The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

      I have to refrain from skipping. Norfolk walks with a brusque, determined step and I am all but running to keep up as it is. My face aches from smiling as I take in all the beauty around me.

      “Don’t be a fool, Mary,” Norfolk says sotto voce when he catches my expression of bewildered joy. “You haven’t just stepped out of a stable. Behave as though you’re accustomed to some level of refinement.”

      I sober immediately, swallowing tears. He is right, I remind myself. I must do the family proud. It would not do my father much credit to appear ignorant before the court.

      As we walk we encounter an older woman accompanied by a small entourage of ladies. She wears a somber blue gown and a long mantilla over her graying auburn hair. Her blue eyes are soft and distant. She clutches a rosary in her thin hand and every step she takes seems laden with weariness.

      My father sweeps into a low, graceful bow. “Your Grace,” he says in a gentle voice.

      I sink into a deep curtsy before Queen Catherine of Aragon.

      “Returned from your business?” the queen asks. Her voice is low and sweet—motherly. I imagine it would be very nice to sit at her feet while she reads.

      “Yes,” Norfolk answers. His face is wrought with tenderness. His hand twitches at his side. He wants to reach out to her, I deduce.

      “Who is this little creature?” she asks, and a wistful smile plays upon her thin lips.

      She lifts my chin with two velvet fingertips. I manage to lower my eyes in respect.

      “May I present my daughter, Mary,” Norfolk answers.

      “Ah, so you have brought another Howard girl to court,” she tells my father. She removes her hand from my chin. “To ensure we do not run out?”

      Norfolk does not answer.

      The queen emits a small, mirthless laugh. “I must attend Mass now. Do you and your little girl wish to accompany me, my lord duke?” She does not wait for him to respond. “No, I suppose not. Attending Mass with the queen has grown quite out of fashion of late, I think.”

      She moves on and my mother joins her small assemblage of ladies. Norfolk bows, holding the position until she has long since passed.

      When he rights himself his eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

      I avert my head, realizing with a pang that while my father is avowed to Mother and enthralled with Bess, it is Queen Catherine of Aragon he respects.

      It is an esteem I, too, hope to earn.

      Chapter 5

       Anne

      She is surrounded by adoring courtiers. The ladies flutter about in their bright dresses like so many butterflies, squawking like chicks in a pen. Her apartments are grand and alive with music and poetry. So much is going on that I do not know where to look.

      And then my eyes behold her.

      She is not beautiful, not to those who define such as light and golden. She is breathtaking. Dark, with skin like a gypsy, her obsidian eyes are luminous and lively, her lush black hair long and glossy, worn parted down the middle and flowing down her back beneath her stunning French hood. She wears a dress of fine green velvet with the most resplendent sleeves I’ve ever seen. Resting at the base of her swanlike throat is a pendant of an intricate B for Boleyn.

      She is tilting back her stunning head now, laughing at something one of her many male courtiers said when we walked in. She turns white at the sight of my father, her laughter catching in her throat.

      “I decided to bring your cousin Mary back with me,” he says. “She will serve you.” He glances about the room and shakes his head. “I will have speech with you later.”

      With that he quits the room and I am alone, with no instruction. I have no idea when I will see him again, where I am to sleep, who is to look after me. I draw in a deep breath. I must press onward. I am a Howard.

      I urge myself toward my cousin and curtsy. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, Mistress Anne,” I say.

      Anne laughs. She reaches out a hand and seizes my chin. Her touch is not as gentle as the queen’s.

      “You have a big nose like your father,” she says in a slightly French-accented voice.

      At once tears fill my eyes. This is the last thing I expect to hear. On instinct my hand flies up to cover the offensive appendage, though all my life I have been unaware of its effect. It is all I can do to keep from sobbing out loud. I blink. I must think. I must win her favor.

      I lower my hand and smile. “Were it only like yours, my lady,” I say. “Perhaps you can show me how to make the best of this unfortunate circumstance?”

      Anne ponders me a moment, then bursts into laughter. There is something about it, an edge that makes it less joy-filled than nervous. Immoderate.

      “You shall sleep with the other maidens,” she says, putting to rest one of my anxieties. “You’ll find yourself in good company. Our cousin Madge Shelton is with us, and here is my sister, Mary Carey.”

      She gestures to a curvaceous blonde who reminds me of my Bess. I smile at her. I remember that Bess told me she had once been the king’s mistress. Through servants’ gossip I heard that her two children are his bastards. She is very beautiful; soft and round to her sister’s willowy delicacy. It is easy, however, to see how one could be attracted to both of them.

      Mary Carey approaches me and takes my hand. “We’ll take good care of you here,” she assures me, and my stomach settles a bit upon hearing the soothing sincerity of her tone.

      “But we must figure out a way to differentiate between all the Marys,” Anne comments. “Is it the only name in England?” She rises, flinging her grand hair over her shoulder. “My sister shall be big Mary and you shall be little Mary.”

      “What about Princess Mary?” I ask.

      Anne’s face darkens and I curse myself for mentioning the princess’s name. I have so much to learn about this court and I just cannot take it in fast enough!

      Anne bats her eyes and adopts a playful expression. “Ugly Mary.” The room erupts into titters of girlish laughter and I stifle the guilt that churns in my gut as I imagine Princess Mary, rumored to be plain and studious, alone and unloved in her own father’s court.

      But I am sworn to the Howards. I am sworn to the preserving of Anne’s happiness. It is not for me to fret over the princess.

      Yet late that night, after I am settled into bed with my cousin Madge, I find myself mumbling a prayer for her.

      No one should ever be without a friend in the world.

      It does not take long to realize that there exist two courts here. One small faction remains faithful to Queen Catherine and the other—the younger, more flighty set—flocks to my lady Anne, the star ascendant. I am caught up in all the excitement. There is nothing but merriment when around Anne. We recite poetry and sing, her favorite musician, Mark Smeaton, accompanying us on his lute, playing with slim deft fingers. We playact together, rehearsing masques we will perform for the king.

      The king! What a dazzling figure! He is so big and charming one cannot help but be rendered speechless in his majestic presence. One afternoon while we are readying ourselves for a picnic in the gardens, he struts into Anne’s apartments with the confidence and beauty of a peacock, decked out in his finest velvet and ermine.

      As he enters I am brushing my lady’s hair, as she prefers my hand to her sister’s when they are in disagreement, which is often.

      “And how now, Brownie?” he asks her.

      She laughs at the endearment and shoos me away. I manage to put the brush down but am too awed by His Grace to move, so stand transfixed.

      “Who’s this