The Last Boleyn (35 page)

“Actually, Anne may be interested in this, Staff. You see, the other candidate for the post is touted by Wolsey.”

He whistled low. “You are right, sweet, though I am afraid you are getting to think like a courtier. Yes, Anne will go for the bait if she can best Wolsey by it.”

“I really think that is why she wanted Whitehall, Staff. She has ordered the cardinal's hats effaced from all the windows—you know there are hundreds of them—and her initials engraved with His Grace's.”

“I know. We stopped to admire them on the way in. Now, so much for His Grace and the Lady Anne Boleyn. I would know how fares my Lady Mary Bullen when she has not seen her love for two days.” He pulled her against him, and she willingly rested her head on his chest under his chin, where it fit so perfectly.

“Is Catherine all right, Staff? Have you seen her?”

“I see her for a few minutes almost every afternoon. Her Grace, the Princess Mary, has seen me there more than once and she asks me about you if she has not seen you. She looks at me with those clear, dark eyes and she knows I love you, Mary.”

Mary lifted her head. “You did not tell her so?”

“I did not have to.”

“She once told me that perhaps I could find a way to have the man I would choose to love as she had chosen the duke. Only, I have not found the way. They would all go straight up through the roof of Whitehall or Westminster or wherever, and forbid us to see each other again.”

He bent to kiss her nose though she parted her lips in readiness. “Suffice it to say you have found the man, lass. We will yet, and soon, find the way. If they should marry indeed and then have a son, I would ask the king direct. He might be glad enough to have you off their hands, only your sharp sister and her dearest ally Lord Boleyn would never allow it if they caught wind of it. It worries me that if you were sister to the queen, they would think you suited for some foreign dynastic marriage.”

“But that would be foolish!”

“Not to them, Mary. Perhaps you are too close to them right now to see how out of touch they are becoming. The people curse Anne in the streets as a bawd, the king's ‘Great Whore.' The masses love their true queen. Sweetheart, there is much trouble ahead and sometimes I think the only way to keep you well out of it is to desert the court, kidnap you to Wivenhoe and ask their forgiveness from there.”

“Staff, you would not dare!”

“They would hardly throw us both in The Tower, you know. And would you not like being my prisoner in my little castle? Remember when I played the Sheriff of Nottingham and seized you prisoner in my castle at the masque?”

“Of course, I remember. You brazenly stole a kiss on the night of the performance.”

“A poor substitute for what I really wanted to do, lass. But the king was waiting as he may well be now. But tonight I am not on call at his bed chamber, so I will be back; rain, sleet, or hail. Stephen and I will row over as soon as I can get away. See your door is unlocked and you have a warm drink and bed awaiting me.” He kissed her hand and released her. “Damn, I nearly forgot. I have a gift for you.”

He dug into his small leather pouch and pulled out a long chain dripping with garnets. They looked shiny black against his velvet chest.

“My lord, it is beautiful, but you must not bring me gifts.” She looked at him, but made no move to take the necklace.

“You will not accept my money, sweet, nor will you take even a bolt of silk I offer you. I will not have them looking down on you because the Bullens—Boleyns or whatever they call themselves these days—are too damned stingy to see that their Mary, who got them where they are in the first place, is dressed suitably.”

He dropped the necklace in a noisy little pile on the table. “Wear it or not, as it pleases you. It belonged to my lady aunt. If you think it is meant to be a bribe for my possession of you tonight or ever, you are wrong. It is a love gift meant to catch the cherry color of your lips in candlelight. I will see you at Westminster tonight. And think to guard your face if you see me with other ladies. Until we decide we shall tell them, I will not have your dangerous sister banish me or separate us somehow on one of her catty whims.” He nodded to her, opened the door, and was gone.

She scooped the necklace from the table and examined it in the pale February sunlight. It was a fine piece, square-cut garnets strung along the thin golden links. She would treasure it, and she had hurt him in heartless acceptance of it. She would let him know how she valued it and his love. She would show him tonight, for she would wear her crimson gown whether or not it was a three-year-old style. She would wear it with the golden snare in her hair from Banstead and this garnet necklace from his beloved Wivenhoe.

Mary was grateful that the night was so mild for February, for she had no warm robe or coat to replace the one they had burned after Will had died. She had cherished that robe once, for Staff had first made love to her on it. But that was long ago and this green pelisse would have to do for now.

“Are you warm enough, Mary?” George's face came around her shoulder like a beacon of light in the gray dusk.

“Yes, George, I am fine. How are your other charges?”

“Anne is nervous and my dear wife is as nasty as always. Not that I give a damn, about Jane, I mean. Let Mark Gostwick have her if he wants her. Anne has him sent from court to annoy Jane, but I really do not care what she does. I would not put it past the little bitch to side with the queen against us.”

“George, you must not talk like that no matter how much she vexes you. She is your wife,” Mary scolded as gently as she could.

Completely misunderstanding, he said only, “She might support the queen's side, Mary. Our own Norfolks have split over it and our foolish aunt dares to champion Catherine's cause. I think though,” he lowered his voice though no one could hear them, “the true cause of the rift is that everyone knows dear Uncle Norfolk prefers the hot bed of his children's laundress, Bess Holland, to the icy sheets of his lady wife.” George chuckled and Mary spun to face him.

“Then you had not heard the latest family scandal, Mary,” George pursued. “Father told Anne and me, and I thought he would have told you.”

“I almost never see him, brother, though I know he is as much about Whitehall these days as he is Westminster. He is avoiding me, I think, since I intend to ask him for some financial support and he knows it. I can hardly send to mother. She has only money for household items, and I will not have her pawning jewels for me. Since Will died and His Grace saw fit to give the Carey lands, benefits and the raising of the Carey heir away, I am quite destitute. You might tell him that when you see him, though I warrant he knows it well enough already.”

“Mary, I am sorry, truly I am. Anne is too. If I get some extra money dicing, you shall have it.” When she did not answer as he had expected, he plunged on, “But you look magnificent tonight, sister, absolutely beautiful as always. The golden net in your hair is fine and the necklace looks new.”

“Thank you, George,” she said, refusing to give in to his gentle hint for an explanation of her net and garnets.

“I
did
hear, though,” she said to change the subject, “that the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk are arguing over the situation also. The duke, of course, sides with his friend the king, but I cannot fathom my dear friend the Princess Mary taking Her Grace's part. She has always been a promoter of love matches and she will ruin her happy marriage if she persists in this. I hope this will not mean that little Catherine must be taken from her daughter's nursery.”

“Yes, as you say, she will ruin her precious love match. But that marriage was a freak anyway, admit it, Mary. The both of them far gone in mutual love and the lady picks the man she marries! Ha! A rare miracle and not to be believed. And the king's sister and his best friend at that! Most marriages about the royal court are made in hell, not heaven. I can attest well enough to that. Well, I see we are almost there. I had best get back to escorting Anne as His Grace sent me to do, or she will be put out. See you later, Mary.”

“Yes, dearest George,” she whispered to herself. Poor George, trapped with a woman he detested who would never bear him children, while Margot Wyatt played wife to some strange landowner in the north. And poor, bitter Anne still haunted by ghosts she could not exorcise. Mary was certain of it now, for Anne had leapt at the chance to help Eleanor Carey become Prioress of Wilton when she had seized on the thought that it would discomfort Wolsey if the king refused his candidate. To be so eaten by hatred of Wolsey after all these years without her Percy lad. If only Anne truly loved the king now, all this would be so much easier to accept.

Mary rose and walked steadily across the width of the still-rocking barge and from the little party awaiting them, Henry Norris gave her his hand. He looked well, she thought, for a man whose wife had died in childbirth only a few months ago. Anne strode off far ahead toward the palace, her gauzy silver jeweled headpiece floating across her black tresses and winking in the torchlight on the landing. She walked between George and father, the only Boleyns who really mattered anymore. Staff was right. She and mother would never be anything but Bullens despite the royal rain of titles on them. Bullens from Hever and proud of it, thought Mary as she lifted her head and smiled up at Norris.

Mary did as Staff had bid her when she sighted him with the beautifully gowned Cobham wench across the room. She kept a smile on her lips and chatted with her cousin Francis Bryan as the court assembled for dinner. After all, she had Staff's gift around her bare throat and she could feel its metal weight along the swell of her breasts. And tonight he would be in her bed, not in flirty Dorothy Cobham's.

“It is in the wind that there will be another Tudor visit to the court of Francois du Roi now that the sticky situation with France improves somewhat,” Francis was saying. “I have a wager on that the king will take Anne with him. Personally, I think it might be His Grace's plan to test the waters to see if he can get support for the marriage elsewhere in case he does not get aid from Pope Clement.”

“Really, Francis,” Mary said low as her eyes went over his shoulder to her father, who was in earnest conversation with Anne and George on the royal dais, awaiting the king's entry. “I think we had better forget the divorce if His Holiness does not grant it. It may mean Wolsey's utter ruin, but the king can hardly circumvent the pope.”

Francis's eyebrows raised in unfeigned surprise. “Then you are less in the council of Anne and your father than I had imagined.”

“What do you mean?”

“The king has a new advisor now to whose dark, sly voice he harkens well. See the short, square man in black by the dais—the one who entered with your father?”

“Yes, I see him. Who is it?”

“Thomas Cromwell, once a clerk, now a wily lawyer. And he will be more—much more. He has been Wolsey's henchman and now he reports directly and only to the king.”

“So that is Master Cromwell. The king gave him the manor at Plashy, the Carey manor, you know. But I have never seen him about the king socially. Come, Francis. Do not coddle me. I have been through enough to handle whatever you have to say about the king's Cromwell.”

“I know that, sweet Mary. Cromwell counsels that His Grace can have his divorce without the Holy Father's word. All the king has to do, you see,” his hand swept through the space between them as if he were brushing a pesky fly away, “is become the head of the English Church in place of the pope, and do whatever he damn pleases about the divorce.”

“So that is what he meant to imply about Anne and His Grace ruining Wilton,” she breathed, remembering Staff's warning of this afternoon.

“Who implied? And who mentioned Wilton?”

“Someone I used to know, dear Francis. Here comes the king.”

“Hail to our next pope,” Francis whispered, chuckling close to her ear.

Before the blare of trumpets had even died away in the crowded room, the king had cut a straight course toward the radiant Anne and was slapping George and Thomas Boleyn on their backs in some huge private jest. Then he and Anne began to circulate slowly through the crowd with George and the Duke of Suffolk on either side like stone bulwarks against the press of people.

“I wonder where the duchess is tonight?” Mary observed. “I had hoped she would go up with me to the nursery to see the children.”

“Weston told me they are not speaking over the ‘King's Great Matter.' They are always such turtledoves, I would not believe it of them, but they may not even be bedding together. This mess has certainly divided the court and is likely to get worse unless Wolsey can pull off some sort of miracle. It is nice to be related to the Bullens—ah, the Boleyns—in these days, for no one ever asks me how I feel or what I think about it. They assume they already know.”

“And do they, my lord Francis?” she inquired sweetly.

“I always keep in mind, my beautiful cousin, that appearances can be deceiving.”

“So do I, Francis, though it is a lesson I have learned rather late.”

“Do not look now, Mary, but here comes trouble.”

“The king with Anne? I did not think she would dare to drag him over here,” she said low without turning to look.

“No, lady. I am referring to your father. He looks like the worst winter storm I have seen in a while.”

Mary's heart lurched as she pivoted slowly to face Thomas Boleyn. Perhaps I should give him lessons in hiding his feelings from the court, she thought when she caught his grim expression. Had Anne blurted out her plan to help the Carey woman already, and it had unsettled him so?

“Good evening, Francis,” her father nodded. “Daughter, I want to speak with you. His Grace is busy and no one dares to sit until he does. Will you walk with me?”