“Babies may, but how is a poor wench supposed to know?” she prodded dangerously.
“Why, ask anyone, anyone but the king or your father.” He straightened and backed away several steps. “Will is waiting. I hope to see you before we depart on the morrow, Mary, but if not, remember that the one thing which does not change for you at court is William Stafford. Remember that, lass.” He bowed and his eyes went over her briefly. He nearly collided with a wide-eyed Semmonet as he turned into the hall.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
June 19, 1525
Hampton Court
The entire court was in an uproar the day after the king’s blatant move against his lawful queen and his daring elevation of those forces which could cause her harm. Ignoring his six-year-old daughter, Mary Tudor by Queen Catherine, the king had invested Henry Fitzroy, his six-year-old illegitimate son by Bessie Blount, as Duke of Richmond and Earl of Nottingham and Somerset. The boy was assigned a vast household of his own. The chess move was clear to all observers who knew the rules. Bessie Blount’s son was being groomed as the next Tudor king. And in that elaborate investiture ceremony, a spate of other courtiers were advanced who were the current rooks, knights, and pawns about the great Henry. To allay the alarm of Thomas Bullen, who knew the proper moves as well as any, the king bestowed a viscountcy. Mary had expected her father to be in an expansive mood from the honor and was hardly prepared for the irate display he was giving in Will Carey’s suite of rooms as she made ready to answer a summons from the king.
“But you are Viscount Rochford now, father, and the diplomatic missions are a great honor and responsibility His Grace gives. You have never shown a care for the queen’s feelings before. I cannot see...”
“No, you would not. Will, can you teach her nothing of political intelligence, as close as she has lived to the seat of power these five years?” He turned back to Mary and slapped his palms down on her little oak dressing table so that the bottles, mirror and enamelled jewel box jumped and shuddered. “Damn it, Mary. You too have a son who could be His Grace’s flesh and blood just as well. Do not protest, Will. You know it. Baby Catherine—well indeed, she is yours, for the king was obviously in a wandering mood those months, but the boy is Tudor through and through.”
“Little Harry is not so far from Will’s coloring, and you know it, father.”
“Bessie Blount came and went in a season like a single, pretty flower, but you, Mary, you are yet his favorite who blooms anew after five years. Bullen stock is of better mettle than the Blounts!”
“If Harry should be His Grace’s son, my lord, you must admit that Henry Fitzroy was the first born,” Mary shot back.
“Whose side are you on in this struggle, girl? You have always been too fond and sweet, accepting and content. Do you have no ambitions for your son or for you and Will? Have you ever advanced the Carey cause to which your husband is so dedicated?”
“Yes, my lord, I have spoken to her of it often,” Will put in.
“Rightly so. Mary, must I do all your thinking? Must I tell you every move to make? The diplomatic missions keep both me and George away from court more than I would like, and I fear you grow too headstrong for Will to handle.” He ignored Will’s fidgeting and growing annoyance as he berated his wife while she sat stonelike at her dressing table.
“Have you heard a word I have said?” Thomas Bullen demanded. He pulled her to her feet facing him and suddenly the wall she had learned to build against him crumbled and she feared he would strike her.
“Yes, of course, I hear you, father. Only...”
“Only what?”
“I have done...I will do what you say, but I will not risk little Harry by insisting or even hinting as you would have me do that he is His Grace’s child.”
“Risk him! The king has only two living sons, madam, and you bore him one. The Fitzroy boy is a weakling. Anything is possible.”
“Please, father. You are hurting me. Will, please help me to...”
Her father dropped his hands from her arms, and she stepped away from him.
“We had best tell her what we have decided and be done with these foolish arguings, Will. The king’s boating party to see his new gift from his dear Cardinal Wolsey will not wait for one silly woman.”
“Tell me what? What have you done? Will, tell me!”
“Mary,” Will stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulders. She froze, waiting. “I have told you that this court is no place to raise a son.”
“He is not even four years old and he needs us, Will. He stays.”
“You have won that bout before, Mary, but not now.”
She shrugged his arm off her shoulders and moved several steps away. “Harry stays here with his parents, my lord father, or the king is likely to hear hints that the boy is indeed Will Carey’s son and no other.”