The Boleyn Bride (14 page)

“Oh, sire!” one lady cooed as she sank into a curtsy before him, bending forward as much as she dared to display as much as she could of her milky bosom. “I daresay if you had not been born to the blood royal you could have made your fortune as a singer!” And we were all quick to raise our voices in agreement, lauding him with praise, feeding the monster of his vanity until its glutted belly threatened to burst.

Queen Catherine was then great with child and her dancing days were already long behind her; she had given it up, fearing that even the gentle exertion of treading even the slowest measures might bring on a miscarriage or premature birth. She smiled like a tolerant mother at her husband’s boyish exuberance, but shook her head and gently put him from her when he embraced her and tried to coax her to her feet.

“Rise and dance with me, my Queen!” he cried. “Robin Hood must have his Marian!”

But she would not, laying a hand upon her belly and chiding gently, “Now is not the time for me to dance, my lord.”

So he sought a more willing partner amongst her ladies instead.

“Someone must want to dance with me!” he cried, puckering his little mouth into a petulant red rosebud pout.

It was then that his eyes lighted upon me.

As it was May Day, I was gowned in spring green satin embroidered from bodice to hem with white flowers, and on my head I wore a matching green gable hood bordered with pearl flowers with long lappets hanging down in front, past my shoulders, embroidered with yet more May flowers. It was the perfect gown for May Day, but I hadn’t reckoned on a royal flirtation. On the contrary, I was hoping an opportunity to steal away to be with Remi would present itself as the day progressed.

I demurred, modestly hanging my head, but Queen Catherine urged me to dance in her stead, insisting that my gracefulness always gave her so much pleasure. So, most reluctantly, I gave in and let him take my hand.

The musicians struck up a merry measure, and King Henry led me out into the center of the room as the ladies and gentlemen moved back to clear a space for us. As the music grew faster, and our audience began to clap their hands in time and call out their encouragement, we lost ourselves in the dance and competed shamelessly over spins, leaps, and kicks, trying to best each other with complex jigs, during which I shamelessly hoisted my skirts to show off my fast-moving feet, my limbs encased in green stockings and emerald-beaded slippers of white velvet. By the end of the dance, I was flushed and breathless, my stays pinching my sides, and my hair, modestly braided and coiled at the nape of my neck beneath my hood, had been shaken down from its pins.

King Henry laughed and reached out to capture my long black braid, “like a rope of black silk,” he said, coiling it around his strong fist, to draw me to him for an affectionate embrace and only a chaste kiss since Queen Catherine was watching. As he held me, he declared that I was the best Maid Marian he had ever had.

By the way he spoke these words, and the way his blue eyes bored into mine, I knew he meant to have me for far more than just a dancing partner.

“Only after Her Majesty.” With a low curtsy, I demurred. “
She
is your
perfect
partner, sire.”

I quickly returned to my seat beside Queen Catherine, while the King’s gentlemen gallantly gathered up my fallen and scattered hairpins so I could make my hair right again.

I tried so hard to laugh it off, to dismiss it as nothing, a mere May Day flirtation, court gallantry, the sort of meaningless and idle flirtatious banter we all indulged in to pass the time, nothing more, yet I
knew
I was lying to myself. I knew he wanted me. It was unmistakable. When King Henry looked at me, it was as though his eyes burned my clothes away, leaving me bare and scorched pink by a fire that burned from outside as well as from within. Yet it froze me too. I feared his ardor even as it excited me. A part of me wanted to run to him, to lie down at his feet and lift my skirts, to invite, entice, and excite him, and use every erotic talent I had to hold him for as long as I could; my vanity wanted to wield the heady power of royal mistress, to rule as the uncrowned queen of the court. Yet another, and, surprisingly, I think a larger, part of me wanted to run away in icy dread and hide from his powerful lust, as well as the throbbing sizzle pulsing through my blood, knowing nothing good could ever come of this.

What did I want? I searched my mind for the answer, yet found it finally in the serene gray eyes of Queen Catherine—a woman who understood the flaws and foibles of humanity yet still sought to see the good in everyone. I would not let vanity and hot-blooded lust, for passion or power, be the weapon to wound her. I would not be the one to wield that sword as some of her ladies had already done and others would doubtlessly go on to do. Even though my husband would urge me to grasp that sword, as though it were the fabled Excalibur, I would not betray and injure that gracious lady who had been nothing but kind to me. Not even for a king’s ransom in jewels or the deeds to a dozen manors would I do it.

Yea, he was a powerful, passionate man, and I cannot deny that he stirred me. So vibrant and virile a man was Henry Tudor he could have roused a woman from her deathbed with a caress. I remembered that long-ago day, when I stood amidst the crowd, as a girl of sixteen with her head full of dreams, watching him riding by as a boy of ten, smiling and waving to the crowd. I had dreamed then of having him for my lover someday, of kneeling before him and playing the repentant Magdalene to his Jesus Christ. But the boy had not become a churchman, but a king—a king who had married a saintly and devout woman who, in her goodness and loving kindness, reminded everyone of the Holy Virgin. And when such an opportunity was in my grasp I found—to my surprise—I did not want it. Every time I imagined us naked in bed, with the whole muscular-hard and virile length of him stretched atop me, I saw, looking over his shoulder, the pained and wounded face of Queen Catherine, gowned in white, draped in a flowing mantle of Our Lady’s blue, tears rolling down her sad face as she clasped a pearl rosary over her broken heart.

I had seen her try to hide the hurt, to turn a dignified blind eye to the little dalliances her husband indulged in when she was with child, or recovering from the loss of one, and must of necessity bar him from her bed. No, I would not be numbered amongst his amours. I would not sacrifice the Queen’s friendship. Nor would I give up Remi for a royal lover who would demand my complete fidelity though he might stray as often as he pleased until he grew bored with and discarded me, as was bound to happen sooner or later; few royal mistresses held a king’s affection and amorous attention for a lifetime.

But my motives were not entirely altruistic; I am too honest to let those who read this turn the page with that impression. I am no angel of goodness, but I am no she-devil either. Hatred and spite shared the stage alongside love and good intentions. I knew how happy it would make Thomas if I let the King have me. How he would preen and strut like a proud little rooster, king of the barnyard, crowing at the triumph, tallying up all the riches and glory this liaison would bring, praising me to the skies as the best bargain the Bullen shopkeepers had ever made.

In the end, it wasn’t such a difficult decision after all to shove vanity aside and ice my lustily simmering blood. I hated Thomas, and I loved Queen Catherine and Remi. I didn’t need a lusty king to fulfill me; I already had everything I wanted. I was a reigning beauty of the court, greatly admired, sought after, and ardently wooed by many gentlemen as well as visiting foreigners. And, best of all, I had Remi, soft and sweet like a great, big, sugared dough-baby, far more comforting and pleasing to me than the King’s hard muscularity and the disturbing coldness lurking inside his beady blue eyes ever could be. In the end, it was a much easier decision to make than it at first seemed. I found I didn’t need, or even want, King Henry, and the triumph over thwarting Thomas Bullen’s greed and avid, salivating desire to climb the social ladder ever higher would be
so much
sweeter than a tumble in the royal bed ever could be. Now I didn’t want to change my life; I wanted it to go on
exactly
as it was. I was happy. I was content. I had made the best of it.

But though I had made my decision, I still had the King’s lust to contend with, and that was no easy matter.

One afternoon, shortly after our May Day dance, when I was about the palace on some errand for Queen Catherine, he caught me around the waist and pulled me into an alcove, stopping my protests with rough, hot kisses. Before things could go further, or I could ice my hot blood and regain wits enough to express my resolve, we heard voices and footsteps approaching. He put a finger to his smiling lips, winked, and swiftly ducked out of the alcove, leaving me alone trembling behind the heavy red velvet curtain.

I waited, heart pounding, until the voices and footsteps had passed, then, swiftly, before he could come back, emerged, pretending that I had sought a discreet shelter to tighten a slipping garter in case anyone saw me, and went on about my business. But the encounter left me very shaken. I knew if I didn’t find a way to stop them they would continue until he obtained from me the ultimate favor.

There would be other times when he connived and maneuvered to waylay me. There would be other kisses, cupped breasts and buttocks, playful pinches, and bold caresses; our bodies pressed tight together, and a strong hand forcing my own down to cradle his mammoth bulging codpiece. Yet I always found a way to escape or divert him before things went
too
far. I became adept at evading him; it was rather like a game, at times exhilarating, at times wearying, and I tried, whenever I could, to go about the palace in the company of another lady-in-waiting, or better yet a group of them, and, failing that, to have my maid, the wonderfully efficient and worldly wise Marie, accompany me.

 

One night, as I sat at my dressing table brushing my hair, Thomas leaned over my shoulder, his fingers digging deep, nails biting hard through the blackwork embroidery edging the fine linen of my shift, and hissed in my ear, “
Give in!
If you do, our fortune will be made!”

But I said nothing and kept on drawing the bristles of the heavy gold-backed brush through the abundant blackness of my hair, my eyes fixed on Remi’s pincushion Eve all the while, imagining that tiny temptress was I, and Thomas was that slick, ingratiating serpent, coiling around my limbs, hissing temptation into my ear. But I would be stronger; I would resist. I wouldn’t bite. I didn’t want the apple he was offering me. There was nothing but bitterness and ugly rot beneath the shining red.

Then came a night when King Henry’s ardor reached the point where there was no dodging or naysaying him. He was alert and watchful, and so was I, but a moment finally came when I had to leave the Great Hall, to attend to a pressing matter of nature. I had tried to wait, to choose a time when he was distracted, so he would not see me go, but I could delay it no longer and discreetly left the banquet table.

He came after me and pulled me roughly into an alcove. He kissed me hard, yanked down my black velvet bodice to bare my breasts, and thrust his mighty, meaty hands beneath my skirts before I could tell him my monthly courses were heavy upon me. The need to change the linen that staunched this copious flow was the urgent reason that had compelled me to quit the table.

I saw his hand emerge, the grimace of distaste as he regarded my blood, glistening ruby dark by candlelight, staining his fingertips.

“Madame, I will trouble you no more,” he said in cold, contemptuous, clipped words, his voice and eyes blue marble hard. It was a tone meant to wither me, but I stood my ground, uttering not a word as he reached out and gathered a handful of my skirts to wipe his fingers on. And then, a grimace of distaste still marring his dark tempered face, he was gone.

He never laid hands on me again. I knew from serving in Queen Catherine’s chamber that he was rather a fastidious and finicky man when it came to women’s matters. He would never partake of pleasure with the Queen when it became evident that she was with child nor after a birthing or miscarriage until she had been fully cleansed and restored; thus it was only natural that he should be repelled by my monthly blood.

Had I not been so content with my life as it was at that time, I confess, I might have been angry that he should abandon me over such a trifling matter. Something that need never have happened at all if he had only given me a chance to discreetly explain before thrusting his hands beneath my petticoats. Ah, the pleasure we might have had! But I chose, I preferred, to be kind to Queen Catherine, and cruel to Thomas, and to preserve my cherished and blissful happiness with Remi.

Whenever such thoughts dared rear their ugly heads, or I found myself wondering, and imagining, what might have been, I dealt my vanity a savage kick and sought respite in the arms of my ravishingly rotund lover. I would sit cross-legged and naked on his bed, suddenly ravenous after our lovemaking, and share his humble repast of oat cakes and stew, roast chicken, or meat- and cheese-filled pasties with a sweet treat after of honeyed buns with raisins or cherry or apple tarts, and only half-tease him about how “ferociously jealous” I was of all the highborn ladies who came to his shop to buy pretty dolls for their daughters until Remi took me in his arms and kissed all my fears away and assured me that he wanted no one but me.