Even so Thomas regarded her with faint distaste. Her dress was crumpled and her hair escaping from her headdress. Though, Thomas thought fleetingly, it may be the slut in her which appeals to the King. Yet although he was pleased with her, he was often anxious because he must constantly ask himself how long she would continue to hold the King’s attention.

It was difficult to reconcile himself to the fact that Mary had sprung to such importance. She had always been the fool of the family. The other two were such a precocious pair. He had high hopes of George and it was his plan to bring him into prominence at Court at the earliest opportunity; he was sure that when that young man was a little older he would prove an amusing companion for the King. As for Anne, she was too young yet to make plans for. At the present time she was at the Court of France whence he heard news of her from time to time, and how her cleverness and charm pleased the King and Queen and members of their Court. But that the little slut Mary should have found favor with the King…was incredible.

“Well, my daughter?”

“Father, I have been thinking that it is time I married.”

Thomas was alert. Had the King put this into her head? If so he would be following the normal procedure. The King would feel happier with a mistress who had a husband; it forestalled an undignified shuffling into marriage if the need to do so should arise. No doubt Henry had found some worthy husband for his favorite; and Thomas, even if he wanted to, would not be such a fool as to refuse his consent to a marriage suggested by the King.

“Perhaps you are right, Mary,” he said. “Whom have you in mind?”

Mary smiled in what seemed to the practical Thomas a vacuous manner as she murmured: “It is William Carey, Father.”

“William Carey! You cannot mean…No, you could not. I was thinking of Carey’s son…a younger brother.…”

“It is that Will, Father.”

Thomas was astounded and horrified. Surely the King would never suggest such a lowly match for a woman in whom he had been interested. It was an insult. The blood rushed to Thomas’s face and showed even in the whites of his eyes. “The King…,” he stammered.

“The King might not object to this marriage,” Mary began.

“He has suggested it to you?”

“Oh…no! It is because Will and I have fallen in love.”

Thomas stared at his daughter. “You must be mad, girl. You…have fallen in love with this Will Carey? A younger son of a family that can scarcely be called distinguished!”

“One does not think of family honors or wealth when one falls in love,” said Mary simply.

“You have lost your wits, girl.”

“I believe it is called losing one’s heart,” replied Mary with some spirit.

“The same thing, doubtless. Well, you may put this young man out of your mind. I want to hear no more of such nonsense. It may well be that, if you are patient, the King will suggest a good marriage for you. Indeed, it might be a good plan for you to make some light suggestions. Carefully, mind. Hint perhaps that marriage might be necessary…”

Mary bowed her head that he might not see the defiance which had sprung into her eyes. Hitherto she had been as easily swayed as a willow wand, but the thought of Will had stiffened her resistance. Strangely enough she was ready to put up a fight, to displease her father and the King, if need be, for the sake of Will Carey.

Thomas laid his hand on her shoulder; he had no doubt of her obedience. He was confident of his power when he looked back and saw how far he had come in the last years. He was forty-three years old, in good health, and his ambition was limitless. The King’s pleasure in him was stressed by the fact that he had designated Sir Thomas Boleyn to play such a large part in making the arrangements for the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and now that Henry had favored his daughter he was more grateful to Thomas than ever, because he had produced such a willing and comely girl. Mary had always been pliable, lacking the arrogance and temper of George and Anne.

Had he looked a little closer at Mary on that occasion he might have noticed that when her jaw was purposefully set, as it was at this moment, she bore a striking resemblance to her headstrong brother and sister.

But Thomas was too sure of his daughter, too sure of his ability to subdue her, to be alarmed.

He patted her shoulder. “Now, my daughter, no more of this foolishness. There’ll be a grand marriage for you, and now is the time to ask for it. I see no reason why you should not become a Duchess. That would please you, His Grace, and your family.”

Still she kept her head lowered, and giving her a playful push he dismissed her.

She was glad to escape because of the overwhelming desire to tell him that she was no longer his puppet, nor the King’s; Mary Boleyn in love, fighting for the future she desired, was as formidable as any young woman of spirit.


* * *

THE GREAT CARDINAL was alone in his audience chamber, where he stood at the window looking out over the parkland of that most magnificent of his residences, Hampton Court. He could always find delight in this place which he regarded as essentially his own; for how different it had become in those years since he had taken over the lease from the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem and raised this impressive edifice to what it was at this time, built around five courts and containing 1,500 rooms.

Here was opulence of a kind not seen even in the King’s own palaces; the walls were hung with the finest tapestry which the Cardinal caused to be changed once a week; throughout the palace were exquisite pieces of furniture and treasures which proclaimed the wealth of their owner. The Cardinal was a man who liked to be constantly reminded of his possessions, for he had attained them through his own brilliance, and because he remembered humbler days he found the greater pleasure in them. He did not care that the people murmured and said that his court was more magnificent than that of the King; that was how he wished it to be. He often said to himself: “All that is Henry’s is his because he is his father’s son. All that is mine, is mine because I am Thomas Wolsey.”

He encouraged ostentation. Let noblemen such as Norfolk and Buckingham sneer. They would sneer once too often. Let them make sly references to the butcher’s shop in which they swore he had been born. What did he care? These men were fools; and Wolsey believed that one day he would triumph over all his enemies. He was determined to do so, for he was not the man to forget a slight.

He smoothed the crimson satin of his robes and caressed his tippet of fine sable.

Oh, it was good to be rich. It was good to have power and to feel that power growing. There was very little he wished for and did not possess, for he was not a man to seek the impossible. The greatest power in England, the Papal Crown…these were not impossibilities. And if he longed to install his family here in Hampton Court, to boast to the King of his son—his fine sturdy Thomas, named after himself, but known as Wynter—he accepted the impossibility of doing so. As a prelate he could not allow the fact of that uncanonical marriage of his to be known; he was therefore reconciled to keeping his family in the background while he could bestow honors on his son.

He was smiling to himself now because he knew of the activities which would be going on in the great kitchens. There was a special banquet this day; the King would be present in some disguise. Wolsey had not been specifically told that Henry would come; he had merely heard that a party of gentlemen from a far country planned to test the hospitality of Hampton Court, for they had heard that it vied with that to be enjoyed at the King’s Court.

Wolsey laughed aloud. Such childish games! One among them would be the King, and the company must express its surprise when he discarded the disguise, and then the great delight and pleasure all felt in the honor of having their King with them.

“A game,” mused Wolsey, “that we have played countless times and will doubtless play countless times again, for it seems that His Grace never tires of it.”

But was His Grace tiring? Had there been an indication recently of a change in the King’s attitude to life? Was he taking more interest in matters of state, a little less in masking?

The longer the King remained a pleasure-loving boy the greater pleased would the Cardinal be. Those workmanlike hands of his were the hands to hold the helm. He wanted no interference.

Let the golden boy frolic with his women. Wolsey frowned a little. Boleyn was growing somewhat presumptuous on account of that brazen girl of his; and the man was becoming a little too important. But the Cardinal could deal with such; it was the King’s interference that he most feared; and while the King was concerned with a girl he could be expected to leave matters of state to his trusted Chancellor.

The guests were already arriving. He would not join them until the coming of the party of gentlemen in disguise, for that was beneath his dignity. His guests must wait for him to come among them, as at Greenwich or Westminster they waited for the King.

He knew that they would whisper together of the magnificence they saw about them, of the manner in which he dressed his servants, so that many of them were more richly clad than his guests. In the kitchens now his master cook, attired in scarlet satin with a gold chain about his neck, would be directing his many servants as though he himself was the lord of this manor; and that was how Wolsey would have it: that each man—from his steward who was a dean, and his treasurer who was a knight, to his grooms and yeomen of the pastry and his very scullery boys—should know, and tell the world by his demeanor, that it was better to be a page of the pantry in the household of Cardinal Wolsey than a gentleman steward in the house of any nobleman under the King.