Marianne Boleyn - May Day 1523

Harry, disguised as Robin of Nottingham, rowed out with a party of his favourite gentlemen to rescue the ladies of the Queen's Court, trapped as they were on the Thames by a group of courtiers disguised as French brigands.

Over the shouts and laughter, and the boom of the ingenious little cannon that was enabling the Merry Men to win their battles, he glanced at the Royal Barge, seeking out his sweetheart's eyes. He wanted to make sure she was watching him triumph over these rascals.

Where was she? There, sitting on the Queen's left, her gown of emerald velvet thoroughly splashed, her French hood slightly askew as she threw back her head and laughed at the merry scene before her.

Harry bent and plucked a white rose from the roses woven around the edge of the boat. Standing upright, he caught her eye and smiled his reckless, impish, promising smile, throwing her the rose he held in his hand.

Mary Carey nee Boleyn caught it, and called out to him as a rosy blush crept up her cheeks.

"I thank you, Lord Robin, but where is Maid Marian?"

"You are my Maid Marian!" he called back, enjoying the mixture of embarrassment and delight that presented itself so clearly on her face.

An hour later, as the barges landed at York Place, Harry took Mary's soft hand in his, and escorted her into the dining hall, bending to touch his lips to the rose where she had tucked it into her hood.

"Happy May Day, Lady Carey."

"Happy May Day, Your Majesty." she whispered, her voice music to his ears.

They feasted late into the night, and then they rose and danced, danced country dances as a tribute to the May. Mary giggled like a child, and spun under Harry's careful hand as though she had not a care in the world, as though Catalina de Aragón, the woman he had married and sworn everlasting love to, was not watching their every move with that keen gaze of hers which was so typical of the House of Trastamara.

Later, after the rest of the Court had retired, Harry sat waiting. A tap at the door, a slight push, and it was open. Open to reveal her, Marianne Boleyn. His Boleyn girl. His darling. His beloved.

"Mary." It was all he said, but the desire was evident in his voice. She heard it, and slightly afraid, she drew back from it.

"No. No, Mary. I won't hurt you. Just come to me. Come closer." He seduced her with his voice, seduced her so that she stepped into the room a little and shut the door behind her. In an instant, he was beside her, sweeping her up in his arms, and carrying her to the bed, raining kisses down upon her all the while.

She giggled in a rush of nervous delight, and murmured "Oh, Henry. Oh my sweet Lord Robin."

"Yes, Mary? Sweet Mary?" he whispered almost lazily, remembering how she had looked the first time he singled her out, the first time she captured his attentions, and again tonight, when he had kept her back from Catalina's ladies, and seated her on the Queen's throne. A look of enchanting disbelief, as though she dared not try to understand how high her star was rising. As he glanced at her through half-closed eyes, he realised that she looked like that now.

"If you bed me so wantonly, what will Maid Marian think?"

"You are my Maid Marian." he repeated, rising above her to kiss her forehead. "You are my Maid Marian and I adore you."

As he completed his sentence, he thrust himself inside her, and had the satisfaction of hearing her gasp as he took his pleasure and indulged his sensuality.

Their love had been perfected.