Mary marvelled at his calm, expansive mood. She had expected a raving fury. Maybe Anne was taming him and was truly in control of her situation. Yet as Staff had once said, no one controls this king. He himself is the user.
Fifes, lutes, fydels, drums, and sackbuts wailed from both of the musicians’ balconies overhead. People stood about in vibrant colors tapping their feet, but no one dared to dance until the king arrived. Mary wondered if Queen Catherine would appear tonight. Despite His Grace’s constant neglect and his elevation of his bastard son over her dear little daughter, the queen had always come for Yule. Mary caught a small, heart-felt glimpse of her infinite, patient agony as she continued to live in the palaces of a husband who no longer loved her. Then she caught sight of William Stafford across the crowded hall.
She stood frozen and the whole room receded. Music played on distantly but the bustling and restive room packed with courtiers died away to nothingness. Will pulled her arm and her feet moved. Staff stood far across the torch-lit bedecked room with a beautiful woman on either side of him, like silken sentinels. Will propelled her directly toward them. It all flooded back then, the pain after he visited them no more at Plashy. He had not come for five months of endless days, and she knew he must have forgotten her and was teasing and loving someone else.
“I do not know why the handsome devil does not marry, do you, wife? I cannot imagine he would be so foolish to pine away from something he can never have.”
She felt wooden-legged and her feet seemed to drag on the floor. She saw the kind face of the Duchess of Suffolk as they passed and she nodded, but the smile she sought would not come to her lips. She did not care if they were all thinking, here comes the king’s discarded mistress back to court after her shameful exile. Let them envy Anne and pity her. Let them all pity her, for she would never have the only man she had ever truly wanted. Let them all think her crushed that she had lost the eye of their terrible king.
Stafford and Will clapped each other on the shoulders and she stood rooted to her tiny piece of floor. As far as she knew, he had not even glanced her way. The two crimsoned-gowned women smiled and stood at attention, apparently waiting to be introduced. Mary felt lifeless and fought to keep her face calm, to keep from wadding handfuls of her azure gown into her tight fists.
Staff looked absolutely resplendent, and the impact of him so physically close to her after all these months nearly swamped her senses. He wore a deep burgundy velvet doublet with gold lining to match the short cape over his broad shoulders. Decorative slashings across his hard chest revealed more rich, gold material, but the heavy leather belt studded with glinting metallic pieces around his flat stomach allayed any impression that he might be a mere pleasure-loving courtier. He looked bigger than she had remembered him, his cloth-covered thighs stretching the crimson hose, the crimson and gold codpiece mounted between his thighs, a fierce reminder of what she would never have from him.
“Mary,” Staff said finally, and stooped to kiss her cheek, a mere brush of his lips. “She looks as beautiful as ever, Will. And is there no other child to come after the long stay at quiet Plashy?”
“No, and not likely to be,” Will said pointedly. “Two is enough. Let her sister have the children now.”
Staff raised one dark eyebrow. His eyes flitted over Mary’s face and seemed to take her all in. She felt totally naked before him. He always read her perfectly. He would know of her wretched love for him and would probably tease her for it.
He pulled his eyes away and turned to Will again. “His Grace is most willing for you to resume your position. He tried to give it twice lately to George Bullen, thinking it would be another gift to Anne, but she wants George to be the messenger back and forth between Hever and the court. And, as you will soon see, what the Lady Anne wants, she gets.” He lowered his voice to Will, and Mary could barely hear the next words. “The little fool insists she is not here to stay but returns to Hever with her guardian mother soon, and I know for a fact the royal stallion has not had her. The wench’s daring does boggle the mind.”
Staff and Will stood apart now and there was an awkward silence. “Lord and Lady Carey, permit me to present Eleanor and Dorothy Cobham, Lord Sheffield’s fair daughters from Derbyshire fresh come to court to serve Her Grace. Also,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “they are appointed through Bishop Rochester and not through the king, though I assure you they have been since duly noted by His Majesty.”