CHAPTER FOURTEEN

September 22, 1520

Greenwich

The summer weeks flitted by on butterfly wings for Mary Carey at King Henry’s busy court—and in his massive bed. Will Carey’s honeymoon with her had lasted but a week; this one, with the loud and laughing king, went on and on. They hunted, they rode bedecked barges up and down the Thames, they laughed and danced and sported and held hands. For Mary, it was truly the first courtship she had ever had, and she was wholly in love with being loved, if not with the effusive lover himself.

“Mary! Mary, His Grace is waiting for you under your window and half the court is in tow,” Jane Rochford squealed and darted to help Mary pin her new green velvet riding hat on her heavy piled gold curls. “You had best give him a quick wave from the window if you intend to keep him waiting so patiently.”

“There, I am ready, Jane, but I shall perhaps wave anyway. What a beautiful autumn day!” Mary shoved open a thick glass and leaded window and leaned her head out to wave. Her bright Kendal green riding gown and green plumed hat looked perfect for this day, she thought, as the king and several of his closest courtiers caught sight of her, waved and shouted their greetings.

“I am on my way down and I feel lucky at shooting today!” she called. They had all looked so excited and happy, like children, she thought: George standing proudly by His Grace, the king smiling, everyone eager to be off for the mounded, grassy hills where the painted bulls-eye targets were ready to be studded with their arrows. It had only been the avid-eyed William Stafford leaning on that big oak behind the king who did not smile up at her.

She hurried down the huge east staircase with Jane Rochford and several other friends trailing behind. Mary was proud of the effect of this dress that she had taken hours to select colors and materials for. This was her most simply cut dress as it was for riding or shooting. The velvet gored skirt was only moderately full and it was the long-sleeved, tight-fitting jacket with the row of molded brass buttons that set the whole outfit apart from others she had seen. The smooth cut of skirt showed off the top curve of her hips and a pleated cuff draped from the waist of the jacket. It emphasized her flat stomach and full breasts to perfection, despite the fact that the bodice styles imported from France and Spain were all rather tight with the cleavage pushed up above the daring low necklines. But, not for a morning of shooting arrows at targets, Mary thought. The king will have to leer at pushed-up breasts elsewhere today!

The air was crystal clear, the sun like some cut jewel set in the blue velvet sky. She had been told England was often rainy and foggy in the autumn here along these great, rambling palaces on the twisting Thames. But today, all was beautiful in Mary’s world. His Grace had even sent Will away again, probably for a week this time, so she would not have to put up with his grim looks and sour disposition today.

“Good morning, sweet Mary,” the king boomed out the moment she emerged with her trailing ladies. As if, Mary thought, she had not been in his bed all last night, and as if most of the courtiers standing about did not know it.

Arm in arm despite the twitters, winks, and murmurs—and Staff’s pointed stare—they strolled across the green lawns and cut through the rose gardens to the shooting range. The late summer gardens had greatly gone to riot now, and the leggy stemmed roses were making their last stands before frost time.

The king pulled his dagger and, with a flourish, cut her a full-budded white rose. “Put this rose here in your sweet bosom which that green velvet so naughtily hides, my Mary, where I may stoop and inhale its wonderful fragrance today,” he said low, and shot her that devilish, little boy grin of his she so adored. “Besides,” he went on as they continued walking, “I like for you to be in Tudor green and white. The king’s dearest possessions, you know.”

With his upper arm, he brushed her left breast firmly, deliberately, despite all the pairs of eyes, as they strolled the last yards to where squires had set up all the equipment for the shooting match. Yes, the quivers of arrows bore the Tudor colors and green-and-white Tudor pennants sprouted from the great, tall walls of Greenwich behind them. The king’s possessions, he had said, and rightly so, as everyone, especially her father, viewed things. Only, despite her exciting days and long nights with Henry, King of all England, she never really felt he possessed her. Her body yes—he took that repeatedly, but she still felt only flattered and touched. There was something yet to really being possessed that she knew was missing with this generous Tudor, and even with the selfish, handsome Francois before him. And, although her name might be Carey now, poor solemn Will hardly played a part in these thoughts.

“My dear Lady Carey,” the king’s voice boomed at her. “Have you taken to daydreaming so early in the day?”

“Oh, Your Grace, I am sorry. What did you say?” She shot him a dazzling smile and lowered her voice for the next words. “I am sorry, Sire, but the lack of sleep at night that makes me like this today is hardly all my fault.”

He threw back his golden-red head bellowing a laugh, so that everyone who was not staring already soon was. Henry Tudor looked overpowering in size, elaborate clothing, and the magnetic aura he always exuded. The peacock blue velvet which stretched across his muscular shoulders pulled taut when he bent to choose an arrow, as he did now. His loose-fitting back cape, which he would probably discard soon enough from the heat and exertion of his endeavors, swung easily to his gold-belted hips, and his brawny-thewed legs in dark blue hose were planted firmly apart in square-cut slashed velvet slippers as he shot his traditional first arrow to signal the start of their impromptu tourney. Gloved hands applauded madly though the shot was barely to the edge of the central red eye of the circles.

“’Sblood, I hope the entire morn will not be off target like that,” he groused.

“You are too fine a shot to even hint at such things,” Mary comforted, and was rewarded with another big Tudor grin.

“True, sweetheart, but some days can bring a terrible run of bad luck even to the best of us. But how your sweet face and words always cheer me, my golden Mary.” He bent to select another metal-tipped arrow from his green and white quiver, and fitted it carefully onto the string of the huge, polished oaken bow.

It was then, with a smile still on her face from the warmth of Henry’s compliment and affection, her clear blue eyes locked with the direct stare of William Stafford. The look was so blatant—so intimate, even across the servants holding the quivers and bows—that it nearly made her knees buckle. Confused, angry, she stared back until his impertinent gaze dropped to go over the whole length of her body like a rough, physical caress. Then he turned away, squinted down at his strung arrow and shot. His bow whanged, his arrow thudded, but she pulled her eyes quickly away to select an arrow for herself.

“That one hit head on, Mary! Did you see it?” the king was saying.

“Yes, it—yes, it was wonderful, Sire,” she replied, trying to steady her voice and her hand. The king was watching her first shot, probably others were too, even Staff. How marvelous he looked today, in darkest brown to match his hair and piercing eyes. She lifted her bow and pulled back the string. Here, the king had sent Will away and just when she was feeling light-hearted Staff, who had forced himself to be somewhat of a gentleman since the night of the masque, took to staring at her out here where anyone could see.

She snapped the bow string free from her gloved fingers, remembering to aim slightly higher than her mark as Will and the king had taught her. Damn that Stafford! she cursed silently, as her arrow thwacked the outer ring of the target.

“My sweet Mary’s face looks like a thundercloud,” the king teased, and she forced a smile. She refused to let Staff ruin this entire day, and she would never, never let him know he could affect her like this. She smiled again up at the king, whose ruddy face watched her, suddenly wary.

“Your Grace, it has been nearly a week since I have shot and I believe I could use another lesson. Sometimes with so many courtiers all about who shoot so very well, I get a little nervous. And after all, you are such a marvelous shot, and there you are looking at me too—” She let her voice trail off, somewhat ashamed of herself for so obviously trying to manipulate him, but she had seen enough ladies handling men over the last seven years to know how to do it when she needed to. Even father would be proud of her now.

“You need another lesson from a master,” the king said, and put his big hand over hers where she held her leather-wrapped bow grip. His smile was not intimate but caressing, and far more comforting than the sharp looks Staff shot at her.

“Yes, a lesson would be lovely, Your Grace, a private lesson without everyone gawking whenever I miss the mark.”

“Oh, well yes, only everyone just got all dressed for shooting at butts and now we can hardly shoo them all away after ten minutes, can we, my sweet lady?”

One of his large hands rested firmly on the small of her back as he bent to select an arrow for her bow. He squinted at it, and flipped it over scrutinizing the cut of the feathers. “A king’s arrow,” he said. “This one will shoot true.”

Reluctantly, she placed it and he helped her sight it, lifting her left elbow slightly as she held the arrow ready. Let them all think her a poor shot, she fumed. Queen Claude’s ladies were never allowed this sort of sport. Let Stafford give her those dark stares of his and the king think he possessed her when no one did. No one! Not Will, not her father, not her past, not even this great king whose bed she had shared almost nightly for a month.

Holding her breath, she released the string and the arrow pierced the heart of the target while the buoyant Henry Tudor laughed loudly. She laughed, joined by several nearby courtiers who hardly realized how close they had come to being banished from the butts range a few moments ago.

The day was back on an even keel for Mary. After all, the day was so lovely and her father had never been more proud of her. Cruel Francois had been replaced by this laughing, affectionate king, Will was not about to frown, and Staff had stalked off some-where and left her alone. Alone, yes, caught up in the array of all the activities. Alone inside where no one could ever really possess her heart.

She laughed, and impudently gave the great Henry a suggestion when he fielded his next shot.

That night, after feasting and dancing in the great hall of Greenwich, she had bathed, dressed in a flowing golden yellow silk chemise and robe and sat at her mirrored table while her tiring woman, Peg, brushed her long, thick tresses. Mary missed her young maid Nancy, but when Will was away and she slept nightly with the king, she always gave Nancy orders to stay with her sister Megan and used the regular palace servants. And she simply could not stand to have Jane Rochford fussing around her in the evenings to gloat and simper when she left for the king’s rooms. Her hair pulled and crackled now as if alive with some energy of its own in the cool September night as Peg ran the bristles through it.

Mary sat patiently awaiting the king’s summons so she could slip down the side hall to his suite of rooms, close to this lovely little suite he had given her and Will. She stared at her face and form in the candlelit mirror; oval face, the even, balanced features everyone seemed to admire—aristocratic Howard features, father always boasted. Huge blue eyes with dark, thick lashes despite the fairness of her skin and the light wheat-colored hue of her long hair. A slender neck, full breasts which the tight-bodiced fashions of the day could hardly abide, a flat stomach, rounded hips and long legs. And was it all of this, this outside beauty that made people, men, kings want her? Or, like Anne, was there something within that made them seek her out?

Mother loved her for herself, her old governess Semmonet too, but after that she was not certain if people just wanted her—or was that love? Oh, what was the use of all this foolish thinking, she scolded herself. It only spun her around in circles. Here, this very note lying right before her, a note from the King of England, said he “loved her desperately and eternally.” And it had come with her lucky bull’s-eye arrow pierced right through a heart drawn on the note and the huge signature “Henry Rex” as if she would not know what Henry had sent it!

“Are you ready, Lady Carey?” Peg’s voice broke into her reverie. “His Grace’s man be waitin’ outside wi’ two linkboys.”

Mary rose and, as a last thought, took the arrow-pierced love letter with her. It would not do to leave these lying about. She always destroyed any letters Henry had sent her. She was not sure why—to be careful like father perhaps, or to protect Will from hearing further gossip, or ever seeing such a note. Maybe so that she did not have to believe it was all true.

Peg wrapped her in the blue velvet cape she always wore in the halls over her nightwear, and Mary followed His Grace’s trusted body servant and one linkboy while the other brought up the rear. When they had begun this affair, Mary had asked the king to please summon her with trusted servants and not any of the courtiers who served him so closely in the treasured court appointments, however trusted they were supposed to be. And His Grace, though evidently amused to think it would ever keep anything secret, humored her by giving her her way.

At night there were always at least four Esquires to the Body within call of the privy chamber in case the king needed help with his clothes or food or someone to rail at. But she never saw them, of course, and Will was never on duty when she was with the king. The two gendarmes with their long silver poleaxes nodded to her and opened the king’s doors. No way to hide any king’s visitors from them, but then, she could not imagine their ever saying a word.

To her surprise, the king sat at a table cluttered with missives and rolled parchments. The firelights behind him edged his auburn head and massive red and black robed shoulders with a glowing, shifting outline. He rose immediately and gave her a huge, reassuring bearhug as soon as the doors closed. He wore nothing under his robe, she surmised, because she could see curling, reddish hair down to his navel where the robe split open and his big, powerful legs were bare to his feet thrust in velvet slippers.

“Mary. ’Sblood, you smell wonderful, but I hope that is not some damned French perfume. Worse and worse relationships with Francois’s minions, it seems. Sit here by the fire a moment. I will play servant and pour us some wine, my love.”

She laid her blue velvet cape on the back of a chair facing his huge, carved one across the table. “But I would be happy to serve you, Your Grace. You looked very busy when I came in. I shall get the wine.”

Like a big, scolded schoolboy, he did as she said, awkwardly covering his bare legs by folding his robe over them. She realized his eyes were on the pile of papers on the table and not her as she poured two goblets of his favorite sweet Osney from Alsace. Their fingers touched when she handed him his goblet, and he smiled up at her. Before she could move to the chair across from him, he pulled her gently toward him, indicating she should sit on his lap. Careful with her wine, she did so.

“I am afraid the wine is French, Sire, but I promise you my fragrance is not. Pure English dried lavender, lilies-of-the-valley and rose petals. I store my gowns in it.”

“Ah, is that it? A pity, sweet Mary,” his voice wrapped around her as warm as his hand on her hip, “for we shall have to dispense with this lovely yellow silk thing soon enough.” He nuzzled her silken shoulder and they sat quietly for a moment, content in their physical contact, listening to the warm crackle of the fire in this intimate moment.

He drained his wine and took her half-finished goblet from her unresisting fingers. “Sweet Mary, so beautiful and yet so untouched,” he said low.

“Hardly untouched, my lord king,” she chided and poked him playfully in his hard-muscled belly, but she saw then on his earnest face a fleeting mood of seriousness or sadness. She sat still to listen to what else would come.

“All the roistering about, all the gaming,” he began, evidently searching to express some difficult or new thought. “Well, you know how busy and demanding it is for me, especially now that I am taking over more from Chancellor Wolsey, keeping a closer eye on him and the realm’s business, as it were.”

She listened carefully, thinking how often her father tried to pry from her anything of import the king might say to her in a trusted or unguarded moment. She nodded to encourage him, but really, she had no idea where this confession would go.

“I mean to say, I do not know why an anointed king of the earth’s greatest realm has to be so set upon with petitioners and petty papers to read and sign, and tricky foreign realms to watch like Charles’s Spain and Margaret’s Austria and your wily Francois’s damned France!”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but neither the French king nor France are ‘mine.’”

“I did not mean it that way, sweet, really, only it galls me sore to think you were once his .”

She tried to scoot off his big lap but his hands held her hips against his strong thighs. “Sit, sit, madam. I meant not to rile you. We all make foolish errors, I warrant. Sit still, I say, Mary. I apologize.” He pulled her fiercely to him, his lips moving in her loose hair along her right temple, his hands stroking her silken back and hips.

“There now,” he crooned. “You are the last one in the world I want to turn argumentative, sweet. It is only that I get pent-up with all this business. I meant not to scold. By the saints, I need your serenity and beauty at the end of a day.”

She relaxed and shifted against his body, encircling his bull neck with her arms. There were so few quiet moments with this volatile, active man, yet he was telling her he craved them. She cuddled against him, savoring the affectionate caress Will had never given in his quick movements over her body. Peace and serenity, yes, like a little girl in her father’s arms.

But after she lay with him that night, she watched him move away and bend instantly over his papers. She had never seen this side of him, so distracted, yet filled with fierce concentration. She yawned and stretched luxuriously in the massive bed under the carved and gilded crest of the Tudor kings. She was tired and she could feel herself slipping away. It must be nearly midnight now.

Through a fog of her thoughts, she heard his quill pen occasionally scratch “Henry Rex” even as he had on that impassioned love letter. Henry Rex of England impassioned, passionate. Then why don’t I feel that way? she wondered, with one foot on the hazy edge of dreamy unreality.

She was full of his seed now as she was almost every night, and what would become of her if she conceived a child? But she never had all those times with Francois, that one terrible night with Lautrec, and now with Henry.

Proud, so proud, these kings. Never admitting they could be wrong except in little things, always having to be masterful and in charge. A paper rustled somewhere on the fringe of her thoughts, and a chair scraped back. Maybe he was coming to bed again. He had never before done work in the middle of the night.

She drifted softly, silently through the sweet-smelling rose gardens of Greenwich, or was it Hever? No, she must be at court, for everyone stood about shooting arrows at one another, laughing cruelly when someone was pierced. The king was laughing too, drawing his strong bow at everyone, and then she saw her father shooting his full brace of arrows from a never-empty quiver.

Arrows flew at her from everywhere—the air was black with them, and she was afraid. But none hit her.

Then she saw Staff by the tree, his arrows like his eyes. He raised his bow directly at her; she held up her arms and tried to scream but no sound came. She tried to run, but her feet were as heavy as lead.

His arrow whirred at her; she saw it coming and to her own amazement, she moved to meet it. It pierced her sweetly, deeply, and a rolling wave of rapture beat in her like coursing blood. Staff’s arrow penetrated her very soul and brought a note she now held in her trembling hands: I love you desperately and eternally. She looked up in amazement, but he had turned and was walking away.