“Buck up, wife,” Will’s words floated back to her. “We must pack quickly and be in Richmond before nightfall. We will take Staff and two grooms with us. I hate to admit it, but we need your father’s crafty skills before we decide what to do. I cannot wait to see his face when he hears that this time the wench who draws his king off from his golden Mary is his own Anne! I cannot wait to see him try to worm out of this predicament! And when he hears she refused him before half the court and that she and George are banished to Hever and all the Bullens are to keep out of his sight, ha!”
His shrill laughter pounded on Mary’s ears and caused chills along her spine. She dropped back slightly to ride abreast with Staff, for that was her only security now. She detested Will and feared the king. And the coming interview with her father made her grow numb all over. She turned her face to Staff as they clattered swiftly toward the wooden facade of Eltham, set among the dying brown leaves of the Kentish weald.
The pounding of Mary’s tumbled thoughts and the pounding of the horses’ hoofs on the long, bleak road to Richmond were as one. The golden forests of the weald and the clear sunshine on Eden’s flowing mane could not lift her spirits or comfort her. Perhaps Anne and father would get what they deserved, for Anne had dared to believe she could lead the king on and then throw him off at her will. Yet, the girl had only wanted power as she had been taught—power to fill the void of a lost love, power of revenge through the king over the hated cardinal who had sent her lover away to marry someone else. And father—well, he was as he was. Over the years, through the pain her love for him had caused, she had come to see him clearly. He loved his children only as a prideful possession, as his means up the royal ladder of riches and influence from which others whispered his mean birth would keep him. Now the Bullen dream was over and he dared not blame his daughters as much as himself.
The closer they got to Richmond through Weybridge, Chertsey, and Staines, the further her security of her love for Staff slipped from her grasp. The closer she came to exile with Will to his country lands she had never seen, the more the pain of loss and separation cut like broken glass in the hollow pit of her stomach. She tried to sit erect in the hours of the hurried ride, but her shoulders slumped lower and lower as did her heart.
They rested once at a tiny thatched inn near Chertsey for bread, cheese and hot wine. She wanted to throw herself into Staff’s arms and never see the court again at all, but she sat properly wedged in against the wall by a silent Will Carey. Little Catherine waited at Richmond with their servant Nancy and, for Catherine, she would ride on.
It was late dusk when they clattered into the vast stable block at Richmond. Will helped her dismount, and she stretched her weary, cramped limbs gratefully. They hurried up the gravel path past the formal railed gardens where the massive new marble fountain sprayed its tiny flumes into fluted basins. Mary and Will went to their rooms while Staff went to inquire on the whereabouts of Lord Bullen.
Nancy was surprised to see them, but Will sent her off to sleep in the common hall without any answers to her earnest questions, and Mary went directly to see Catherine. The child slept soundly, curled up crushing her pillow to her to replace her lost doll, Belinda, as though the world would quake should she not have the ragged face beside her in the dark. Mary kissed the untroubled forehead and smoothed back the golden curls. The regular sound of the child’s breathing comforted her greatly. She would make Catherine her life away from court, away with a husband who did not love her, away from her family and from Staff.
“Staff is back already, Mary. Your father has not returned from visiting Wolsey at Lambeth, but he took a barge and as it gets pitch black soon, he should be back any time. We left word for him. He will be here directly when he catches wind of all this.” The triumphant laughter was gone from Will’s weary voice at the thought of his father-in-law’s anger. He threw his cloak on a chair and went back into the sitting room.
In the dimness of the bedchamber, Mary washed her face and smoothed her tousled hair. She peered at her face in the gray mirror, a face they said that had never learned to hide and dissimulate, to pretend indifference or joy as was proper etiquette at court. What was it the old Italian master of the French king had told her about pain in her eyes? Old Master da Vinci and Staff—they had always seen things clearly.
“Mary. Is the child all right? Are you coming out here? There are several things we must discuss before we face your father. I will not have him badgering me.”
She went out immediately. And what about his badgering me, my protector husband, she wanted to demand. “You will wake Catherine if you do not keep your voice down,” she said only.
Neither of the men moved at her words. Staff and Will sat at the large oaken table, Will slumped over it, Staff leaning back with his long legs stretched out under the table. Will’s back was to her. She took the chair that Staff offered her without rising. He sloshed red wine in her cup, and she drank it straight down.
“Maybe we should all be drunk when he arrives,” Will observed impassively. Staff grunted. He poured Mary another cupful.