The Last Boleyn Read Free Page A

always.” Her voice was a mere whisper and her curved mouth a wan ghost of a smile.
    â€œThen we are off for the royal court of Margaret, Archduchess of Austria, Mary, I as royal ambassador and you to be with her maids-of-honor and learn the fine arts of beautiful and accomplished ladies. You shall have pretty dresses and meet lovely people and perfect your French. You would like that adventure, would you not, my dear?”
    The girl raised her blonde head, and her clear blue eyes filled with tears as they met his intent, piercing ones.
    â€œWill it be much like Hever, father?”
    â€œNo, better, all more important and splendid and wonderful. Exciting people, great castles, lovely fountains and gardens. The archduchess shall be very pleased with your beauty and manners.”
    Her voice quavered as she thought of her mother’s loving face and nasty, dear George and Annie and Semmonet and the quiet horse she loved to ride at Hever. “Will you be near, father?”
    â€œYes, as king’s ambassador, there whenever you would see me, child.”
    â€œThen I know I shall be happy to be there with you,” she said in simple trust.
    He rose swiftly and patted her slender shoulder. “Here, Mary,” he added quickly, reaching toward the table behind her. “Now that you are to set out in the fine world, I fetched you a Tudor rose from the king’s gardens at Greenwich. You shall someday belong to the English court, my girl, so remember this when you are steeped in the luxurious beauties of the Belgian court.”
    She was touched by this act, so unlike anything her aloof, clever father had done before. Surely she would be close to him now, since they would be far away together. The rose was a lovely velvet red despite its slight droop from being carried so far from its garden.
    â€œIt is a wonderful rose, father,” she said, but as she reached for its stem, she recoiled from the tiny stab of a thorn. She squeezed her finger and a crimson drop of blood formed.
    â€œYou must learn to beware of the hidden thorns, foolish girl,” he chided. “Come, take your rose and up to Semmonet. She has been packing your things this past hour. We leave Hever tomorrow at dawn and sail from Dover on Monday. Be gone, girl.”
    Mary rose gracefully and, gingerly holding the flower, curtseyed solemnly. Then she heard herself ask, “And what did my lady mother say of this honor?”
    He faced her squarely and looked down into her clear blue eyes. “She is absolutely thrilled that you have this wonderful opportunity,” he said. “She only hopes you will be true to the aristocratic Butler and Howard blood that flows in your proud Bullen veins. Now, be gone.”
    The girl spun swiftly in a rustle of skirts and a whirl of golden hair. She did not want her father or anyone to see the new-learned doubt and pain stamped on her brow and hidden in her eyes.

CHAPTER TWO
    November 4, 1514
    Les Tournelles, Paris
    F or the first time in two years, ever since the bright facade of Hever had dropped behind the massive oaks and beeches already obscuring the dwindling forms of her mother and Semmonet, George and Annie, Mary sobbed wretchedly. She had not cried one whit when her lord father had left her in the opulent but austere world of Archduchess Margaret’s vast court, nor when she felt the suffocating pangs of homesickness those first endless months, nor even when the archduchess had been sadly touched to part with her at the English Lord Ambassador’s sudden insistence. Even departing England again hurriedly, this time with the lovely Princess Mary Tudor, King Henry’s own beloved sister, the little Mary Bullen had not shed a tear. What good were weak and foolish sobbings when no one would listen and nothing would be changed?
    Indeed, she was of full ten years now, and was thrilled to serve so beauteous and kind a lady as the Tudor Rose, herself sent from her home. But