The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

that mark her slim frame. She drops the gown, covering herself once more. “It is just a body, a shell. It means nothing to me. He can do as he pleases to it—but all is transient, temporary. I will suffer as God wills it and look forward to the freedom Heaven will surely afford me.”

      “My lady!” I cry in despair. I want to embrace her, but am afraid of hurting her. There are so many bruises. Never have I seen such blatant cruelty. I begin to cry.

      “Don’t cry for me, Mary,” Mother says, settling under the covers once more. “Cry for yourself, for the lot we must suffer as women, as God’s cursed creatures.”

      “Surely we aren’t cursed,” I say. “God does love us, doesn’t He?”

      Mother purses her lips. Her eyes are dry. “He tolerates us because we serve a purpose—rather like your father,” she adds with a sound that could be called a laugh.

      This makes me want to wail in despair, but I refrain, drying my eyes in the attempt to achieve a semblance of dignity. If God tolerates us, that means He doesn’t have to like us. It means we are just short of a mistake in His eyes. Oh, that can’t be … that can’t be. Mother’s bitterness over her own pitiful lot has caused this view toward God. Doesn’t Her Majesty, the most devout woman in Christendom, see God as a loving benefactor of mercy? If she can harbor such regard for the Lord then so must I, for she is as justified in her sufferings as my mother.

      We return to court and I am filled with relief. As soon as I am able, I escape Norfolk and return to the maidens’ chamber. Everyone is in a frenzy of gossip. Trunks are being packed, servants are running everywhere.

      No one notices I have returned; indeed, they may not have realized I was ever gone. For a moment I stand a silent observer until Madge Shelton approaches me, taking my hand.

      “I thought you had abandoned us,” she says in her light voice. “Are you well?” Her eyes are lit with genuine concern.

      I nod. “Much better, thank you.”

      She beams. “Are you excited about France?”

      “France?”

      She regards me as though I had emerged from the tomb. “Of course, France! We are going to accompany the king and Anne after her elevation to the peerage, to meet the king of France and his dazzlingly naughty court!”

      “Madge!” I cry in delighted anticipation. “No one told me! When do we go?”

      “October,” she said. “So you best pick your gowns out now. We are. Oh, I can’t wait! Mistress Anne is in a huff. She is determined to be accepted by King François—I think she feels that if he openly embraces her she’ll be—”

      “Validated?”

      We turn at the cool voice. It is Anne herself, regarding us with furrowed black brows and narrowed eyes. “Gossiping about me, Mary Howard, and you have not yet condescended to greet me?”

      I curtsy. “My profound apologies, Mistress Anne. I am so happy to see you.”

      “Ha!” Anne waves me off with a hand and sits on my bed. “I suppose it’s true enough.” Whether she refers to needing validation or my happiness in her presence, I am unsure. Her face softens. “I have to be accepted in Europe—they must realize I am meant to be queen of England. Once they see me with His Majesty, once they come to know my mind, there will no longer be any doubt which woman is most fit to be by King Henry’s side.”

      I say nothing. Something about Anne frightens me. Her eyes glow with a light akin to madness. She is fidgety, unsure of what to do with her hands. Her laugh is painful; forced and edgy. Joyless. I realize as I regard her that I am looking at a nervous wreck.

      “So, little Mary is carrying my robes of state,” she says, her eyes fixing on mine. “Such a little thing you are. You had better not trip and make a fool of yourself.” With this she rises and ruffles my hair. “Glad to have you back,” she says as she exits to a flock of curtsying ladies.

      My cheeks burn but I do not cry. I imagine she must be under so much pressure. It would be hard to be nice all the time.

      My father is also quite direct in his instruction.

      “Do anything stupid and childish and I will make certain you are sent to Scotland to marry a barbarian,” he tells me.

      I stifle a gasp of fear. Somewhere inside I know this could be his form of jesting, but as I recall my mother’s bruises I decide it may be an error in judgment to laugh.

      “You will stand straight, like this.” He rises from the chair behind his desk and grabs my shoulders, pushing them back as he straightens my posture, something I admit is one of my less attractive attributes. As I am usually hunched over a book or my writing, slouching has become habitual. Norfolk places his left palm on the small of my back and his right on my abdomen. “When you stand straight you draw your stomach inward toward your spine.” He stands back to regard me. “And head up.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers. “Proud, like a Howard girl should be. You belong to the greatest family in England. Act like it. My God, girl, who taught you to stand?” He scowls. “Now walk.”

      “Walk, Father?”

      “You aren’t deaf, are you?” he asks, as though this would be the ultimate inconvenience to him. “Yes, walk the length of this room, to the door, then back to me.”

      I do so, shaky and self-conscious.

      “Where did you learn that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer—to my good fortune, as I had none that would please him, since the only person I ever tried emulating in gait was Bess Holland. “Take slow, measured steps, toes pointed straight ahead of you. You want to glide, you want to float. You aren’t off laboring in the fields. You are a lady. Now. Walk.”

      I walk, trying to emulate as he envisaged, but he stops me.

      “Apparently you do have some sort of hearing issue,” he tells me. “Do it again, and this time do it right.”

      I try again. Again he stops me. “Mary, would you like to be replaced? Is this role too much for you? Perhaps Jane Parker would be happy to—”

      “No!” I cry, daring to interrupt him as I envision my sour-faced cousin Jane, wife of cheerful George Boleyn, taking my rightful place in the ceremony. “No, please. It is an honor to carry my lady’s robes. Please don’t take it away from me.”

      “If the honor is denied you, it is no fault of mine,” Norfolk says. “Now. Walk. One hundred times back and forth, from me to the door. A thousand if need be. You will walk until you walk like the lady I am raising you to be.”

      So I walk. I walk and walk. The sun sets. The night drags on. The sun rises. My legs are heavy and my feet ache.

      “Stop,” he says. “That is passable.”

      I cease walking and stand, numb.

      “Now about your hair,” he says. “It’s one thing to wear it down your back if you take care of it, but if it continues appearing as though you’ve stood the length of a windstorm, I will not allow you to wear it unbound. Who brushes your hair?”

      “No one, really,” I say. “Sometimes we brush each other’s hair or a servant will, but everyone is so busy—”

      “Come here,” he says, sitting behind his desk once more. I realize for the first time that he has been standing the entire night as well. I wish he would offer me a chair. He doesn’t. He calls for a brush with hard bristles. Once it is produced, he gestures for me to come to him, then removes my hood and turns me around. With hard, relentless strokes he brushes through my thick golden hair, pausing to detangle snarls without care of the fact that I feel my scalp is being torn from my skull.

      “This is a mess,” he says, using his fingers to detangle some of the snarls. “You are not the comeliest creature—take pride in your redeeming features.” When he can’t detangle certain stubborn snarls,