“You are so lovely, Mary,” Henry Tudor said breathlessly. “So lovely and so dear.” He raised her hands slowly to his mustached mouth and kissed them lingeringly.
I feel nothing, she assured herself. He cannot sweep me off my feet the way Francois did when I was a mere girl. William Stafford was wrong about this king’s snares and traps for me.
He leaned to brush her lips gently and, without another word, led her through the lifted flap of curtain. William Carey seemed to stand at attention and her father sat on a bench a little farther off waiting for his king. The hall was greatly deserted now. Yeoman guards snapped to attention when they saw their king emerge and servants cleared the scattered remains of the feast.
“I entrust her to you, Will. I shall have two guards follow you on your walk back to Guines, for this is mighty precious cargo, eh, Thomas?” She curtseyed, William bowed, and they were out in the clear night.
She drank in a breath of fresh air and saw the vast heavens stretched overhead sparkling down on King Henry’s silvery Palace of Illusions. How like a fantasy it all was, like poor dear Signor da Vinci’s lovely painted waxen canvas sky.
Will Carey took her arm gently and they began to pick their way through the torch-lit lanes toward the dark castle beyond.
PART TWO
Pastime With Good Company
Pastime with good company I love and shall until I die.
Grudge who will, but none deny, So God be pleas’d, this life will I For my pastance hunt, sing, and dance.
My heart is set on goodly sport, To my comfort, who shall me let?
Youth will needs have dalliance, Of good or ill some pastance;
Company me thinketh the best
All thoughts and Fantasies to digest.
For idleness is chief mistress of vices all; Then who can say but pass the day is best of all?
Company with honesty is virtue, and vice to flee.
Company is good or ill,
But every man has his free will.
The best I sue, the worst eschew.
My mind shall be virtue to use, Vice to refuse,
I shall use me.
—King Henry VIII
CHAPTER ELEVEN
July 28, 1520
Hever Castle, Kent
The intermittent sun streamed through the oriel window in the solar, turning the floor rainbow hued. The Bullen and Howard crests, set in the skillfully leaded panes, stamped their vibrant stains on Mary’s tawny skin and pale yellow skirts. It was a humid, close day and the air stirred fitfully in sudden gusts. Puffy clouds prophesied rain, but not a drop hit the gardens or gravel walkways.
Mary saw Semmonet below on the path, and she swung open the latched panes of the lower window and stuck her head out. “Semmonet. I am up here! Michael found me!”
The wiry, quick governess squinted up at the disembodied voice in the sun. “Lord Bullen is not there already?”
“No, Semmonet, just I.”
“Then stay put, my girl. I shall be right up.” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared.
Summoned again by father. Would things never change? At least her mother was delighted to have her home, and now Lord Bullen had arrived without even the usual warning. How wonderful these three weeks had been since Mary’s return from France. Home at beautiful Hever to relax, to think, to ride the sloping hills and pick buttercups by the gentle Eden. To talk to mother and tease Semmonet and pretend that the eight long years away had never happened. To imagine all was well and secure and there was no quiet man named Will Carey to wed, and no king to take over one’s life. She shuddered, for another stone-gray cloud had smothered the sun and the lovely room went leaden-hued.
“Mary, I could not find you anywhere,” Semmonet shot out in her rapid fire way as she entered. “The grooms said you were not riding. Where did Michael find you?”
“I was just sitting by the sundial in the herb garden—thinking.”
“About your wedding with a king’s man,” Semmonet prodded.
“No, Semmonet. About time.”
The little wren-like governess knit her thin brows. “I thank Saint George we found you before the lord came down from doing his papers to see you. He has important news!”
“Perhaps the wedding is off, and I am free to marry whom I will choose.” She could not keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. “I think Michael the gardener or Ian the blacksmith would do, for I know both of them better than Mister Will Carey.”
Semmonet did not laugh at the tease, but wrung her small hands. “My sweet Mary, surely any bride feels nervous. You will love him. It is best to get to know one’s lord after the marriage. A fine arranged marriage by the king! Ah, who could ask for more? You will live at the great Henry’s court.”
“Well, yes, there is that. The king’s sister will be there much. Perhaps we shall be friends with her and the Duke.”