The Last Boleyn (41 page)

He tugged gently at her wrist and she followed him willingly. She would follow him anywhere he led her, though she be half dressed as she was now or even naked. The halls were greatly deserted and Mary was surprised to see no guards at the door to Anne's rooms as they approached. Instinctively, she tried to draw back from him as he swung open the door.

“Sh,” he said low. “She beds with the king in his chamber and all the guards are there.”

The vast room where Mary had spent so much of the past week listening to Anne's desperate tirades glowed in a strange half-light. The fire was low, but two large cresset lamps threw their circles of light near the hearth.

“Are you certain she will not return?”

They stood on the flowered light-blue hearth rug when he loosed her wrist. “She has finally taken the plunge to submit her precious body to the king, Mary. I think you would agree she will have enough political wile to stay at least the night no matter what discomforts or terrors befall her in the lion's den.”

He squinted in the direction of Anne's huge dark-curtained bed. “This bed will be comfortable enough for us, I assure you, love. We shall remake it carefully when we go at dawn.”

“No, I cannot.”

His strong brown hands slid up her arms. “Cannot what, sweetheart?”

“I will not sleep in her bed. How could you do so?”

“I see. Well, lass, I have no respect for the Lady Anne Boleyn's bed.”

“I have no respect for it. Only contempt.” She heard her voice break, and he pulled her a step forward into his arms.

“I am sorry, sweet, but I thought it would be the safest harbor for us this night. I take it that this dire plan to seduce the French and Francois was her doing?”

“Yes,” she said muffled into his velvet jerkin.

“She is far more stupid than I thought,” he said against her disheveled hair. “Then we, my lady, shall spend the night right here on this hearth rug, and I shall build the fire up a bit.” He pulled her down gently to sit on the plush rug in the protective crook of his arm and she leaned securely against him. Moments passed. He moved away and threw two logs into the dying flames. She sat on her haunches studying the muscle bulges on his back and the lean angles the firelight etched on his face. He turned to face her three feet away.

“What are you thinking, love,” he asked.

“That I have done with everything except my love for you and that if you still want me for your wife, I will marry you whenever you will have me and go with you to the ends of the earth if you ask.”

His eyes glowed dark and his lower lip trembled as though he would speak. The tiny muscle on his jaw line moved. “Then you will be my wife on the first instant we can manage to escape their snares when we return. And though we may have to travel to the ends of the earth when they find out, I will wager the manor at Wivenhoe will be the place we will live the rest of our days together.”

Their smiles met wordlessly across the tiny firelit space between them and the whole room seemed to recede and drift away as it often did when he gazed upon her rapt that way and her limbs turned to warm water. It was as though they were afloat on this blue, blue rug in a boat of their own making. The waters of time were held in abeyance for only them as when they had drifted on Master Whitman's tiny pond behind the inn at Banstead. The loomed flowers were the water lilies and the light wool pile the surface on which their little boat sailed. There was nothing that could ever hurt them now and the golden fireflies of night danced in the darkness of his eyes.

PART FOUR

The Bargain

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just eschange, one for the other given.

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a better bargain driven.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides.

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

—Sir Philip Sidney

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

February 22, 1533

Greenwich

T
he shouts and boisterous laughter of people in the cobbled courtyard caught Mary's attention only for a moment. She was far too nervous and excited to watch her brother and his cronies, including the once-restrained Weston and Norris, throw snowballs at one another and duck guffawing in white icy breaths behind the glazed marble fountain. She was grateful that the snowfall was only two or three inches deep—enough to keep the courtiers outside for a while but not enough to stop a rider on the roads on an important mission. Her warm breath clouded the pane of glass through which she stared, and she turned back into the hall to continue toward the new queen's apartments. It had been a chilly, blustery day much like this one, she remembered, that His Grace had wed Anne secretly here at cold Greenwich in the early hours of the morn—wed her hurriedly only two days after he had learned that the Lady Anne was pregnant.

But all that was hardly of consequence to Mary. Finally, there was a glimmer of hope she might escape the treacherous maze of duties and involved relationships and spies—Cromwell's spies, Staff said. Today the long-treasured plan to leave the court and her family to secretly wed William Stafford and have a few days at Banstead before they must return to duties and the masks of pretense could become reality.

She nodded curtly to the yeoman guards at the double doors to the queen's suite and they swung them wide. Staff had gone to Wivenhoe three days ago, but now awaited her arrival at a London inn. Everything hinged on her being allowed to leave the palace for a few days. Everything she had lived for these last hard months, even these long, long years since she had loved him, depended on Anne's letting her go.

Anne sat in her massive curtained bed leaning on satin pillows each embroidered with her new crest. Her hair was loose and long and, though she looked pale, her eyes glowed with confidence and were no longer haunted with the fears of desertion and possession by the Tudor king she now knew to be her devoted servant. Jane Rochford sat in the corner doing nothing in particular and several ladies sewed on standing embroidery frames about the room. The languorous Mark Smeaton perched on the far edge of the bed playing almost pensively on an elaborately gilded and painted lute.

Mary curtseyed slightly and Anne nodded without a smile. Her eyes looked large and luminous framed by her dark brows and lashes. “Are you feeling better this morning, sister?” Mary asked.

“'Sblood, no, Mary. That is why I am not up yet, obviously. I take it that all the shouting is another game of ducks and geese or a snowball fight. Is George out there?”

“Yes, and many others. There is a new dusting of snow on the ground.”

“What a time to have the morning sickness for the babe. I never feel well until nearly noon and His Grace has a fit if he thinks I get up too early. Oh well, it will be well worth it when he is born. And,” she added as a smile lit her face, “it makes the whole court wonder if the queen is indeed with royal child already. I hope the French spies have told Francois and his snobby queen. It amuses me to tease them all, but soon everyone will be able to tell for certain anyway. I have made it clear to my sweet-faced lutenist that if he tells all he knows, I will have him strung up on the ramparts of the Tower.” Her slender foot kicked out in Smeaton's direction under the covers and she shot him a smile.

“I will tell them nothing, Your Grace, nothing,” he sang back to her in tune with his strumming.

“I am glad you told me this terrible nausea and dizziness when I rise would not outlast a three-month span, Mary. I could not have managed it otherwise. And I can feel my fine slim waistline fast going.” She looked down at her barely rounded belly. “But the son for the throne, he will be worth it.”

“It is of a son I wished to ask, Your Grace.” Mary resisted the impulse to wring her hands and tried to keep her voice calm.

“My son, Mary?”

“No, Your Grace. Henry Carey, Will Carey's son and mine. You see, I almost never see the lad and he grows so fast. And since you keep to your bed in the mornings and see His Grace much in the afternoons, I thought it might be a convenient time for you to let me visit him at Hatfield.” Anne's almond-shaped eyes fastened on her blonde sister's face. “It is sad for a child to be without a father and mother too.”

“I hope you do not mean that as another of your pious suggestions that the king's illegitimate daughter Mary be allowed to visit her Spanish mother the Princess of Wales just because she is so ill this winter.”

Mary could feel her heart pounding, vibrating her velvet bodice. “No, of course not. I meant nothing by the remark yesterday. I am speaking only of my son and your legal ward. Please Anne, Your Grace, it would mean much to me to see him even if for a day or two.”

“Well, if you are not gone long, I am certain I can spare your services. Sometimes, sister,” she said leaning toward Mary and lowering her voice, “I am not certain whose side you are on, although the Boleyns have quite vanquished the treasonable forces of the Spanish princess. And, as His Grace and I have said, her stiff-necked daughter will be allowed back to court only when she will bow her head to the rightful heir to the throne after he is born this autumn. Indeed, after I am crowned at the Abbey in June as His Grace has promised, no one will dare to doubt who is queen or whisper ‘there goes the king's concubine, his whore' in the streets.”

“You have many loyal followers and more to come, sister,” Mary comforted.

“Yes, Mary. Father, the king, and Cromwell shall make certain of that. Only, it would help me to know that you are one of my most loyal subjects and not only my sister.” She sighed and her slender hands smoothed the silk coverlet over her legs pensively. “I can see why the court is more boring for you now that your paramour Stafford has gone off to Wivenhoe.” She raised her hand and pointed her finger at Mary as though she were warning or scolding a child. “See that you do not accidentally stray to his little manor after seeing your child.”

Mary took a deep breath and fought to keep the alarm from her face. “I go not to Wivenhoe, Your Grace. Indeed, I have never even seen the place.”

Jane Rochford approached the bed beside Mary and offered Anne a golden goblet with spiced wine. “Could you not hear well enough where you sat?” Anne inquired tartly to the short woman, but she took the wine. Jane said nothing.

“Fine, Mary, go if you will, but do not tarry there. And as to your friend at Wivenhoe, His Grace intends to marry him to the Dorsey wench this summer. As sister to the queen, you, of course, will wed much higher than that.”

Mary almost shouted for joy. It would be too late for all their plans after tomorrow. She backed quickly away from the bed and curtseyed. She would be gone within the hour and join Staff to ride for Hatfield, and tomorrow would see their wedding at Banstead, free, free from them all for a time.

“Our sister Mary is journeying out in this terrible weather,” Jane noted sweetly to Anne, and Mary could have slapped her for her meddling. “Does your father approve then, Mary?”

“I think,” Mary began, but Anne's sharp tone interrupted her.

“Hush, Jane, and stay out of Mary's and my business. Lord Boleyn is not king here or queen either. It is my decision that Mary shall visit Will Carey's son and so she shall. Tattle to father if you wish, but keep well from me if you do. And I will tell Cromwell myself so he knows where she is. I hope, dear Jane, it will not choke you to have to keep juicy information quite to yourself.”

Jane opened her mouth to answer, but bent in a jerky curtsey and backed from the bed to her chair in the corner again without a word. Anne's smile of triumph and Mary's obvious relief hung between the sisters.

“'I thank you, Your Grace. I shall not forget this kindness.”

“See you do not, Mary. And say best wishes to the lad. Maybe I shall have him appointed to the Inns of Court to learn royal service at the bar when he is ready. He would be eleven now?”

“Yes. Almost twelve.”

“Then he could serve my son as advisor or companion someday perhaps. You would like that, Mary?”

“The Carey children would be honored to serve the king's family,” Mary said low. Her legs began to tremble. Could she not get away? He would think she had failed to convince the queen she should go. He might not wait for her or come back here. “May I leave now, Your Grace? The morning rest would do you good.”

“Yes. I dare say, I should keep up my strength, for the fact I am carrying his babe does little to dampen the Tudor ardor at night. Goodbye, then.”

Mary spun and forced herself to walk slowly from the room. The raucous shouts still permeated the courtyard, and she was relieved to see few people in the corridor. His Grace was probably closeted with his Cromwell, for he was content no longer to let a chancellor run the government unbridled as Wolsey had done all those years. She would be on her horse and off with Stephen and the grooms before anyone missed her.

Nancy's face lit like a torch when she saw her mistress's smile. “She is letting you go, then?”

“Yes and she set no real limit on the time, Nance. Is everything ready? Here, help me get this gown off.”

Nancy unlaced and peeled off her dress and helped her into the brown riding gown. The girl knew her lady was going to be with Staff, but neither she nor her Stephen knew anything of the intended wedding.

“You will kiss the lad for me then, lady, when you are at Hatfield? Will he remember me, do you think?”

“He was so young when he was sent away, Nance, but I shall tell him your kind words anyway. And, as for the kissing, when last I tried it two years ago, he wiped the kisses off his mouth.”

“'Tis like a young lad I know, lady.”

“Not Stephen, I hope, Nance,” Mary teased and Nancy's face broke into a huge grin. Mary hugged her maid from sheer excitement as they left the room and headed for the stable block. Thank heavens, Anne had not thought to inquire which grooms or guards she took, for Staff had handpicked them all and his own man Stephen was in charge of the small party.

Eden stood waiting and snorting at the excitement of a run in the chill air as Stephen helped Mary up on the mare's back and wrapped her heavy cloak and skirts about her legs. The two other men mounted and Stephen stood awkwardly near Nancy, fingering his linen cap for a moment.

“Kiss the maid goodbye, then, Stephen. We are off for the city,” Mary urged, smiling down at the pair.

“Yes, milady,” Stephen said seriously. He mounted, Nancy waved, and they left the warm confines of red-bricked Greenwich for the snowy river road to London.

The narrow thatch-roofed inn Staff had chosen for their rendezvous was called “The Queen's Head” and it sported a dirty sign which was evidently meant to bear a likeness of Queen Catherine's face, which stared down into the crooked street. The Queen's Head stood with its eaves crowded in by other two- and three-storey buildings nearly in the shadow of The Tower on Cooper's Row. The only part of the sign that could resemble Anne if they ever had to change the face, mused Mary as she dismounted, was the staring eyes.

Her nose was so cold she covered it with her gloved hands and blew warm air into them as she had on the ride. Her cheeks burned and her toes in her boots felt numb, but nothing mattered except that tomorrow would be her wedding day—a wedding day she had chosen and so desperately desired.

“Here, milady,” Stephen said and guided her in the door under the sign. It was dark within and her eyes swept the dimness for his tall form. The room looked deserted. Stephen swung the door shut behind them and the draft of cold air ceased.

Staff jumped up from his reclining position on a bench near the glowing hearth. “Mary. Sweetheart. Thank God!” He enveloped her in the warmth of his huge arms and led her to the fire. She drank warmed ale from his cup and stripped off her gloves to stretch her fingers to the low crackling blaze. He watched her wide-eyed, his hand resting gently on the back of her waist.

“She let me go with no trouble, really, love,” she heard herself tell him in a rush. “Foolish Rochford tried to intervene, but Anne would have none of that. Once she makes a decision these days, there is a great tempest if anyone tries to cross her. You are so quiet, my lord. How did you find Wivenhoe?”

“Snug and fit and awaiting its mistress Mary Bullen should we ever get to live there. I was thinking of that on the road into town yesterday—scrapping this plan and being wed in Colchester and sending them word when we were well settled at Wivenhoe. Maybe we could tell them it is haunted and keep them all away.” He pulled her still-cold hands into his and warmed them by gently rubbing them with his fingers. “I wanted to do that so much, my sweet, but I knew I could not or all hell would come crashing in around us.” He looked down at his booted feet. “It is the first thing that has made me want to turn rebel in a long time.”

“Please, Staff, do not talk like that.”

“It is all right, lass. I do not mean it, only the desire to have you away from their prying eyes and greedy hands is enough to make me very careless sometimes. If it is not that damned Cromwell ogling you, it is your father's veiled hints to me that he has marriage plans for you, just to keep me under his thumb.”

She turned to face him and lifted her hands to his lean, handsome face. “Staff—look at me.”

He raised his dark eyes and smiled. “That is an order I will gladly follow anytime, sweet.”

“I am serious. Listen. There is nothing we will have to fear from them anymore. They cannot separate us after tomorrow. We will be wed and no other husband would dare accept me then. If we have to face their anger, we shall do so together. And if they send us away in disgrace, so much the better, for I would love to live at Wivenhoe.”

He stared deep into her blazing eyes. “This Mary I will take to wife is a far stronger woman than the one I first desired. Whatever happens, sweetheart, you will live at Wivenhoe and soon. I promise. And we had best be on the road to Hatfield so that at first dawn tomorrow we shall be heading Sanctuary and Eden for Master Whitman's inn and that little church. But first I will claim a kiss from my intended, since it seems her red lips have quite warmed to my taste by now.” He pulled her very slowly against him and put his hands under the heavy folds of her cloak. The kiss was warm and tender, then deep and probing. When he lifted his head, she saw the familiar look of passion in his eyes.