She faced him squarely, calmly, fighting to keep panic and disdain from her face. Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of Staff in a tawny and gold doublet on the path a little way behind Will. Staff—with a lovely woman on each arm. If they approached Will and her while Will probed so suspiciously, she would be lost for certain.
“Will! Will Carey!” Will turned away and squinted into the late morning sun. It was Sir Francis Weston in the most incongruous yellow for such a masculine sporter and soldier, and quite out of breath. “Will and Mary! His Grace has asked me to fetch you to his table directly. He said the entire Bullen family should be together today to please the Lady Anne.”
They set off across the path at a good clip, and Mary could feel Staff’s eyes boring into her from behind. To please the Lady Anne, in a pig’s eye, Mary thought grimly. She had been the king’s mistress off and on for five years and she could still read his thoughts well enough. He had ogled her but briefly on the path and now meant to use her either to set Anne back on her heels a bit, confuse her father’s wily brain—or, or...No, the other possibility could never be that he had looked on her with real interest for himself after all this time. No. Never that again. She would run away first, drown herself in the muddy Thames despite this new dress! Later, in the dancing, she must somehow get to Staff. Staff always knew what to do.
“Mary, are you all right? I did not mean to ruin this happy day. And here, the Careys fully back in His Grace’s goodwill! Eleanor will be so pleased when she hears.”
Mary only nodded, tight-lipped as they were seated down the table from the king. She could not see Staff, as he no doubt seated himself somewhere in the swelling crowd behind them.
The May Day sun slipped on golden slippered feet across the blue, blue sky as the day wore on with feasting and dancing. A new May queen and king were chosen each year. Mary watched as Isabelle Dorsey, whom Staff had once said the king had wanted him to marry, was chosen to serve with the youngest Guildford son. She remembered, as if in a distant dream, she had been selected for the honor her first year back from Francois’s gilded court.
She danced around the May pole with many partners, weaving, then unweaving the ribbons each pair of cavorting revelers held while following the simple running and bowing patterns of the dance. Will partnered her first, then George, then Weston, then Norris, even the king—then, finally, there was Staff.
One hand was firm on her back, his other grasped hers and their ribbon as they moved together around the circle. “Will is leaving for Beaulieu,” she whispered.
“I know. You look absolutely ravishing, Mary, like a spring angel I could find in the gardens, if there was such a thing as spring garden angels.”
“How much wine have you and your charming little ladies had, my lord?” she asked. They were both out of breath. Oh no, she thought, the musicians are stopping. It was over too soon. Everyone around them was applauding and laughing. She knew her disappointment showed clearly on her face and here Staff dared to grin down at her like that. Only a few moments with him, and he looked so happy to be going back to squire that insufferable Dorothy Cobham and the flighty May queen about the gardens or into the lovers’ maze.
“My beloved, sweet Mary, will you never learn to hide your feelings?” he was scolding low with a distinct glint of devilment in each dark brown eye. “I said I know Will is leaving. As soon as he does and you can hie yourself away from your loving family and avid-eyed king, do so. Only, do not go back to your own suite and do not get entangled with the sticky Bullen clan for supper later. Come to Lord Aberganny’s rooms on the third floor directly under the south turret. If you turn your lovely head, you can see the windows to the room now. It seems,” he ended his whispered recital of instructions, “Lord Aberganny’s father has died in Yorkshire and I promised to watch their rooms while their household is away this week.”
“Oh, Staff!”
“I said, do not show what you are thinking, madam. It is not yet the custom in brash Henry’s wild court to make love to one’s lass under the May pole while a crowd looks on. Go back to Will now. I shall be waiting.”
She tried to walk calmly back to her seat, to remember to nod and speak without screaming her joy to people she had known for years. Tonight, a place of their own, a bed of their own, her heart sang. Suddenly, this so beautiful, precious May Day could not be gone swiftly enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
July 21, 1528