“I think he expected me to submit without a qualm, but I told him that I was a married woman and feared to offend my husband. He said my husband need never know, and that he had had mistresses before without anyone finding out. I said I would know, and that I could not betray Will. No one would believe it, Anne—first King Fran?ois, and now King Henry! Why me?”
“Some might envy you,” Anne observed. “I wouldn’t.”
Mary was scrunching up the fine silk in her agitation. “I barely avoided ruining my reputation at the French court. I dare not risk it again here. And I don’t want the King.”
“I can understand that,” Anne agreed. “Remove the crown and the fine clothes, and you’re left with a fairly ordinary man. You should stick to your resolve and keep your distance. Never give him an opportunity to pursue you.”
Mary looked doubtful. “He is the King—and he is persistent.”
—
The great double doors swung open, and the wheels squeaked as the pageant car began its cumbersome progress into the hall, pulled by strong men concealed beneath the foliage that adorned it. Its centerpiece, the flimsy wooden green castle into which Anne and seven other ladies had squeezed themselves, began to judder alarmingly, and they were thankful when it came to a stop.
She could hear the voice of a herald announcing: “Le Chateau Vert!” Beside her, Mary was still sniffing, her eyes having filled with tears when confronted with the three banners that hung from the castle. They depicted three broken hearts, a lady’s hand holding a man’s heart, and a lady’s hand turning a man’s heart.
“He has ordered this!” she whispered to Anne. “He thinks to turn my heart.”
“Come!” the Duchess of Suffolk had commanded, unaware of Mary’s distress, and there had been no time for Anne to comfort her sister, or exhort her to stay strong. She knew Mary was weakhearted, and feared she would not have the courage to stand up to the King. She would have liked to box his ears—and worse—for doing this to Mary, who had suffered enough at the hands of royalty.
They were silent now, awaiting the blare of trumpets that would signal the start of the pageant. They could hear the applause of the diners, the muffled exclamations of surprise and delight—well deserved too, for Master Cornish, the deviser of the pageant, had created a beautiful setting for it. The castle was surrounded by realistic gardens and bushes, and he must have had an army of seamstresses up for nights making the silk flowers that adorned them.
The trumpets sounded, and Anne and the other ladies adjusted their masks, gathered their skirts, and burst forth from the castle. They were wearing identical white satin gowns embroidered with Milan-point lace and gold thread, silk cauls, and Milanese bonnets of gold encrusted with jewels. Each had embroidered a name on her bonnet. Anne was Perseverance, Mary was Kindness—a name she now regretted choosing, in case it gave the King some encouragement—Jane Parker was Constancy, and the Duchess of Suffolk, out in front, was leading the dancers in the guise of Beauty.
At the high table before them, the Queen sat with the ambassadors, watching the pageant with evident enjoyment. When the ladies had danced, eight masked lords appeared, clad in cloth-of-gold hats and cloaks of blue satin. They too had names: Love, Nobleness, Youth, Devotion, Loyalty, Pleasure, Gentleness, and Liberty. The man who led them wore crimson satin sewn with burning flames of gold, on which the name Ardent Desire was emblazoned. It was Master Cornish, not the King, but Anne knew that Henry was among the eight masked dancers, in the guise of Love. The names, the whole theme of the pageant, seemed to symbolize the King’s pursuit of her sister.
At the appearance of the lords, the ladies retreated hurriedly into the castle, whereupon the gallant gentlemen rushed the fortress to an explosion of gunfire, which had some of the audience shrieking. Anne and her fellows defended their stronghold with gusto, throwing comfits at the besiegers, or sprinkling them with rose water. They in turn were assaulted with dates, oranges, and other fruits, and of course the outcome was inevitable. The men had to win and force the defenders to surrender. Triumphantly they took the ladies by the hand, escorted them down to the floor as prisoners, and led them in a lively circle dance. Anne saw that the King was partnering Mary. She could sense Mary’s fear, dancing with her would-be seducer in front of the Queen and the whole court, with people perhaps drawing conclusions as they watched them together. But when the dance came to an end and everyone unmasked themselves, to much merriment and applause, Mary was nowhere to be seen.
For a moment Anne saw the King standing alone frowning, but he was quickly in command of himself, and headed off to host a banquet for his guests in the Queen’s apartments.
Anne was one of those who had been excused attendance. Still in her costume, she hurried off to search for Mary, but could not find her. Concerned, she returned to the hall and sought out George to ask if he had seen her. She found him lounging on a bench, and nearly turned back when she saw that he was with Henry Norris and another man. They were all guffawing at some jest, plainly flushed with wine.
“I’ve lost Mary,” Anne said, trying not to look at Henry Norris. “She left before the pageant ended. I hope she’s all right.”
“Mary can take care of herself,” George said. “No need to worry.”
Norris was smiling at her. Her eyes met his, which were warm and admiring, and she looked down.
“No matter,” she said, and walked away, her heart pounding.
—
She fretted about Mary all that night, unable to sleep. In the morning, before the cold cuts, bread, and ale were brought to the Queen’s dining room for breakfast, she skipped prayers in the chapel and ran to Mary’s lodging. There she bumped into Will Carey, who was leaving for the King’s apartments.
“I can’t stop, Anne, I’m late,” he cried, and sped off.
Anne raced up the stairs.
“Mary!” she called. “Mary, are you all right?”
The door opened and Mary stood there, looking tragic.
“Thank God you’ve come,” she said. “I thought Will would never go.” Then she dissolved into great gulping tears.
“What is it?” Anne cried. “Is it the King?”
Mary was retching now, bending double and bringing up clear bile, which dripped to the floor. Anne suppressed the urge to recoil. “Tell me,” she urged.
“He forced me,” Mary moaned. “While we were dancing in the pageant, he commanded me to wait for him in the little banqueting house by the tennis courts. He said he had to speak to me. I did not want to go, but I was frightened to offend him. I waited ages, and I was frozen when he did come, and then…Oh, Anne, it was awful…And now I have betrayed Will, even though I didn’t want to.”
It beggared belief that two kings had raped Mary. No one, finding out, would ever believe that she had been unwilling. So no one must ever find out.