Darcey Bonnette - The King’s Mistress

“Are you still hungry, my lady?” she asks then. My stomach growls loudly in response and I giggle. “We’ll send for some food from the kitchens and then you will tell me everything,” she says in a cheery voice as she takes my hands, drawing me to the settee. “Tell me of Lady Anne and the king and how all the ladies dress. Tell me of the food and the jousts and masques.”

I am all smiles, thrilled to be the center of attention and purveyor of knowledge. The food arrives—plates of cold meat, cheese, bread, and a decanter of wine. I invite Bess to share with me but she declines.

“It wouldn’t be proper, dining with my lady,” she informs me.

“Nonsense,” I say. “You’re too humble, as though you forget you’re gentry yourself. Dine with me, my Bess. You have been working so hard to make my home nice for me. You deserve fine food.”

Bess smiles and takes some mutton. She chews with enthusiasm, licking her fingers soundly.

As I enjoy my supper I tell her about all the new colors that Anne has set herself to naming, the gowns she designs, the voluminous sleeves and glamorous French hoods. I brag about the food, tell her that to dine at the court of King Henry is tantamount to eating in Heaven itself. I describe the grandeur of the jousts and elegance of the masques. She is riveted, stopping me now and again to ask a question or make a comment.

“Do you have friends, Lady Mary?” she asks me. “Do you get along well with the girls? They are kind to you?”

I am so touched by her concern my throat swells with tears. “Yes, for the most part they are kind. My cousin Anne can be … difficult at times.” I laugh as I think of her. “But as strange as she is, I can see why the king is so taken with her. She is full of fire and life. She’s very smart, much smarter than I could ever be. She talks like a scholar and argues about religion and politics like a man. She appreciates art and beauty and music. I think we shall have a most learned and cultivated court under her rule.”

“You think it will happen, then?” Bess asks.

I nod. “It is almost a certainty. She is being elevated to the peer-age.”

Bess’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth with her hand as though stifling a gasp.

“She is to be Marquess of Pembroke,” I go on to say. “It is unprecedented.”

“Then I suppose everyone will be happy—at least the king and Lady Anne and His Grace your father,” Bess comments.

“They will be indeed,” I say, but my voice is void of the triumph I should feel for my family. “Still, I worry about the people’s response to her. They have been so cruel.” I relay the incident on the barge and the jeering cry, “ ‘We want no Nan Bullen.’ ”

Bess says nothing and I realize I have again made her uncomfortable in her position.

I squeeze her hands and continue. “Imagine how it must be for them,” I say. “Anne and the king can’t control their love for one another. I know a lot of people have been hurt.” I think of the Princess Mary and Queen Catherine. I think of poor, dead Cardinal Wolsey. I think of Thomas More, who I have heard, was at last allowed to resign his post as lord chancellor, to be replaced by Thomas Audley. How my father lamented over that appointment! He claimed chest pains, but all knew he was wrestling with his religious convictions and the rightness of King Henry’s increasing denial of papal authority. “But I wonder, had they a real choice in the matter, would they have stayed this course? The king is a victim of his passions—he has very little self-control. And Anne— well, she must love him, too. I can’t imagine all the trouble they have gone to being for nothing. It must be due to their great love.”

Bess looks at me, her liquid brown eyes filled with an emotion akin to pity. She reaches out, cupping my cheek in her hand.

“You are a good girl, Mary,” she tells me. “Stay that way.”

I nod with a small smile. At once our heads turn toward the door as we hear footfalls approaching.

“It is His Grace,” says Bess. Her tone registers something between panic and anticipation; her eyes reflect both fear and expectation. She rises. “I must go, my lady.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you more on the morrow, Bess,” I tell her.

She throws me a kiss and exits. I hear her and my father exchange a few words outside my door.

“Damn stubborn woman is what she is,” Norfolk is saying. “We will see if tonight’s exertions have brought about a change of heart.”

Bess says nothing. I realize I am not breathing. I wonder what he meant by “tonight’s exertions.” Part of me wants to run to my mother to check on her welfare, but I daren’t.

“Come, now, Mistress Holland,” Norfolk says in a tone I never hear used; it is almost solicitous. Almost loving. “Let us to bed.”

My heart sinks. I do not want to hear that.

I return to my lavish supper set on my little table. My room is so spacious, the furniture and tapestries so vibrant with beauty.

But I am alone and do not appreciate the food anymore, nor the surroundings. I take to my bed, escaping my loneliness the only way I know how, through sleep.

In the morning I am summoned to Mother’s chambers. I make certain to appear neat and proper, my hair brushed, my hood straight, my face and hands clean. I enter her rooms hoping we might break our fast together, but am surprised to find her propped up in bed. I have never seen my mother in her nightdress before—when I was little I believed she was born clothed. Yet now she is clad in a simple ivory nightgown with ruffles at the neck and wrists, appearing childlike in her large four-poster.

I curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

She nods in greeting, regarding me with a stern countenance. With a thin hand she beckons me toward her. As I approach I note that her eyes are surrounded by puffy purple shadows. Looking closer, I realize they are not shadows but bruises. My heart begins to pound as I realize what last night’s “exertions” must have been for her.

“You are growing up at this court of Henry VIII,” she says.

“Yes, my lady,” I answer.

“You are attractive enough.” She reaches up to tuck a curl that strayed from her ruffled night cap behind her ear. As her sleeve slips down her arm I see her thin wrist is also encircled with dark bruises, imprints of my father’s fingers.

“Thank you, my lady,” I say, trying to fight off tears as I regard her condition. What else did he do to her?

“Things are happening,” she says. “Great changes, as well you know. Many will be asked to compromise their beliefs, abandon their principles. Whatever you hold sacred, Mary, whatever you believe in your heart, keep it there. Keep your own counsel. Tell them what they want to hear, believe what they want you to believe, and keep your opinions to yourself. Do you understand?”

I nod, frightened.

To my surprise tears fill her eyes. “It is too late for me.” She shrugs, bringing one thin finger to tap her chin in a nervous gesture. “I cannot stray from my convictions. If you had known Her Majesty …” She shakes her head. “She inspires devotion. But devotion is becoming rather passé in this day and age.” She sighs. “Yet I remain so at great expense. It does not matter. I must cling to something.”

I reach out and take her hand. “You have me, my lady. Always.”

At this a tear spills onto her fair cheek. Frustrated, she shakes her head and wipes it away. “No. I never had any of my children. Perhaps that is where peasants are most fortunate. They keep their children; ours are sent away as chattel to be bartered for political gain. But such is our lot, I suppose. No, I do not have you, Mary. Not now, not ever.”

I blink away tears at the reality of the thought. I recall my father’s words about the advantaged, how sentiment cannot be considered if one wishes to keep one’s position. I begin to wonder if any position, no matter how exalted, is worth such emotional sacrifice.