The Last Boleyn (50 page)

“Sister. Mary. Come here. I am so happy you have come to see me. It has been long.”

Mary's eyes narrowed to pierce the dimness of Anne's curtained bed. The drapes of the room had been drawn and several candles burning low littered the huge table next to the bed.

“Sit, sit here with me so I might see you. You are not changed, not at all changed, Mary.”

“I am changed inside, Your Grace. And I am much grieved to hear of the lost child, sister.”

“Speak not of that. It is over. It is all over now.” Anne looked thin and her face was long with dark shadows under each almondshaped eye. How those eyes used to dance with flirtation and fire, Mary remembered. She took Anne's delicate hand in her own warm ones.

“I was so happy that you sent to see me, Your Grace. I have missed you these two years and have thought of you often and prayed for—for your happiness.”

“God is not answering Boleyn prayers lately, Mary, though I thank you for your loving words. And will you not call me Anne today? George does when we are alone. He told me of your child and your home. I made him tell me all about you. It sounds rather like a little Hever there, but then you would like that.”

“Yes, Anne. I do like it.”

“And you are very, very content there with Stafford? And he loves you still?”

The pitiful eagerness of Anne's voice and face frightened Mary. This kindness, this desperate reach for love was somehow more terrible than the ranting and raving she remembered and feared. A single tear traced its lone path down Mary's cheek.

“Yes, I know. Do not be afraid to tell me. You have a man who truly loves you and two sons besides. I have accepted it all now, Mary. Do not be afraid to be here.”

“You have Elizabeth, Anne, and Cromwell says she is beautiful and His Grace loves her well.”

“He can hardly help loving her, for she is clever-witted and as red-haired as himself. But daughters do not really count in the royal scheme of things, so that is that. Princess Elizabeth will live and die a princess if the king has anything to do with it. But now, here, you and I have some business to take care of before we just enjoy talking. Can you fetch me that document right there? I am guilty of long neglecting members of my family who need my love in return for the good service they have always rendered me.”

“Have you forgiven me then, Your...Anne? I have longed for that these years.”

“Yes. Mary, do not cry. You have always let your heart and feelings leap to your face, though I warrant at little country Wivenhoe you need not hide them as in this viper's nest. This document gives back to you the rightful guardianship of your son Henry Carey upon my death, and...”

“Your death? Please, Anne, you need not...”

“Stop and listen, Mary. The queen is used to having people listen to her—courtiers, spies, whatever—everyone except her husband, of course. His Grace is getting desperate, and I am quite in his way now.”

“Please, do not speak of death, Anne. You are young.”

“But I feel very, very old, Mary. Now, until the event of my death, the lad's annuities shall continue equal in value to the lands which His Grace gave away at the time of the boy's father's death.” Anne's eyes lifted from the paper to Mary's intent face. “I was proud of you when you told George to get father out of your boy's life, Mary. I assure you, I had George report to father exactly what you had said.”

“What did father say of it?”

“I believe he dismissed your message as the ravings of a woman in the throes of childbirth, but it rattled him greatly. He must have thought you would be properly chastened after a year's exile away from this mess. Now, the other thing about little Harry is that you and Stafford may have him to Wivenhoe or wherever for two months a year.”

“Oh, Anne, I thank you so! It is the most wonderful gift you could give me!” Mary put her arms around Anne's stiff, slender body and trembled to know how thin she was under her silken robe. Anne put her arms slowly on Mary's back.

“Loose me, Mary,” she said after only a moment. “The other thing is your daughter Catherine. The princess is three now, and would benefit from a part-time companion at Hatfield. Then, when her father sends for Elizabeth to come to court, Catherine could go to you at Wivenhoe. She would have a good allowance and a better tutor than she ever had when she was in company of Princess Mary's little Margaret.”

“My lord and I cannot thank you enough, dear sister.”

“Here, you must keep these documents in case father or anyone else tries to give you an argument should I not be near. There is one last thing. Fetch my jewel box. Behind that carved panel there where I used to keep it.”

Mary grasped the heavy box and put it on the bed next to Anne. “Would you believe it, Mary, that this is only one tenth of my things, not counting the crowning jewels? The others are kept under lock and key, but I shall have them sent to me in little bits in the near future. There are some things he will never have back to grace that skinny neck of Seymour or anyone else. They are by right Elizabeth's after I am gone. Do you understand?”

Mary nodded wide-eyed, wondering what Anne would dare to do and whether Staff would allow her to be a part of it. Mary Tudor had once taken a jewel from Francois and had paid dearly for it when she was discovered.

“Several things I have sent to mother to keep for Elizabeth's majority and she has vowed not to tell father. I would like to have you keep several for her too, and this piece for little Catherine.” A heavy rope of pearls as big as chick peas dripped from Anne's slender fingers. “I know I can trust you to preserve these few things for my child should I be unable to for some reason.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Cromwell must not know. Can you put them down your dress? No, no, I shall give you this little pomander purse. Purses are quite in style now and no one will think a thing of it.”

“I hardly know what is in style or out at court, sister.”

“Cruelty and treachery are in style, Mary, but then, they always were. I have heard, by a note from father at Eltham, that the king returns for one of his extravagant jousts on the morrow and I wish to attend. I must show no fear or he will eat me like a little rabbit. Will you stay that long and go with me? Staff too? It would give me much strength to face all of their snickers after the, well, the death of my little son. Please, Mary. His Grace will quite ignore us, so do not fear him. Will you stay with me, Mary?”

“I would gladly walk by your side, Anne.”

“Go on then and hide those jewels somewhere. Tell your lord to put them in his boots or something. He was always very clever and he feared father and the king not at all. I shall not either.”

“You should not, Your Grace. You are the queen.”

Mary bent to kiss Anne's sallow cheek. It felt cold, as though the sparkling life and vitality that had long warmed it had gone out.

“Come back for supper with me, Mary, and bring Staff. I shall send Lady Wingfield for you later. I trust her. She is not one of Cromwell's lackeys.”

“But Cromwell has served the Boleyns, too, Anne, though of course he serves the king first.”

“Cromwell serves Cromwell first, my sweet and foolish sister. Do not believe otherwise.”

Mary wanted to give more words of comfort to the slender woman who sat facing her alone in the huge bed under the Boleyn and Tudor family crests, but words would not come. She curtseyed quickly and opened the door into the hall. Surprisingly, it was crowded with courtiers now, but she could not spot Staff or Cromwell in the clusters of people. She held the silken purse Anne had given her tightly and began to thread her way toward the room where she had left Staff. Suddenly, Norris and Weston sprang up before her in the crowd and, as she smiled and swept them a short curtsey, the king loomed up behind them. She stepped quickly back toward the tapestried wall. He looked massive, taller and much heavier than she had remembered. His jowls were hard and square, and his blue eyes sought her own. She hastened to curtsey again. Her back hit the wall behind her as she saw his booted feet halt. His large jeweled hand shot out to her wrist. He raised her to stand before him.

“At first I thought it was just a pretty ghost from the past,” he began, and the voices around them hushed in rapt attention. “Have you been summoned back to court, Lady Mary?” he asked directly.

She raised her eyes to his, hooded with thick red brows and sandy lashes. “Only for a day or two to visit my sister, Your Grace. My lord and I will be returning to our home very shortly.”

“If you have come to give the queen advice on breeding sons, it is quite too late, madam,” he growled. Then he pivoted his head to take in the circle of courtiers. “Come with me, Lady Stafford,” he said low. “I would speak with you.”

Mary caught George's worried face as she swept after the king through the crowd. This would surely alarm Anne if he told her—and Staff. She clutched the corded purse strings tight in her hand. The king had always taken long strides, and it was quite impossible to walk apace with him. She had no choice but to follow, to try to keep calm and to bluff it out if need be. She prayed he had no dire designs on sixteen-year-old Harry, who was now being educated at Lincoln's Inn Field not so far away.

The privy room to which he led her was close to the queen's wing—the room in which he had put her to await him after the masque for Queen Catherine when he had first seduced her while his wife slept nearby. Surely he would not...

“Would you sit, lady?” he asked bluntly when he had closed the door on Norris's and Weston's faces.

“If you wish me to, Your Grace,” she said, and remained standing.

“I only ask, not order, lady. Suit yourself.” He sat on the edge of a huge carved chair and, as she looked at him squarely, his head appeared to be in the very center of the small bed in the chamber.

Ironically, she thought, she and the king were dressed in the same colors even as they used to do years ago on foolish whims: and both wore traveling gear and riding boots. The bulky muscles of his chest and shoulders swelled his brown Spanish leather jerkin over doublet and hose of dark burgundy hue in echo to her own warm gown of the dark wine color.

“The queen sent for you, you said, Lady Mary?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You are still very beautiful. You have hardly changed over the years.”

“I am much changed in truth, Sire, only the changes are inside and do not show.”

“Are you so changed? A flagrant affair and secret marriage with Stafford under my nose all those months. And before that, I recall you served Francois du Roi in your bed at Calais quite to his utter satisfaction.”

She gripped her fists tightly around the purse strings. “Francois du Roi lied to you and the queen, Your Grace. I refused his advances and he left cursing me and the English—and vowing he would tell you I had done everything he asked.”

A strange grin lit his face and his eyes shifted. “Do you swear it? Francois lied?”

“Yes.”

He laughed sharply. “I knew you would never bed with that wily jackal after you had been mine.”

The words hit her like a blow in the stomach, but she stood still, fighting the desire to flee.

“Did you tell him you loved another king, lady? You still love your king, do you not?”

“All good and loyal subjects love their king, Sire, and I have always been your good and loyal subject.”

His open palm cracked hard on the table. “'Sblood, Mary! Do not be clever with me! Yes, you have changed. All of Boleyn's clever children change and for the worse. Sit, madam. I do not wish to knock you down, for it is surely another I would strike at. Sit.”

She looked behind her, then sat slowly in the chair on the other side of the table instead of the one nearer him.

“Pretty women about the court are a plague. See that you are gone by the morrow.” His voice softened suddenly. “I would have you away and out of danger. You are innocent still, compared to the rest, and have done me no wrong.”

“Wrong? I do not understand, Sire.” Surely, she thought, he refers to his dead son and blames Anne for that.

“How does your son, Mary?” he said calmly as though he had read her thoughts of sons.

Which son of mine? she wanted to ask impudently, but she knew which one and would not risk his wrath on that. “He is a fine student at Lincoln's Court, Your Grace. He is tall and a good athlete. He is nearly sixteen and one half, Sire.”

“I know how old the lad is, madam. They say,” he said, leaning forward to watch her face closely, “that he has red hair.”

“It is somewhat reddish, Sire, with auburn touches, much as Will Carey's, you remember.”

“I do remember, golden Mary. I remember much, including that your father has implied off and on that the lad was not Will Carey's child. I trust him not, so I will have it once and for all from your lovely lips, madam. Was the boy Will Carey's son indeed? Will Carey was no fine athlete and not so clever either, and if the boy has those traits...well, I would have you tell me the truth.”

She fought to control her voice and face. This was the moment that could save or condemn Harry. Father would be forever grateful if she would only tearfully vow to her king that the child was his. Then the Boleyns might sit more secure in the dangerous saddle of the king's volatile affections. Then a birthright to money and power would be assured, especially now that the ailing Fitzroy was so desperately ill.

“I would certainly have told Your Grace if the child was yours. I would have told you long ago, for the boy's sake and yours, Sire.” She held her breath and stared deep into his eyes. She must convince him now, before he somehow cast the Boleyns adrift forever and kept her son to please his own vanity and passion for a live and healthy son as he had done long ago with poor Bessie Blount's boy. If he ever guessed the lad could as easily be his as Will's and that only Staff knew that truth, he might throw caution to the winds and keep Harry as his own.