London - Edward Rutherfurd [293]
And Henry smirked.
That was what did it. She had seen that look before. Most princes had mistresses: it was to be expected. But this was different. After all the difficulties – the putting aside of a loyal wife, the problem with the Pope, the marriage to Anne – now with the all-important heir almost born and his new queen probably not a hundred yards away, this overweight king was casually indulging himself in a garden where anyone might see. That look said it all: guilty but triumphant, it was the greedy grin of the lecher. The heroic and pious king she had revered was suddenly a shadow; in the flesh, under the harsh light of the sun, she saw he was merely vulgar. She felt disgust.
Henry saw it. Very coolly, he fastened the cod-piece back in place while the lady, with practised swiftness, rearranged her dress. By the time he looked up again, the grin had vanished. “Methinks this lady has a sullen look.” The voice was quiet, and dangerous. He addressed the words to his companion, who gave a little shrug. He stared at Susan. “We do not know this lady,” he said with deliberate evenness; and then, loudly: “But we like her not!” And suddenly, remembering his power, Susan felt herself go cold.
“What is your name?”
Dear God. Had she just ruined her husband’s career before it had even begun? Her heart sank.
“Susan Bull, sire.” She saw him frown. His memory, as every courtier knew, was formidable, but it seemed the name of Bull meant nothing. “Your name before marriage?” he abruptly demanded.
“Meredith, sire.” Had she destroyed her brother too?
But there was a just perceptible change. His brow seemed to clear a little.
“Your brother is Thomas Meredith?”
She nodded. He looked thoughtful.
“Your father was our friend.” He gazed at her carefully now. “Are you our friend?”
He was offering her a chance, for her father’s sake. She knew she must take it. “Kings,” Thomas had once said, “have only friends or enemies.” Whatever her private feelings at his behaviour, she could not let her family down. She made her deepest curtsy.
“I have been Your Majesty’s friend all my life,” she said. And then, with a smile: “When I was a little girl, Your Majesty held me in his arms.” It was, she hoped, everything it should be: friendly yet submissive.
Henry watched carefully. He was an expert in submission. “See to it that you remain so,” he said quietly, and motioned that she should withdraw. But then, with one of those astonishing transformations that are the prerogative of kings, he suddenly decided to continue.
“You did wrong to come upon us in such a way,” he remarked gravely. It was a gentle, but firm rebuke. She bowed her head. From this moment, she instantly realized, in the royal mind, the incident would be marked down as her fault, and in no way his. It was always so with Henry. Any courtier could have told her. She began to withdraw.
Just as she reached the entrance to the garden, she turned and, thinking to reassure him of her loyalty blurted out: “I saw nothing, sire, when I was here.”
And the instant she said it, she realized her terrible mistake. By her thoughtless words she had just implied that he had something to hide, that, even for a moment, she had enjoyed a moral superiority over him. It was an impertinence. It was dangerous. He scowled and waved her to be gone; and so, miserably confused, she backed away, wishing that the ground of Hampton Court would open up and swallow her.
As she came away, she was trembling, not so much at the threat to herself and her family but because she had discovered in that horrible moment that in the innermost heart of the kingdom, stripped of the pomp