A strangled cry escaped her parted lips as she seized the reins and struggled to turn Donette around. Thunder echoed deeply through the huge tree trunks as she yanked the horse to the left. She turned obediently, but went, as one drunk, through the low-limbed trees. She ducked and shielded her face as the wind whipped sopping leaves at her face and hair.
She started to laugh uncontrollably at the scene she must make, the scene she would make when she returned to Hever. Her long blonde locks hung down her soaking back, and she was bruised and cut.
They emerged in the meadow and Mary dismounted. Grasping Donette’s bridle, she led her down into the tiny grassy depression they had called “our valley” when they played here as children. George, of course, always had to be the leader. George, who was in London at Lincoln’s Inn obediently studying law.
Mary slipped to her knees in the slick grass, pulling Donette’s head down with a jerk. She rose and stood shakily as the storm surged around them. Drenched, she huddled close to Donette. Mother would be worried, but she most feared what father would say. Even her best dress could not save her now.
Swiftly, suddenly, it ended. The thunder rumbled off over the hills and the downpour diminished to gentleness. Mary mounted and carefully walked the mare toward home. She would tether Donette by the green garden and go in through the kitchens. With Semmonet’s aid she would somehow become presentable.
The bricks of Hever were glazed by the downpour and iron drainpipes spouted noisy shafts into the moat. The wet leather reins squeaked as she tied them to a post. She gathered her cold, wet skirts tightly and hurried across the wooden ramp.
The kitchen door stood agape and wonderful aromas floated everywhere. The dim room was packed with servants. Even father’s groom turned a spit, and wash girls stirred sauces and peeled peaches. The massive open hearth was crammed with kettles, skillets and spits, and its welcome warmth beckoned to the chilled woman.
Only a few shocked servants looked up to notice their drenched, bedraggled mistress. She hurried down the dark passageway that led toward the foot of the great staircase, and stopped. The king must have arrived early, for several strange men lounged about outside the closed door to the solar. No doubt His Grace and her parents were waiting within, waiting for her.
Embarrassed, she dared not look at the amused figures who stopped their conversation as she mounted the steps to flee. She was only a little way up when she heard a too-familiar voice.
“The golden, the beautiful Mary Bullen. Beautiful and wet and cold. It was an unwise time to go for a ride, Mary.”
She spun around, her eyes wide. “William Stafford! Who invited you to Hever?” She went hot crimson at the obvious answer to her question, and at the picture she must make for him as his cool gaze swept carefully over her. His two companions watched the confrontation with amusement. She would have to scold him later if he had dared to tell them anything evil about her.
She tried another question to break the silence, to still the rapid pounding of her heart. “Did His Grace bring Will Carey also?”
William Stafford lowered his voice, and his eyes went to her heaving breasts with the wet cloth sticking so close to her skin. “Why should His Grace bring someone as insignificant as Carey? He is only the man you will wed.” He hesitated at her silence. “Are you so anxious to see Will Carey, then? I shall tell the fortunate scoundrel when we return to Eltham. We left him angrily shooting at the butts. Some wondered why he was not included in this little visit, but why should he be, when the king only came to see his French Ambassador Bullen at his charming home?”
He shrugged with mock indifference and the old urge to slap him returned with stunning impact.
“I have tolerated far too much of your sarcasm and impudence in France,” she said, low enough that his two eager cronies could not hear. “Quite enough. And I shall hear none of it here!” She turned her back to him dramatically. And with as much poise as she could muster, she started up the endless stairs.
“Is it so hard to admit that I was right about everything so far, Mary?” He raised his voice and she turned again, afraid they would hear in the solar. “And you will have to tolerate me, Mary, for I live at court too and as close to the king as I warrant you shall live.”
How she hated him. His insinuations frightened and shamed her.
“I would counsel you to say ‘no’ to all their rotten plans, sweet lady, but my selfishness wants you about the court and not banished in disgrace to this moated sanctuary where I could never see you.”
Her mouth dropped open at his audacity. She wanted to run, but she was frozen to the steps.
“I cannot help but fancy a wench who looks as beautiful soaked and muddy as she does on a king’s arm. Only, guard well your heart, Mary Bullen.”
She turned and fled. How dare he address her like that in the hall of her father’s house with his lord king in the next room and two jackanapes looking on!