The Last Boleyn (51 page)

“That is as I thought,” he said finally. “I tried once to reckon it back to see if we had bedded then, and we had. But I was much about with others then and Carey was home those months, and, too, you would have told me.”

“Yes, Sire. I was with Will and you were much about with others then.”

“I will not have your recriminations, though you were always more sweet and understanding than your sister. Her recriminations are unending.”

“I meant no recrimination, Sire.”

“And now you have another son by Stafford?”

“Yes. Andrew,” she offered in the empty silence.

“Why were you not the Boleyn who held out, Mary, instead of that sour and bitter sister of yours? Well, what is past is well past. You were well worth the bargain before all these—these complications set in.” He rose, and in one step towered over her and pulled her to her feet, trapped between him and the table and her chair.

He placed his huge hands on either side of her head and stared down at her alarmed face. “You will bear no sons for Henry Tudor, Mary, but some lovely lass shall, as sweet and fair as yourself. Take that rebel husband of yours and be gone on the morrow, for I do not want you about the queen and her people. You will thank me later for that. Go and hide your pretty head at Colchester and bear him sons, but do not forget that once you belonged to your king.” His face was almost touching hers and his hot breath smelled of cloves and mace. “Go from this room now or I shall take my first sweet revenge on the Boleyns in a way I had never dreamed. Sweet, sweet revenge. But, then, I have no quarrel with your Lord Stafford.” Still he held her head in a vise-like grip, staring down at her, his mouth poised inches from hers.

“Please, Your Grace.”

“Yes, go on before I force you to that bed and we relive our first night together here, so long ago. Do you remember?” He bent to kiss her lips, but she wrenched away and backed off in a half curtsey.

“As you ordered, Sire, I shall be going.” Her voice sounded choked and she wobbled on her legs. Still facing him, she pulled the door latch. “I shall remember you to Lord Stafford,” she heard herself say. “He will always be your loyal servant even as I shall.”

He stood staring at her, somehow suspended between anger and awe. She tried to force a smile but could not. Gripping her purse strings in her cramped fingers, she turned in the hall and saw George and Staff hurrying toward her, far down the corridor. Ignoring the anxious faces of Weston and Norris, she walked unsteadily toward Staff.

Though she and Staff had decided they could not gainsay the king to stay beyond the next day, they went with Anne and her entourage to the joust the next morning planning to leave directly from the tiltfields on their awaiting and packed horses. Norris and George were to be part of the joust, as was the king. They were settled in their seats only a moment when one of Anne's servants elbowed through the press of people and whispered something in the queen's ear. Anne's face went stark white, and she motioned Weston to her side. Mary sat next to the queen and Staff was on his wife's other side, so Mary could hear the desperate words clearly.

“It is of Smeaton, Your Grace, as you had asked,” the girl whispered, her wild eyes darting to Mary's face behind the queen's.

“Yes, Joan. Did they find him? Where has the rogue been?”

“He went to Master Cromwell's to dine yesterday after Cromwell returned with your sister. Then Smeaton disappeared.”

“Mark Smeaton was asked to dine at Cromwell's?” Anne's hand grasped the girl's wrist in a cruel grip. “There is more! Tell me the rest!”

The girl's face turned pouty and she began to whimper. “Stop that and tell me, or I will have you thrown under the horses!” Anne hissed at her. “And keep your voice down.”

“Cromwell's men took the poor boy to The Tower late at night. A guard was bribed to admit that Cromwell was questionin' the poor boy under torture, Your Grace.”

“Torture? Sweet, gentle Smeaton? Thinking he will tell them what? Oh, go on! Be gone and hold your tongue.” Weston looked almost green with fear. Anne turned to Mary's wide-eyed stare and saw that Staff had heard too. “Did you mark that? Cromwell is desperate indeed if he has to hurt my little lutenist to get information of my supposed spying or plotting or whatever His Grace is so desperately trying to concoct. But a desperate Cromwell is dangerous, and bears close watching.”

The king sat encased in armor on his huge destrier at the end of the field, and Anne waved bravely to him as though they were the most intimate of lovers. He merely nodded and, as they turned to watch George in the first matchup, Mary's eye caught her father, who had just seated himself behind them. He was so much older, older than the two years that had passed since she had last seen him.

“Do not gape so, Mary,” Thomas Boleyn chided low. “I am pleased to see you back with the family where you should be.” He raised himself slightly out of his seat to watch George's first charge. “You and your country lord are a little late to help though. There is something dangerous afoot, Your Grace,” he said quietly, turning his face to the back of Anne's head. “The king has ordered out a triple number of yeoman guards.”

“And that two-faced Janus, Cromwell, does me a favor one day and then kidnaps and tortures my musician the next. I shall have his head for this!”

“I think not, Anne,” their father replied. “I am afraid Cromwell has shown his true colors by all this, and he will help the Boleyns no more. I have sent for your Uncle Norfolk. We need a conference and quickly. Damn, I wish George were a better jouster, and I do not know what in hell's gates is taking Norfolk so long to arrive!”

The stands cheered the victor who had defeated George Boleyn and the tired horses trotted off the field while the battered tilt rail was realigned. “I had heard the king ordered you and Stafford to be gone today, Mary. You could hardly expect him to welcome you with a big smile.”

“We are leaving, father, but Anne wished us to accompany her here as she ends her retirement.”

“I see. Then it is back to the country to desert her here to face God knows what in this wretched atmosphere.”

“I have urged them to go, father. They have a lovely home and a young child to return to. Leave Mary be!” Anne ordered sharply without turning her head.

Anne rose at the beginning of the next match, smiled and waved to the strangely subdued gallery. On a whim, she pulled a golden ribbon off her puffy satin sleeve and threw it to her champion, Henry Norris, who doffed his heavy silver helmet in mock salute. As he and Lord Wingfield plodded away to take up their position, the queen's stands suddenly exploded with yeoman guards in their red doublets and hose brandishing their ceremonial axe-head pikes before them. Several ladies screamed in shock, and Staff pulled Mary back tight against him on the bench. Across the jousting field, Sir Anthony Wingfield had doffed his helmet and was staring mutely at Norris's being surrounded by guards who swarmed onto the field. Still, beyond it all, Henry Tudor sat stockstill on his horse, staring at them all.

Anne stood and took her father's proffered arm. “By what authority do you disturb the king's games?” her voice rang out clear and strong.

Then their Uncle Norfolk elbowed his way through the guards and Mary breathed a tiny sigh of relief before Staff's whispered words came terrifyingly clear in her ear. “That Judas!”

“Uncle, I am pleased to see you,” the queen was saying. “May I ask the cause of all this array of force?”

“I fear you are the cause, Your Grace, and some of those with whom you conspire.”

Anne's sharp unbelieving laughter shredded the air and her father's words came hard at Norfolk. “Look, man, this is a terrible scene. Does the king actually demand...”

“I am sorry, Thomas, Lord Boleyn, but here is the signed writ and order of arrest for the queen to be legally questioned concerning her crimes.”

Thomas Boleyn went white and looked as though he would double over in pain. “Crimes! Crimes! What crimes? Name them!”

“Not here, please, Lord Boleyn. The masses will know soon enough. Please come with us, Your Grace.”

“Come where, Uncle?”

“To the palace today and The Tower tomorrow. For questioning.” He handed the writ to the stunned Thomas Boleyn, and the pain was etched on his face for all to see. “I act not of my own desires, Your Grace, but the king commands. No, my lord, you shall not accompany her now. Her own answers are wanted.” Norfolk blocked Thomas Boleyn's way with his gauntleted arm.

“May I go with my sister, then?” Mary heard herself ask, and she stood on Staff's arm, ignoring his warning look.

“No, Lady Mary. You and Stafford had best hie yourself back to Colchester and be well out of it.” Norfolk nodded to Mary's shocked face and then to the rows of guards who closed ranks to cut off the departing queen and Weston from the rest of the crowd.

“All will be well, dear sister. This is mere trumped-up foolishness, and you may write that down, uncle.” The queen's mouth was curved in a derisive laugh, but her eyes were wide and wild. As she turned to go, her voice floated back to them, and all Mary could see of her now was the veil of the pearl-studded red headdress which graced her raven hair. The joust field was suddenly deserted and the king had disappeared. Fervently, Mary wished she would never see him again.

“There is nothing you can do here now, Mary,” Staff said low. “You will get on your horse with me now or I shall carry you? This way. Come on, sweetheart.”

But Mary looked back at her father's incredulous, shattered face and hesitated. He raised his blank eyes to Stafford and then to Mary. “It says here,” he read, his voice suddenly old and quavering, “that the Queen of England, Anne Boleyn, is arrested for treason and adultery with Smeaton, her musician, and Lords Norris, Weston, and Brereton, and with her brother, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. Smeaton has already confessed and Jane Rochford has given sworn testimony of her husband with the queen.” His voice trailed off and Mary realized that she had screamed.

Instinctively, she reached for her father's arm, but he recoiled, crumpled the document and threw it down. “Lies! Lies!” Tears made jagged tracks down his wrinkled face and his lip trembled.

Staff loosened his firm hold on Mary as she moved like a sleepwalker toward her father. The horror of what the paper said, her mind could not encompass yet. But her father was crushed and in pain, that she could feel deep inside. She put one hand on his shoulder, but he stared into vacancy as though she were not there.

“Father,” she said gently. “Father, I know you are thinking of all your dreams and of George and Anne. Go home to Hever and mother. They will comfort you.”

His eyes fastened on her tear-streaked face. “Leave with your husband, Mary,” he said as though exhausted. She could barely discern his words. “I am staying. The king has ordered it, but something must be done to save it all. Surely something can be done. I only have to think about it now.” He turned away, stooped, and her hand fell off his shoulder as he went. She fought the urge to chase after him and throw her arms around his thin neck, but Staff's hands were on her again and he half-pulled, half-carried her down the far side of the gallery, gaily decked with Tudor white and green. He took her, unprotesting, through the gardens to the stableblock. It was only when he lifted her on Eden's back and she turned to glance back at the palace that her calm became hysteria, and Staff had to carry her before him on Sanctuary until they reached the outskirts of London.

In a little inn on the edge of Lambeth, he held her on his lap and let her sob. While the grooms and Stephen hovered nervously with the horses in the street, he made her drink wine and eat fruit and cheese. “Can you ride, my love? If you do not think you can, Sanctuary can handle the extra weight until we reach Banstead.”

She turned her swollen eyes slowly to him. “Banstead?”

“Yes, lass. I can fetch our son from Wivenhoe after we make it to Hever. I want us far away from here and I do not care if we never see His Grace's fine palaces again. Your mother has need of you and you of her. We can make it from Banstead to Hever by noon tomorrow.”

Mary nodded slowly. Her head hurt terribly, and she was certain she would be sick if she had to get on a horse. “I can make it to Banstead, my Staff. If you are near.”

“I will be near every step of the way, my love,” he comforted, his mouth pressed close in her hair.

What will happen to George and Anne? she wanted to ask him, but she was afraid he would tell her the truth and not what she so desperately wanted to hear.

“We are off to Banstead and Hever, then.” He swung her into his arms and strode for the door. “And never fear that our dreams will crash about us like that, my sweetheart. Our dreams are quite a different thing.”

She looked up dazedly into his worried face. Pain etched his forehead and wrinkled his firm brow.

“I shall remember that, my lord, no matter what befalls,” she said, and he shouldered open the inn door to put her on the waiting Eden's back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

February 5, 1536

Hever Castle

H
ever stood cold and bare against the gray Kent sky as they approached. The ivy cloak of the castle was gone for winter and only the clinging tendrils of brown vines etched the walls. The forest's trees stood stark and straight, and the eyelike windows reflected only the flatness of the threatening sky. Mary's tears were long gone and a steely calm held her rigid on Eden's back. She felt on the sharp edge of jagged screaming fits, but they never came. Surely all the terror and agony would dissolve when she saw mother's face. If only she could pull herself awake from the smothering nightmare safe in her bed at Wivenhoe!

The horses' hoofs echoed hollowly off the inner courtyard walls, and they drew to a halt in a ragged circle to dismount. Mary's swollen eyes scanned the upper windows for a familiar face—of mother, or Semmonet, or a well-remembered servant. Then the central door under the proud Boleyn family crest opened and her mother rushed out dressed in velvet black.

“Mary! Staff! I prayed you would come. Thank you, my lord, for bringing my Mary home.” She darted between Sanctuary and Eden. Her slender arms were tight about Mary, and the tears came flowing free from them both.

“You know, mother, you already know of Anne's arrest,” was all Mary could manage as she pressed her cheek into her mother's silvery hair. It began to snow tiny, random ice flakes, and Staff urged them both inside.

Semmonet stood bent and more crooked than ever, leaning on a carved staff at the entry, her face a mask of shocked agony. Mary embraced her tenderly then desperately, and the Boleyn women helped the old governess into the solar, as though she were one of the family, while Staff gave orders to his servants. The portrait of the king stared down unblinking on them all as they passed.

“Sit here, Semmonet. I am so pleased to see you on your feet. Mother had written that you keep much to your bed,” Mary said, amazed at her own small talk when all the eyes of the room were fastened hard on her.

“I only forced myself up today after the tragic message came from Lord Boleyn that the Queen was arrested yesterday. No one else was here who knows both our George and our dear Anne so well, and my Lady Elizabeth needed to talk.”

“Yes, of course, I see.” Mary sat on the arm of her mother's chair and leaned into her with her arm around the fragile woman's shoulders.

“You see, my children,” Elizabeth Boleyn began, holding up her hand for quiet as both Mary and Staff began to speak, “I have been awaiting some tragedy for years and years now, ever since I saw the king myself, and the king offered to make me his mistress—he was only Prince of Wales, then, you know—and when I refused because I was new wed and in love with my lord, the king was angry. Well, I could understand that, but when my Lord Thomas was even more angry with me...indeed, something inside me died, and I knew from then on the Bullens would live in danger. The king said so quietly, ‘I do not command, I only request,' but I could see clearly what he meant and that to serve him was danger. But I never thought it could be this terrible. No, Staff, wait. I would say more.

“The Howards were never like the Boleyns have been, not in the old days at least. But soon I had the children here to love and raise—George first, then Mary, and baby Anne.” She dabbed at her wet cheeks and eyes and continued to sit erect and neither Mary nor Staff nor Semmonet dared to interrupt, even with attempted consolation. “All was golden in those years for me at Hever because my lord had only his own skills to barter and he was happy as he rose high and proud and tasted the possibilities of power. But then, he took Mary and used her far away in France and then back at the English court...and then Anne and George and...he, oh, dear God in heaven, he has ruined all his children's joy and now will murder two of them, and I love him still!”

She sobbed gaspingly on Mary's shoulder, and Mary's own tears wet her mother's head. Then, amazingly, Lady Elizabeth sat ramrod straight and said, as if to Staff alone, “You see, my lord, when Mary's sister became the queen, I dreamed that perhaps, perhaps we would be safe now, for there was no higher place for my husband's desires to climb. But I was wrong. Nothing stops this king—not love, not gratitude, not marriage—he just pulls them all down at his feet and tramples them.”

“A legal son is the only protection any woman or family shall have from him, lady,” Staff's voice came almost breaking. “But I believe he may not be capable of a healthy son. If so, there stands your little namesake, the red-haired princess. Now, if you would listen, Mary has some things she wishes to tell you.” He nodded to Mary and she searched her mind for the words and phrases she had rehearsed on every jog of the road between Banstead and Hever.

“When I saw Anne the two days we were at Greenwich, mother, she was much changed, resigned, inwardly strong and not afraid. We must hold to that. And she was warm and kind to me, so kind. She has arranged for my oldest son to be my ward should...should the queen die...and that Staff and I may have him to Wivenhoe for visits, and I promise you he shall come here also if you would have him. And Catherine is to be raised with the Princess Elizabeth and to visit us whenever Elizabeth goes to court. Anne gave me some jewels for Catherine and Elizabeth to give to them...if...well, when they are old enough to understand. But, if the king takes his terrible revenge, who shall ever understand?”

“But that is what I was thinking, Mary,” Elizabeth Boleyn returned, her voice warm and strong. “If the king pulls them all down, and if he dares to imprison or harm Anne and George, if these false charges should be published, they will all poison little Elizabeth's ears, over the years. But we—all of us, especially those of you who are younger than I—must tell the child the truth of the good things of her mother and family. That is what I have been thinking over and over all this long morning since the messenger came.”

“Yes, mother. And Harry and Catherine are old enough to be told the truth, and they will not forget. They will tell Elizabeth. Little Andrew will know someday too. Staff will ride to bring him here tomorrow, for we are staying at Hever a while if you will have us.”

“Have you? Yes, my dearest one, do not leave me. My pretense of strength is over. You must tell us truthfully, Staff, what will happen. You have always told the truth here, I think.”

Staff's worried brown eyes sought Mary's for comfort and returned to the steady blue-eyed gaze of his mother-in-law. “There will be a trial, Lady Elizabeth, and the king will try very hard to rid himself of the Boleyns so that he may marry elsewhere. At best, Anne and George may be exiled and...”

“Oh, do you think it a possibility, Staff?” Elizabeth's thin hand gripped Mary's wrist in excitement. “Anne would love to live in France if she escapes this. We could visit there someday.”

“It is a possibility. But I think, with Anne's inner fire and backbone—and the fact that she will believe she has nothing else to lose but her life if she agrees to exile—she will cling to being queen and make him take it from her.”

“She is innocent of all his charges!”

“Yes, lady. Mary and I and most of the court know that, but His Grace wants to convince himself otherwise to clear his wretched conscience.” Staff continually gripped and wrung his hands. Mary had never seen him so distraught, though his face appeared quite calm.

“That bitter-cruel Jane Rochford has helped to cause all this. She dares to swear false unholy charges against Anne and her husband! But then, it is the poisons of their forced marriage coming out at last. My lord must answer to that too. The only thing Anne and George were ever guilty of was love of power, and that they learned at their sire's knee. Tell us, then, Staff, for Mary can bear it and I shall too—what is the worst that might befall?”

“The most ominous sign I see is that the king is so desperate that he is willing to let two of his closest friends, Norris and Weston, fall with the queen. And the crazy charges of witchcraft he allows his henchman Cromwell to drag out of the closet show his unbending attitude. The worse, lady, is that the innocent shall be declared guilty and shall pay the king's price for his own sins. Thank God Mary and I are well rid of him!” Tears stood in Staff's eyes, and Mary crossed the little space of carpet to touch him.

“Well, my children, spring is coming and spring always comes to Hever with beauty and consolation. I have seen that many times. You must rest now. You have not even been to your room. Semmonet and I shall await you here, and I shall order food and wine. I wish to talk some more to Semmonet.”

They stood awkwardly and Mary resisted the impulse to embrace her mother since she seemed suddenly so in control of herself. They went up the broad staircase to Mary's old room. The doors to all three of the children's childhood bedrooms stood ajar and Mary wondered irrationally if ghosts lurked there or ever would. The servants had been about and their clothes were on the bed and fresh water and linen towels waited on the massive bureau. Staff leaned on the ledge and gazed out the window toward the bare gardens while Mary quickly unpacked the purse of Anne's jewelry and unfolded the legal parchment promising her control of her children.

“She did not ask you the next question, Staff.”

“No. She already knows the answer to that.”

“He cannot dare to behead his own queen!”

“That is why he will try to prove she is not his legal queen. He will use the witchcraft or the fact that you were once his concubine or whatever moral arguments he has to rid himself of a legal, God-given, and crowned queen.”

Mary walked slowly to him, the stiff parchment roll clasped to her breast. “He would never order me to come back to testify that we were lovers so that he can cite his own incest.”

“I have reasoned it out and I think you are right. He does not dare to do that since he has charged your brother with that same heinous crime. Oh, Mary, I do not know. I am so sick at heart and soul of it all!” He pulled her roughly against him and the parchment in her hands rustled against his shoulder. “I am so exhausted from trying to out-think him and protect you and keep us untouched and at Wivenhoe.”

His admission of weakness and fright terrified her, for she had never really thought that the confident, assured, and sometimes cynical man she loved could be truly tired or afraid. “But I am here and you may lean on me, my love, always,” she said low. “Whatever befalls the Boleyns, it is partly of their own making and it is a far different thing from our dreams.” Her arms went around his waist and she hugged him hard.

“I seem to have heard those words before, sweet Mary. You are my strength now, you and Andrew. So we shall help your mother and get through this somehow.”

“Our strength shall be that we are together,” she murmured against his chest, and they stood for a very long time at the window.

The messengers came and went from Lord Boleyn over the weeks of Anne and George's imprisonment and the days of their trials. At Hever they despaired when the three commoners whom the king had raised so high and Anne's little lutenist were declared guilty and condemned to die. And their hopes rose again when they heard of Anne's fine defense of George and herself at her trial. Both Jane Rochford and their cousin Sir Francis Bryan had successfully survived the dreadful storm of accusations by totally disassociating themselves from the Boleyn family, which had originally been their making at court. Their Uncle Norfolk sat, with continual tears in his eyes, it was reported, as judge of the proceedings, so his desertion of his blood relatives was complete. Mary had asked that Staff burn all of Cromwell's letters to them from the past two years when Staff returned on one of his biweekly visits to Wivenhoe, for Cromwell was both artist and architect of the disgusting cruelty and despicable charges in Anne's court of justice.

After Anne's condemnation, they still dared to hope, for the king had called a special court to declare that Anne Boleyn had never been lawfully married to Henry Tudor since she herself had made a pre-contract with her long-lost love Harry Percy. But even the court's assurance to the king that he had never been legally married to the witch queen was not to be Anne's salvation. She was condemned to be beheaded for treason, incest and adultery in the Tower. Norris, Weston and her brother George would die the day before.

Anne's death day dawned clear and fair that May. Mary rose to watch from her bedroom window as the sun sifted its earliest rays upon the spring gardens at Hever. She was not certain she had slept at all and knew Staff had dozed fitfully. They had both paced the room or gone next door to watch Andrew sleep. Once Mary had met her mother at the nursery door and hugged her wordlessly.

Staff rolled out of bed and padded barefoot to stand behind her at the window. “I was wondering,” she said, “if it makes it easier or harder to die on such a beautiful day.”

He stood warm against her back and pushed the window wide ajar and inhaled the sweet, fresh air. “I think it would make it easier, like something special to take with you,” he said quietly. “She takes your love with her, Mary. She knows that. Were you trying to send your thoughts and strength to her again?”

“Oh, yes, my love, yes!” she cried and turned to bury her face against him as she had in weaker moments these last two months.

His arms went strong and sure around her. “I love you, my golden Mary. I have always loved you.” His voice faltered. “Yet I am not certain saying ‘love' is strong enough to tell it all—all of how deeply I have felt for you over the years. The dear Lord in heaven knows I would have killed the king if he had touched you that last time we were at court—when Anne sent for you.” He paused again, then his voice came rough and hard, “As well as I could have broken Francois's damned royal neck with my bare hands for his brutal treatment of you.”