The Last Boleyn Read online

  “I knew it! I guessed it!” His words were angry and he hit his knee hard with his fist. “He no doubt counseled you that it was in your best interest,” he hissed.

  She could not lift her face to him, but she wanted to defend her father. How dare he question his betters, but she could not afford to anger him further since he knew so much already.

  “You mentioned others, William.” Her use of his first name seemed to soften his rugged features. “I pray you will not mention the others to my father,” she went on. “I had no control over what the king expected of me with his friends. He gave me no choice. But, please do not tell my father.”

  “I promise I will not, Mary. I need not, for he has known no doubt longer than I have, or has King Henry.”

  She cried aloud as though she had been hit in the stomach. “You are lying. The others—father could not have known about the others. I never heard it about the court from anyone else!”

  “Then you have not only been treading on quicksand, Mary, but you have had your beautiful blonde head in it.”

  “He could not know! He said nothing!” Her voice rose and, angered beyond further words at his lies, she raised her hand and slapped his face with all her strength. The crack resounded in the lofty room and she shrank back from him on the bench. A red mark slowly suffused his cheek.

  He reached calmly for her wrists with his huge hands and pulled her closer to him on the bench. She went stiff, but her skirts made her slide to him across the polished wood. “Did striking me help the pain, Mary?” His voice was gentle and she longed to collapse against him, to sob her shame on his shoulder.

  “I am not finished. Hate me if you will, but listen carefully. King Henry, my master whom I serve closely everyday, will find you most entrancing when your father dangles you before him. What red-blooded man would not? He knows of your reputation, but contrary to what you are thinking, it intrigues him, it titillates his sometimes jaded senses and bored mind.”

  She stared into William Stafford’s dark eyes, mesmerized. How could he speak of his king this way?

  “And when he sees you, sweet, your naive beauty, your youth, and blonde innocence, he will be quite ensnared. If your father should try to bring you home to England, and I predict he will, it will be a fine path to escape the trap into which you have fallen. But go home with your eyes wide open, not to let such entrapment happen again.” He reached for her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think so. I would wish to go home.”

  “Home, Mary, but home to what? That is the danger. The time is ripe for the great Henry to think he loves you. He is long tired of Spanish Catherine, who gives him dead sons. His mistress Bessie Blount—blonde and fair as yourself—bore him a son last year and his interest in her is also dead. Tread carefully, sweet

  Mary, with both eyes open, and do not trust the king or your father.”

  “Then whom am I to trust?” she challenged him. She lifted her head as she heard their fellow visitors approaching, her father’s voice distinct among the others.

  William Stafford pulled her to her feet. “I would tell you to trust me, Mary Bullen, but I do not savor another slap when I have you aroused. Still, I promise you that you will pay dearly someday for whatever slaps or scratches or sharp words you give me. You will pay, sweet Mary, but in a time and manner of my choosing.”

  She blushed and sputtered, but the others were in the room now and she turned away to compose herself.

  “Mary, there is a secret passageway should the king need to escape from the gallery clear to Guines Castle! They dug it underground,” Anne blurted as she hurried to Mary.

  “There you are, Stafford,” her father way saying. “We are going to swing around by Francois’s golden tent on our return. ’Sblood, I wish the fountains spurted wine already. It is a damned hot day. Have you seen enough of the king’s Palace of Illusions, Mary?”

  “Yes, father,” she spoke at last. “Quite enough for now.”

  They returned to the tethered horses and, much to her dismay, William Stafford helped her mount. “Did you hear that, Mary,” he whispered in her ear. “It is rightly called the Palace of Illusions.”

  “I heard clearly enough, Master Stafford.”

  “Then heed what you have heard,” he added, and turned away to smoothly mount his own waiting steed.

  Mary knew the moment she surveyed the glittering room she would never forget the sight. The clothes and coiffures were not as grand as those of the French, but she was in the dazzling midst of the Tudor court and her exiled English blood moved her beyond belief. If only father had brought her mother, she thought, her life would be complete for this one lovely moment.

  Mary wore a blue satin gown with side slashings, and one of the deepest square necklines she had ever dared. Her golden tresses were swept back and piled layer upon layer above her fair brow and at her throat she wore a single huge pearl drop which had once been her grandmother’s. Anne, too, looked vibrant in crimson and white, her pale skin setting off her dark, eager eyes, her long sleeves characteristically dripping extra lace to hide the tiny deformity of her left hand.

  Father ushered them into the opulent, buzzing crowd which awaited the arrival of the king. Mary recognized few faces in the velvet, gilded swarm except her Uncle Norfolk and her cousin Sir Francis Bryan, who kissed her cheek lingeringly and complimented them all. Despite William Stafford’s cruel words earlier in the day at Ardres, Mary was pleased to have her father hovering so close, and she summoned the courage to ask him her pressing question.

  “What, Mary?” he responded, as she began to speak, his head swiveling slowly, his eyes far past her as he surveyed the assembly.

  “I asked if I shall be going home soon, my lord father.”

  “Why did you think that, girl?”

  “I am older now than many of the girls, and I—I just wondered.”

  “It is possible. I shall think about it tonight, or soon.”

  “I should love to go home to Hever, father.”

  “Hever is hardly what I had in mind for you, Mary. After your fine opportunities in the French court, I hardly...” His eyes darted to the back of the room in the sudden hush. “The king comes,” he whispered.

  Mary strained to see. Trumpet blasts split the close air, heads turned and people bowed in a surging wave as the Tudors entered and moved toward their chairs. Thomas Bullen had positioned his little brood well, for soon Mary could see the tall dark husband of Mary Tudor, and then the red-blond smiling giant, the king himself.

  They curtseyed low and did not rise again until the royal family had seated themselves. Instantly, Mary saw her dear friend and guardian of earlier days, the king’s beautiful sister, and her eyes filled with joyous tears. Her brother-king had forgiven her and she and her beloved Charles Brandon looked radiant side by side.

  But Mary’s adoring gaze was mostly for the king. It was hard to believe her father had served this great master for so long. She had only seen him once when she had held the Princess Mary’s cloak and heard him promise her that if the French king died, she might wed elsewhere of her own choosing. She had quite forgotten he was so well proportioned. His golden-red beard set off his ruddy complexion and slate-blue eyes. A blond giant to overcome his rival the dark satyr king, she thought proudly. The English monarch wore silver and white silks and massy golden chains draped across his powerful chest and shoulders in perfect balance to the brawny thighs and calf muscles bulging the silk of his hose and emphasized by gilded and jeweled garters. The flagrant, massive codpiece over the king’s manhood was covered with a matching gold with jewels to offset his gold and jewel-edged collar as if to call special attention to his powerful face and loins.

  It was only when father urged them forward that she noted the queen, pale and heavy in dark green, with a large crucifix leaning on her ample bosom. Another Claude, Mary thought, stunned by the yawning gap in vitality between this dynamic king and his quiet queen.

/>   Even as the three Bullens approached the dais, they caught the king’s eye, and he motioned his ambassador forward, his jeweled fingers sparkling in the light. “Thomas, where in Christendom is Wolsey? He should have been here for this reception!” His voice seemed to rise and fall in each sentence. Mary stood slightly behind her father, and Anne stood apart from them both, watching.

  “Your Grace, I saw him in early afternoon and he yet had much to do at Ardres. He will be back soon, I am sure, with final arrangements.”

  “He had better be. These are his doing, all of it, and I will not be arriving in the morn before my brother Francois does. I will not be there standing about and waiting for the arrival of the French!”

  “Even the finest details have received our close attention, Your Grace. And may I say your marvelous Palace of Illusions far outshines Francois’s silken tent.”

  “Well, I mean to show them all the power and greatness of England. And what say our young English beauties, though raised at the French court? These are your daughters, are they not, my clever ambassador? A pox on you to hide such delights from our eyes.”

  His narrowed gaze glittered over them swiftly, and Mary was relieved to feel no romantic lure. William Stafford was quite mistaken, she thought, as King Henry turned to introduce them to his wife.

  “My dear, Bullen’s lovely flowers. Bred and raised behind your moated walls at Hever, eh?”

  Henry and his ambassador laughed. “They have been educated for some years at the court of Francois, Catherine,” the king plunged on, his eyes still on Mary. “A fine finishing school, no doubt.” Mary paled at his final words, and it was suddenly Anne who answered smoothly.

  “We enjoy the French court, but of course we miss our home at Hever and all of our beautiful England, Your Grace.”

  Queen Catherine’s lips broke into a warm smile. “I remember your lovely mother at court when I was not yet wed to His Grace,” she said in accented English. “Looking at your blonde daughter, my Lord Bullen, is quite like having the years rolled back. Do you not agree, my lord? She is so fair.”

  “Yes, yes, my Catherine. But the years have gone by and here stands quite another lady, fresh and on the brink of a great experience, eh, Thomas?”

  “Sire?”

  “Surely your Mary is old enough now to return to her home. She seems ripe for marriage. Is she betrothed?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Then we shall make her a good English marriage before some French fop gobbles her up, Thomas. Catherine could use a lady-in-waiting from a fine family such as your own.”

  Thomas Bullen bent low in gratitude, and the queen kept silent.

  “I always hearken to your advice, Sire. I shall think on the possibilities. Anne, of course, should stay longer, as she is but thirteen.”

  “Anne? Ah, yes, but it was Mary we were speaking of.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.”

  “And Thomas, though I have heard from you and my cardinal, I would like to hear about the character of Francois du Roi from the lips of one who has lived in his court recently. It may help me to deal better with him if I know how much we are alike,” he said loudly, for the curious crowd near the Bullens had grown two and three heads deep.

  “In intelligence and wit there is no comparison, Sire,” Thomas Bullen put in grandly. “And Mary shall be available to offer you her opinion should you desire it.”

  “Do not stray far, Thomas,” were the last distinct words Mary heard as others took their place near the king and the voices behind them became a dull steady buzz.

  “Where was your tongue, girl?” her father inquired out of the side of his mouth as they departed the press of the crowd. “Even Anne spoke. I thought you knew how to handle kings by now. Flattery and smiles and speak up sweetly. You are not to stand there like a hollow golden goddess. Your beauty will take you only so far, and he does not fancy ninnies!”

  Tears stung her eyes at the sudden rebuke and a lump caught in her throat. “I was not bid to speak, father. You spoke only of me, not to me.”

  “At least he will probably speak to you later. See that you find a sweet tongue by then!”

  “Yes, I will, father.”

  “Perhaps Marie was too much in awe, father. With her beauty she need not cultivate wittiness as much as I,” put in wide-eyed, serious Anne.

  “Yes. Well, both of you at least look your best for the Bullens today. You know your brother would give his best falcon to be here, so make us all proud. I do not intend to have Mary leaving one royal court unless it is to enter another. Do you understand, Mary? You are not going home to embroider with your mother in the long afternoons at Hever nor to breed children on some rural estate.”

  He sighed and patted Mary’s shoulder. “Dry your eyes, child. I meant not to be harsh on this wonderful evening. It is only that I will have the best for you and for Anne. I should have explained this all before, but I have been much taken with king’s business. Do you understand?”

  “I think I understand much more now, father,” Mary said quietly.

  “Fine, fine. Now we shall just bide our time for the king to remember he wishes to talk to you about Francois. Would you like to go back near the throne and speak to your former mistress Princess Mary? You were once aggrieved to leave her, I recall. She is much in the king’s favor again.”

  “Yes, I would appreciate that, and she has never met Anne.”

  They wound their way back through the clusters of courtiers toward the dais, and the beautiful Tudor Rose sighted Mary and her father. How lovely the king’s sister looked, Mary thought. Her gown was dazzling crimson to offset the rich hue of her lips and cheeks. Golden ribbons were threaded through the slashes in the red, tight bodice of the gown, and emeralds in gold filigree rosettes hung from her slender neck and her tight, chain-link girdle. Twisted strips of fox and whitest ermine lined the puffed outer sleeves and ornate crimson headpiece, separating the dark, rich velvets and brocades from her creamy skin, like a beautiful painting set in a precious frame. Princess Mary Tudor, now the adored Duchess of Suffolk, held out her graceful hand to her old friend Mary Bullen before they had emerged from the press of people.

  “Mary, my dear, how you have blossomed!” the princess marvelled. “My lord, do you remember the charming girl who was my English maid of honor when first we wed in Paris?”

  Charles Brandon’s dark eyes surveyed Mary’s flushed face and the warm embrace his wife offered the girl. “Of course, I remember, and she is much grown to a beauty. You have conquered the king’s heart, I hear.”

  For an instant Mary thought he spoke of King Henry and then blushed to realize that William Stafford’s words must have been true. The English court knew of her affair with Francois du Roi.

  “Hush, my lord,” his wife put in. “Anyone would be taken with her beauty, and we need not your commentary on it.”

  She turned intimately to Mary and lowered her voice. “You must forgive him, my dear, for he still bears enmity against the French king and your father. I shall see you do not suffer for his feelings.”

  Gratefully, Mary introduced Anne to the duke and duchess. The dark-haired girl handled herself with skillful aplomb, again to the pleased surprise of Mary and the avid eye of Thomas Bullen.

  “Shall we see you at court? Does she return home to England now, my lord Ambassador?” Princess Mary questioned Thomas Bullen directly to warm the icy air between her husband and her brother’s ambassador.

  “His Majesty was just suggesting the idea, Your Grace. Perhaps if we could find Mary a suitable husband, she could live at court. She has never forgotten your kindnesses to her.”

  “Then we shall see you, Mary. I shall urge my dear sister-in-law Queen Catherine to consider your service in her household, or maybe, even in mine.”

  At that last suggestion, Thomas Bullen seemed to hustle his daughters away, but their proximity to the throne drew the king’s attention again, and His Grace rose to follow them into the crowd. For c
ountless minutes Henry Tudor smiled, and cajoled, and flattered Mary, hanging on her every word and opinion of Francois and the French court. Mary smiled, cajoled, and flattered in return under her father’s watchful gaze. The time passed swiftly and Mary could remember little of it afterward, like a once-vivid dream that has flown by morn. All she could think of the entire way back to Guines was how William Stafford’s warnings could have been sound advice after all. She noticed Anne’s starry-eyed gaze and her father’s smug approval not at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  June 16, 1520

  Picardy

  For ten days the plain of Ardres rang with trumpets, shouts and applause. The nobility of two realms swarmed among the gaily colored tents which studded the tiny parks and bordered the tilt yards, dancing greens, and wrestling circles. The great folk of the two nations intertwined even as did the Hawthorne tree of England and the raspberry bush of France in the golden tent where the blond and raven-haired royal giants had met and embraced to begin the festivities. Serious business was conducted at this entente cordiale: Wolsey met with Louise du Savoy; Suffolk met with Bonnivet; financial promises were made; and King Henry’s young daughter was once again engaged to the French prince. Each side eyed the other through the haze of laughter and tried to bridle natural suspicions behind forced smiles. Banter and joviality flowed as profusely as the wine from Henry’s fountains, but beneath the golden surface lay the stoney gray foundation of distrust.

  For Mary Bullen, the days raced by as swiftly as the huge destriers which charged at each other along the gilded tilt rails. She mingled freely with both courts, but felt most comfortable with the English. Though she did not know them well, she made new acquaintances daily and was convinced their interest in her meant they could not possibly know of her besmirched reputation, which William Stafford had so cruelly flaunted in her face. The English king himself sought her out for conversation whenever he noticed her about, and a tiny plan began to grow in her mind. She would show King Francois how little she thought of him if she could arrange to be often near the great Henry. And indeed, if she were going back to England as had been hinted at and promised by both her father and the king, what had she to fear of reprisal?