The Last Boleyn (49 page)

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the king is more desperate than ever for a son as you can guess from George's little visit to us. If Anne can give him none, he will try to get one somewhere. As usual, your wily father reads the signs correctly when he thinks to pawn little Harry Carey off on His Grace. But the king wants a true heir, a legitimate son.”

“But if there is only Elizabeth, and the queen cannot bear him a son...what then?”

“It boggles the mind. The Boleyns have risen so high they can never really retreat, only somehow be pulled off the lofty perch.”

“Do you believe he would dare to divorce Anne as Catherine before her, claiming that their marriage is cursed for their dead children? No, Staff, he cannot. He would look most foolish after the ruination of the church and the killing of a raft of friends and advisors such as Sir Thomas More.”

“That is my reasoning exactly, sweet. Indeed, what can he do? It will be something calculated and desperate, I fear. Clever Anne sees it too. George said she came upon Jane Seymour perched on the king's lap last week in the queen's chambers and threw a raving fit for two days.”

The babe suddenly stirred fitfully in her arms, and Mary rocked and shushed him. “He senses the times are bad, Staff. And now his Aunt Anne will hate him through no fault of his own, for she hates the mother who bore him even more.”

“You must not think so, lass. Anne cannot help herself.”

“I know. I know. I forgive her, but how I wish she could forgive me. I feel sad and guilty that I bear this beautiful child now when her whole life depends on a son.”

“You had best not feel guilty about my son, Mary, no matter what the times are like. Sweetheart, you must cease to be haunted like this for Anne or your father or the king. You are no longer their plaything but a woman of your own—and mine.”

She turned her face into his hand, which caressed her cheek as he spoke. She kissed his palm. “Are you saying I have ghosts in my head, Staff? Can you deny you carry much of the cruel past about with you? The rebellion? Your entrapment by the king all these years when you would rather have been here? Perhaps you only do not show your ghosts as much as I, my lord.”

He sighed and lowered his hand to stroke Andrew's velvet cheek with one bent finger. “You are right, Lady Stafford. You know your lord quite well now, and I think you love him still.”

“Still, Lord Stafford? I love him more each day than I ever knew possible. But I would sleep now, too. Would you put your son back in his cradle?”

Staff stood and lifted the child carefully, the span of his two hands running the entire length of the babe's body. He put him in the cradle and covered him. “I had best go down and see how the reeve is doing with his accounts, love,” he said leaning over her on the bed. “Will you sleep well here alone?”

“Of course. But I am not alone even when you are not here. There is Andrew and the other. I am not afraid here, Staff. I think it is rather my favorite room.”

He kissed her lingeringly on the lips and straightened. “That is good to hear, madam, for one way or the other, you had better plan on spending a lot of time right where you are now.” He grinned and left the door ajar behind him.

She smiled at his familiar impudence. Yes, she was thrilled with the child, guilt over Anne or not, for her sister may be now lost to her forever. But she was so tired and she must sleep before the babe woke again to demand feeding. If she heard the stairs creak she would not fear at Wivenhoe for the atmosphere was free and good. If only she could smother her desperate thoughts, then only outside the sanctuary of the manor and Staff's encircling love would there be real ghosts to fear.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

February 2, 1536

Wivenhoe Manor

M
ary's two-year calm at Wivenhoe raising her son and daughter and being the beloved wife of one of the shire's leading landowners was shattered quite suddenly one mild winter afternoon as the icicles on the eaves dripped in random beats upon the sodden flower beds. The crisp note from Master Cromwell brought by the usual messenger said only that the king's chief minister himself would arrive by noon on the morrow with important news. Mary showed the note to Staff, who had scooped up the toddling Andrew in his arms the instant he had entered the parlor.

“Master Cromwell himself,” Staff said coldly and handed the crisp paper back to Mary. “I do not think we can hope that he merely desires a respite in the country.”

“Now that the queen is with child again, maybe she forgives us and wants us to come back.”

“I doubt it,” Staff said, grinning at the delighted Andrew as he bounced the child on his knee. “She is barely three months pregnant. Forgiveness might come after an heir is birthed, but probably not before.” He turned his head toward Mary's concerned face. “Do you still grieve so much over Anne's cursing you when we left? You have not mentioned it for a long while, and I had hoped you had come to terms with it. If the queen wishes to see you, would you go?”

“I would like to see her, Staff, but I would not wish to stay. Wivenhoe is my home. And I would not venture to court without you, even to visit.”

“Especially not with that dark raven Cromwell in tow, you would not.”

“I thought you and he had a bargain these past years.”

“The bargain is there and well enough kept on both sides, I think, but that does not mean I do not see the man clearly.”

“Yes—‘to see things clearly,' Master da Vinci tried to tell me that in France ages ago.”

He eyed her strangely and forgot to bounce Andrew until the child began to shout, “Horse, horse, papa!”

“You had best tell Brennan and Nancy then, sweetheart, for he will surely bring several men and we must ask him to stay the night.”

“Yes.” She turned back to him at the doorway. “Perhaps the queen has finally remembered her promise to have Catherine educated with the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield.”

“I doubt if Cromwell tromps clear out to Wivenhoe for that tidbit, Mary. No, I think we had better brace ourselves and try to hang on to all we hold dear together.”

Mary hurried toward the kitchens to find Brennan and Nancy as Staff began to bounce their sandy-haired toddler on his knee.

“Motherhood and fresh country air has enhanced your beauty, Lady Stafford,” Cromwell said as he bent low over her hand.

“Motherhood and Wivenhoe have quite enhanced my happiness at any rate, Master Cromwell,” she answered calmly.

“Stafford, as always, you look in charge of life,” the stocky man observed as they escorted him into the parlor for wine and fresh cheese. “A lovely retreat,” he said as his eyes swept the room.

“A retreat in a way, Cromwell, but a home indeed. Mary and I have no wish to permanently return to court,” Staff said, immediately on the offensive against the smug, closed face of the king's closest advisor.

“Then we must all hope that will not be necessary, Lord Stafford. But I
do
bring very sad news that needs a warm response from the queen's sister.”

“Sad news? Is Anne all right? Not the babe!” Mary's voice came in a strangled tone.

“Yes, tragically, the queen has miscarried of her child, and...”

“No, no, it cannot be!” Mary shrieked and Staff bent over her with his crushingly strong arms around her shoulders.

Cromwell's small, piercing eyes drank in the emotional scene. “I am sorry, lady, but there was no gentle way to give you that news. It seems the early delivery was brought on by a wretched accident to His Grace. In the queen's fifteenth week, the king was riding in heavy armor in the lists at Greenwich. When he became unhorsed by an opponent, his stallion fell full weight on him. The court was paralyzed with fear, for he lay unconscious for nearly two hours and we thought he might die.”

Mary sat away from Staff's chest now, her teary eyes fixed on Cromwell's face. “When your Uncle Norfolk carried the tragic news to the queen she went into premature labor and was delivered of a dead child. It would have been a son.”

“Then God help us all,” Staff murmured and Mary could not find the words to say anything.

“When His Grace recovered and heard of the dead son, he stalked into the queen's chambers and screamed that...”

“Yes, Cromwell, we can quite imagine what His Grace might have said,” Staff cut in.

“Ah, of course. And that terrible scene took place on the very day that the Princess of Wales, Catherine of Aragon, was buried. The king had previously found Queen Anne and her ladies cavorting dressed in gayest yellow when they had heard of her death at Kimbolton, and he blamed the queen for witchcraft after she lost their son. He has told many courtiers it was God's judgment on him for being so bewitched all of these years.”

“How dare he talk to her that way after he chased her like a lustful bull all those years!” Mary said vehemently. “Witchcraft! Does he take his cues from the ignorant common folk who spit at her on the day she was crowned and shouted ‘witch! witch!'? How dare he!”

Cromwell leaned forward, one elbow on his knee as though to observe her passionate outburst more closely. “It is well known, despite the fact the queen tries to hide it, lady, that she
does
have a tiny sixth finger on one hand—the devil's mark folk would have claimed years ago.”

“Master Cromwell, if my lord and I thought you believed this horrible rubbish for one moment, we would have to ask you to leave our home no matter how kind you have been to us over the years.”

Cromwell smiled and slowly held up a palm as if to ward off her anger. “Please, sweet lady, calm yourself. I am here on a personal mission to help your sister and to fulfill a request she has made of me. The king hunts winter boar at Eltham and does not know I am on the queen's errand. Will you listen further now?”

Mary only nodded, but Staff's eyes bored into Cromwell's face, and he held tight to Mary's hands.

“Whether or not people believe the rumors of witchcraft from a foolish and greedy court is not my concern. My duty is to serve my master the king, and therefore, what the king wishes, I must enact. But I owe the Boleyns much, for it was through acquiring the great divorce that I first came to serve the king. And, then too, your father has helped me quite as much as I have helped him over the years.”

An involuntary icy shudder shot through Mary's body, and Staff put one arm around her shoulders. Cromwell watched her closely as he spoke.

“The queen has begged me to fetch you to her at Greenwich. She promises you your safety and prays you will come to her in her great hour of need. She bid me tell you that time is slipping fast away, and she would see your sweet face. She asks you to trust me as her messenger, for she was afraid to send anyone whom you might not believe. George and her closest allies—Norris, Weston, and Brereton—must stick close to the king at Eltham, of course.”

“When does the king return to Greenwich, then, Master Cromwell?” came Staff's low voice in the jumble of Mary's thoughts.

“He is quite erratic these days. I cannot promise you he would not suddenly return. He has taken to staging elaborate masques and jousts even though the weather be biting chill, so he may be back to Greenwich soon on a whim. In short, I do not know. But the queen has great need of you and no one else can comfort, it seems. Surely the Lady Mary would be quite safe going for a brief visit to her royal sister.”

“I go with her, Cromwell. You would understand that?”

“Of course. It is good to have a larger party on these roads in the winter.”

“And the queen would have to understand that my home is here with my husband and the two children I raise. I could not stay. Would you tell her that?”

“Yes, lady. Be assured.”

“Then, shall I see Nancy and begin to pack, my lord?” She looked up at Staff's impassive face. He continued to stare unblinkingly at Cromwell.

“Yes. Fine. And I shall stay behind now with Master Cromwell. He needs a small tour of Wivenhoe before we eat an early supper and retire to rest for the journey. Nancy must stay behind with Andrew, of course.”

Mary rose shakily. Her knees felt terribly weak as though she had ridden clear to London in a hard saddle already. As she left the parlor, she heard Staff say to Cromwell, “Tell the rest of it to me now, Thomas. I would know it all or the queen's sister stays here with me and you return quite alone.” She halted in the dim hall and held her breath. The terrible secrets of her parents' argument so long ago while she eavesdropped at Hever came back to her hauntingly.

“The rest of it, Stafford?”

“Though you do not say so, I sense this is your last favor for the poor queen. You feel you owe her a little something and this is the final payoff.”

“Really, Stafford, you read in far too much. The queen, whom I have served so faithfully as adjunct to the king, desperately wishes to see her sister. Exactly why, I am not certain, for she would not say.”

“But we know whom you will serve next week or next month if he decides to rid himself of her. It is obvious there could be no divorce. This queen would not be shuffled off to some deserted country house with few servants or permanently forbidden to see her daughter. How will you manage it for him, Cromwell, since your very being will depend on it?”

“Anne Boleyn is still Queen of England, Lord Stafford and, as king's chief minister, I cannot listen to such insinuations. Will you show me your charming Wivenhoe or shall I only await our early morning departure in my room? I have brought dispatches and parchments to tend to.”

“I will show you the little farm I love, Master Cromwell. I will show it to you so that you may think on its peace and security when someday you shall need such as the poor, desperate queen does now.”

Mary darted toward the kitchen as she heard the chair scrape on the floor, for the sudden plans meant much work for her and the servants. She nearly stumbled over Andrew's blocks of wood strewn about the red-bricked entryway as she hurried away from Cromwell's droning voice.

The last part of their journey to the court at Greenwich was by horse barge, which Cromwell had arranged to wait for them under London Bridge in the City. Through occasional flakes of snow, Mary stared up at the stony supports of the bridge and remembered that this was where the brave Meg Roper had retrieved her father's head. It was still mild for February and the only river ice was the brittle, fragile kind which clung to the shallow shoals near the banks. The gray Tower glided coldly past and massive Greenwich appeared from behind the bare arms of the trees. The memories staggered her: she had come here as Will's bride; here the king had first seduced her; here Staff had first kissed her; here Staff had proved to her his undying love when they had returned from Plashy. Here...

“Mary, are you all right?” Staff's voice came low in her ear.

“Yes, my love. All right when I know you are near.”

“I shall be, Mary. You will have to go to the queen alone, but I shall be near.”

Cromwell hurried them along the path toward the queen's wing. “Will we see her immediately, Master Cromwell?” Mary questioned, suddenly realizing it was all rushing too fast toward her.

“I shall first announce that you are here, Lady Stafford, while you and your lord take a moment's respite and have some heated wine.”

“Will my father be about, by chance, Master Cromwell? I did not come to see him.”

“I realize that, lady. Do not worry. He sticks close to the king these days and is at Eltham.”

“And Jane Seymour?”

“Seymour, lady?”

“Yes. Is she at Eltham, too?”

“I believe she was invited and declined. She is at Wolf Hall with her family and will not be back until the king acknowledges he will insist no more on her forbidden affections. She seems to be quite the Boleyn ally lately.”

“Hardly that! I am no wench new brought to court, Master Cromwell. That only means she plays for high stakes and you and my lord know it well enough. Do not think I am so untutored.”

“I apologize, Lady Stafford. It is seldom that such a stunning woman thinks in a—well, in a political way. I see you have learned to do so.” He opened a door. “In here. Rest by the fire and ask my man for whatever refreshment you would have. I shall return shortly.”

They took off their cloaks. Cromwell's servant poured them wine and scraped the mud from their boots. “Can you not feel it, my lord?” she said low to Staff as they sat before the blazing hearth.

Behind the servant's back, Staff held a quick finger to his lips and shook his head. “Feel what, sweetheart?” he inquired smoothly.

“Well, just how familiar it all is.” She had wanted to tell him how the palace was oppressive and terrifying to her. How the very walls and heavy tapestries smothered her after the plain stucco and rough beamed walls of Wivenhoe. But, indeed, Staff was right to urge caution. Cromwell was well known for his spies, and she and Staff had talked late last night planning how careful they must be if they chose to walk among the snares of Cromwell and the court in such unhappy times.

Cromwell was back almost immediately. “Her Grace is ecstatic that you have come and awaits you now, Lady Stafford. Will you follow me? Your lord can be summoned from here if the queen wishes it.”

Mary touched Staff on the shoulder as she followed Cromwell from the room. The strength she sought, the love she would give in this interview would be her own, nurtured by sanctuary at Wivenhoe, but it would come from her dear husband too.

Only Lady Wingfield was in attendance on the queen when Mary entered the chamber, and Anne dismissed her with a wave of her hand. How barren the room looked without the familiar clusters of ladies sewing or talking. Not even the ever-present musician Smeaton sat on table or chair or the corner of the queen's vast bed as he often had before. Surely the king would not dare to diminish the queen's household in his anger, nor would Anne's temper make them all desert her in her hours of need.