Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (69 page)

“Only one of the Seymour boys.”

The queen turned her head. “Mistress Carey, would you go and ask the master of the horse when my husband is riding today and what horse he has chosen?”

I turned to do her bidding, and I saw why she was sending me
away. The king was coming slowly across the grass toward our pavilion and she wanted me out of his way. I curtsied and dawdled to the doorway, timing my departure so that he saw me hesitating under the awning. At once he excused himself from a conversation and hurried over. His armor was polished bright as silver, the trimming on it was gold. The leather straps holding his breastplate and armguards were red and smooth as velvet. He looked taller, a commanding hero from long-ago wars. The sun shining on him made the metal burn with light so that I had to step back into the shade and put my hand up to my eyes.

“Mistress Carey, in Lincoln green.”

“You are all bright,” I said.

“You would be dazzling if you were in the darkest of blacks.”

I said nothing. I just looked at him. If Anne or George had been close by they could have prompted me with some compliment. But I was empty of wit, it was all crowded out by desire. I could say and do nothing but just look at him and know that my face was full of longing. And he said nothing too. We stood, gazes locked, intently interrogating each other’s faces as if we might understand the other’s desire from his eyes.

“I must see you alone,” he said finally.

I did not coquet. “Your Majesty, I cannot.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I dare not.”

He took in a deep breath at that, as if he would sniff out lust itself. “You could trust me.”

I tore my eyes from his face and looked away, seeing nothing. “I dare not,” I said again simply.

He reached out and took my hand to his lips and kissed it. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my fingers and, at last, the gentle stroke of the curls of his mustache.

“Oh, soft.”

He looked up from my hand. “Soft?”

“The touch of your mustache,” I explained. “I have been wondering how it felt.”

“You have been wondering how my mustache felt?” he asked.

I could feel my cheeks growing warm. “Yes.”

“If you were kissed by me?”

I dropped my gaze to my feet so that I should not see the brightness of his blue eyes, and gave a little imperceptible nod.

“You have been wishing to be kissed by me?”

I looked up at that. “Your Majesty, I have to go,” I said desperately. “The queen sent me on an errand and she will wonder where I am.”

“Where did she bid you go?”

“To your master of horse, to find out what horse you are riding and when you are to ride.”

“I can tell her that myself. Why should you walk around in the burning sun?”

I shook my head. “It’s no trouble to me to go for her.”

He made a little tutting noise. “And she has servants enough to run around the jousting green, God knows. She has a full Spanish retinue while I am begrudged my little court.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Anne coming through the hangings of the queen’s room and freeze as she saw the king and me close together.

Gently he released me. “I shall go to see her now and answer her questions about my horses. What will you do?”

“I’ll come in a moment,” I said. “I need to take a little moment before I go back in, I feel all . . .” I broke off at the impossibility of describing what I was feeling.

He looked at me tenderly. “You’re very young to be playing this game, aren’t you? Boleyn or no Boleyn. They’ll be telling you what to do and putting you in my way, I suppose.”

I would have confessed to the family’s plot to ensnare him but for Anne, waiting in the shadows of the jousting tent. With her watching me, I just shook my head. “It’s no game to me.” I looked away, I let my lip tremble. “I promise you, it’s no game to me, Your Majesty.”

His hand came up, he took my chin and turned my face toward him. For one breathless moment I thought with dread and with delight that he was going to kiss me, in front of everyone.

“Are you afraid of me?”

I shook my head and resisted the temptation to turn my face to his hand. “I am afraid of what may happen.”

“Between us?” He smiled, the confident smile of a man who knows that the woman he desires is only moments away from his arms. “Nothing bad will come to you for loving me, Mary. You can have my word on it, if you like. You will be my mistress, you will be my little queen.”

I gasped at that potent word.

“Give me your scarf, I want to wear your favor while I joust,” he said suddenly.

I looked around. “I can’t give it to you here.”

“Send it to me,” he said. “I’ll tell George to come to you, give it to him. I won’t wear it so it shows. I’ll tuck it into my breastplate. I’ll wear it against my heart.”

I nodded.

“So you give me your favor?”

“If you wish,” I whispered.

“I wish it so much,” he said. He bowed and turned toward the entrance of the queen’s tent. My sister Anne had disappeared like a helpful ghost.

I gave them all a few minutes and then I went back into the tent myself. The queen gave me a sharp interrogatory look. I sank
into a curtsy. “I saw the king coming to answer your questions himself, Your Majesty,” I said sweetly. “So I came back.”

“You should have sent a servant in the first place,” the king said abruptly. “Mistress Carey should not be running round the jousting ground in this sun. It’s far too hot.”

The queen hesitated for only a moment. “I am so sorry,” she said. “It was thoughtless of me.”

“It’s not me you should apologize to,” he said pointedly.

I thought she would balk at that, and from the tension in Anne’s body at my side I knew that she too was waiting to see what a Princess of Spain and a Queen of England would do next.

“I am sorry if I inconvenienced you, Mistress Carey,” the queen said levelly.

I felt no triumph at all. I looked across the richly carpeted tent at a woman old enough to be my mother and felt nothing but pity for the pain I would cause her. For a moment I did not even see the king, I saw only the two of us, bound to be each other’s grief.

“It is a pleasure to serve you, Queen Katherine,” I said, and I meant it.

For a moment she looked at me as if she understood some of what was in my mind and then she turned to her husband. “And are your horses fit for today?” she asked. “Are you confident, Your Majesty?”

“It’s me or Suffolk today,” he said.

“You will be careful, sire?” she said softly. “There’s no harm in losing to a rider like the duke; and it would be the end of the kingdom if anything happened to you.”

It was a loving thought, but he took it with no grace at all. “It would be indeed, since we have no son.”

She flinched and I saw the color go from her face. “There is
time,” she said, her voice so quiet that I could hardly hear it. “There is still time . . .”

“Not much,” he said flatly. He turned away from her. “I must go and get ready.”

He went past me without a glance, though Anne and I and all the other ladies sank down into a curtsy as he passed by. When I rose up the queen was looking toward me, not as if I were a rival, but as if I were still her favorite little maid in waiting who might bring her some comfort. She looked at me as if for a moment she would seek someone who would understand the dreadful predicament of a woman, in this world ruled by men.

George strolled into the room and kneeled before the queen with his easy grace. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I have come to visit the fairest lady in Kent, in England and the world.”

“Oh George Boleyn, rise up,” she said, smiling.

“I would rather die at your feet,” he offered.

She gave him a little tap on the hand with her fan. “No, but you can give me odds for the king’s joust if you want.”

“Who would bet against him? He is the finest of horsemen. I will give you a wager of five to two against the second joust. Seymours against Howards. There’s no doubt in my mind of the winner.”

“You would offer me a bet on the Seymours?” the queen asked.

“Have them carry your blessing? Never,” George said quickly. “I would have you bet on my cousin Howard, Your Majesty. Then you can be sure of winning, you can be sure of betting on one of the finest and most loyal families in the country, and you can have tremendous odds as well.”

She laughed at that. “You are an exquisite courtier indeed. How much do you want to lose to me?”

“Shall we say five crowns?” George asked.

“Done!”

“I’ll take a bet,” Jane Parker said suddenly.

George’s smile vanished. “I could not offer you such odds, Mistress Parker,” he said civilly. “For you have all my fortune at your command.”

It was still the language of courtly love, the constant flirtatiousness which went on in the royal circles night and day and sometimes meant everything, but more often than not meant nothing at all.

“I’d just like to bet a couple of crowns.” Jane was trying to engage George in the witty flattering conversation that he could do so well. Anne and I watched her critically, not disposed to help her with our brother.

“If I lose to Her Majesty—and you will see how graciously she will impoverish me—then I will have nothing for any other,” George said. “Indeed, whenever I am with Her Majesty I have nothing for any other. No money, no heart, no eyes.”

“For shame,” the queen interrupted. “You say this to your betrothed?”

George bowed to her. “We are betrothed stars circling a beautiful moon,” he said. “The greatest beauty makes everything else dim.”

“Oh run away,” the queen said. “Go and twinkle elsewhere, my little star Boleyn.”

George bowed and went to the back of the tent. I drifted after him. “Give it me quick,” he said tersely. “He’s riding next.”

I had a yard of white silk trimming the top of my dress, which I took and pulled through the green loops until it was free and then handed it to George. He whisked it into his pocket.

“Jane sees us,” I said.

He shook his head. “No matter. She’s tied to our interest whatever her opinion. I have to go.”

I nodded and went back into the tent as he left. The queen’s eyes rested briefly on the empty loops at the front of my gown, but she said nothing.

“They’ll start in a moment,” Jane said. “The king’s joust is next.”

I saw him helped into his saddle, two men supporting him as the weight of his armor nearly bore him down. Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, the king’s brother-in-law, was arming also, and the two men rode out together and came past the entrance to the queen’s tent. The king dipped his lance in salute to her, and held it down as he rode past the length of the tent. It became a salute to me, the visor of his helmet was up, I could see him smile at me. There was a tiny flutter of white at the shoulder of his breastplate which I knew was the kerchief from my gown. The Duke of Suffolk rode behind him, dipped his lance to the queen and then stiffly nodded his head to me. Anne, standing behind me, gave a little indrawn breath.

“Suffolk acknowledged you,” she whispered.

“I thought so.”

“He did. He bowed his head. That means the king has spoken to him of you, or spoken to his sister Queen Mary, and she has told Suffolk. He’s serious. He must be serious.”

I glanced sideways. The queen was looking down the list where the king had halted his horse. The big charger was tossing his head and sidling while he waited for the trumpet blast. The king sat easily in the saddle, a little golden circlet round his helmet, his visor down, his lance held before him. The queen leaned forward to see. There was a trumpet blast and the two horses leaped forward as the spurs were driven into their sides. The two armored men thundered toward each other, divots of earth flying out from the horses’ hooves. The lances were down like arrows flying to a target, the pennants on the end of each
lance fluttering as the gap closed between them, then the king took a glancing blow which he caught on his shield, but his thrust at Suffolk slid under the shield and thudded into the breastplate. The shock of the blow threw Suffolk back off his horse and the weight of his armor did the rest, dragging him over the haunches, and he fell with an awful thud to the ground.

His wife leaped to her feet. “Charles!” She whirled out of the queen’s pavilion, lifting her skirts, running like a common woman toward her husband as he lay unmoving on the grass.

“I’d better go too.” Anne hurried after her mistress.

I looked down the lists to the king. His squire was stripping him of his heavy armor. As the breastplate came off my white kerchief fluttered to the ground, he did not see it fall. They unstrapped the greaves from his legs and the guards from his arms and he pulled on a coat as he walked briskly up the lists to the ominously still body of his friend. Queen Mary was kneeling beside Suffolk, his head cradled in her arms. His squire was stripping off the heavy armor from his master as he lay there. Mary looked up as her brother came closer and she was smiling.

“He’s all right,” she said. “He just swore an awful oath at Peter for pinching him with a buckle.”

Henry laughed. “God be praised!”

Two men carrying a stretcher ran forward. Suffolk sat up. “I can walk,” he said. “Be damned if I’m carried from the field before I’m dead.”

“Here,” Henry said and heaved him to his feet. Another man came running to the other side and the two of them started to walk him away, his feet dragging and then stumbling to keep pace.

“Don’t come,” Henry called to Queen Mary over his shoulder. “Let us make him comfortable and then we’ll get a cart or something and he can ride home.”

She stopped where she was bid. The king’s page came running up with my kerchief in his hands, taking it to his master. Queen Mary put out her hand. “Don’t bother him now,” she said sharply.

The lad skidded to a halt, still holding my kerchief. “He dropped this, Your Majesty,” he said. “Had it in his breastplate.”

She put out an indifferent hand for it and he gave it to her. She was looking after her husband being helped into the house by her brother and Sir John Lovick hurrying ahead of them, opening doors and shouting for servants. Absently she walked back to the queen’s pavilion with my kerchief balled up in her hand. I went forward to take it from her and then I hesitated, not knowing what to say.