes me a favor,” he explained. “He knows I have a lady with me, but he will keep himself and the grooms clear for a while. They are busy enough with all the French mounts in the west stables anyway. The straw is all fresh on the pallets, love. I hauled it in myself from the loft this morning. See, over here.”
She stepped forward and saw three of the low wooden pallets on their sturdy, squat legs had been shoved together, piled with deep straw and covered with his big, black velvet cloak. She knew he was watching her intently, one hand still lightly touching her elbow.
“You know, my dear Lord Stafford,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling, “you can absolutely ruin good velvet in the rain. I am so glad you found a warm, dry place for that cape. And I love the feel of velvet on my back.”
May Day dawned glorious and golden at Hampton Court on the springtime banks of the broad River Thames. All morning the air had been split with the racket of workmen putting up the May poles and wrapping them with twelve-foot lengths of alternating strips of Tudor green and white. Trestle tables were laid outside and covered with long white tableclothes soon to be laden with food for over a thousand May Day revelers. From two newly installed, temporary fountains at the edge of the rose gardens, streams of the king’s two favorite wines, Osney and Compolet, spouted in noisy trickles awaiting the thrust of goblets or parted lips of thirsty imbibers.
At eleven in the morning the greens, gardens and the elaborate maze would burst with the light-hearted, laughing courtiers who now kept to their chambers to dress and primp and prepare for this extravaganza to welcome the onset of spring and the temporary return to court of the Lady Anne Bullen. The eternally repeated topics of how many lands or titles or preferments the Lady Anne would get and how long she would last with the king on this one day took second place to the scuttling whispers of fashion and merriment.
“The dress is perfect, just perfect, Lady Mary,” Nancy crooned as she sat back proudly on her heels to admire their four-day creation. “I warrant even the Lady Anne shall not be as talked about and noted today!”
Mary pirouetted slowly as Nancy held their only small mirror so that she could catch at least a sideways glimpse of herself. She had to admit the gown was lovely. The shimmery blend of delicate shell pink and ivory in the bodice set off her milk and peaches complexion, and the light blonde tresses arranged so carefully. The press of the taut bodice pushed the creamy tops of her graceful, full breasts up over the lace and rosebud edging of the low, square-cut gown. Rustling satin skirts belled out in the graceful French style every time she swayed her hips slightly. Her full outer sleeves over the tight fitted ones dripped Belgian lace plundered from the wedding dress also, and a silver belt with clinking, delicate links which had once been a long neck chain dangled from her tiny waist. They had even covered a pair of old, worn white dance slippers in the pale pink satin. They both knew grass stains from the dancing on the lawn would surely ruin the slippers, but for today it was worth it.
Will stepped in from the hall dressed in his best beige doublet, matching hose and white lace and embroidered shirt and his mouth dropped. “A new dress, Mary? Is there a secret admirer, or did your avaricious little sister send you down a cast-off bolt from her coffers?”
“Will, I do not need your snide remarks today. Mother brought me this pink satin from Hever when she came last week and if you had been anywhere about these last four days, you would have seen Nancy and me personally slaving over it.”
“Well, it is lovely. You look fine. That will set them back on their heels when they see how Lady Carey looks, eh?”
No thanks to you, she wanted to say, but she did not intend to ruin this beautiful, exciting day carping at Will.
“You are evidently ready then, wife. Yes, you and Nancy did a very pretty job here. Those little roses at the neckline and hairpiece remind me of another gown you had once, but for the life of me I cannot think which one. Let us be off then. It is almost eleven and it will not do to keep His Grace waiting. I did tell you I am to go with John Ashton, Thomas Darcy and a small contingent of guards to fetch the Princess Mary for her father later this afternoon, did I not, Mary?”
“No. No, you did not, my lord.” She took his offered arm as they went out into the hall increasingly full of courtiers heading downstairs. “But she is at Beaulieu, Will. You cannot possibly get back until tomorrow.”
“True, madam,” he said tight-lipped. “See what you can make of the respite then.”