She had been wrong. Mother was not in the solar with the king and her father. She and Semmonet were pacing Mary’s room, terrified. They did not scold her, and tears came to Elizabeth Bullen’s sky-blue eyes. If she was to be scolded or lectured or hugged or whatever, there would be time later. His Grace was waiting.
They stripped Mary of her sodden garments and rubbed her skin with linen towels until it glowed. They powdered and perfumed her, for there was no time to wash anything but her face and arms. On went a silk chemise and flounced petticoats over her tingling body. Semmonet desperately tried to towel her hair dry but gave up and left it in damp ringlets and tight curls.
“No. She shall go bareheaded, Semmonet,” came Elizabeth Bullen’s only words as the little woman reached for a gauzy headpiece. She wore the huge single Howard pearl at her breast, just above the low neckline.
They hurried her into the hall. She went on steady legs, feeling dazed. It was as though she watched a play or some childhood fantasy from afar. It was a repetition of some little girl’s dream of once loving the handsome king of France.
William Stafford still stood sentinel at the solar door, under the huge portrait of the king. He bowed gracefully to Elizabeth Bullen and opened the door for them. Surely he was not bowing to her. Well, what did it matter now?
“Ah, here are the ladies at last, Your Grace. Mary was caught in the rainfall in the gardens and insisted on changing.”
Both women swept a low curtsey to the dark shadow surrounded by patterned light.
“You remember my wife, Lady Elizabeth, Sire?”
Mary rose to face her king, who seemed to tower over them all. His narrowed eyes appraised her mother, then swung to her. A smile lit his strong features.
“I do remember her well, Thomas, and her service to the queen. How like her mother your golden Mary is. That is what I remember now.”
The king curled his huge jeweled fingers around Mary’s slender ones. He was not wet from the downpour at all. He looked elegant in his purple doublet with his ruffled golden shirt pulled through the numerous slashes. His hose were brightest blue. He was much too dressed up for a mere summer ride through woody Kent.
“Now that the rain has ended, perhaps you will show me the lovely Hever gardens before dinner. There is time for a small tour, is there not, Lady Elizabeth?” Henry Tudor inquired politely.
“Of course, Your Grace,” came her mother’s voice. “We shall wait on your return. Mary much favors the rose garden to the south.” Her voice trailed off.
“Then we shall walk there. I have some wonderful news for Mary—news of honors to her betrothed and herself.”
“Mary will be pleased, Sire,” her father said, and she caught his tone and stare like a threat, like an actual physical shake.
She took the king’s proffered arm and smiled up at him through her lashes. His wariness, his propriety seemed to melt, and his boyish grin returned. She felt a strange power over him as she had once before and her fears ebbed. Perhaps this could be fun, a challenge. “Father brought me a lovely rose from your gardens at Greenwich once, Your Grace. You must have spectacular bushes there—Tudor roses, all.”
Henry Tudor laughed deep in his throat, and she could hear her father’s audible sigh of relief. No, I shall not fail you, father, she thought. You will love me and be proud.
She was pleased that the nasty Stafford was not in sight as they emerged in the rain-washed air.
“You look ravishing with your hair in tiny curls, Mary. Is it a French style?”
“No, Your Grace. I was quite drenched by the rain. The truth is, I was on a horse which bolted at the thunder.”
His arm stole behind her and encircled her narrow waist. “Perhaps you need an expert to teach you riding, sweet.”
Mary colored at the blatant double entendre but did not let on that she knew his intent. “The Princess Mary often praised your sportsmanship in all things, Sire.”
“Did she now? Yes, you were first with the princess when she went to France.”
“And I was permitted to stay when the other women were sent home.”
“That damned rotting hulk of a king had the audacity to die but three months after their so carefully arranged marriage,” Henry groused as his great paw of a hand cradled a full-blown pink rose. He held the upturned face of the flower, but the scent which he inhaled was the sweet dampness of Mary’s hair. “The French all whispered that his young bride was too much for him, my spies told me. But I should think a sweet, willing young woman is good for the blood.”