it creeps through the chinks in the wall like fog.
The doors open and the usher stands aside to let a woman enter. She is of medium height and somewhat blonde, her brown eyes warm, but a little distant. Her skin is the color of poured cream, and though she is getting old, I can tell she was once very pretty.
She is the queen’s sister, Mary Boleyn. Now Mary Carey.
As she walks, people turn away. She doesn’t look left or right. Doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that precede and follow her. Doesn’t seem to care that everyone is staring.
Or what they are staring at.
Her approach is preceded by a belly so great she looks like a ship in full sail. Her husband died six years ago from the sweat.
“Oh my God,” Margaret whispers beside me.
I glance at Madge, who is just behind her, wide-eyed.
I turn to the queen. There is no color to her cheeks, to her lips. Her eyes are like stones in snow.
Mistress Carey sinks into a curtsy. The pregnancy makes it awkward and difficult, but no one moves to help her. She is absolutely huge.
“It looks like she could drop the baby right here on the floor,” Madge mutters.
Queen Anne says nothing. It is as if she has been turned to wax.
Mistress Carey keeps her head bowed. She lived at court for years and knows how things are done. Even though she must be uncomfortable, she waits without complaint. She doesn’t shift or fidget. She seems perfectly content to stay there all day.
“You know, some people say she was the king’s mistress,
before
.”
Before Anne. When we called Katherine of Aragon queen.
The room breaks into waves of whispers.
“Everyone said she was beautiful,” Madge says. “She’s got nice hair, I suppose, but do you really think she’s pretty?”
“She’s
pregnant
, Madge. It’s not like we can comment on her figure,” Margaret snipes.
“I wish to speak to Mistress—my
sister
.”
The queen’s voice cuts across the rumors. We all turn to go. No one wants to have to face the queen’s sharp tongue. Mistress Carey trembles.
“Cousins, attend me.”
I feel Madge startle beside me. The queen is looking at the two of us. She knows that we will keep her secrets. We’ve done it before. We stop, shoulder to shoulder, and wait as the room empties and the ushers close the doors from the outside.
“Stand.”
“Nan.” The word is a whisper, but we can hear it in the empty silence.
“Do
not
call me that.”
The queen steps down from her dais so she and Mistress Carey are face-to-face, like cats about to attack. They are still, yet they give the appearance of circling.
“What are you thinking, showing up here like . . . like that?”
Mistress Carey bows her head, her fingers linked below her belly as if it is too heavy on its own.
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Wanted to tell me
what
? That you have continued in the manner in which you acted at the French court? That you’ve come to me for assistance? For a position? For a person to take your baby on as ward? That you don’t know who the father is?”
The queen’s questions fall rapidly, like hailstones, and Mistress Carey flinches with every one. Until the last. She looks up.
“I know exactly who the father is. He is my husband.”
Again, the queen goes waxy and rigid as a candle. Then she raises one eyebrow.
“Your husband?”
The quiet question is somehow more frightening than the ones she shouted. But Mistress Carey doesn’t flinch.
“Yes. We have been married secretly this past year. The child is his.”
“Whose?”
“William Stafford.”
The queen leans forward, tipping one ear toward her sister as if she’s hard of hearing.
“Who?” she asks, her eyes snapping to the point of almost shooting sparks.
“William Stafford.”
“And who, pray tell, is he?”
Again the queen’s voice raises, and again Mistress Carey—Mistress
Stafford
—doesn’t flinch.
“My husband. I met him when I journeyed with you to Calais.”
I went, as well, at the
The doors open and the usher stands aside to let a woman enter. She is of medium height and somewhat blonde, her brown eyes warm, but a little distant. Her skin is the color of poured cream, and though she is getting old, I can tell she was once very pretty.
She is the queen’s sister, Mary Boleyn. Now Mary Carey.
As she walks, people turn away. She doesn’t look left or right. Doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that precede and follow her. Doesn’t seem to care that everyone is staring.
Or what they are staring at.
Her approach is preceded by a belly so great she looks like a ship in full sail. Her husband died six years ago from the sweat.
“Oh my God,” Margaret whispers beside me.
I glance at Madge, who is just behind her, wide-eyed.
I turn to the queen. There is no color to her cheeks, to her lips. Her eyes are like stones in snow.
Mistress Carey sinks into a curtsy. The pregnancy makes it awkward and difficult, but no one moves to help her. She is absolutely huge.
“It looks like she could drop the baby right here on the floor,” Madge mutters.
Queen Anne says nothing. It is as if she has been turned to wax.
Mistress Carey keeps her head bowed. She lived at court for years and knows how things are done. Even though she must be uncomfortable, she waits without complaint. She doesn’t shift or fidget. She seems perfectly content to stay there all day.
“You know, some people say she was the king’s mistress,
before
.”
Before Anne. When we called Katherine of Aragon queen.
The room breaks into waves of whispers.
“Everyone said she was beautiful,” Madge says. “She’s got nice hair, I suppose, but do you really think she’s pretty?”
“She’s
pregnant
, Madge. It’s not like we can comment on her figure,” Margaret snipes.
“I wish to speak to Mistress—my
sister
.”
The queen’s voice cuts across the rumors. We all turn to go. No one wants to have to face the queen’s sharp tongue. Mistress Carey trembles.
“Cousins, attend me.”
I feel Madge startle beside me. The queen is looking at the two of us. She knows that we will keep her secrets. We’ve done it before. We stop, shoulder to shoulder, and wait as the room empties and the ushers close the doors from the outside.
“Stand.”
“Nan.” The word is a whisper, but we can hear it in the empty silence.
“Do
not
call me that.”
The queen steps down from her dais so she and Mistress Carey are face-to-face, like cats about to attack. They are still, yet they give the appearance of circling.
“What are you thinking, showing up here like . . . like that?”
Mistress Carey bows her head, her fingers linked below her belly as if it is too heavy on its own.
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Wanted to tell me
what
? That you have continued in the manner in which you acted at the French court? That you’ve come to me for assistance? For a position? For a person to take your baby on as ward? That you don’t know who the father is?”
The queen’s questions fall rapidly, like hailstones, and Mistress Carey flinches with every one. Until the last. She looks up.
“I know exactly who the father is. He is my husband.”
Again, the queen goes waxy and rigid as a candle. Then she raises one eyebrow.
“Your husband?”
The quiet question is somehow more frightening than the ones she shouted. But Mistress Carey doesn’t flinch.
“Yes. We have been married secretly this past year. The child is his.”
“Whose?”
“William Stafford.”
The queen leans forward, tipping one ear toward her sister as if she’s hard of hearing.
“Who?” she asks, her eyes snapping to the point of almost shooting sparks.
“William Stafford.”
“And who, pray tell, is he?”
Again the queen’s voice raises, and again Mistress Carey—Mistress
Stafford
—doesn’t flinch.
“My husband. I met him when I journeyed with you to Calais.”
I went, as well, at the
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