1524
She almost danced through the gallery. She was back at court after visiting home, and she swore she had never been so happy. The long stretch of corridor before her was completely empty - everyone else was downstairs enjoying the festivities - and in the moonlight that filtered in through the windows on her right, Mary could have sang.
She suppressed a triumphant laugh, a victorious giggle, and lifted her arm to admire the jewelled bracelet in the silver light. It had been a gift from the king, and she had nearly squealed when she had pulled back the wrappings of the wooden box and revealed such a dazzling piece of jewellery. It was a diamond bracelet, interlaced with sapphires. He always said blue was her colour.
It was Christmas. The rest of the court were still in the great hall, where the wine was flowing freely and the music was loud. She had escaped up here for a moment; she needed air but knew the gardens would be interspersed with lovers hoping in vain for secrecy, hoping to lose themselves in the darkness of the night and the cover of the hedges. She knew going outside was too risky; up here she knew he would follow. And up here, in the darkness of the unlit corridor, she knew they would not be seen.
As if on cue, a shadow blocked the light at the other end of the gallery. The figure leaned on the doorframe, and she wondered how long he had been watching her. He began to move slowly towards her, his face in shadow. She turned to face the window, a coy smile on her lips. She would not look at him, or speak to him. She would wait here, in the middle of the gallery, waiting for him to come to her.
His footsteps were slow and deliberate. This was a game to her, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling even more as he grew ever nearer. He was close enough that she could reach out and touch him, and yet she kept her gaze firmly on the ground outside. She could see the shadows of a couple embracing before the fire lamps and absently wondered who they were. They were too far away and she was too high up to make out faces.
She breathed in deeply when she felt a hand on her waist. She could hear him breathing behind her ear, and the hand moved across her waist until he had her in his arms completely. She leaned back into his embrace, her eyes falling closed. She heard him give a small, breathy laugh and a smile broke onto her own lips.
"Good evening, your grace." She whispered. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his lips kissing her neck.
"It is a most splendid evening." He replied. She could smell the wine on his breath and the smoke from the fire pit on his clothes. Turning in his arms, she raised his head to her lips. He pushed her against the wall, her back against the cold panes of the window. She didn't feel the cold against her back, instead she was focused on the lips at her jaw, the arms that had lifted her so that her legs were around his waist. The hand that was holding her calf and the coldness of his rings on her bare skin.
"You will be missed at the celebrations, my lord." Mary said casually. He raised his head from her collarbone and looked her in the eye with a grin that could be described only as devilish. Pressing another kiss to her lips, he muttered:
"By my wife?"
"By all the court, sire." Mary answered. She wouldn't fall for the bait, his raised eyebrow and his eyes looking up at her from underneath long eyelashes. Henry shrugged, his hand resuming to wander up her leg and his eyes on her chest.
"We can go back down, if you wish..." He said, trailing off. Mary found herself breathless as his hand reached her thigh.
"Not at all, sire." She whispered. "Besides," She began, her own hands beginning to wander. She felt the lavishness of the velvet between her fingers, and roamed further south until she felt the laces of his breeches. "I haven't yet given you your Christmas present."
Henry grinned, allowing her to untie the laces. Pressing her harder against the window, he laughed into her slender neck.
"Ah, Mistress Boleyn," He said against her cheek. "How I have missed you".
1541
"Lady Stafford, your grace."
Mary held her breath as she was announced. The double wooden doors opened before her, and for a heartbeat she expected to see the king that she had loved almost twenty years ago. He was sitting on his throne, and she endeavoured to mask her shock. She had heard that he was not as handsome as he had once been, but she had not expected to see him having grown so fat. She didn't expect to see him with such a foul expression on his features. She didn't expect him to look so... old.
He rose to greet her, and as she sank to her knees before him, he lifted her chin and raised her.
"It makes my heart sing to see you again, Lady Mary." He said slowly. Mary smiled demurely, looking down at the floor. She knew she had kept most of her looks; her hair was still fair and still shone. She was still slender and her face had retained most of its youthful glow. Childbearing had hardly damaged her figure - if anything, it had improved it. Her hips were wider and her chest more voluptuous. She knew that if Henry had desired her all those years ago, he should do so all the more now.
"And it gladdens mine to see you in such good health, your majesty. You look as if the past fifteen years have not touched you." The lies left her lips effortlessly, and Henry was pleased at the flattery. She began to think that getting back into his bed was going to be easier than she anticipated.
"Of course I don't like that he's invited his old mistress back to court, you idiot." Catherine Howard said with a heavy sigh later that evening. "But if it takes his focus off me for once in a while, I can live with it."
Culpepper was sitting opposite her at a small table in her chambers. They were playing cards, but his eyes were wandering to the nightshirt she wore that was partially see-through. He could see her figure perfectly by the light of the fire, and as his mind wandered to improper places, she snapped her fingers before his face.
"Is he taking her back to his bed?" She asked. Culpepper snapped himself out of his daydreams and met her eye.
"He intends to." He said with a shrug. "As you say, he will be less concerned with you once he does. We shall have more freedom." He said wistfully, wanting to lift her into his arms and carry her off into the bedroom at that very moment.
She gazed off into space, and Thomas Culpepper smiled gently. Mary had been allowed back to court purely to take up her former residence in the king's bed. Culpepper had already delivered her to the king's rooms. After doing so, he took his chance to visit the queen, but neglected to inform her that Mary Stafford was already in the king's chambers. He pitied her, Mary. the poor woman would have no clue what would be awaiting her.
"It has been too long, Mary." Henry said from a chair by the fire. Mary stood by the door in silence until he bid her to sit in the chair next to him.
"It has, your majesty."
Henry waved his hand.
"Henry, please." He said softly. "I think enough has transpired between us that we can forgo the formalities."
Mary nodded.
"Yes... Henry." She paused. "Why am I here?" She asked abruptly.
"Your letter... you said our son was ailing." He replied. Mary shook her head.
"That is why I am at court. Why am I here?"
Henry sighed heavily and rested his head in his palm.
"In truth I have missed you. I have missed the days of our youth, and my vitality, and peace and the easiness of those years. But I have missed you most of all." He said, raising his head to look at her.
She observed him as he did so. His face looked worn and tired, the effects of so many misbegotten marriages and foreign policies taking their toll. He looked tired. She remembered the Henry from her youth, young and active. That he could no longer play tennis, no longer wrestle, no longer joust or partake in any vigorous sport must be harder on him than he lets on, she thought. Glancing at the floor, she suddenly felt overwhelming pity for the man that had executed her brother, cast aside her son and thrown her sister into poverty and disgrace. He was not a bad man, she thought, but time and the crown had forged him into a man that could be unforgiving and bitter. He had been betrayed too many times, she thought.
Leaning over to place a hand on his thigh, she took a deep breath.
"If you are seeking forgiveness..." She began. His eyes searched her face, and she gave him a small smile. "You already have it, sire."
He nodded, and for a moment she thought she saw tears begin to form in his eyes. A deep sadness lurked there, one she did not want to explore tonight. Not willing to have the king sobbing on her shoulder, she sank to her knees on the floor before him, her palms resting on his knees. He regarded her with confusion for a moment before leaning forwards, so close that she could smell the stench of meat and ale on his breath. It was a far cry from the smell of fine wine that she had revelled in that Christmas so long ago.
She kissed him then, and against all her better instincts, she found it easier than she expected to think of him fifteen years ago instead of in his present state. Lithe and athletic, muscles under a silk doublet. Strong thighs and arms that held her down in his expensive sheets. Slender fingers that ran through her hair, eyes that glistened by the light of the fire and lips that were hot on her skin. As he rose with effort, Mary reached behind her to unlace her dress. It fell to a heap on the floor, and as he kissed her again she kept her eyes closed, remembering the Henry that promised her the world. When he led her to the bed, it was that Henry that she was picturing. Not the older, fatter man that stood before her now. When his hands were on her waist, she found herself, like him, longing to go back in time. Back to when youth was theirs for the keeping, when it seemed that the world was spinning for England and its young, energetic king and his lively, beautiful court.
She understood then, that all of them - Anne, Henry, Thomas Wyatt, even herself - they were all in mourning. Mourning for the past, for the younger versions of themselves. Mary was encumbered with sympathy for the king, and knowing that Anne intended on having him poisoned, resolved that there might be another way to get what they wanted without killing him. All she had to do was entice him like she had before. She simply had to act like she had all those years ago, like her youth was still hers, and like she was still his for the taking.
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