The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory
He came to her rooms that evening. “Shall we have some music?” he asked her.
“Yes, Mistress Carey can sing for us,” she said pleasantly, gesturing me forward.
“Her sister Anne has the sweeter voice,” the king countermanded. Anne threw me a swift triumphant glance.
“Will you sing us one of your French songs, Miss Anne?” the king asked.
Anne swept one of her graceful curtsies. “Your Majesty has only to command,” she said, the hint of the French accent strong in her voice.
The queen watched this exchange. I could see that she was wondering if the king’s fancy was moving to another Boleyn girl. But he had outwitted her. Anne sat on a stool in the middle of the room, her lute on her lap, her voice sweet—as he said, sweeter than mine. The queen sat in her usual chair, with padded embroidered arms and a cushioned back which she never leaned against. The king did not take the matching chair beside hers, he strolled over to me and took Anne’s vacated space, and glanced at the sewing in my hands.
“Very fine work,” he remarked.
“Shirts for the poor,” I said. “The queen is good to the poor.”
“Indeed,” he said. “How quickly your needle goes in and out, I should make such a knot of it. How tiny and deft your fingers are.”
His head was bent toward my hands, I found I was looking at the base of his neck and thinking that I should like to touch the thick curling hair.
“Your hands must be half the size of mine,” he said idly. “Stretch them out and show me.”
I stabbed the needle into the shirts for the poor people and stretched out my hand to show him, palm up, toward him. His gaze never left my face as he put his hand out too, palm to palm toward mine yet not touching. I could feel the warmth of his hand against my hand, but I could not take my eyes from his face. His mustache curled a little around his lips, I wondered if the hair would be soft, like my husband’s dark sparse curls, or wiry like spun gold. It looked as if it might be strong and scratchy, his kiss might buff my face to redness, everyone would know we had been kissing. Beneath the little curls of hair his lips were sensual, I could not take my eyes from them, I could not help but think about the touch of them, the taste of them.
Slowly, he brought his hand closer to mine, like dancers closing in a pavane. The heel of his hand touched the heel of mine and I felt the touch like a bite. I jumped a little and I saw his lips curve as he saw that his touch was a shock to me. My cool palm and fingers extended along his, my fingers stopping short of his at the top joints. I felt the sensation of his warm skin, a callus on one finger from archery, the hard palms of a man who rides and plays tennis and hunts and can hold a lance and a sword all the day. I dragged my gaze from his lips and took in his whole face, the bright alertness of his gaze focused on me like a sun through a burning glass, the desire which radiated from him like heat.
“Your skin is so soft.” His voice was as low as a whisper. “And your hands are tiny, as I thought.”
The excuse of measuring the span of our fingers had long been exhausted, but we remained still, palm to palm, eyes on each other’s face. Then slowly, irresistibly, his hand cupped around mine and he held it, gently but firmly within his own.
Anne finished one song and started another, without a change of key, without a break in her voice, keeping the spell of the moment.
It was the queen who interrupted. “Your Majesty is disturbing Mistress Carey,” she said, with a little laugh as if the sight of her husband handfast with another woman, twenty-three years her junior, was amusing. “Your friend William will not thank you for making his wife idle. She has promised to hem these shirts for the nuns at Whitchurch nunnery and they are not half done.”
He let me go and turned his head to his wife. “William will forgive me,” he said carelessly.
“I am going to have a game of cards,” the queen said. “Will you play with me, husband?”
For a moment I thought she had done it, drawn him away from me by his long-established affection. But as he rose to his feet to do as she wanted, he glanced back and saw me looking up at him. There was almost no calculation in my look—almost none. I was nothing more than a young woman gazing up at a man, with desire in her eyes.
“I shall have Mistress Carey as my partner. Shall you send for George and have another Boleyn for your partner? We could have a matched pair.”
“Jane Parker can play with me,” the queen said coolly.
“You did that very well,” Anne said that night. She was seated by the fire in our bedroom, brushing her long dark hair, her head tipped to the side so that it fell like a scented waterfall over her shoulder. “The bit with the hands was very good. What were you doing?”
“He was measuring his hand span against mine,” I said. I finished the plait of my fair hair and pulled my nightcap on my head and tied the white ribbon. “When our hands touched I felt…”
“What?”
“It was like my skin was on fire,” I whispered. “Really. Like his touch could burn me.”
Anne looked at me skeptically. “What d’you mean?”
The words spilled out of my mouth. “I want him to touch me. I am absolutely dying for him to touch me. I want his kiss.”
Anne was incredulous. “You desire him?”
I wrapped my arms around myself and sank onto the stone window seat. “Oh God. Yes. I didn’t realize this was where I was going. Oh yes. Oh yes.”
She grimaced, her mouth pulled down. “You’d better not let Father and Mother hear that,” she warned. “They’ve ordered you to play a clever game, not moon around like a lovesick girl at twilight.”
“But don’t you think he wants me?”
“Oh, for the moment, yes. But next week? Next year?”
There was a tap on our bedroom door and George put his head around it. “Can I come in?”
“All right,” Anne said ungraciously. “But you can’t stay long. We’re going to bed.”
“I am too,” he said. “I’ve been drinking with Father. I am going to bed and tomorrow, when I am sober, I shall arise early and hang myself.”
I hardly heard him, I was staring out of the window and thinking of the touch of Henry’s hand against my own.
“Why?” Anne asked.
“My wedding is to be next year. Envy me, why don’t you?”
“Everyone gets married but me,” Anne said irritably. “The Ormondes have fallen through and they have nothing else for me. Do they want me to be a nun?”
“Not a bad choice,” George said. “D’you think they’d take me?”
“In a nunnery?” I caught the sense of the talk and turned around to laugh at him. “A fine abbess you’d make.”
“Better than most,” George said cheerfully. He went to sit on a stool, missed his seat and thudded down on the stone floor.
“You’re drunk,” I accused.
“Aye. And sour with it.”
“There’s something about my future wife that strikes me as very odd,” George said. “Something a little…” he searched for the word. “Rancid.”
“Nonsense,” Anne said. “She’s got an excellent dowry and good connections, she’s favorite of the queen and her father is respected and rich. Why worry?”
“Because she’s got a mouth like a rabbit snare, and eyes that are hot and cold at the same time.”
Anne laughed. “Poet.”
“I know what George means,” I said. “She’s passionate and somehow secretive.”
“Just discreet,” Anne said.
George shook his head. “Hot and cold at once. All the humors muddled up together. I shall live a dog’s life with her.”
“Oh marry her and bed her and send her to the country,” Anne said impatiently. “You’re a man, you can do what you like.”
He looked more cheerful at that. “I could push her down to Hever,” he said.
“Or Rochford Hall. And the king’s bound to give you a new estate on your marriage.”
Geo
“I will,” I said, taking the bottle and tasting the tart cold red wine.
“I’m going to bed,” Anne said primly. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Mary, drinking in your nightcap.” She turned back the covers and climbed into bed. She inspected George and me as she folded the sheets around her hips. “Both of you are a good deal too easy,” she ruled.
George pulled a face. “Told us,” he said cheerfully to me.
“She’s very strict,” I whispered in mock respect. “You’d never think she spent half her life flirting in the French court.”
“More Spanish than French, I think,” George said, wantonly provocative.
“And unmarried,” I whispered. “A Spanish duenna.”
Anne lay down on the pillow, hunched her shoulders and pulled the covers into place. “I’m not listening, so you can save your breath.”
“Who’d have her?” George demanded. “Who’d want her?”
“They’ll find her someone,” I said. “Some younger son, or some poor old broken-down squire.” I gave the flask to George.
“You’ll see,” came from the bed. “I’ll make a better marriage than either of you. And if they don’t forge me one soon, I’ll do it for myself.”
George passed the stone flask back to me. “Drain it,” he said. “I’ve had more than enough.”
I finished the last swig of drink and went round to the other side of the bed. “Goodnight,” I said to George.
“I’ll sit here awhile beside the fire,” he said. “We are doing well, aren’t we, us Boleyns? Me betrothed, and you on your way to bedding the king, and little Mademoiselle Parfait here free on the market with everything to play for?”
“Yes,” I said. “We are doing well.”
I thought of the intent blue gaze of the king on my face, the way his eyes traveled from the top of my headdress down to the top of my gown. I turned my face into the pillow so that neither of them could hear me. “Henry,” I whispered. “Your Majesty. My love.”
Next day there was to be a joust in the gardens of a house a little distance from Eltham Palace. Fearson House had been built in the last reign by one of the many hard men who had come to their wealth under the king’s father, himself the hardest man of them all. It was a big grand house, free of any castle wall or moat. Sir John Lovick had believed that England was at peace forever and built a house which would not be defended, indeed which could not be defended. His gardens were laid around the house like a checkerboard of green and white: white stones and paths and borders around low knot gardens of green bay. Beyond them lay the park where he ran deer for hunting, and between the park and the gardens was a beautiful lawn kept ready all the year round for the king’s use as a jousting green.
The tent for the queen and her ladies was hung in cherry-red and white silk, the queen was wearing a cherry gown to match and she looked young and rosy in the bright color. I was in green, the gown I had worn at the Shrove Tuesday masque when the king singled me out from all the others. The color made my hair glow more golden and my eyes shone. I stood beside the queen’s chair and knew that any man looking from her to me would think that she was a fine woman, but old enough to be my mother, while I was a woman of only fourteen, a woman ready to fall in love, a woman ready to feel desire, a precocious woman, a flowering girl.
The first three jousts were among the lower men of the court, hoping to attract attention by risking their necks. They were skilled enough, there were a couple of exciting passes, and one good moment when the smaller man unhorsed a bigger rival which made the common people cheer. The little man dismounted and took off his helmet to acknowledge the applause. He was handsome, slight and fair-haired. Anne nudged me. “Who’s that?”
“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.