At her name, his sister bent close to Will’s shoulder as if to become a full member of their conversation. Her clear gray eyes seemed to have great depth as they peered down her elegant nose. “She can hardly share the full burden, dearest Will. She is not born a Carey.”
“She is now a Carey by marriage, Eleanor.” He cleared his throat nervously and momentarily glanced toward the grassy bank where a group of fieldworkers shouted and waved their hats at the decorated barge. Had they seen their king pass by only minutes ago? Mary wondered.
“There were several families of great bearing and rank who made the mistake of taking the Yorkish side in the late civil war, Mary. The Careys of Durham were one of those families who lost vast lands and wealth when the Lancastrians were victorious. Our present king’s father, our sovereign King Henry VII, had a long memory for disobedience, as does this king. Though our generation does not suffer direct persecution,” he reached for Eleanor’s hand, “we are given little. We are earning our way back.”
“And my dear brother’s marriage to you is a fine sign of our return to our proper status, though the marriage was not arranged by us.”
“I see,” said Mary.
“And I, of course, aspire to be a Prioress of a great order in the Holy Church. And now, with Will so near the king’s influence we shall see.”
“Yes. His Grace has given Will some revenue grants as well as a fine position already,” Mary said foolishly, realizing they knew well of the new honors.
“Perhaps Esquire to the Body is not a fine position, Mary, but a sound beginning.” Eleanor Carey nodded pertly as though the lesson were over, and she leaned back and straightened in her seat again.
She hates me, Mary thought. They feel their blue-blood requires me for the status they want. She despises me.
The green swards and trees, red brick turrets and banners of Greenwich loomed into view. Fine white stone statues of the king’s beasts guarded the barge landing, but Mary saw instead the tiny chess pawn Princess Mary Tudor had given her so long ago. Not griffins and lions and unicorns lined the graveled path to the palace, but kings and queens and knights and pawns.
“Here, Mary.” Will was offering her his hand as they climbed from their velvet seats on the barge. “Come, my wife. The king awaits.”
Mary ate little of the fabulous meal, for her stomach had suddenly twisted into knots. Her detached calm was gone. She feared not, yet she had to force herself to nod, to smile, to converse. She loved bucknade and stuffed partridge, but still her food went largely untouched. George took to teasing her and eating off her plate while Jane scolded him for his rough manners.
The wine was good though, sweet and cool from the vast cellars at royal Greenwich. The king had raised numerous toasts to the young bridal couple, and even thought to give a fine father’s toast in the absence of his dear servant, Thomas. The king might as well be my father now anyway, Mary thought petulantly. He sits by my beautiful mother, gives us the bridal feast and controls my life. But I wish father had the king’s warmth. She took another deep drink of the wine.
When dusk descended, the servants lit tapers and cleared the tables. The musicians played from the gallery until, at a graceful handsignal from their king, their ranks swelled and they broke into a gay wedding coranto. Will seized Mary’s hand, and they followed along in the tiny running steps led by the king and the blushing Lady Bullen.
Mary felt rather dizzy and soon laughter bubbled spontanously on her lips. How Annie would love this revelry here at Greenwich with the king and chosen members of his inner circle. And how proud her father would be to see it! Was he thinking of her wedding day far away at Francois’s Amboise?
The king bowed and claimed her hand for the stately pavan, and Will danced with her mother. Mary felt no nervousness as she lengthened her steps slightly to match the king’s long strides. He wore deepest crimson with golden trim, and his white silken shirt and broad collar made his healthy complexion glow in the candlelight. The tiny roses on her white slashed skirts and the pink ruff above the square bodice seemed to echo the louder brilliance of his colors. They turned and bowed, whirled and began the pattern again.
Mary felt less giddy by the time the faster galliards began with the sackbutts wailing and fydels and lutes lilting from the upper balcony. She turned in her hand-to-hand progress down the line, and came face to face with her new partner, William Stafford.
“I had not seen you,” she shot out breathlessly as they swept through the raised arms of a silken and velvet arch.
“I had vowed not to set foot here to ruin your fine day, but I could not resist just a look at the festivities—and the bride. You look ravishing. My best wishes for your happiness—with Will Carey, I mean.”
“Is it not possible for you to be civil? Must you always accuse and provoke and...”
“Hush, Mary, or people will notice. You are at court now. You have not yet learned to hide your feelings. I suggest here in the bear pit you try harder.” The dance ended with a graceful, sweeping bow.