The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ now, Mistress Holland,” Norfolk says in a tone I never hear used; it is almost solicitous. Almost loving. “Let us to bed.”

      My heart sinks. I do not want to hear that.

      I return to my lavish supper set on my little table. My room is so spacious, the furniture and tapestries so vibrant with beauty.

      But I am alone and do not appreciate the food anymore, nor the surroundings. I take to my bed, escaping my loneliness the only way I know how, through sleep.

      In the morning I am summoned to Mother’s chambers. I make certain to appear neat and proper, my hair brushed, my hood straight, my face and hands clean. I enter her rooms hoping we might break our fast together, but am surprised to find her propped up in bed. I have never seen my mother in her nightdress before—when I was little I believed she was born clothed. Yet now she is clad in a simple ivory nightgown with ruffles at the neck and wrists, appearing childlike in her large four-poster.

      I curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

      She nods in greeting, regarding me with a stern countenance. With a thin hand she beckons me toward her. As I approach I note that her eyes are surrounded by puffy purple shadows. Looking closer, I realize they are not shadows but bruises. My heart begins to pound as I realize what last night’s “exertions” must have been for her.

      “You are growing up at this court of Henry VIII,” she says.

      “Yes, my lady,” I answer.

      “You are attractive enough.” She reaches up to tuck a curl that strayed from her ruffled night cap behind her ear. As her sleeve slips down her arm I see her thin wrist is also encircled with dark bruises, imprints of my father’s fingers.

      “Thank you, my lady,” I say, trying to fight off tears as I regard her condition. What else did he do to her?

      “Things are happening,” she says. “Great changes, as well you know. Many will be asked to compromise their beliefs, abandon their principles. Whatever you hold sacred, Mary, whatever you believe in your heart, keep it there. Keep your own counsel. Tell them what they want to hear, believe what they want you to believe, and keep your opinions to yourself. Do you understand?”

      I nod, frightened.

      To my surprise tears fill her eyes. “It is too late for me.” She shrugs, bringing one thin finger to tap her chin in a nervous gesture. “I cannot stray from my convictions. If you had known Her Majesty …” She shakes her head. “She inspires devotion. But devotion is becoming rather passé in this day and age.” She sighs. “Yet I remain so at great expense. It does not matter. I must cling to something.”

      I reach out and take her hand. “You have me, my lady. Always.”

      At this a tear spills onto her fair cheek. Frustrated, she shakes her head and wipes it away. “No. I never had any of my children. Perhaps that is where peasants are most fortunate. They keep their children; ours are sent away as chattel to be bartered for political gain. But such is our lot, I suppose. No, I do not have you, Mary. Not now, not ever.”

      I blink away tears at the reality of the thought. I recall my father’s words about the advantaged, how sentiment cannot be considered if one wishes to keep one’s position. I begin to wonder if any position, no matter how exalted, is worth such emotional sacrifice.

      “I’m so sorry about Catherine,” I tell her. “Both Catherines. My sister and Her Majesty.”

      Mother averts her eyes.

      “I met Her Majesty. She was most kind to me,” I say. “Oh, my lady, if only things were different.”

      “Don’t waste time wishing for things you can never have.” Her voice is firm. “Life is short enough as it is. Not one moment should be spent in regret.” She covers her face with her hands an instant before going on. When she pulls them away she clenches them in impatience. “You will carry your cousin the whore’s train at her ceremony. I will not be attending.”

      “But, my lady, what of Father?” I begin to tremble. “What will he ...?”

      “What can he do to me?” she finishes. “Nothing. There is nothing he can say or do to break me, Mary. See this?” With effort she rises from the bed, pulling up her nightdress. I am ashamed at her nakedness; I almost turn but cannot. I am riveted by the bruises that mark her slim frame. She drops the gown, covering herself once more. “It is just a body, a shell. It means nothing to me. He can do as he pleases to it—but all is transient, temporary. I will suffer as God wills it and look forward to the freedom Heaven will surely afford me.”

      “My lady!” I cry in despair. I want to embrace her, but am afraid of hurting her. There are so many bruises. Never have I seen such blatant cruelty. I begin to cry.

      “Don’t cry for me, Mary,” Mother says, settling under the covers once more. “Cry for yourself, for the lot we must suffer as women, as God’s cursed creatures.”

      “Surely we aren’t cursed,” I say. “God does love us, doesn’t He?”

      Mother purses her lips. Her eyes are dry. “He tolerates us because we serve a purpose—rather like your father,” she adds with a sound that could be called a laugh.

      This makes me want to wail in despair, but I refrain, drying my eyes in the attempt to achieve a semblance of dignity. If God tolerates us, that means He doesn’t have to like us. It means we are just short of a mistake in His eyes. Oh, that can’t be … that can’t be. Mother’s bitterness over her own pitiful lot has caused this view toward God. Doesn’t Her Majesty, the most devout woman in Christendom, see God as a loving benefactor of mercy? If she can harbor such regard for the Lord then so must I, for she is as justified in her sufferings as my mother.

      We return to court and I am filled with relief. As soon as I am able, I escape Norfolk and return to the maidens’ chamber. Everyone is in a frenzy of gossip. Trunks are being packed, servants are running everywhere.

      No one notices I have returned; indeed, they may not have realized I was ever gone. For a moment I stand a silent observer until Madge Shelton approaches me, taking my hand.

      “I thought you had abandoned us,” she says in her light voice. “Are you well?” Her eyes are lit with genuine concern.

      I nod. “Much better, thank you.”

      She beams. “Are you excited about France?”

      “France?”

      She regards me as though I had emerged from the tomb. “Of course, France! We are going to accompany the king and Anne after her elevation to the peerage, to meet the king of France and his dazzlingly naughty court!”

      “Madge!” I cry in delighted anticipation. “No one told me! When do we go?”

      “October,” she said. “So you best pick your gowns out now. We are. Oh, I can’t wait! Mistress Anne is in a huff. She is determined to be accepted by King François—I think she feels that if he openly embraces her she’ll be—”

      “Validated?”

      We turn at the cool voice. It is Anne herself, regarding us with furrowed black brows and narrowed СКАЧАТЬ