Виктория Холт - The King's Secret Matter

Knyvet murmured: “Your Grace cannot mean…”

“And,” interrupted Buckingham fiercely, “if the King were to die and the Princess were to die, I should take over the crown of this Kingdom, and none should say me nay.”

Knyvet recoiled, which amused Buckingham. How terrified everyone was of being drawn into a conspiracy! Such fear in others spurred the Duke on to further recklessness. He said: “Is Hopkins, the monk, in the Palace today?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then send him to me. I have heard that he can see into the future. I want him to look into mine.”

“I will have him brought to Your Grace.”

“With all speed,” cried Buckingham.

He paced excitedly up and down his apartment while waiting for the monk; and when the man was brought to him he shouted so that several of his servants could not fail to hear him: “So, Hopkins, you are here. I want you to tell me what the future holds for me. I want you to tell me what chance I have of attaining the throne.”

The monk shut the door and put his fingers to his lips. The face which peered out of his hood was shrewd. He took in the details of the apartment; the love of luxury was apparent. Here was a noble Duke who could do him much good in exchange for the prophecy he wanted. Hopkins knew that if he told the Duke that he would be more likely to end his days on a scaffold than on a throne (and one did not have to be a soothsayer to suspect that) he would be dismissed without reward. But such as this Duke would be ready to pay well for what he wanted to hear.

Hopkins looked long into that arrogant face, half closed his eyes and murmured: “I see greatness ahead for Your Grace.”

“What sort of greatness?”

“All that you desire will be yours. I see a crown…”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across the Duke’s face. This fellow has great and unusual powers, he told himself. It shall come to pass. Has he not prophesied that it shall?

So he presented the monk with a heavy purse; and from that moment his manner grew a shade more arrogant.

IN ONE OF the privy gardens of the Palace a young man and woman sat on a wicker seat, their arms about each other. In the distance the shouts from the arena could be heard but both were oblivious of everything but the ardour of their passion.

The woman was plump and dark-haired; her body voluptuously curved; and the expression of her face, soft and sensuous betrayed her nature. One glance was enough to see that she was one who had been endowed by nature with a deep appreciation and knowledge of fleshly pleasures; and her generous nature was one which wanted to share these. It was the secret of her great appeal to almost every man who saw her. And if they tired of her quickly it was because she could hold nothing back, but must give all that was demanded; so that in a short time there was little to learn of Mary Boleyn.

Since her early teens Mary had been in and out of more beds than she could remember. The Kings of England and France had been her lovers; so had the humblest officers of the Court. Mary was overflowing with desire which demanded appeasement and, being on such terms with pleasure and of a generous nature which never sought material gain, her favors had until this time been bestowed on most of those who asked for them.

Now she was in love and discovering that the emotions this young man aroused in her were of a different nature from those she had ever felt for any other person. She was still Mary, as uninhibited as a young animal in forest or jungle; lust was strong in her but it was tempered by affection, and when she thought of her future with her lover it was not only sharing his bed that filled her mind, but sharing his table, his fortune, and being a mother to the children they would have. This was a new and exciting experience for Mary Boleyn.

“And so,” he was saying now, as his hands caressed the bare plump bosom, “we shall marry.”

“Yes, Will,” she answered, her lips slightly parted, her eyes glazed, while she wondered whether they dared here in full daylight. If they were discovered and tales carried to the King…! It was only a few nights ago that His Grace had summoned her to his bed. He might be somewhat angry if he knew of her love for Will Carey.

“And when shall I speak to your father?”

Mary was alarmed. She caught his hand and pressed it against her breast. It was so easy to lose oneself in a sensuous dream and forget reality. In truth she was more afraid of her father than of the King. The King might decide that it was a good idea that she married. It was often the case in relationships such as theirs. He had found a husband for Elizabeth Blount and there was always a possibility that a mistress might become pregnant, when the necessary hasty marriage could be a little undignified. No, she did not think the King would object to the marriage; though he might insist that husbandly activities were confined only to giving his wife his name. Mary would not be greatly perturbed. Could she imagine herself living in a house with Will, and not…The thought made her want to laugh.

But her father—approaching him was another matter.

Thomas Boleyn had never thought much of his daughter Mary until she had caught the King’s eye. Now he was inclined to regard her with greater respect than he had even for his son George; and all knew how clever George was.

Strange that Mary should have been the one…with her wantonness which had earned her many a beating in the past…to have brought honors to the family. But if Will Carey went to her father and asked for his daughter’s hand there would be trouble.

“He’ll never give his consent,” she said sadly.

“Why should he not?”

“You do not know my father, Will. He is the most ambitious of men, and of late he has risen high in the King’s service.”

“Does he not wish to see his daughter married?”

“Mayhap, but alas, Will, you have no money and are only a younger son of your father. To us such matters are of no moment because we love, and that is all we ask. But my father does not believe in love. He will never give his consent.”

“Then what can we do?” Will asked in despair.

Mary took his face in her hands and kissed his lips. The kiss was full of invitation and promise. She was telling him that, even if they had to wait awhile for marriage, they had much to give each other in the meantime.

“I want to take you away from Court, Mary.”

“And I want to go.” She frowned. If the King sent for her, she must go to him. But it would really be Will with whom she wished to make love.

“What can we do about it? We must do something. I cannot wait forever.”

“Something will happen, Will, never fear. We will be patient…about marriage…and something will happen; you will see.”

Will fell upon her in a storm of passion. She was the ideal mistress, never withholding, always ready to give. But he wanted to take her away that he might keep her all to himself and that no others might share the pleasures which she gave so wholeheartedly. He knew about the King, of course. He could never be sure, when she was not with him, whether she was with the King.

She soothed him as she well knew how and after a while she said: “I will speak to my father of your offer.”

“And if he forbids us to meet?”

“No one could prevent our meeting, Will.”

But Will was unconvinced.

“They are returning from their sport now,” went on Mary. “My father will surely have been with the King. It may well be that his mood is a good one. Will, what if I spoke to him now?”

“But it is surely I who should speak to him, Mary.”

She shook her head, imagining her father intimidating her lover. Will was a man who might easily be intimidated, and her father, who had always been formidable, had become more so during the years of success.