The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ for long,” says Madge. “Not now that Mistress Anne is granted Hampton Court!”

      We burst into another fit of giggling, all pondering dissipated. It is all such a game to us, two girls barely out of the nursery, still naïve enough to enjoy the intrigues of the court.

      “Will we all move, then?” I ask.

      “I imagine the Anne faction will relocate to the palace. It sounds as though His Majesty plans on making it the new London residence,” says the all-knowing Madge.

      “How terribly exciting!” I breathe.

      “Oh, Mary, you’re such a little girl,” Madge scoffs, but there is no malice behind it and I respond with a smirk. “Do you think old Wolsey left all his red fabric behind?” she adds.

      “Why?” I ask.

      “To swathe the halls of Hampton Court, of course!”

      I laugh in approval, remembering the very rotund Cardinal Wolsey.

      Still, the laughter is a little forced. I do believe even cynical Madge seems to pity King Henry’s poor discarded adviser, and it takes away from the excitement of our move.

      A little.

      I am tired. I am so caught up in this faerie world that I do not sleep at night. I toss and turn, anticipating what wonders will await me the next day. What games will we play? What songs will we sing?

      We await our move to Hampton Court. We gossip in voices that ring out like the tinkling of little chimes. We drink wine. Anne thinks it’s funny to see my face get flushed.

      We all congregate at supper and I can’t keep my eyes open. My father sits far out of my reach with the other members of the council. As Mother predicted I do not see her, but I catch glimpses of the duke at court. We do not speak, not until he lays a hand on my shoulder in the hall on the way back from an evening’s entertainments, pulling me aside.

      I am thrilled to be acknowledged. “How now, Father?” I ask with a cheery smile. It is Anne’s smile. I practice it whenever I’m alone.

      “Wipe that stupid grin off your face. You look like a harlot,” says Norfolk. He grips my shoulder and guides me down the hall toward his apartments.

      He takes me to his privy chamber and sits behind his austere mahogany desk, folding his hands before him and regarding me, one eye squinting, as though I am a diamond he is examining for flaws. “How is Anne?” he asks after a long pause.

      “I think she is well, sir,” I say.

      “Has she slept with the king?”

      I am shocked at the question. My face burns and I bow my head.

      “Don’t play innocent. I know how maidens talk.” He has not raised his handsome voice; it is thin and impatient but not loud.

      I still cannot look at him. “She does not speak of that,” I say.

      “Don’t you listen, fool?” he demands, slamming his hand on the desk. “Do you think you’re here for your own entertainment? Do you realize your task in this? You are to be my ears, Mary. I depend on you to report to me all that is said and done in those chambers.”

      “What am I to do if she does … if she is …” I cannot say it. I don’t even know what it really means.

      “Nothing,” he says. “It is not your place to advise her, not that she’d take it from the likes of you as it is. You are my ears, Mary, that is all. I will expect a nightly report from this day hence. It seems she is weakening under his pressure. No doubt with Hampton Court now dangling before her, she feels secure in her position and thinks she’d have nothing to lose by giving in. Fools, all of them.” The fist on the desk clenches and my eyes are drawn to it. A melding of perfection and anger. “She is difficult to manage,” he says now, more to himself. “It would have made life easier if he’d have settled for that dolt of a sister of hers; she’s already proven her capacity for childbearing.” He shakes his head, then returns his black eyes, eyes that are much like our Anne’s, to me. “It is vital that Anne understands the king’s fickle nature; that he tires of his playthings once he has them.”

      I do not know how to respond to this monologue so remain silent, wondering if he will dismiss me.

      “Do you understand, Mary?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. I nod. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

      “Go on, now. It’s late,” he says. “To bed with you.”

      I turn to leave, but he raps his hand on the desk. I turn.

      Without raising his head he says, “News from Sir Edward Stanley.” My brother-in-law? What news could there be of him? Was my sister with child? My heart leaps at the thought of being an aunt. “Seems your sister Catherine passed from the plague.”

      I am dizzy. My head tingles. Catherine … my fair sister, Catherine, newly married. She was going to have a happy life; a quiet country life with many children. She was so gentle and sweet … Catherine. How could he tell me like this? How could he just sit there and mention my sister’s death with the same dismissive tone he’d describe a failed crop or broken axle?

      I approach the desk, trying to remind myself that he is a soldier. It is not in a soldier’s nature to show emotion; they see death all the time. Should they cry, I imagine their tears would never stop.

      Rounding the desk I inch closer to where he sits. He has not raised his head. He is looking through some documents. Letters from Stanley? From behind I wrap my arms about his shoulders in a feeble embrace, leaning my head against his cheek. He stiffens, every muscle growing taught beneath my touch. I drop my arms and bow my head, tears burning my eyes.

      “Will we go to her interment?” I ask hopefully.

      “Of course not,” he answers, his tone gruff. “It’s foolhardy to go where the plague has been.”

      For a moment I just stand before him, helpless. There’s so much I want to say but cannot articulate. “Should we say a prayer for her?” I ask at last, my voice small.

      He sets the document on the desk, facing me at last. “Prayers never brought any of my other children back. I don’t expect it will work for her. Off with you now.”

      I turn once more.

      “Mary.” His voice is low.

      I do not face him this time. I do not want him to see the tears paving cool trails down my cheeks.

      “Your hair is your finest feature,” he says, reaching out to finger a tress of my thick, honey-blond mane, which falls unbound to my waist in keeping with the fashion of unmarried maids. “See that you brush it every night,” he instructs. “A hundred strokes.”

      “Yes, my lord,” I answer as I quit the room.

      In the maidens’ chamber my tears cannot be hidden. I walk in with my face covered. I do not want to see the other girls. I want to be alone; I want to think about Catherine, about her sweet, lilting voice, her delicate features, her patient smile. She was everyone’s perfect lady, far more suited to court life than I could СКАЧАТЬ