Jane threw quick handfuls of dried lavender, daisies, fennel, and tansy on the floor, and their heady scent instantly permeated the air. Four great pounding knocks filled the room, and before Lady Bullen could touch the doorknob, the door swung wide to reveal the king bent over laughing and a blushing, bare-chested Will Carey.
“Husbands never need to knock, madam,” Will said boldly, and then blushed deeper realizing the import of his words. But the other men seemed not to hear as they shoved him into the chamber and followed on his heels. The room seemed packed, but Mary sat calmly in bed against a puffy bolster in her robe, covered to her lap by the sheets.
“There she is, you lucky dog, ready for you!... I wish I were you, Will!... Get yourself a fine son this night, Will Carey!” The raucous laughter swelled, and Mary was tempted to cover her ears.
Then the king shouted, “Out, out, all of you vagabonds!” and, obediently, the revelers streamed out into the hall.
Mary glimpsed her mother turn and smile, and Semmonet waved. Then there were only three, and Mary feared for one foolish instant that the king would dismiss the meek-looking Carey as well. Henry Tudor’s eyes devoured her, raked off the sheets, pulled at her chemise and...
“Good fortune to you, Carey. Use her gently. I envy you your warm bed.” The king pulled his hot gaze away, turned, and slammed the door.
Will went over and shot the bolt. Mary still felt His Grace’s eyes on her, sharp, powerful like the portrait in the hall at Hever. He had told her yesterday by the tiltyard that he would try to give her a week, but he loved her, so he could not promise. She felt much safer with Will Carey but, truly, the king excited her more.
“What are you thinking, Mary?” He took slow steps to the canopied bed. “You are so beautiful. I am a fortunate man. His Grace could have picked Compton or Hastings or Stafford, but he gave you to me.”
“Stafford? William Stafford?”
“Of course. He is unattached and a close courtier, though I am sure His Grace considers him a greater rebel and harder to control than I.”
Yes, no doubt William Stafford would be harder to bribe if the king wanted to bed his wife, she thought bitterly. So, the great Henry had explained it all to Will Carey. He understands I shall be the king’s mistress, and he will accept it for his lands and monies and his hateful sister. Then, we are all to be pitied, so what does it matter? But I love no one like poor George, who will have to bed with giggly Jane Rochford while dreaming of long-legged Margot Wyatt. So why not Will Carey for me?
Will had stripped off his shoes and hose and blew out several candles, leaving only two by the huge oaken bedstead. “I trust we can be of help to each other, Mary. The court can be a frightening place. I will keep my place, my beautiful wife, but you must remember, king or no, you bear my name.”
He tugged on the ribbons at the lacy neckline of her robe and helped her shrug out of it. He pulled her tight against his lightly-haired chest, tucking her head under his chin. “I will try to be gentle, Mary, but on the nights when you are mine, then you are mine only. I have told myself so time and time again these last few days.”
He rolled her onto her back and tugged her thin chemise up above her waist, spreading her legs and mounting her immediately. “This night will be a long one, I promise you, my little bride.”
It was a long night, as Will Carey made calm, deliberate, possessive love to his wife more than once, more than twice. She submitted in body, but her heart was free, as she had told herself time and time again these last few days.
But what angered her as she closed her eyes to finally sleep, was that she dreamed not of the quiet, serious Will Carey, nor of the lusty king. It was the handsome, rough face of William Stafford which laughed and stared and haunted her sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
August 26, 1520
Greenwich