The King’s Mistress

“Unless you don’t get an heir in that belly of yours,” her sister teases.

Anne draws a hand back and brings it across Mary Carey’s cheek in a resounding slap. Tears light Mary’s eyes as she stares at her sister, scowling. As I regard her I realize, as if for the first time, how much Anne has taken from Mary; her lover, her place of high favor, and even her son. Anne has been given wardship of little Henry Carey, who is said to be another bastard of the king’s, because Anne supposedly feared for the boy’s moral development under Mary’s care. The court gossip is that in truth Anne adopted him in case she does not produce a male heir of her own. The likelihood that Henry would name the boy his heir is very slim, and everyone knows it to be a desperate move on Anne’s part. In any event, hopefully that is a plan she will not have to resort to. After all the trouble and heart-ache she and the king have wrought upon so many, the least they could do is produce a prince for the realm!

Mary brings her hand to her cheek and I am reminded of Mother doing the same whenever Norfolk spoke to her. Yes, there is a great deal of Howard in Anne.

For a moment the ladies are silent, until Anne adopts her lovely courtier’s smile. “I’m certain that is an area my”—she cocks a sweeping black brow in mischief—“virile king and I will have very little trouble in,” she says, causing many a speculative glance to be exchanged.

She has succeeded in lightening the mood, and soon everyone is back to discussing the voyage.

But Mary Carey stands in a corner, head bowed, staring at Catherine’s jewels—more things that Anne has stolen.

After we ogle the jewels some more, Madge Shelton and I extricate ourselves from Anne’s apartments and return to the maidens’ chamber to pick out our favorite gowns for the trip.

“She’s a wench, isn’t she?” Madge asks as she helps me unlace my sleeves to get ready for supper.

I am surprised she offers such open criticism of our mutual relation and want to agree, but guard my tongue. One never knows from one moment to the next when another’s loyalties will shift.

“I know I wouldn’t have wanted Princess Catherine’s jewels if I were her,” Madge goes on. “I’d want my own. Really, Mary, it’d be like wanting the wedding ring of your husband’s dead wife. It’s sort of … well, rather like a circling vulture, don’t you think?”

I can’t help but nod at that.

As she helps ease my sleeve off she brushes against the shoulder my father had squeezed with such enthusiasm some time ago. I try to stifle a groan, but it has escaped and Madge grabs my arm, examining the bruise that has faded from onyx black to a deep purple.

“God’s blood, Mary, who did this to you?” she asks, raising concerned blue eyes to me.

I withdraw my arm, smiling. “It was so silly,” I tell her. “I ran into a doorway. I’m so clumsy sometimes.”

Her lips twist. “Did the doorway resemble a man’s hand?”

I cover my shoulder with my sleeve. I have no words. I want to defend myself, to contradict her implications, but cannot. I bow my head, blinking back tears.

“It’s him, isn’t it? The duke?” she wants to know. Her voice is gentle but bears an edge, the same edge Anne adopts when angry. When I say nothing she continues. “Everyone knows about him, Mary. How he treats your mother. Tales have circulated …”

“It isn’t true,” I say, knowing I must stop her. “Whatever you’ve heard, put it out of your head. Please, if you have any love for me, stop this and do not take part in spreading any false rumors about my honored father.”

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