“And the king favors you, little one, the king!” She hesitated and wiped her palms nervously on her purple skirts. “Does he look like his portrait, Mary, the one in the hall? I heard Lord Bullen say His Grace might visit here before you are wed. Does he look very like the painting?”
“Well, rather more blond, I would say, but huge and intent with piercing blue eyes. But whenever I try to recall him clearly, all I can see is that picture. I guess I looked on it too much as a child.”
“A little girl’s dream come true, my Mary.” Semmonet smiled and rested her hand on Mary’s shoulder.
But the young woman did not hear Semmonet’s last words. It was true. She could recall the satyr face of Francois du Roi and poor Claude’s pasty face and that of old Master da Vinci. That damned smirking face of William Stafford even taunted her in her dreams, but to recall King Henry—the harder she tried, the more his face swam behind a filmy mask in her mind.
“I say, Mary, did that wag Michael tell you to await Lord Bullen here in the solar when he finishes? I warrant it is important news!”
“Yes, Semmonet. That is why I am here. I would much rather be out riding, you know.”
Mary instantly regretted her tart tone, but Semmonet patted her shoulder and bustled off. She thinks all my actions are a bride’s nervousness now, Mary thought, suddenly annoyed at the woman.
She had not ridden much in France the past years. The king had never taken her hunting as he had his du Foix, and since Queen Claude seldom rode, neither did her maids. How wonderful it was to ride at Hever and have the wind streaming through her loose hair and the secure feel of Donette’s rhythmic canter under her. Donette was the foal of a horse she had loved years ago, gentle, quiet Westron, dead last year, mother said. Mary rode every day, free and happy. She would ride today if father would ever come.
Thomas Bullen brusquely pushed open the door, as though she had summoned him with her thoughts. He smiled broadly and a stab of quick joy shot through her. He had parted from her tenderly at Calais. Her good fortune still held, for he was obviously glad to see her.
“My dear girl,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. He put a black linen arm awkwardly around her shoulders as she rose. “You look more beautiful than I had remembered, Mary.”
“Hever is good for the soul and the body, my lord.”
He looked surprised at her answer. “And a king’s attentions, how are those for the spirit, Mary? I have exciting news.” The glowing colors danced across his black hair and dark garments as he talked.
“The king has bestowed more honors on us than we could have ever hoped at this early stage. He gives William Carey the offices and revenues of Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, Constable of the Castle of Plashy, and Keeper of two other great parks—I cannot even recall which ones.”
He ticked the prizes off on his beringed fingers under Mary’s steady gaze. “Also, as you heard from His Grace’s own lips, Carey is named Esquire to the Body so that you two may live well at court. And, it is only the beginning. Your husband and, of course, your family, will benefit mightily from your good graces with the king.”
“Then I wish you and him all happiness,” she heard herself say tonelessly.
“And as for you, my girl, I must be certain you understand the honor. There will be jewels, beautiful clothes, exciting, important friends—and power, if we play the game well, Mary. Power.”
She could feel the distinct thud of her heart. She felt nothing but frustration at her father, Semmonet, Will Carey, yes, even the king whose face she could not picture.
“He comes to visit, today, Mary. Here, at Hever at last.”
“Will Carey,” she said testily, knowing full well her intent to take the eager look from his eyes.
“No, girl! The king, here! He rides from Eltham where he has a fine hunt park. You shall see it soon, no doubt. It is mid morn now. They should be here by noon.”
He glanced up at the fretful sky through the leaded panes. “I pray he is not put out of his humor by getting drenched in a sudden cloudburst.”
He rubbed his large hands together rapidly. “Your mother has much to prepare for the royal dinner. God only knows how big a retinue he will bring.” He strode toward the door.
“Wear your most beautiful dress and you shall walk with him in the gardens. The gold and white from the great banquet in Paris will do.”
“That is much too formal for Hever in the summer, father,” she countered as he disappeared through the door.
His head popped back in. “This is the king, girl, the king himself. If you seem to forget that in any way, you shall answer to me.”