The Concubine (27 page)

T
HE MERCER, WITH A SPLENDID
careless gesture dropped the roll of amber-colored velvet to the floor, whence his acolyte apprentice retrieved it and began to smooth and refold it.

“This, Your Grace,” the mercer said, reaching for another roll, giving it a twist and a shake so that the material spilled down, a waterfall of sheen and color, “is straight from France and a complete novelty. So woven that…” He pivoted so that the light changed on the silk; in one light it showed fleur-de-lys of dark blue on pale, in another pale fleur-de-lys on dark. “There!” he said, in a tone of deep satisfaction.

“Would Your Grace consider it impertinent of me to ask why not? Blue is not, I agree, the color for everyone; and in my experience it is the very ladies for whom it is least suited who favor it most. Ladies of insipid coloring. Your Grace could wear anything.”

“Not blue,” Anne said firmly, but she smiled so that the little man should not feel that he had been impertinent. “It is beautiful, and a novelty, and if two shades of yellow could be woven in the same skillful way I should be pleased to have a gown of it.”

“I’m sure that could be done, if Your Grace wishes,” the mercer said. But before dropping this piece to the floor he held it a second, admiring it, regretting its rejection.

Anne said, Wait. I’ll have it. Not for myself, as a gift for someone to whom that shade is immensely becoming.”

Mary should have it for Christmas.

Mary’s husband, William Carey, had been one of those who had died during the Sweating Sickness in one of the manors the King had just abandoned and for the last three and a half years she had lived an aimless, rather unhappy life. She spent a good deal of time in the houses of various relatives, particularly with an aunt at Edwarton in Suffolk. Every now and then Sir Thomas would send for her to keep Lady Bo company, and then, in a short time, quarrel with her, scold her for wasting her opportunities, and complain that she was a burden to him. She had refused, with the stubbornness of the weak, to come to Court until Anne was married; then at last she had accepted invitations and made quite protracted stays. But she had changed; her sweetness had soured into a whining self-pity, and, most surprisingly, she often gave evidence of having inherited Sir Thomas’s facility for planting verbal barbs.

But she would be pleased about the blue silk, Anne thought; and it would suit her, though her looks, like so many of their kind, were fading early.

The dresses must be ready for Christmas wear, so as soon as the mercer had gone, Anne sent for Mary and they retired to her bedchamber, attended by Emma and two sempstresses, one of whom, an expert fitter, was armed with a measuring tape.

Mary eyed the blue silk with no sign of pleasure.

“It was a kind thought, but I don’t wish for a new gown.”

“But it was to be my Christmas gift to you.”

“I don’t want it. One can get accustomed to anything and I am accustomed to shabby clothes.”

“Then why not have a change? Come along, Mary, don’t be silly. Off with that drab old thing, and come and be measured.”

Anne was already in her petticoat and submitting to the touches of the dry, cold, dressmaker’s hands of the woman with the measure, who had a pretty little problem of her own. Should she say, what was true, “Your Grace’s measurements are exact to an inch to what they were last time.” Or would that be tactless? So many ladies would welcome the remark; but when the lady was Queen of England, mother of one girl child, it might not be quite the thing to say.

Anne looking over her shoulder at Mary saw that at the word “measured,” a wild, almost frantic look came into her blue eyes.

Mary said, “When I had gifts to give I never forced you to accept them, did I?”

Anne thought, as she had so often done before, excusing Mary’s behavior—She’s jealous, and that is natural enough. Who wouldn’t be in her place? If only she knew how little there is to be jealous of!

But all the same she shouldn’t make such remarks before Emma, and two sempstresses; sempstresses were notorious gossips, they had to occupy their minds with something while their fingers were busy. She could imagine how this little exchange would be magnified and overcolored in the retelling. Quarreling like fishwives, they would say. So she shot Mary what Lady Bo would call an old-fashioned look and then spoke sternly to the woman with the tape.

Mary said, rather sulkily, “If that was all you wanted of me, I’ll ask leave to retire.”

“You have it,” Anne said and turned back so that she faced the glass on her table. In it she saw Mary move toward the door. A flaw in the glass? Imagination? Oh God, not that. Just now when nothing was going well.

She said sharply, “No, Mary, wait a moment. I want…I want your advice upon another matter.” To the sempstresses she said, “There, that will do. My usual hanging sleeves, and a curved neckline instead of square,” and bustled them away. She invented an errand for Emma. Within five minutes the sisters were alone, as once they had been in the bedroom at Blickling.

Anne said, “You’re pregnant!”

Mary made a moaning sound and dropped on to a stool, pressing the back of her knuckles against her face.

“Just when we’re all in such bad odor,” Anne said, furiously. “George acting like a frivolous fool and being rebuked, Father falling out with Cromwell; and now this. This is worst of all! Mary, how could you? How could you? You’ve brought disgrace to us all just at the very moment when we needed bolstering up.” Once she began her tongue-lashing old grievances sprang to mind. “All my life,” she said bitterly, “I’ve suffered from your shame. In France nobody could ever distinguish between the two of us; or if they did it was only to think that a trollop’s sister must needs be a trollop, too. I’ve spent my life trying to prove otherwise and now…”

The old Mary, moaning, abashed, gave way to the new one.

“And you did prove it, finely, did you not? Married on April 12th and brought to bed on 7th September. You should rail at me!”

“We were married before, privately.”

“So we were told,” Mary said.

“But it is true. Believe it or not, as you wish. It is not
my
behavior we are discussing, it’s yours. And you have shamed us again. And without the excuse you once had,” she said cruelly. “You’re old enough now to know better.”

Mary said, “But I…” and then stopped openmouthed for a second. She took a breath and said more calmly, with something approaching dignity, “You’ll be sorry for the things you have said. One day. When you know all.”

The most hateful suspicion shot through Anne’s mind. Henry so plainly dissatisfied, his attentions more and more perfunctory; Mary still besotted with love for him, undemanding, sloppy-minded, as comfortable to fall back upon as a featherbed. And it would account for the change in her, the flashes of sharpness, the new confidence, the occasional smugness.

“Is it Henry?”

Mary’s expression showed fright again.

“No. Oh no. Anne, I swear it.”

“Then who?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But you must. He must be made to marry you. The King must compel him…”

“Anne, if you mention this to the King I’ll never, never speak to you again. Please, please leave it alone. I’ll go away. You need never see me…”

“Oh, don’t talk like a fool! Where could you go! In a week or two there’ll be no hiding your state.” Mary acknowledged the truth of that by beginning to weep and the sight of her, so helpless and silly, muddled, shabby, tearful, and stubborn, exasperated Anne and at the same time roused that old protective feeling. She went over and shook Mary’s shoulder.

“He must marry you. If he can. Is that it? Is he married already?”

Mary choked. Then she said, with a courage which Anne could only recognize later, “Yes, he’s married. So you see there’s nothing you, or the King, or anybody can do about it.”

The hateful suspicion struck again.

“You must tell me his name,” Anne said, tightening her grip on Mary’s shoulder.

“I can’t. I won’t. What right have you?” She flung off Anne’s hand and stood up, sobbing more violently, so that of her next words only a few were enunciated clearly enough to be heard. “Just because…Queen of England…skin of your teeth…prying into my affairs…”

She ran, crying, from the room.

That evening, in the hall at supper, Anne was conscious of something in Henry’s mood, boisterous without being pleasant; and of a suppressed excitement, a watchfulness; and of Norris looking at her as he often did these days, with a grave, almost pitying expression, maddeningly similar to the expression dogs wore when they saw you crying. It increased the raw-nerved feeling with which the scene with Mary had left her, and finally she snapped at him, “What’s the matter, Sir Harry. Is my headdress awry?” He then looked like a dog slapped for something it had not done, and said, “Your Grace, on the contrary, if I had a thought it was how well it became you.”

Toward the end of the meal Henry’s new jester came in. She detested him; he was almost, not quite, a dwarf, big headed, squat, and ugly, but he had been born like that, so although his appearance evoked repulsion in her, she did not hold it against him. What she hated was the slyness of his patter, the innuendos which he produced under cover of near idiocy. Henry doted upon him and allowed him the utmost liberty. She had once voiced a protest about his jokes, “They are an attack upon your dignity.” Henry said, “After supper, at my own table, my dignity can take care of itself.”

Tonight he did his tumbling and his juggling and his acrobatic tricks, interspersed with stories and comments which were, or were not, amusing, depending upon whether you were aware of their reference. At one point he said, in the bucolic drawl he sometimes affected,

“Life’s funny, ain’t it? Funny but fair. Oh yes, you must admit, everything work out very fair. Fr’instance I know a man, got a nice kennel, but not dog to put in it, and I know another man, got a nice dog, and he ain’t got no kennel.”

There was some scattered laughter, a little overhearty, laughter that said—Oh yes, we see the joke; we’re in the know! Anne wondered what was amusing there. Was her sense of humor defective, or was this little freak too subtle for her understanding, as Henry had once suggested?

An accomplice of the jester threw three wooden hoops in such a way as to form a spinning tunnel, through which he dived, turned a somersault, stood up, and said, “I’m off! This ’ere Court life is too wearing for me. I’m gonna retire to the country, Staffordshire!” He ran off as though he were being pursued by someone aiming blows at him.

There was another burst of the same kind of laughter, followed by titters from those who, like Anne, had failed to see the joke, but did not wish to seem lacking in appreciation.

Henry laughed as heartily as anyone; and then, turning to Anne said,

“Ah, that reminds me, my dear. I hadn’t time to tell you before. I’ve sent your sister and her husband packing.”

His face blurred; behind it the hall, the fire, the candles, the hangings, the gay-colored clothes, began to tilt and spin. She put out her hands, like a blind woman, and found the solid table edge and held on to it.

Henry’s voice, coming from a great distance away, said,

“Silly young cub! He came to me six months ago and spoke of a wish to marry…But this is probably an old tale to you.”

“No,” she said, and was relieved to hear her voice sound so ordinary; surprised, interested, but quite controlled. “Her husband, you say? She never even hinted. Who is he?”

“Sir William Stafford. You hadn’t missed his innocent rosy face this evening?”

She had braced herself to hear that Mary had made some shocking
mésalliance
. Mary’s own behavior…But there was no reason why she and William Stafford should not be married. He was rather young for her, and not well-to-do, but he was of good family. Why the mystery? And why had Henry sent them packing? Before she could speak, Henry went on, and something in his voice betrayed the fact that he was enjoying himself,

“I most strongly advised him against such a match. In fact I downright forbade it. Notwithstanding which he married her. Or so he told me late this afternoon. And one can only hope that his tale is true! When did you last see her?”

“Early this afternoon. But what I…”

“Sh!” Henry said, raising his hand. “Here is the Welsh harpist who was so warmly recommended to me.”

The man—he was old, with long shaggy gray hair and beard, and a robe of homespun of the same gray—played superbly, but she could pay him no attention. She understood now why Mary had been so secretive, so distressed; but why had Henry forbidden the marriage in the first place? He’d never, so far as Anne knew, suggested any other match for her; he must have realized, as Anne herself had done often enough, that a woman of Mary’s character and nature, left unattached, was always a potential source of scandal.

She could understand his anger at finding himself disobeyed. Even if he had merely
advised
against the marriage and then it had taken place he would have been affronted. He was becoming more and more autocratic over small things as well as large; but he didn’t sound displeased. He wasn’t in the hearty, rip-roaring rage which one would have expected: and he’d laughed at both the slyly relevant jokes.