“Of course I do, Mary, now I can be with you everyday. Lord Bullen is pleased, too, and I do so wish to make him happy.”
“So do we all, Jane,” Mary shot back quickly and then regretted the sharp tone to her voice. No wonder Father and George had had a tremendous row over the Bullen-Rochford betrothal a few months ago. George had evidently been forced to see the wisdom in the marriage, but she could hardly blame him for his impatience with the meddling little Rochford. But George’s sulkiness had worsened since, and he seldom came to court now that Jane was here to attend Mary. Jane Rochford saw Lord Bullen as her protector and deliverer. If only the wench knew the salvation of her coming marriage had nothing to do with herself and all to do with her family title and lands, who knew what she would say or do then.
Several young men tilted at the quintain on the joust practice grounds trying to learn the timing and placement of the thrust of the lance from a moving horse. The wood and leather mock opponent twirled and spun on its pivot as they made passes at it. They were so confident, so awkward, and Mary remembered George, gangly and skinny at Hever years ago. She favored stopping to watch their serious antics, but she had been summoned to the tennis courts again.
The archery range where she had shot at target with the king only yesterday was nearly deserted. Her aim was much improved and it annoyed her to have to wear the proper lady’s half-gloves when she shot. Henry was much pleased at her progress since the last contest, but she did not tell him that both Will and Staff had given her lessons while he was in council.
Despite the brisk river breeze, she felt warm in her fawn-colored pelisse. Still she wanted to wear it over her dress whenever she was in public where someone might notice her slightly expanded waistline. Soon someone would see, then everyone would know, and the king would put her aside as he had Bessie Blount. He pledged eternal love and had been relatively faithful for over a year, but Mary was no country-bred wench who trusted in men anymore. And her greatest fear—the thing that kept her awake nights when His Grace or Will rolled over and went to sleep—was that there would be no way to truly know who had fathered the babe.
“I am sorry, Jane. What did you say?”
“I said, the cheering from the courts is so loud that they must have started the match without you.”
“Well, that is fine. They last a good long time anyway.”
Jane had taken to brazenly flirting with Mark Gostwick but, except for pitying poor George even more, Mary ignored it. She was relieved when Jane excused herself and went to sit with him on the far side of the court.
“I must warn you, there is a rumor that the queen will appear this afternoon, Mary,” Anne Basset whispered to her as they waved to the beaming king and his opponent, Norris. They sat on a padded bench which was quickly vacated for them. Mary self-consciously draped her pelisse closer about her. This canopied area was much too warm with the courtiers packed in like this.
“I do not believe she favors the embarrassment when she knows the blonde Bullen is about the area,” Mary replied carefully, “though she always handles the encounters beautifully by smiling and nodding and, if she must speak, inquiring sweetly after my father and mother.”
“She knows His Grace has given you his heart. All she has now is half a daughter. And, with the king’s illegitimate son being raised so royally, she fears.”
“She has always been gracious enough to me, Lady Anne. She is not here, so we will let it rest, please.”
Anne Basset nodded, but her eyes showed her dismay at never being able to taunt Mary Carey enough to get some bit of information for gossip. Was the woman also so sweet and tolerant in the king’s arms? What was it like to bed with the Tudor stallion? She had wanted to ask Mary in private, but her blue eyes seemed distant again, lost in some reverie in the midst of the crowded court.