The Last Boleyn Read Online Free Page A

alone, closeted in the queen’s privy chamber, Her Grace would talk on and on of England and her dearest bluff brother Hal from days before he ascended the throne, and of the most wonderful and jovial people of the Tudor court.
    â€œI feel I could readily name them all now, Madam,” Mary admitted to her queen one night as they sat late over warmed wine and a gilded chess board, to which they paid scant attention as their talk skipped from point to point. “I feel as though I truly know our Queen Catherine and His Grace and even his dearest companions as well as, say, Sir Charles Brandon, the delightful Duke of Suffolk.” Mary Bullen laughed her lovely, lilting laugh at the thought of her father’s surprise when she could show him she recognized all the important people of the court before his busy hands could even point them out. Then she stopped, suddenly unsure, for the queen had paled visibly and was grasping an ivory gilded chesspiece in a white-knuckled fist.
    â€œCharles Brandon—delightful? Why do you term him that, Mary?” Her unsteady voice sounded not angry, as Mary had feared, but strangely puzzled and hurt.
    â€œI meant nothing by it, Your Grace. It is a word you have used to describe him and I only thought to...”
    â€œDid I now—delightful? Ah, indeed he is that,
ma petite.
” She smiled warmly but her gaze seemed clouded and distant.
    She sees him even now in her mind’s eye, Mary realized in wonderment.
    â€œWhat else have I said of my brother-king’s dearest, truest friend, my Mary?” she queried, her voice now playful.
    Mary remembered well all the phrases of praise and happily recounted events, but she felt quickly shy of repeating her queen’s words. The sure knowledge came swiftly to her naive mind that this woman could have loved elsewhere than her old husband the French king. Her marriage was, of course, arranged, and she had long before that been years promised to Charles of Castille, but she knew him not. Just because she was a princess and meant for a special marriage bond, could she not have given her heart elsewhere? Would not her own dear brother’s best companion be often about and then...
    â€œPerhaps I have often said too much to be remembered or related, Mary.” Her perfect teeth showed white, and her dark eyes sparkled. She leaned forward across the wide chess board, her jeweled crucifix trailing its heavy pearl-studded chain over the marble noisily. She reached her pale hand across to cover Mary’s smaller one.
    â€œGod forgive me, Mary, but Charles Brandon is the dearest man in the world to me next, of course, to my brother and my lawful husband.”
    Tears sprang to her eyes and hovered on her thick lashes. Her grasp on Mary’s hand tightened. “It helps me to have said it, Mary. I pray you will keep my secret. Only three others know of it, His Grace and I and the Duke himself.” Her gentle voice trailed off and she loosed her grip on Mary’s hand, seemingly surprised she held it so hard.
    â€œYou see, Mary, my lord, King Henry, has solemnly vowed that should I ever be widowed in my willing service to England as King Louis’s queen that I—yes, I alone—may select my next husband!” The words were quiet but fervent.
    Mary sat wide-eyed and intent, the impact of being privy to such high dealings crashing with the queen’s passionate words on her ears and heart. “Indeed that is most generous and wondrous kind, Your Grace,” the girl was at a loss for proper words of comfort.
    â€œHis Majesty, my dear brother, generous and wondrous kind,
ma cherie?
” A musical chuckle floated to Mary across the chess board. “Well, maybe, but there is no way to be certain, you see, for it suited him well to give me that promise at the time. And if it suits him not, should I wish to collect on the strange bargain, the rhetorical question is, my Mary, will he even remember