“There is sun here, my lord, and beauty—and peace of mind.”
“Do not bother to argue, Elizabeth, for you know my meaning and my mind. Thomas Bullen, of merchant stock—yes, let them laugh now, for they shall all be left behind as we mount the pinnacle of the realm tied to His Grace’s good will.”
Her mother’s quiet voice went on, and Mary marveled that she should dare to answer her lord back, for none of them ever dared to argue or deny him.
“The farther we all climb, my lord, the farther we may fall. I have seen this king at close range, even as you have, and I tell you he shall never be denied or the denier suffers. He never forgives and I fear...”
“Enough, lady. We have had all this discourse before, and to what end? Great Henry would have made you his mistress, the lovely blonde Howard beauty, Elizabeth, the Bullen bride, but you would have none of the honor. ’Sblood, madam, ’tis a miracle of cleverness and flattery we recovered from the blow at all. We would have been much farther on the road than this if you had accepted.”
“And it would have been only honor to you, my lord? It would not have caused you a moment’s stir that your wife was ridden abed by Prince Henry and maybe got his seed to give her babes and they of no true Bullen blood to make your name!” She had spoken the tirade quietly, but desperate sobs threatened to well up at each word. Mary’s eyes filled with tears at her tone rather than at the full impact of the meaning.
“Yes, of course I would have suffered, but it was the future king, lady, the present king. Well, it is ten years gone, but I promise you, I shall never let such a chance go by the wayside again!” There was a long silence, and Mary put a foot out to flee.
“Brussels is so far, Thomas. She is so young, so innocent.”
Innocent? Mary pondered the fear and shock she had felt in the last few minutes, her thoughts mingling with the excitement of her new importance and the thrill of the distant unknown. She turned toward the staircase but retreated back behind the door at her mother’s voice, suddenly so close.
“I shall fetch Mary since Semmonet has been sent to pack for her. The children are out by the knot garden.” Her mother brushed by on the other side of the door.
“And tell her nothing of it, lady,” came her father’s sharp voice after her. “I would tell her myself so she will understand the good fortune of it.”
Elizabeth Bullen’s slender form never turned back as she raised her head and departed from the hall to search for Mary. How beautiful her mother’s face and carriage, how lovely her golden hair now threaded with fine silver in the sunlight.
Mary decided to follow her and meet her as she returned. She would never know what her daughter had heard, or of her sadness. Should she say she was glad to go so mother would be comforted? Or would it hurt her to think her daughter would so easily leave her now—or ever?
Mary stepped quietly to the door and, hesitating, peered carefully into the courtyard to see that her mother had departed. It was quite empty and peaceful, beige cobbles, brick honey-colored walls all awash with sun. How she would fear to depart, hate to depart!
“Mary!” came her father’s voice, nearly in her ear. She jumped. “Your lady mother said you were about the grounds. Where have you been?” He stood over her, tall and handsome and assured. His dark beard was precisely cut and his velvet-clad shoulders looked dazzling blood-red in the sun. His dark eyes regarded her carefully as he bent his head slightly. “Have you been about the hall long?”
“No, father. I was outside with George and Anne, but they went off and, well, I finally came in.”
“You have just missed your mother, but I have a wonderful surprise for you I would tell you alone.”
His slender, strong fingers fastened firmly on one of her shoulders, and he gestured toward the open solar door with his other jeweled hand. She walked unsteadily, suddenly wary, her excitement mixed with childish misgivings. She could feel King Henry’s side-glancing eyes pursue her into the solar. She was most unused to private audiences with her father, for he was not often at Hever. How much she loved him and wanted to please him, even as he sought to please his king!
He pointed to the scroll-work stool beneath the lead paned windows where mother often sat doing needlework. He took a step as if to pace, and then abruptly sat in the master’s chair and cleared his throat. It suddenly struck her funny that this great lord of the king might be afraid to inform her of the decision that his wife Elizabeth had protested.
“You are very beautiful, my Mary, your perfect oval face, your golden hair, the promise of your slender body. You are all I could ask in a lovely and obedient daughter.”