The Last Boleyn (47 page)

“The question is, Master Cromwell,” Anne said, moving a few steps to face him, “what have you heard already? What did you know of all this long ago? I warrant you knew as many of the details as Lord Stafford himself.”

“Of their liaison, Your Grace?”

“Of course! Did you think I spoke of archery practice or jousting?”

“I have suspected for some time that Lady Stafford was with child, Your Grace, though I knew nothing of the marriage.”

“For conversation's sake, I will assume that is a truthful answer,” Anne replied. “Then you two are to be congratulated. You gave Cromwell's army of clever spies the slip. That is almost amusing, is it not, Cromwell?”

When he did not answer, the queen's desperate control shattered again. “Get them out of my sight, king's man! Banish them, get them well on the road before my father or the king hears of the pregnancy—not for the daughter whose very being depends on it, no, but for the beautiful daughter with the Howard looks and simple heart who bears live sons! Get out of here, all of you. I have much to do!”

Mary wanted to hug Anne farewell, but she felt crushed and exhausted, not terrified as she had expected. She curtseyed and backed away, but Anne had turned to the window and George, dear loyal George, put his hands to her shoulders, and they were still standing like that unspeaking as the doors closed.

In the hall courtiers still clustered around the queen's threshold as though awaiting favors. There will be no favors today, Mary thought grimly, as she took Staff's arm and they wended their way through the maze of people behind Cromwell. Jane Rochford darted up from nowhere, no doubt lagging about to hear the rest of the screaming through the door.

“Lord Stafford, Mary, I am so happy for you!” she gushed.

“Thank you, Jane,” Mary said low. “Please, please do not goad the queen so, and try to be a friend to her.”

“George is friend enough for her and that pretty musician Smeaton,” Jane replied tartly. “I do not see that George left with the rest of you.”

They walked on leaving the girl behind, but Mary could still hear her petulant voice speaking to someone else. They were nearly on the road to Wivenhoe now, and soon there would be a great distance between them, gossip and the court. They would be on the road to freedom from all of this and, God willing, they might be able to stay away a very long, long time.

“You lead a charmed life, Stafford,” Cromwell finally spoke when they were out of the crush of eager faces in the hall by Mary's room. He smiled at them, but his voice was as cold as usual no matter what the words. “It is a rare man indeed who can flaunt authority and propriety and walk away unscathed. Will you need a contingent of guards on the road?”

“Thank you, no, Master Cromwell. Mary and I have four servants between us and that shall suffice.”

“Then let me only say,” Cromwell went on, his eyes shifting to Mary's face, “that I shall be your ally and not your enemy should you have the need of aid even at little—where is it now?”

“Wivenhoe, near Colchester, Master Cromwell.”

“Yes. Maybe I shall visit you sometime. I would like to meet your ghosts.” He pivoted stiffly to face Staff. “Let us say it plainly, Lord Stafford. You and I have always been clever chess players. You are one of the few who have even beaten me. Now you are off on an adventure which greatly intrigues me.” He glanced at Mary again. “The Boleyns, all of the Boleyns, may need friends, and I am simply volunteering. Do you believe me, Stafford?”

“Yes, Cromwell, for various reasons, yes. Only remember that I am quite through having my wife be a pawn in anyone's chess game ever again. I will die first.”

“Then we understand each other perfectly, as I thought we always did. Good luck to you both. If you wish to know the winds of the times, you have only to write to me.”

“Thank you, Master Cromwell,” Mary said and forced a small smile. “If you have any influence on my sister, sir, please counsel her to curb her temper and the king can be hers again.”

He stared squarely into Mary's wide eyes. “We can only hope for that, I think, Lady Stafford, and hope is often a last resort.” He bowed to them in the deserted hall and was gone.

“We are going to Wivenhoe, girl,” Staff told the sleepy Nancy when they entered Mary's room. “The whole world knows your mistress and I are wed and will soon enough know of the child. Pack several dresses and we will have the rest sent after us. The day is getting late, but we will not sleep under this roof tonight.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” Nancy hugged Mary and turned back to Staff. “Are you in disgrace and banished then?”

“More or less,” Mary answered, yanking open the top drawer of her wardrobe. “Come on, Nance. We will talk on the way.”

“You see, lass,” Staff teased as he felt the tremendous impact of their sudden freedom assail his brain, “Stephen is going, too, and with the tight accommodations at Wivenhoe manorhouse, your lady and I would be most grateful if you and he could see fit to share a room. And, though I fear your betters have not set you a very good example, we would prefer that you wed with him first, if the two of you would do us so kind a favor.”

Nancy's face went from incredulous, to stunned, to joyous, to embarrassed.

“Staff, did you have to tell her that surprise now? You are just like a little boy who cannot wait for dinner,” Mary scolded. “Nancy, you must keep packing or we will end up in a dungeon somewhere and have to rescind the suggestion.” She smiled broadly at Staff as the girl bent to her packing and stuffing with a vengeance.

Within an hour the Wivenhoe party clattered away from Whitehall along the river and soon turned eastward with the sun warm on their backs. Thomas Boleyn had not appeared to scold or stop them as Mary had feared he would. She was glad not to see him, but somehow it only said he did not care. She thought again of brave and loving Meg Roper with her father's head in her lap as they left The Tower behind and cantered through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Staff's great stallion, Sanctuary, snorted as though he already scented the far distant Wivenhoe, and Eden kept well abreast of the huge horse as they rode side-by-side toward Colchester.

CHAPTER THIRTY

October 22, 1534

Wivenhoe Manor

I
t had been the most marvelous summer Mary could remember. Now the trees and shrubs and flowers of Wivenhoe flaunted their riot of autumn colors, and she wondered how long the sequestered beauty would dare to last in her life. She was heavy with child, but the joy she felt with her husband and daughter about her in their new home made her almost forget the agonies of her heart. Despite the peace of Wivenhoe, her thoughts went often to London and she prayed that her sister would find peace and love and bear her husband an heir. And too, she prayed that Anne would forgive her this secret marriage and the child—forgive her, as Will Carey had not, for the love she bore Staff. When her prayers turned to her father, no words would come—only rattled hopes and jagged emotions.

“Do you really think today will be the day, mother?” nine-year-old Catherine asked for the third time in the last hour. “It is so exciting, and you promised I could help care for him after he is born.” The girl's eyes darted up from the sampler she was stitching and she smiled.

“Yes, my dear, you will be a tremendous help. But remember, the babe may well be a little sister.”

“Somehow, mother, somehow I just feel it is a boy. We never see Harry much, so it will take his place.”

“One child never really takes the place of another in a parent's love, Catherine. You will understand that someday.” Mary tried to sit erect on the stone bench in the herb garden, but her back ached so it really did no good. She would have to lie down or get Staff or Nancy to rub it. It worried her that she felt so tired when she was surely on the threshold of labor, where she would need all her strength. It had been nine years since she had delivered a child.

“But if the queen bears the king a son, it will surely replace my cousin Elizabeth in their love, mother,” Catherine was arguing. “Then she will be most sad when she grows up that her father will love her not. Brennan told me...”

“You must not listen to Brennan so much, my love,” Mary chided gently, trying to keep the scolding tone from her voice. “Brennan is only the cook in a small country manor and knows nothing of London and the court. Besides, Elizabeth will grow up to be a fine princess of the realm at the very least. You must keep her spirits up and be a friend to her should the queen send for you to live in the princess's company as she has promised she would.”

“Maybe the queen is so busy that she forgot, mother. I have been here a whole two months since I left grandmother at Hever.”

“Well, let's not speak of that now, sweet. Run and fetch Nancy for me. Staff is out making some sort of bargain with his threshers in the grain fields and he will be back soon. I may take a little nap.”

“But it is not your time, is it?”

“No, my lass. Now go fetch Nancy.”

Catherine scurried off, her flying feet on the gravel path making a rapid rhythmic crunching. She ran behind the stone fence and Mary could see only the top golden curls of her head bobbing along before she disappeared into the kitchen entry. The ivy-draped walls of the house reflected in the fishpond and the stark contrast of whitewashed walls and dark patterned wood made an image of a second Wivenhoe in its calm watery surface. Mary treasured Wivenhoe, as she always had Hever, for the calm and peace it gave. Then, too, there were gentle water lilies floating endlessly on this tiny pond as they had at The Golden Gull in Banstead. Even the manor's ghost disturbed them not, though Mary had heard the stairboards creak at night and sensed unrest. Staff told her it was her own unrest and that the spirit visits had never yet occurred when he had been in the house. It was only the senile ravings of his old maiden aunt, he said. But Mary thought otherwise.

Once at supper, she had forced him into a debate over who the strange visitor might be who creaked the stairs. “My Aunt Susan always insisted it was my Uncle Humphrey, since he was the one hanged at Tyburn, and everyone thought a ghost must have a violent death,” he had said.

“But what do
you
believe, my love,” she had prompted.

“I reason that if there is any such thing, my Mary, it is my own father,” he had admitted. “You see, this manor was his birthright and Humphrey had Stonehouse Manor nearer to Colchester before they lost that as a result of the rebellion. Then too, my father died of fever in this house and, as far as I can tell, the ghost never acts up when I am in the house. Though my mother died here giving birth to me, the ghost never came until my father died. It is almost as if,” he concluded, his eyes growing distant and his voice softer, “as if my father is unsettled when I am at court in the hands of the king, so to speak, and rests quietly when I visit, and especially now that we reside here. It is only a theory if I am to believe any of my old aunt's tales and warnings. Perhaps the stairs just creak, for I have seen nothing of it, despite the old lady's stories of furniture moved about and doors ajar. If it comes now at all,” he had teased, “it will surely be to see what a beautiful wife and daughter I have brought to Wivenhoe. But you had best not tell little Catherine the tale. And do not worry yourself, for it is quite a friendly ghost.”

“How can you be sure?” she had probed, still nervous about the possibility of a haunted manorhouse.

“He fears not to creak about in day as well as night. Now the best folk tellers know that no evil ghost would dare that.” She had not been certain in the end if he were teasing or not, so she had let the matter drop. It was her own haunted mind, he had said, and well, maybe he was right.

But there had been no ghosts upon their joyous arrival here to live at Wivenhoe, she recalled, and a smile lit her tired face at the memory. Staff had carried her, dirt-stained and road-weary as she was, across the threshhold shouting for his shocked staff to assemble to greet the lord who so seldom visited and his new lady they had never seen. Safe at last in the oaken and stucco arms of charming Wivenhoe, Staff, Mary, Nancy, and Stephen had laughed and hugged one another in a raucous self-welcome. The eight-member household staff had stood in troubled awe at first to hear their new mistress was sister to the Great Henry's Queen Anne Boleyn, but soon enough they had accepted and grew to like her too.

Proudly, bursting with enthusiasm, Staff had shown her the trim and lovely manorhouse of three gabled storeys. On the ground floor a solar, dining hall and kitchen rooms including pantry, buttery, and bolting room where all the storing and sifting of flour took place. Up the carved oak staircase, the master's bedroom and sitting room and four other, smaller bedrooms. Above, under the high-peaked rafters, the servants' rooms and extra storage. The house lay in a huge H-shape surrounded by garden plots, orchards and this lovely pond where she sat now.

The furniture inside consisted mostly of big, carved Medieval pieces Staff promised her they would replace over the years, but Mary had loved it all instantly. So like Hever in the rich, polished patina of the oaks, maples, and cherry woods; so open to the fresh smells of the gardens, yet so warm and cozy within. And best, she loved their tall dark oak bedstead with the carved tendrils of vines and flowers twisting up the four heavy posters which supported the intricately scrolled and crested wood canopy overhead. Even now, as autumn began, she could picture the crisp winter nights to come when they would pull the beige embroidered bed curtains closed and have their own safe world away from Cromwell's spies and the sudden summons of the king.

“Little Catherine says you would take a nap, lady,” Nancy's voice broke into her reverie.

“Oh, yes, Nance. You gave me a start. If you would just come with me up the steep stairs and help me into bed, I would appreciate it. It is getting to be a dark day, is it not? The lord should be back soon. If it rains on the grain crop so near harvest time, he will be in a black mood.”

“Have you pains yet, lady?” Mary shook her head.

They went in through the narrow open hearth kitchen and Brennan looked up from kneading a huge wooden trencher of bread dough. Her eyes widened at the sight of Nancy helping Mary toward the hall.

“No, Brennan,” Nance answered the unspoken question. “We need not send Stephen for the village midwife yet, but just stay about in case we need boiling water.”

“She is a fine cook, Nance, but somewhat of a gossip.” Mary observed as they left the kitchen. “Jane Rochford would consider her a dangerous rival of scandal mongering if we took her to court, I warrant.”

The parlor lay silent and dim off the narrow front entry hall as they ascended the steps. Although the oak staircase was dark and gloomy since no sun streamed through windows today, the stairs were well built and never creaked under even Staff's weight. That is one indication that the Wivenhoe ghost truly
does
walk here, Mary reasoned nervously.

Their bed was a tall, square one and the carved walnut cradle for the new baby stood ready at its side. Mary sat and Nancy swung her feet up. “No, no, do not cover me. It is warm enough. And if the lord comes, do not let me sleep long.”

“Yes, milady.” Nancy pulled the heavy curtains over the two diamond paned windows and turned to go.

“Nancy. I have not been too short with you lately, have I?”

“No, Lady Mary. But if you were, I would understand with the babe comin' and all.”

“And all. Yes, it is more than just the babe, Nance. I so often think of the queen unhappy and far away. It seems terribly unfair that I am here with Staff and things are so peaceful. You and Stephen are happy, I know. I can see it.”

“I have never been so happy, lady. Perhaps I shall bear my Stephen a son in God's good time. I told him to stay close today and so did the lord. He can go for the midwife any time, lady.”

“Yes, Nance. Thank you. Go on now and get me up for supper if I fall asleep.” Nancy closed the door to the room quietly.

The manorhouse was very silent. Staff's groom, Patrick, had probably taken Catherine for her afternoon ride as he did when Staff was looking to manor business or spending the afternoon with Mary. And Brennan kneaded bread and Mary needed Staff and Anne needed a child. She got so tired some afternoons that she almost dozed sitting up, and her waking thoughts merged into her inner voices. It was like that now, floating on the soft mattress where they had so joyfully made love before her size and bulk had made it impossible lately. Palaces and castles be damned, I will live and die at Wivenhoe, she was thinking. The room swam in dim light and sleep would come in an instant here. Maybe she was asleep already, but then she would not know the babe kicked at her from within. It had dropped so much lower now, that it must come soon. An heir for Wivenhoe to take the place of the rebel Humphrey who was stolen from sanctuary and hanged, or perhaps to make up for Staff's father's early death at Wivenhoe, here in this room.

The sharp creak scratched at her drifting mind and her eyes shot open. “Nance!” she heard herself say, and her heart quickened as though it knew something her mind could not. The door to the room stood ajar. But had not Nancy closed it? A floor board moaned near the bed. She sat bolt upright. She felt icy cold, but the day was warm, even sultry, and no breeze stirred through the closed curtains.

“No,” she said aloud and heavily moved herself toward the far side of the bed and swung her feet down. She stood unsteadily and paced slowly in a wide arc around the room, staying near the wall. She dared not look back as her hand touched the door handle. It was very warm to the touch and she pulled back. She heard her sharp intake of breath in the silence, and pulled the heavy door open farther by its wooden edge. In the hall she leaned on the carved banister at the top of the stairs and opened her mouth to call for Nancy or Staff or anyone. The staircase stretched downward, calmly deserted. Then it happened. She distinctly felt a warm touch between her shoulder blades and she meant to scream. But it was gone instantly, and she spun wide-eyed against the wall. There was nothing, nothing, but the blur in her own eyes and that was tears.

Fear left her then. Why had she meant to shout to those working below? She felt calm and warm, for the touch had been gentle and the feeling had been love. “It is Staff's father,” she whispered or thought. He had only wanted to see her and touch her, for she loved his son and maybe he knew that a Tudor king had ruined her life, too. She would tell Staff later, though he might think it was all in her worried mind again. Perhaps she had dreamed it in her exhaustion. No one would ever believe the fantasy that a dead father could be warmer than the reality of a living one.

“Lady, are you all right? Why are you standin' here? Your face looks like...well, I was comin' to tell you your brother has ridden in.”

Mary stood stone-still as her wandering mind tried to grasp Nancy's words. “George here? With what news or orders, I wonder. Is Lord Stafford back? I must comb my hair.” She went back into the bedroom with Nancy trailing behind. The door latch no longer felt unusually warm, if indeed it had ever been warm at all. The bed was as she had left it and the covers clearly showed where she had scooted across Staff's side to get up. Nancy seemed not to notice as she fixed the heavy curls of her mistress's hair.

George's face lit in a broad smile when he saw her and he did not hide his surprise at her changed appearance. “I had forgotten how you bloom when you are with child, Mary,” he teased. “It was not since you were pregnant with little Catherine at court that I saw you like this. It becomes you so. And I never saw you in your first pregnancy with Harry at Hever.”

Mary warmly kissed George's cheek. “Does it seem to you I spend a great deal of my life in exile from the court for some indiscretion or the other, George? But I have never been happier.” She motioned him to a chair in the parlor and they sat close together. “Perhaps you had best not report that I am so content here. Tell father, for instance, I have never been more wretched and maybe he will leave me alone.”