Arm in arm despite the twitters, winks, and murmurs—and Staff’s pointed stare—they strolled across the green lawns and cut through the rose gardens to the shooting range. The late summer gardens had greatly gone to riot now, and the leggy stemmed roses were making their last stands before frost time.
The king pulled his dagger and, with a flourish, cut her a full-budded white rose. “Put this rose here in your sweet bosom which that green velvet so naughtily hides, my Mary, where I may stoop and inhale its wonderful fragrance today,” he said low, and shot her that devilish, little boy grin of his she so adored. “Besides,” he went on as they continued walking, “I like for you to be in Tudor green and white. The king’s dearest possessions, you know.”
With his upper arm, he brushed her left breast firmly, deliberately, despite all the pairs of eyes, as they strolled the last yards to where squires had set up all the equipment for the shooting match. Yes, the quivers of arrows bore the Tudor colors and green-and-white Tudor pennants sprouted from the great, tall walls of Greenwich behind them. The king’s possessions, he had said, and rightly so, as everyone, especially her father, viewed things. Only, despite her exciting days and long nights with Henry, King of all England, she never really felt he possessed her. Her body yes—he took that repeatedly, but she still felt only flattered and touched. There was something yet to really being possessed that she knew was missing with this generous Tudor, and even with the selfish, handsome Francois before him. And, although her name might be Carey now, poor solemn Will hardly played a part in these thoughts.
“My dear Lady Carey,” the king’s voice boomed at her. “Have you taken to daydreaming so early in the day?”
“Oh, Your Grace, I am sorry. What did you say?” She shot him a dazzling smile and lowered her voice for the next words. “I am sorry, Sire, but the lack of sleep at night that makes me like this today is hardly all my fault.”
He threw back his golden-red head bellowing a laugh, so that everyone who was not staring already soon was. Henry Tudor looked overpowering in size, elaborate clothing, and the magnetic aura he always exuded. The peacock blue velvet which stretched across his muscular shoulders pulled taut when he bent to choose an arrow, as he did now. His loose-fitting back cape, which he would probably discard soon enough from the heat and exertion of his endeavors, swung easily to his gold-belted hips, and his brawny-thewed legs in dark blue hose were planted firmly apart in square-cut slashed velvet slippers as he shot his traditional first arrow to signal the start of their impromptu tourney. Gloved hands applauded madly though the shot was barely to the edge of the central red eye of the circles.
“’Sblood, I hope the entire morn will not be off target like that,” he groused.
“You are too fine a shot to even hint at such things,” Mary comforted, and was rewarded with another big Tudor grin.
“True, sweetheart, but some days can bring a terrible run of bad luck even to the best of us. But how your sweet face and words always cheer me, my golden Mary.” He bent to select another metal-tipped arrow from his green and white quiver, and fitted it carefully onto the string of the huge, polished oaken bow.
It was then, with a smile still on her face from the warmth of Henry’s compliment and affection, her clear blue eyes locked with the direct stare of William Stafford. The look was so blatant—so intimate, even across the servants holding the quivers and bows—that it nearly made her knees buckle. Confused, angry, she stared back until his impertinent gaze dropped to go over the whole length of her body like a rough, physical caress. Then he turned away, squinted down at his strung arrow and shot. His bow whanged, his arrow thudded, but she pulled her eyes quickly away to select an arrow for herself.
“That one hit head on, Mary! Did you see it?” the king was saying.
“Yes, it—yes, it was wonderful, Sire,” she replied, trying to steady her voice and her hand. The king was watching her first shot, probably others were too, even Staff. How marvelous he looked today, in darkest brown to match his hair and piercing eyes. She lifted her bow and pulled back the string. Here, the king had sent Will away and just when she was feeling light-hearted Staff, who had forced himself to be somewhat of a gentleman since the night of the masque, took to staring at her out here where anyone could see.
She snapped the bow string free from her gloved fingers, remembering to aim slightly higher than her mark as Will and the king had taught her. Damn that Stafford! she cursed silently, as her arrow thwacked the outer ring of the target.