by Karen Harper
He loosed her waist but seized both her hands in a grip which almost pained her. “Dearest Mary, you must see how entranced I am with you. I will see that you are cared for and protected always. You have ensnared my love. You will bear Will Carey’s name and perhaps his children, but I would sue for your love.”
He raised her hands to his lips and, straightening her curled fingers, kissed her open palms. “Your king is only a man in this, Mary. Fear him not. Yield yourself to him, and his gratitude will be eternal.”
Mary gazed up into his eyes and was ashamed to feel how much she enjoyed this. Francois had only taken and without such pretty words.
“Do you understand, Mary?”
“Yes, Your Grace, I believe so.”
“Will you be my love?”
She felt a nearly overwhelming urge to say “Perhaps,” or laugh and skip off to see if he would follow, but she dared not and father awaited dinner. “You are so direct, so—powerful, my king. I mean that as a compliment. You are so different from...from men in France.”
“I am English, Mary, and the king. Yet I beseech you to yield to me. I do not order.”
The old lie again, the tiny voice in her head warned. But unless you are pleased, Sire, destruction would surely follow, she thought.
“My heart belongs to no one else, my lord king. If given but a chance, I am sure...”
He swept her up in a huge bear hug and his warm, masculine affections melted her reserve. She preferred this openness to his hot kisses. Why could her father never be like this? How her love would flow out to him then. What she would not do for her father if he would only love her and show it like this.
“My father has always loved to serve you, King Henry, and so shall I, though I intend not to be an ambassador.” She blushed at her poor joke and her use of his Christian name.
Their laughter intertwined, his boyishly loud, hers sweetly musical.
“No, indeed, Mary, we shall find some service more suited to your lovely talents. And you shall call me your Henry when we are alone, as much we shall be, golden Mary.”
Her father waited on the front entrance steps all smiles, and Mary saw Semmonet peer from an upstairs window. She gave William Stafford her most condescending smile as they went into dinner where her mother hovered about the head table.
And while the Bullens ate and laughed and listened to their king through the long afternoon, another dark summer storm came to rend the peaceful landscape at Hever.
CHAPTER TWELVE
August 18, 1520
Greenwich
The great river glittered green in the hot summer air, but here on the barge the breeze was always delightful. “A perfectly lovely day,” her mother had said over and over. A perfect day for a wedding.
Mary looked down again at her hands resting in her lap and at the new gold band which glinted on her finger. She was Lady Carey now, and this quiet, solicitous man beside her was her new lord. She prayed God Will Carey would not hate her.
In the awkward silence she took to staring at her knees again, covered so elegantly and properly with the sleek ivory satin that reflected the glint of afternoon sunlight on the Thames and bespoke she was a bride. Was it a grim twist of fate that the color of mourning for the French indicated a bridal day in King Henry’s England? Her skirt was a graceful bell shape elongated in back so that she pulled a five-foot train when she walked. When she danced tonight, she would lift that traditional bridal train free of the floor with a clever hidden handstrap of silk the royal dressmaker had showed her. Decorative slashings in front of the skirt revealed a golden brocade kirtle underneath which also echoed in the gold linings of the loose second sleeves turned back fashionably from the fitted undersleeves edged with lace. Tiny satin-faced roses of delicate pink rimmed her square neckline and dotted the tight ivory satin bodice which pushed up the rounded, creamy tops of her breasts to full advantage. His Grace’s eyes had seemed to linger there today, but she was quite unsure of what Will Carey had seen when he scrutinized her. She tossed her waist-length golden hair, brushed free and studded with fancy ribbons and sweet flowers in the fashion of a bride, and Will shifted in his seat beside her as though he sensed she were restive.
Their barge was heading downstream to Greenwich from the City where they had been wed at Great Saint Helen’s, Bishopsgate, only an hour ago. It all seemed like some misty dream: holding Will’s gentle hand and reciting the vows, her mother’s tearful face, Semmonet’s proud wink, George’s pride to be near the king. The king had come with a few courtiers, wished them well and kissed her cheek, his loud voice echoing to the Benedictine nunnery chapel in the south nave of the church.
The king had come. Her eyes squinted downriver, but his royal barge festooned in Tudor green and white had disappeared ahead of them, around the broad bend of the River Thames near The Tower. She was grateful the king had not brought William Stafford to her wedding. His accusing gaze would certainly have ruined things. The fact that father was in France on king’s business and missed the wedding was grief enough for one day.
“Your dress is so beautiful, Mary. Had I told you so?”
“You did, Will, but I thank you again. The service was fine, and I am looking forward to our banquet.”
“And to the night to come, Mary?” He put his hand carefully on her satin knee and his eyes were in earnest. “You are so very beautiful. I gained much today.”
Indeed you have, she thought, revenue and lands from your king, but she said only, “I hope I will please you, my lord.”
His hair looked almost reddish in the shade of the awning. His gold and ivory doublet fashionably slashed with his lacy, puffed shirt pulled through for effect, matched her colors perfectly. Despite the warmth of the August day, Will wore an ermine-edged mantle across his shoulders and an impressive, heavy gold chain with a medallion over his chest signifying that he served the king as an esquire. His flat, gold brocade hat sported a long white plume and his gartered hose were obviously new-made to match his stylish square-toed slippers.
Surely, since Will was privy to His Grace in his valued court appointment, and with all the new gifts of lands, he knew fully of her circumstances with the king. Surely His Grace had explained to him. His hand remained on her leg, but he turned again to talk to his sister Eleanor, a learned ten-year nun, a sophisticated gray-eyed woman with a high brow and thin nose. Mary felt she had almost gained two new sisters-in-law in one day, for George would soon wed Jane Rochford and Elizabeth Bullen, to George’s obvious annoyance, had invited Jane today.
Jane sat near George now, who stared, tight-lipped, out over the water while she leaned toward him, chattering. The girl’s face was pert and beguilingly heart-shaped, her cheeks and lips rosy, but her snappy eyes darted about entirely too much, as if her thoughts were on a hundred different flights at once. Her raven black hair shone in the sun but she was always tossing it or petting it with her quick little hands. Her shapely eyebrows had a most disconcerting habit of arching up entirely too much, as if everything she heard were some marvelous disclosure.
Poor George. Semmonet had told Mary that George had long loved Margot Wyatt, who had been their playmate from the manor next to Hever. Little Margot Wyatt with her freckles and skinny legs. But Semmonet said she had grown to quite a beauty. A pity the Wyatts had no title or lands which Thomas Bullen coveted.
The massive gray walls of the Tower of London slipped by, and the waves from their barge lapped at its stony skirts. The watergate guarded by the ugly iron teeth of its portcullis was nicknamed Traitor’s Gate, for the worst sorts of prisoners of the crown entered there, never to return to freedom. The battlements of the White Tower peered over the walls at them. Thank the merciful Lord God there had been no prisoner’s heads or rotting corpses hanging from London Bridge on the day of her wedding.
“Mary.” Jane Rochford’s animated face bent over her shoulder. “It was so kind of you to have me here today. And how wonderful that His Grace would come! I heard the wedding
feast is his gift to you, and there will be dancing.”
“Yes, Jane. His gift to me and to Will.”
“Oh, of course. I pray my wedding to George is only half as wonderful.”
“I am certain you will be as happy, Jane.”
“Do you think we will have a banquet at court?”
“I do not know. George will have to speak to his father on that.”
“I was thinking, Mary, that your name now rhymes, like a sonnet—Mary Carey.”
Will turned his head to stare up at the Rochford girl.
“If I can be of aid to either of you, I shall be most willing. I am proud to be marrying into such a wonderful family as the Bullens.” She curtseyed and turned back to George.
“I warrant everything is wonderful with that little chatterbox,” Will commented under his breath. “Does she know the Careys are not a family newly arrived at court, but a venerable one of once-fine standing?”
Amazed at his hurt and angered tone, Mary instinctively touched his arm. “Tell me of it, Will. Father said something of it, but I would hear it from you.”
“I want you to know all of the tragedy, Mary, now that you are my wife, for Eleanor and I can share our burden with you.”
At her name, his sister bent close to Will’s shoulder as if to become a full member of their conversation. Her clear gray eyes seemed to have great depth as they peered down her elegant nose. “She can hardly share the full burden, dearest Will. She is not born a Carey.”
“She is now a Carey by marriage, Eleanor.” He cleared his throat nervously and momentarily glanced toward the grassy bank where a group of fieldworkers shouted and waved their hats at the decorated barge. Had they seen their king pass by only minutes ago? Mary wondered.
“There were several families of great bearing and rank who made the mistake of taking the Yorkish side in the late civil war, Mary. The Careys of Durham were one of those families who lost vast lands and wealth when the Lancastrians were victorious. Our present king’s father, our sovereign King Henry VII, had a long memory for disobedience, as does this king. Though our generation does not suffer direct persecution,” he reached for Eleanor’s hand, “we are given little. We are earning our way back.”
“And my dear brother’s marriage to you is a fine sign of our return to our proper status, though the marriage was not arranged by us.”
“I see,” said Mary.
“And I, of course, aspire to be a Prioress of a great order in the Holy Church. And now, with Will so near the king’s influence we shall see.”
“Yes. His Grace has given Will some revenue grants as well as a fine position already,” Mary said foolishly, realizing they knew well of the new honors.
“Perhaps Esquire to the Body is not a fine position, Mary, but a sound beginning.” Eleanor Carey nodded pertly as though the lesson were over, and she leaned back and straightened in her seat again.
She hates me, Mary thought. They feel their blue-blood requires me for the status they want. She despises me.
The green swards and trees, red brick turrets and banners of Greenwich loomed into view. Fine white stone statues of the king’s beasts guarded the barge landing, but Mary saw instead the tiny chess pawn Princess Mary Tudor had given her so long ago. Not griffins and lions and unicorns lined the graveled path to the palace, but kings and queens and knights and pawns.
“Here, Mary.” Will was offering her his hand as they climbed from their velvet seats on the barge. “Come, my wife. The king awaits.”
Mary ate little of the fabulous meal, for her stomach had suddenly twisted into knots. Her detached calm was gone. She feared not, yet she had to force herself to nod, to smile, to converse. She loved bucknade and stuffed partridge, but still her food went largely untouched. George took to teasing her and eating off her plate while Jane scolded him for his rough manners.
The wine was good though, sweet and cool from the vast cellars at royal Greenwich. The king had raised numerous toasts to the young bridal couple, and even thought to give a fine father’s toast in the absence of his dear servant, Thomas. The king might as well be my father now anyway, Mary thought petulantly. He sits by my beautiful mother, gives us the bridal feast and controls my life. But I wish father had the king’s warmth. She took another deep drink of the wine.
When dusk descended, the servants lit tapers and cleared the tables. The musicians played from the gallery until, at a graceful handsignal from their king, their ranks swelled and they broke into a gay wedding coranto. Will seized Mary’s hand, and they followed along in the tiny running steps led by the king and the blushing Lady Bullen.
Mary felt rather dizzy and soon laughter bubbled spontanously on her lips. How Annie would love this revelry here at Greenwich with the king and chosen members of his inner circle. And how proud her father would be to see it! Was he thinking of her wedding day far away at Francois’s Amboise?
The king bowed and claimed her hand for the stately pavan, and Will danced with her mother. Mary felt no nervousness as she lengthened her steps slightly to match the king’s long strides. He wore deepest crimson with golden trim, and his white silken shirt and broad collar made his healthy complexion glow in the candlelight. The tiny roses on her white slashed skirts and the pink ruff above the square bodice seemed to echo the louder brilliance of his colors. They turned and bowed, whirled and began the pattern again.
Mary felt less giddy by the time the faster galliards began with the sackbutts wailing and fydels and lutes lilting from the upper balcony. She turned in her hand-to-hand progress down the line, and came face to face with her new partner, William Stafford.
“I had not seen you,” she shot out breathlessly as they swept through the raised arms of a silken and velvet arch.
“I had vowed not to set foot here to ruin your fine day, but I could not resist just a look at the festivities—and the bride. You look ravishing. My best wishes for your happiness—with Will Carey, I mean.”
“Is it not possible for you to be civil? Must you always accuse and provoke and...”
“Hush, Mary, or people will notice. You are at court now. You have not yet learned to hide your feelings. I suggest here in the bear pit you try harder.” The dance ended with a graceful, sweeping bow.
“I detest you, William Stafford.”
“That is better, sweetheart,” he said low. “Anyone gazing on that lovely face now would think you loved me well enough as any friend to your new husband.”
“Staff, I had thought you were busy elsewhere today.” Will Carey clapped the taller man lightly on the shoulder as he approached.
“I only stopped to wish you both well. As I told you, Will, I knew your bride briefly in France when His Grace assigned me to be liaison to Lord Bullen.”
“Staff and I have some things in common here at court, you see, Mary.”
“Indeed?”
“The Staffords are as in disgrace as the Careys. Only,” Will swung his eyes about the crowded room and lowered his voice, “the Stafford treason was more recent than the War of Roses.”
“Treason,” Mary echoed.
“Have you not heard of the Colchester Rebellion, Lady Carey? My uncle swung from the hanging tree at Tyburn and my father, being but a lad, was pardoned. As they are both dead now, I pay for their guilt.”
“Their poor ghosts still haunt the Stafford family manor, Mary,” Will put in.
“Or so my elderly aunt claims. She says one or the other of the dead rebels’ spirits still goes up and down the staircase at night wailing ‘down with this wretched king!’” William Stafford stared fixedly into her face.
“Which king?” Mary asked wide-eyed.
“I know not, Lady Carey. I have yet to see or hear the ghost. It does not amuse it to walk about in bedrooms during the days I am home at Wivenhoe.”
Though he recited the incidents in a straightforward way, it seemed to Mary that William Stafford’s mocking undercurrent was still there. “But you are not in prison as heir to thei
r rebellion, Master Stafford. You serve closely to the king in his court.”
“Exactly, lady. She will learn fast here, Will. And maybe we should be watched. Those of us who are paying the price of some great indiscretion never fear committing the little ones,” he said, his gaze still on Mary’s face despite Will Carey’s growing unease. “A good evening to you both.” Stafford bowed suddenly and was gone, as though he had sensed the approach of the king behind his back.
“It is fair time, everybody, time indeed,” Henry Tudor bellowed and the music ceased instantly. He seized Mary’s hand and pulled her under one great arm and Will Carey under the other in a massive hug.
“Ladies, hasten to put the bride to bed, for we men shall be up soon and a new lord likes to find his wench awaiting him and ready!”
Everyone laughed and Henry Tudor bent his head to kiss her hotly on the mouth. His breath smelled of cloves and wine. Horrified in front of the clapping crowd, she yielded, annoyed and ashamed. She was suddenly grateful that her dear friend the Duchess of Suffolk was in childbed and could not see her triumphal wedding feast, a gift from the king. And, of course, had Queen Catherine chosen to attend, Mary would have died from shame this very moment.
“Come on, Mary, run,” cried Jane Rochford as she seized Mary’s dangling arm and pulled. Her mother, Rose Dacre, and several giggling women behind her, Mary fled. Breathless, they mounted the steps to the room where Will had slept these last two nights she had been at Greenwich, while she had bedded with her mother.
A waiting Semmonet had already turned down the smooth linen sheets. The younger ladies peeled Mary out of her bridal dress, and, through her own tears, Mary saw the tears on her mother’s face.
“Be happy for me, mother,” she pleaded quietly while the laughing women fetched her night chemise and lacy robe.
“I am, my dearest. I was only remembering my wedding night and all my dreams then.”