The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and kissing her cheeks. I exit but do not run this time. Something keeps me rooted in place outside the door and I wonder if this is my fate, camping outside of doors, listening to things I do not want to hear, for surely what I am hearing now is out of a dream.

      Sweet murmurs assault my ears. Yes, assault, because they are not exchanged between those who should utter them. I turn. My father has Bess’s head cupped between his hands. She is smiling up at him with the unadulterated adoration of a love-starved child. He gathers her in his arms, kissing her with the same fierce passion he used in striking my mother. When they part they are breathless. They lean back on the settee and I watch his hand snake down her stomacher.

      T. H. Thomas Howard. So the handkerchief she offered me was his. On what occasion had he lent it to her? Had she been crying over her undesirable role as mistress? Had she been demanding that he rid himself of my mother to set her, wicked Bessie Holland, in her place? I picture the whole scene, my cheeks hot with rage. My father wrapping his arms around Bess and consoling her, promising her the world if she’d only be patient a little while longer. He gives her his handkerchief and she clutches it to her ample bosom just to lure his eyes to that ripe spot wherein beats her sinful little heart. Oh, the seducer!

      Bile rises in my throat as I quit the mental imagery. A firm hand grips my shoulder. How is it he can move so swiftly and silently, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut against whatever is to come. But when I open them it is into my mother’s face I look.

      “So. Now you see,” she says in her low voice. There are no tears in her eyes. She is a strong little woman, her angular jaw set in a line of determination, her challenging gaze stormy blue. She is not like Bess—soft, round Bess—who is made of honey and cream. Mother cannot afford to be honey and cream. She is fighting, always fighting. Now I know what she is fighting for.

      “Yes,” I say with profound sadness. “Now I see.”

      “You will be careful at this court of Henry, the Eighth of That Name.” I nod at the gravity of this formal order. “You must know that when you are there you will not see His Grace your father very much at all, and I will be busy attending Her Majesty. Be quiet. Watch and learn. Never tattle on anyone else, no matter how tempted you are by the promises of others. Be still. Keep your own counsel. Self-preservation, Mary, is of the utmost importance at this court.”

      “Yes, Mother.” My throat contracts with tears. I want her to en-fold me in her arms the way Bess does when I am sad or frightened. But I am angry at Bess and remind myself to admire my mother’s cool sense of control rather than long for the embrace of that vile betrayer.

      Mother nods to me. I nod back. We part company.

      This is how true ladies conduct their business.

      I am leaving. Bess catches me before I descend to the great hall. Sensing my coldness, her soft eyes make their appeal. She clings to my hands as if she does not know of her transgression. I snatch them from hers and scowl. Her face registers her sorrow as she seizes my wrists.

      “My lady.” Her voice is almost a whimper, stirring my heart. “Your father is a powerful man. We can only all of us do his bidding. My family … they depend on His Grace.” Tears stream down her cheeks with abandon. “I … I have no choice, my lady.”

      I blink several times to keep fresh tears at bay. “Such topics are not suitable for my ears,” I say, thinking myself to be quite dignified, but feeling a fraud. I disengage myself and turn around to go meet my parents.

      “Mary!” Bess cries.

      The unchecked agony of her voice causes me to stop.

      “I love you like my own,” she says, her milky voice edged with desperation.

      I burst into tears and run to her, flinging myself into her arms. “Oh, Bess, dearest Bess,” I sob. I forget the coolness of my mother and the wantonness of Bess’s actions. All I know is I am in the arms of the one person I have trusted to love me without reserve— my Bess. I cannot fault her for anything now, nor can I blame my father for loving her. My sense of right and wrong has been thwarted. I do not know what game I have been thrust into. I have yet to ascertain the character of the players.

      I only know that I am one of them. My mother’s words ring in my ears. Self-preservation, Mary …

      With effort I extract myself from Bess’s embrace and know that as I leave her I am leaving all vestiges of childhood behind me.

      Chapter 3

       Farewell to Kenninghall

      I ride away with my father’s armed retinue, watching my childhood home become a small black speck on the horizon. Mother rides in a covered litter with the curtains drawn. I asked to sit beside her but was refused, as she prefers her privacy.

      “Soon you will not see it at all,” Norfolk says in reference to Kenninghall as he sidles up beside me. He looks formidable on his black charger, though in lieu of armor he wears the fine furs and velvets of a much-favored courtier. The heavy cloak envelops his slight personage and he appears more solid. He holds the reigns with one slim-fingered hand while the other rests on the hilt of his sword.

      “Stop looking back,” he tells me. “Howards do not ever look back; we press onward. No matter the circumstances. Onward.” He gestures for me to look ahead and I do, taking in the fields that surround us; they are barren and gray. Winter is pondering its arrival. It teases us with a scattering of snowflakes now and then. I shiver. I wish we were traveling in the spring when the landscape has more to offer.

      So far what is ahead looks bleak. I am at once clutched in anxiety’s sadistic fist. What if I do not fit in at court? What if no one likes me? Kenninghall may not have been an exciting place, but along with Tendring and Hunsdon—my other childhood homes— it was familiar. I had my lessons. I played with my brother and Bess. Now I am plunging into a life alien to me. My father is foreign to me. I have only seen him a handful of times. I want to impress him; I want him to be proud of me. Yet he frightens me. His brutality toward Mother, his tenderness toward Bess … I cover my mouth to stifle a sob.

      “Are you ill, Mary?” Norfolk asks.

      “No, my lord,” I say quickly. I avert my head. I do not want him to see my tears.

      “You have not been made accustomed to long rides,” he comments. “You must be tired. Come.” In one effortless movement he leans down and scoops me right off my saddle, setting me in front of him. I stiffen, unsure of how to conduct myself. He is my father, but he is also the intimidating soldier-duke. He is the man who beat my mother and made love to my maid in the same afternoon. But he is also the man we are taught to worship and long for.

      I lean back, giving in to the need to rest against something. His chest is warm; I feel his beating heart against my back. I look down at his hand, a hand of such perfection it could have been the model for a statue, with its strong tapering fingers and subtle blue veins snaking like rivers beneath his tanned skin. It is the hand of a scholar and soldier. The thought sobers me. This hand is capable of much cruelty.

      Now it rests about my waist, quite nonthreatening. In a moment forged out of the desperate need for reassurance, I reach out and take it in my own.

      “I am so glad to be with you, Father,” I tell him, and in that moment I am filled with the utmost sincerity.

      He pauses. “I have been shown your embroidery. Quite fine,” he says. “And I am told you have a nice ear for the virginals СКАЧАТЬ