“Please do not tease, Staff. I am not in the mood. And I have never noticed that I tire you.”
He leaned even closer. “If I ever get my way with you, my love, I promise you I will not tire—ever. And I meant not to upset you. I know times with Will, your father and even your dear little Annie are tense. For some strange reason, Will has attached himself to your brother this morning. And as to why we got a late beginning, I cannot say except that His Grace had some kind of personal business. I am afraid it may have had something to do with the little ice woman with the looks of fire—your sister—but I may be wrong. He can hardly attempt to bed her with you and Will about, and evidently still in favor.”
She did not answer, though months ago such advice and words about her sister, brother, Will or father would have drawn her anger. They stepped high over the crushed thicket as they approached the cluster of people. The smell and sounds of death permeated the chill air.
Staff loosed her arm, and they moved separately around the groups of standing courtiers. The king with his boon companions, Norris and Weston, behind him had slain three deer and their slender bloodied limbs still convulsed in sporadic shudders. The great Tudor stood astride a massive twelve-point buck, his crimsoned hunt dagger raised aloft while the crowd applauded and cheered and murmured. The other two were does, much smaller, both turned away from the slaughter of their master-buck as though they could not stand to see his sleek brown body on the leafy turf.
And then Mary’s eyes took in the import of the whole scene—Anne standing stiff between George and Will Carey and His Grace offering her his victorious dagger the way he had offered it to Mary Bullen these past five years. But Anne shook her head, took a step back, and the king turned to stone. Then he half-motioned, half-shoved Will aside with quick words and turned his back on the obviously dismayed man while the circle of observers waited and studied their sovereign’s every move. The huge reddish head bent to Anne again in earnest conversation. He ignored George, poor discomfitted George, as though he were not there.
It was like some play on a trestle stage with a dark forest setting, or some terrible nightmare come to life. Anne’s slender cloaked form was blocked out by Henry’s massive back, but Mary instinctively feared for her. Something was very, very wrong. Anne had evidently refused the offer of the dagger, a foolish affront before the court, no matter what private disagreement she had with her king.
Will Carey suddenly grabbed Mary from behind and pulled her several steps behind a gnarled tree trunk. His face was deathly pale and he could not speak at first. Mary turned her head to stare at the king, disbelieving that Will could have come away so quickly. His fingers bit into the flesh of her arm.
“Damn your little bitch of a sister,” he groaned. He glared at the rough bark behind her head and pushed Mary against the tree. “She will ruin everything. She will be the end of us all.”
“Please, my lord, what is happening?”
“You fool. You cannot mean you do not know. Why did you not head her off? She has taunted and flirted and led him on these months for her own selfish ends. And now, when she reaps the obvious rewards of such sluttish behavior, she draws back, she refuses.” A strange, strangled sound came from deep in his throat and he raised his wide eyes to her shocked face at last.
“His Grace has asked Anne to bed with him?” she got out in a half-choked voice. “Here? At Eltham? With me along?” Her knees began to tremble and she felt as though she still rode the bouncing Eden careening along dark forest paths to some bloody destruction.
“He asked her first last night and told her to think about it until this morning. He just offered her the dagger of his kill, and she refused it thinking it would be as good as her compliance later in his bed. Her father will kill her! Or if he does not, perhaps I shall.”
Their conversation was no longer private as others of the hunt party streamed back to their grazing mounts whispering and shaking their heads. Over Will’s shoulder Mary noted the smirk on Jane Rochford’s face as Mark Gostwick helped her up astride her palfrey. Mary caught Jane’s sharp eye and turned away as she nearly dry-heaved with the sudden impact of reality. Many hated the Bullens; she knew that. Even Jane and maybe Will, ashen-faced and grim-lipped before her.
Then the stunned Careys saw Anne and George ride by only a stone’s throw from where they stood, as if transfixed. Anne had taken to wearing tiny bells on her saddle and bridle, and the gentle tinklings drifted foolishly in the chill air.