“See?” she cries over and over. “See what my king does for me whom he loves?” She tips back her head and laughs that edgy laugh, her throat as long and graceful as a swan’s. “There is nothing he will not do to please me.”
“Unless you don’t get an heir in that belly of yours,” her sister teases.
Anne draws a hand back and brings it across Mary Carey’s cheek in a resounding slap. Tears light Mary’s eyes as she stares at her sister, scowling. As I regard her I realize, as if for the first time, how much Anne has taken from Mary; her lover, her place of high favor, and even her son. Anne has been given wardship of little Henry Carey, who is said to be another bastard of the king’s, because Anne supposedly feared for the boy’s moral development under Mary’s care. The court gossip is that in truth Anne adopted him in case she does not produce a male heir of her own. The likelihood that Henry would name the boy his heir is very slim, and everyone knows it to be a desperate move on Anne’s part. In any event, hopefully that is a plan she will not have to resort to. After all the trouble and heartache she and the king have wrought upon so many, the least they could do is produce a prince for the realm!
Mary brings her hand to her cheek and I am reminded of Mother doing the same whenever Norfolk spoke to her. Yes, there is a great deal of Howard in Anne.
For a moment the ladies are silent, until Anne adopts her lovely courtier’s smile. “I’m certain that is an area my”—she cocks a sweeping black brow in mischief—“virile king and I will have very little trouble in,” she says, causing many a speculative glance to be exchanged.
She has succeeded in lightening the mood, and soon everyone is back to discussing the voyage.
But Mary Carey stands in a corner, head bowed, staring at Catherine’s jewels—more things that Anne has stolen.
After we ogle the jewels some more, Madge Shelton and I extricate ourselves from Anne’s apartments and return to the maidens’ chamber to pick out our favorite gowns for the trip.
“She’s a wench, isn’t she?” Madge asks as she helps me unlace my sleeves to get ready for supper.
I am surprised she offers such open criticism of our mutual relation and want to agree, but guard my tongue. One never knows from one moment to the next when another’s loyalties will shift.
“I know I wouldn’t have wanted Princess Catherine’s jewels if I were her,” Madge goes on. “I’d want my own. Really, Mary, it’d be like wanting the wedding ring of your husband’s dead wife. It’s sort of…well, rather like a circling vulture, don’t you think?”
I can’t help but nod at that.
As she helps ease my sleeve off she brushes against the shoulder my father had squeezed with such enthusiasm some time ago. I try to stifle a groan, but it has escaped and Madge grabs my arm, examining the bruise that has faded from onyx black to a deep purple.
“God’s blood, Mary, who did this to you?” she asks, raising concerned blue eyes to me.
I withdraw my arm, smiling. “It was so silly,” I tell her. “I ran into a doorway. I’m so clumsy sometimes.”
Her lips twist. “Did the doorway resemble a man’s hand?”
I cover my shoulder with my sleeve. I have no words. I want to defend myself, to contradict her implications, but cannot. I bow my head, blinking back tears.
“It’s him, isn’t it? The duke?” she wants to know. Her voice is gentle but bears an edge, the same edge Anne adopts when angry. When I say nothing she continues. “Everyone knows about him, Mary. How he treats your mother. Tales have circulated…”
“It isn’t true,” I say, knowing I must stop her. “Whatever you’ve heard, put it out of your head. Please, if you have any love for me, stop this and do not take part in spreading any false rumors about my honored father.”
Madge’s eyes fill with tears as she finishes helping me dress. “You are very loyal, Mary. May it serve you well.”
I say nothing in my panic, wondering what the court whispers about my father, about my mother, about dark secrets that should never be aired.
That night I cannot contain my misery as I report to Norfolk. I tell him of Anne’s triumphant exclamations when her jewels were delivered, of her slapping her sister, of her provocative comment, which he makes me recite over and over. He tilts his head this way and that as he analyzes the statement.
“She’s far too confident in her own abilities,” he says after a while. “Her arrogance will destroy her if she isn’t careful. Damn!” He slams his fist on the desk. “If she’d heed my advice—what’s the matter with you?”
He has noted my tears, which I do not keep hidden as I stand before him.
“People are talking about you,” I tell him.
He offers what I describe as his almost laugh. A sound lacking in sincerity and warmth. “That’s nothing new. People talk about everyone; I daresay gossip could sustain the court should our foodstuffs run out.”
“They say you are cruel,” I go on.
“Not the worst reputation a man can have,” he says. “Better to be cruel than soft. Soft people don’t get ahead in life, do they?”
He then continues about Anne, airing his complaints as though my interposition has not affected him at all, as I am sure it has not. I close my ears to his words. There is nothing that pertains to me anyway.
My hopes for the conversation die. Hopes that he would be moved to repent of his ways and perhaps offer kindness and…softness.
I am diverted by our departure for France. The mood is gay and there is happiness even in our frantic, last-minute preparations. When we board the ship I am delighted to learn my brother and the Duke of Richmond are also joining us.
My brother Surrey clasps me to him when he sees me. “Look at you! Aren’t you the little lady?” he cries when he sees me standing at the railing on deck. I am relishing the feeling of the crisp wind, salty with sea spray, whipping against my face, the roll of the waves beneath my feet. In its uncertainty the sea feels wonderful and dangerous and exciting.
“Oh, Henry!” I am so thrilled at his affectionate display I wrap my arms tight about his neck. “It is so wonderful to see you! These glimpses at court I have been afforded are never enough!”
He laughs his easy laugh and holds me at arm’s length. “My God, you are a beauty. Has Father spoken to you about your marriage, then?”
I shake my head. I know it is inevitable and a slight thrill causes me to shiver as I entertain the thought. “Not since the plans for Bulbeck were tossed aside,” I answer. It is just as well, too. Imagine how much I’d miss if I were some country lord’s wife!
“Well, soon enough…” he says. “Lady Anne has plans for you. She and Father and—”
“Mistress Mary!”
I curtsy to the Duke of Richmond, who is running toward me, hands outstretched. I place mine in them and he rights me. At once the ship lurches forward, carried on a wave, and to my extreme embarrassment I topple over onto Fitzroy, knocking him to the ground. My brother helps us up, laughing.
My cheeks are burning. “I’m deeply sorry, my lord.”
“It’s Harry!” he grumbles in perfect imitation of his father. He offers a sideways grin. “That’s a greeting I’ll well remember!”
I bow my head, hoping my display doesn’t get back to Norfolk or the king, especially the king. I don’t want him to think I behaved wantonly in front of his son, illegitimate or not.
“A merry voyage this will be!” he continues. “We are invited to stay among the princes, Surrey and I, so a jolly time we shall spend with the naughty court of France!”
“How wonderful!” I cry, envying the lack of supervision at the famed French court where Lady Anne spent her own youth. “Henry, I have so much to show you! I’ve written verse. I write all the time. Will you look at it?”
“Of course!” he cries, and I run to retrieve my little casket of poems, eager to show my brother, so adept at poetry himself that I am at once intimidated and thrilled that he’d deign to look at my humble works.
>
We find an unobtrusive little corner where I allowed my brother full access to my compositions, save the unfinished “O Happy Dames.”
My brother looks them over. I am surprised at how fast he can read, for he flips through the pages almost carelessly. I am a little annoyed. I had hoped he would take his time with each phrase and offer helpful criticisms.
“You write a lot about God,” he says. “About your desire to be closer to Him and understand Him more through His own Word. Do you think this is wise?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask, defensive. “Who doesn’t want to learn more about God?”
Surrey’s face is stony. “I just think it echoes a lot of the New Learning. Steer clear of it, Mary.”
At once I remember my mother’s advice: Believe what they want you to believe. “No worries, brother. I follow my king,” I say with a sweet smile.
“That’s my girl,” he says, chucking me under the chin. He hands my poetry to Harry Fitzroy without my permission.
“What did you think, Henry?” I ask, nodding to the poems now in the young duke’s hands. He is reading them slowly. He does not flip through the pages as my brother did. I wonder what this portends. Perhaps he, too, finds some of it verging on heretical?
My brother shrugs. “Very pretty attempts, Mary. Adorable, even.”
My heart sinks. I did not want my poetry to be described the way one would an endearing puppy or child.
“We must go to the king now,” Surrey tells me. “We cannot be seen dallying with you too long. Come, Harry.”
Harry waves my brother off. Surrey starts ahead and Harry returns my poems. “I think they’re quite good—so much feeling,” he tells me. He nods toward my brother, adding sotto voce, “Don’t mind him. He’s jealous of anyone who tries their hand with any success at poetry or anything else.”
I smile. “Thank you, Harry.”
“We’ll have fun in France together, Mistress Mary,” he says, tossing me a bright smile that reflects in his blue eyes as he follows my brother to join the other gentlemen.
My heart is light. Harry managed to assuage my brother’s slight with his kind words.
France is going to be wonderful!
We arrive in Calais, England’s last French holding, and I feel a freedom not known at home. I find myself laughing and joining in the mindless chatter as never before. The people of the town greet our procession with mixed feelings; some cheer “Vive le roi!” while others remain silent, guarded, unsure why they should pay homage to a king who does not speak their language altogether well or respect their long-held religious values. I do not allow myself to be vexed by those who are less than enthusiastic at our arrival, but get caught in the joy of the adventure.
I ride in a litter with Anne. She peeks out of the curtains, tossing out handfuls of coins here and there. A triumphant grin lifts the corners of her mouth. “This is the first step,” she says.
Anne’s mood changes abruptly, however, when we reach our quarters in the castle, where she is informed that we will not be permitted to go to Boulogne after all. The queen of Navarre has taken ill, so cannot attend Anne.
“Pah!” Anne cries, throwing herself on a chaise. “So Henry is to go dine with King François without me! All this way—for nothing!” Her little hands ball into fists, clenching the rich blue velvet of her gown.
It doesn’t seem for nothing when Anne receives a beautiful diamond from King François. Her angled face softens; the storm in her obsidian eyes calms.
“Oh, Lady Anne, it is so grand!” I cry. “He must hold you in high esteem.”
She casts a sideways glance at me and chuckles.
When King Henry returns from the French court he brings Anne an even bigger surprise: King François himself.
An extravagant entertainment is held for King François, with masking, dancing, and fine food. Anne glides across the floor, making the king of France another slave to her charms.
I am thrilled to be masking like a grown-up lady. I have never participated in one before. Now, swathed in gold and white, I dance before two great kings, all thoughts of Norfolk’s warning that I am being watched forgotten. Norfolk is far too occupied with the kings, and I am acting under Anne’s orders. Anne, our future queen. He cannot hurt me here.
Harry Fitzroy encircles my waist with his slim arm and leads me in a dance. “Who can this great lady be?” he asks.
I giggle. “I am a Muse,” I say.
“A Muse with hair like flame,” he says, his blue eyes boring into mine.
My cheeks grow hot. My steps falter.
“Now, who is the lady behind the masque?” he asks, pulling my wrist down to reveal my face. His smile is kind. “Mistress Mary…”
“Harry,” I breathe. For a moment I cannot speak. At once I am struck by the boy’s handsomeness, a picture of the king in his youth. His looks are enhanced by his sincerity and I am touched. I clear my throat. “Doesn’t Lady Anne look beautiful tonight?”
“I cannot see her,” he says. “My view is obstructed by a beauty as blinding as the sun.”
I burst into laughter at this. Harry’s eyes reflect genuine hurt and I am quick to cut short my giggling.
“Oh, Harry, I am sorry,” I say. “It is you who has the poet’s heart. Thank you for your lovely compliments.”
The dance ends and Harry bows. I curtsy.
“I hope we see each other again before you leave,” he says, pressing my warm hand in his cool one.
“I hope so, too, my dear lord,” I say, my smile effortless and genuine.
My opportunity to see Harry comes in the form of a storm that delays our departure to England. The ladies are occupied with embroidery and reading, King Henry has whisked Anne away somewhere beyond my hearing, and I wander the halls of the castle without accompaniment, a rarity that my father would stridently disapprove of. But then Norfolk is occupied with his duties and hasn’t bothered with me throughout the whole of our trip, which makes me fear him less.
I know not to go too far. I’ve heard tales of girls who met grave misfortune when wandering the dark halls of castles. Rapes, even murders occur. To the infinite convenience of the evildoers, there are never any witnesses.
I meet Harry, who is accompanied by my brother, some other young courtiers, and liveried attendants. He breaks into a smile when he sees me, takes off his cap and bows. His cheeks are flushed. I see the merry effects of fine French wine sparkling in his eyes.
“How now, Mary?” he asks. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I was only taking my exercise,” I tell him. “I can’t go outside what with this weather.”
“Nonsense,” Harry says with a laugh. “We’re about to do just that, aren’t we, lads?” There are a few grunts and laughs. “We’re going to ride down to the beach and watch the storm.”
“Oh, my lord, you mustn’t!” I cry. “You could catch a chill and His Majesty wouldn’t like it at all!”
Harry winks. “His Majesty is occupied….”
My face burns. I blink several times, not knowing how to respond.
“Come with us, Mistress Mary,” Harry says then.
“I can’t go unaccompanied!” I laugh.
“Your brother is with you; he’ll protect you.” Harry laughs in turn. “Come along! If it makes you feel better, fetch some of the ladies. We’ll make a party of it.”
I hesitate, knowing no ladies will want to come and soil their pretty gowns. It is such an intoxicating offer, the freedom of riding in the tempest, the rain biting my cheeks…
“They won’t,” I say in defeat.
“Then you will,” Harry says. “Come now. Let’s ride!”
Well, my brother is with us after all. It isn’t as though I am completely without a chaperone. And the Duke of Richmond is almost a prince. It wouldn’t do to disobey him. I follow the little group to the stables, where we mount horses that Harry assures us are ours for the borrowing. There is no sidesaddle for me and I am not in a habit, so must m
ake do with what is provided. Harry himself helps me up and I offer a pretty courtier’s smile of gratitude.
The group rides through the town, the sound of the horses’ hooves on wet cobbles music to my ears. The rain pelts against my face and neck and I relish in it, just as I thought I would. The wind whips my hair about my shoulders in a honeyed mane and I laugh out loud.
“What a sight you are, Mary,” my brother says. I cannot discern whether he is pleased by what he sees, however.
The beast beneath me is magnificent; the feel of her muscles stretching and working invigorates me and I employ her full potential as we ride along the turbulent surf.
“It’s so beautiful!” Harry cries as we bring our horses to a halt to watch the waves raging and crashing against the shore. The rain falls in a torrent; does it come from sky or sea? I tilt my head back to catch some of the drops in my open mouth. They are salty sweet on my tongue.
Harry rides closer to me. “Look, Mistress Mary! A rainbow. Do you see it? Oh, there’s every color…red, violet, even Tudor green, I daresay!”
I scan the gray horizon where sky and sea frolic together and merge as one, coupling as I imagine the gods to do. My eyes fall upon the rainbow, a great arch across the sky. “God’s promise,” I say in soft tones.
“What?” Harry leans in.
His proximity startles me and I draw back with a nervous laugh. “His promise to never punish us again with a flood…his promise for brighter days filled with color and beauty.”
Harry smiles, reaching out. I think he may touch me, but he strokes my horse’s silvery mane instead. His expression is dreamy. “Oh, Mistress Mary, such are the days we shall know.” He tosses his strawberry blond head back, laughing. “Isn’t it wonderful to be alive?”
My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Yes. It is wonderful to be alive.”
My sopping wet gown I explain away as having been a result of my brother pulling me out into the deluge to see the magnificent rainbow. No one questions me. Everyone is caught up in the latest gossip.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 9