The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

a circle of friends in the hopes of attaining some juicy piece of gossip. Mary Carey warned me of her before, saying that her mind was poisoned with all manner of perverted ideas. Despite my curiosity I never pressed her for particulars. There was more than enough perversion at court without becoming preoccupied with hers.

      “How?” I ask, overcome with curiosity.

      “None of your concern,” Norfolk snaps. “Just see to it the three Boleyns are accompanied as often as possible.”

      “But what if they don’t want me along?”

      “You go with them anyway,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Children are annoying creatures, immune to subtlety.” He leans forward and meets my eyes. “In other words, Mary: be yourself.”

      I am struck as dumb as he thinks I am. At once every condescending word and derisive jibe he ever directed toward me is brought to mind, constricting my heart as though it were clutched in his perfect fist. Tears burn my eyes, but it would humiliate me further to let them fall in front of him. I must hide them from him, as I always do. I draw in a breath. This talk of siblings brings Catherine to mind, and an image of my brother Henry soon follows.

      “Are we to see Henry soon, Father?”

      “Henry who?”

      I can’t fault him for this. Everyone is named Henry.

      “Howard—Surrey, of course!” I say with a giggle, wondering if there is anything under God’s sun I can do to make this man smile.

      “Oh, him.” He rifles through more documents. “Your brother’s at Windsor Palace keeping company with Henry Fitzroy, King Henry’s boy.” His eyes grow distant. “Fitzroy … His mother was a clever one. To think of all little Bessie Blount became … mistress of a monarch, the mother of the king’s son, a son showered with grand titles.” He offers a slight laugh. “But not quite grand enough. No, Bessie Blount went as far as she could go with what she had. But our Anne shall go even farther. No bastard children for her …”

      I am only half listening. In truth I could not care less about King Henry’s boy or fair Bessie Blount at this point. My heart surges with hope as I anticipate a visit with my beloved brother.

      “Can we go to him?” I ask. “Please?”

      He pauses. My heart races. Surely this means he is considering. “I’m sure he’ll be at the next court function. Off with you now. Remember what I told you.”

      “Yes, my lord,” I say in disgruntled tones as I quit the room. My heart aches for something familiar. I long for my brother’s laugh— he could make light of anything with his jokes and easy nature. I long for my sister, forever lost to me. She, with her perfect grasp on a world I do not seem to belong to, would know how to advise me. In her I could confide of my awkwardness, my fear, and my desire to be the lady she was with such effortlessness.

      I long for the mother I never had, a woman so lost in her own pain that it has ruined her for any of her children.

      I long for Bess, for her reassurance, her ample bosom to snuggle in, her simple, uncomplicated company.

      When I return to the maidens’ chamber I remove her letter from the little casket.

      I read it again and again and again.

      As Norfolk predicted, I do see my brother at a court function; a joust. How to describe tournaments! The shining knights, the beautiful ladies, some with tokens for their bonnie lads about to take the field. Anne gives the king her handkerchief.

      Queen Catherine clutches hers in her lap, twisting it with nervous fingers.

      “Will you give your scarf to anyone, little Mary?” Anne asks with a wink of her obsidian eye.

      “Perish the thought!” says her brother George, always cheerful. “She’s far too young and sweet to be sullied by love!”

      “Why, does love sully us?” Anne asks with the coquettish grin that I practice so hard to achieve. “I think I have fared quite well!”

      Ripples of laughter surround me and I allow myself a giggle. It is the first time I have felt any semblance of mirth since hearing of my Catherine’s death.

      “Well, love has sullied me,” says George with an affectionate glance at his sister. “Your father picked me quite a bride, young Mary,” he tells me. Then to the rest of the assemblage he adds, “Wouldn’t everyone agree that my Jane is in possession of many charms?”

      The ladies burst into laughter. Indeed, we could barely escape the sour-faced maid with her wicked tongue and, from what I’ve heard, vicious mind. In a way I feel sorry for her. It is as though she is always on the outside, circling Anne’s exclusive set, her eyes filled with a strange contemptuous longing.

      George’s comment causes more laughter and he tips back his dark head to join in before riding off to enter the lists.

      I scan the jousters, excitement bubbling in my chest. I see a familiar head bobbing among the crowd, its owner’s expression faraway. Dreamy. It is a sweet face. I leap up from my seat and run toward the yard.

      “Henry Howard!” I cry out, waving my arms. “Henry, Lord Surrey!”

      He turns his head, jarred from his reverie, and begins to run toward me. “Look at this!” He takes my hands and covers them with kisses. “Mary, dearest little girl.”

      Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Henry …” There is so much I want to say. About this weird place, about Catherine, about Norfolk. I cannot articulate it, though, so stand before him, smiling.

      “What’s this?” Henry asks, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

      “No tears, Mary. We Howards are at the top of the world right now!”

      “Are you competing today, Henry?” I ask.

      “No, not me,” he tells me, his long face drawn up into a smile. He is a younger version of Norfolk, his nose straight and Roman, his hooded eyes drooping slightly at the sides. Only he laughs. “Harry and I are just here to observe today, though he is itching to compete.”

      It is only at this moment that I realize my brother isn’t alone. Beside him stands a boy about my age, with bright strawberry blond hair and energetic blue eyes. His complexion is rosy, his gentle smile is ready; he is also the picture of his father, King Henry VIII.

      I curtsy. “Hello, my lord duke.”

      “Such formality for your old playmate?” he asks with a giggle that betrays his youth.

      It is true I have hazy memories of playing at Windsor Palace with my brother and young Harry; since my father was the boy’s governor we were often in his company. But to me this seems like ages ago and the memories, like most from the dreamy days of childhood, are but distant echoes of a faerie song; one is not quite sure if it was ever real.

      I blush. “Only showing the proper deference for the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Knight of the Garter,” I say, but my voice bears the slightest edge of teasing.

      He reaches out a hand to tap my upper arm. “Plain Harry to you,” he says. “We should show her the puppies.”

      “Puppies?” I squeal.

      “You like puppies?” Harry asks. “They’re in the stables—oh, they’re mongrels, not proper hunting dogs at all, but they’re— they’re, well, they’re rather cute.” He seems embarrassed to say the word cute, as though it is not masculine to perceive things thus.

      “Oh, yes, do bring me to them!” I cry, and the three of us take to the stables. I do not think of the other girls I have left behind in the stands. I am with my brother at last. I am with people who do not seem so complicated.

      We reach the stables where are housed some of the finest horses in England, each brushed till its coat gleams. In the corner of an empty stall is a bitch with