by Karen Harper
“It is the little Bullen girl, Mary, Your Grace.”
“Si, I know,” Queen Catherine’s quiet voice floated to her. Mary nearly sank to the floor in utter terror, and the queen’s gentle hands rested on her shoulders to raise her. “You must let us help you, my dear. Nothing is worth this many tears. Believe me, I know. Come, come with me. My lord king did not come to me as I asked him, so we were going upstairs. It is all right. I knew he would not come. I only hoped. Is it so with you, my dear?”
Mary nodded wordlessly, afraid she would become hysterical again if she dared to speak. Then she feared that Her Grace would misinterpret her acquiescence.
“Not that I grieve for His Grace, Your Majesty. My father...well, my father is very angry with me.”
The queen’s dark eyes flashed. “And I am very angry with your father, so we are allies, no?”
Mary felt the overwhelming desire to laugh—to laugh and shout at the shock of having the queen be kind to her, a Bullen and a mistress to the king for so long.
They walked slowly down the corridor which ran parallel to the now-deserted banquet hall. Lilting murmurs of pipes and drums reverberated through the walls from the dancing gallery beyond. The queen held Mary’s hand, and Mary’s love flowed out to her in gratitude. If Father could see her now, he would absolutely die of anger, she thought.
“Really, Mary Bullen, you and I have much, much in common. We have both cared for His Grace and lost him. Yes, yes, I know it is true. I blame you for nothing, not for several years now. We both have daughters we adore and they are, of necessity, away from us much, eh? But, then, you...you, Mary, have a son, also. We shall talk much while they dance. It is too late for me, but you are young and beautiful and can bear a man many sons.” She turned her head away from Mary’s rapt gaze. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Shall we stop by the royal nursery to see your little girl and my sweet niece Margaret on the way? They will be happy to see their queen. I think you are too, Lady Mary.”
“Yes, Your Grace. It is true. My eyes are glad for the sight of your smile.”
“I could tell that, dear Mary. Your feelings are clear on your face. Then we shall sit and talk of our daughters. My loyal sister-in-law will be there. That will be good.”
Mary thought of Staff’s anxious face as he scanned the dancers to see that she was not there. He would understand when she told him later. Father and Anne would never understand, but then, she would not tell them.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mary smiled at the ponderous black figure at her side. The queen’s jeweled crucifix swung from side to side as she walked, and it caught the light from each separate sconce in the long hall. “I would enjoy that very, very much, my queen.”
The nursery was ablaze with candles and Princess Mary looked up from a game of child’s chess, smiling with the two little girls as they entered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
October 14, 1531
Whitehall Palace
Mary could hear Anne’s piercing laughter before the guard even swung wide the door for her. “She screamed for me to bring you, lady,” Nancy panted at her elbow as they rushed down the hall. “They are all there and everyone is laughing—just like that.” A squeal of raucous delight shredded the air as they entered the mad scene. Anne cavorted, still in her court dress, for they had returned only moments ago from Westminster, where a masque had been held for the Lady Anne, Marquise of Pembroke. George and Anne held hands like wild children and whirled around each other leaning back against the spin. Their father laughed aloud at their antics and downed a huge flagon of drink. And Jane Rochford hit at the whirling Anne and George with a down pillow, sending great puffs of fine feathers into the air. Mark Smeaton, Anne’s new and very talented lutenist, strummed a quickstep galliard from a sitting position in the middle of a fine polished table.
Mary stood aghast for an instant. She could not fathom what might have transformed them so quickly from the dour company who had only just left Westminster. Queen Catherine had long since been banished to More House and her retinue cut from hundreds to a mere twelve. Even that glorious occasion for the Boleyns when the king had finally deserted his queen at Windsor to ride off hunting with Anne and George had not caused such an explosion of joy.
“Mary! Mar—eee! Come on! Dance and sing with us!” Anne threw herself at her sister, nearly knocking her off balance, and hugged her hard.
“Anne—what is all this?” Mary smiled from the pure joy of their exuberance. She had not seen this sort of foolishness since the old days at Hever. “Has the divorce gone through? But surely His Grace would have been more buoyant tonight if that...”
“No, silly goose! The best news yet! We are free. He is dead! The dear, fat, old cardinal is dead—and”—she reached far over to slap a guzzling George on the back, who spilled wine all over himself and came up snorting—“he no doubt stands at the very gates of hell this moment. His Grace has probably heard the delightful news by now. Perhaps he will join us later. If he does,” she added, winking conspiratorially at her amused father and grabbing George’s goblet from his hand to drink herself, “we shall have a fine masque ready for him, finer by far than the one he gave me tonight.”
Anne again threw her arms around the stunned Mary and turned to address them all. “Yes, a masque showing how the very Vicar of Hell who has dared to plague us all these years dies and finds he has been appointed guardian of the jakes of hell. Yes. Perfect. Music, my Mark, music suitable for an entry into hell!”
Mary stood stock-still as Anne released her and strode energetically about the room, yanking back chairs and her embroidery frame to give them open floor space. Dear Saint George, the girl is serious, Mary thought. The poor old man is dead and her hatred of him still possesses her after all these years. Mary shuddered and felt her father’s eyes calm and cold upon her, just watching. He grinned on one side of his taut mouth, but somehow the other side drew down into a grimace.
“Besides the poor cardinal’s sad fall and demise, Mary, I think you should know that the cause of all this unabashed delight is that when Wolsey was arrested to be brought back and tried for treason against the state,” Anne lectured her, suddenly more calm, “he was arrested by none other than the long lost Harry Percy, Eighth Earl of Northumberland—my once dear love whom the cardinal has abused so badly. If you cannot rejoice for my cause, think of the fact that Wolsey’s choice triumphed over poor Eleanor Carey when we had asked to have her be made Prioress of Wilton last year. Think on that rather than Percy if you must, to get into the spirit around here!”
“Anne arranged for Harry Percy to arrest the sick, old cardinal?” Mary asked her father quietly as Anne turned to chatter to George again.
“No, girl, it just happened,” he answered low. “My messengers were waiting here with the news when we returned from Westminster. His Grace no doubt has his own informants on the matter. It was evidently the king who sent Percy to do the dirty work.”
“I can hear every word you are telling Mary, father, but say on, say on. It is all music to my ears sweeter than dear Mark’s well-tuned melodies. Can you imagine it, Mary? That old man had fallen so far from his pompous power when he dared to tell me whom I would not wed. I love it! He dared to separate an insignificant lad and lass in love—eventually, that lad arrests him for treason though, coward that he is, he catches a chill and dies on the road to his trial—and the trivial, foolish girl is the next queen!” Her voice rose to a high pitch, and tears of pity flooded Mary’s eyes.
“At least you can look happy with the rest of us, Mary. I think I had best make you Cerberus, the terrible dog who guards the gates of hell, in this playlet if you cannot look happier than that. The Boleyns are well rid of him, Mary. Harry Percy is justified and His Grace takes me to France—not Catherine. I shall be queen of England and the fat, hateful cardinal shall rot in his grave.” She whirled back, giving orders to Mark Smeaton while Jane Rochford hovered behind them, bending to hear their w
ords.
Thomas Boleyn set down his empty flagon and took Mary’s elbow firmly. “I know it is a shock to see her so wild with joy, Mary. I like it not either. I prefer the sleek, calculating little Anne, but this has been pent-up in her for a long time and is best exorcised before His Grace sees such a display. He is so openly jealous, he might misinterpret it as still-harbored love for Percy. Go along with the foolishness and maybe she will calm down. I depend on you to be a sobering influence. By the rood, George and Jane are hardly any help to me in that.”
“All right, stand over here, Mary. Here. George, do you not think it would be wonderful if father would play Satan, to pass the final words of condemnation, I mean?”
“Sweet Anne, I hardly think...,” Thomas Boleyn began, as George and Anne dissolved into laughter. Mary could not smother a smile at last.
“There, you see, George. I knew Mary would see the fun in the whole situation!” Anne shouted. “Besides, I truly think her sour looks lately are caused by the attentions of a certain handsome man, whose name I shall not mention, to that ravishing Dorothy Cobham.”
“Enough of your teasing, Anne.” Mary raised her index finger as though to scold a naughty daughter. “I will not have you going on like this.”
“See, George, we got her attention at last,” Anne giggled. “At least that certain rogue is one man to be trusted by both His Grace and me, so fear not we will send him into exile at his house at wherever it is, sister. He at least, unlike the butcher’s son of a cardinal, always knows his place. I am convinced Staff never plans to climb so high as others around the court.”
Mary turned fearfully to look at her father. She had worked so hard the past year to do as Staff advised her, so her family would not suspect they were in love. Yet she knew her father had spies, many spies. He had told her in a fit of anger to play the whore for Stafford if she wished. He would never understand their love, so let him think what he wanted. Only Anne was right, too. She was very upset at her lover’s avid attentions to the beauteous Dorothy Cobham lately. Tonight at the masque he had gone much too far. Perhaps she was just moping for herself or was hurt by Anne’s terrible revenge, but Staff’s actions annoyed her just as much as Anne’s tonight.
“All right. Now who in hell shall we get to play Wolsey himself?” Anne asked and laughed uproariously at her own pun.
She seemed on the verge of a crying jag, Mary thought. Her face looked happy, but her glassy eyes and piercing voice gave away an inner desperation.
Before the laughter died away, there was an echoing knock on the door. They all froze like thieves caught with booty. Thomas Boleyn held up his jeweled hand for silence and motioned to the guard to open the door. Mary could see several guards in the hall and Nancy’s serious face beyond as she pressed against the wall in the corridor. Yet no one stood at the door to enter. Surely the king would not come to tell the Boleyns the news of the cardinal’s death himself. But if he did, Staff might come too. She would like to give him a piece of her mind after his display with Dorothy Cobham tonight! She cared nothing for all of this Wolsey nonsense compared to that.
She heard Jane Rochford’s swift intake of breath as a dark-cloaked Thomas Cromwell stepped past her father into the room. His black eyes swept over them all like a bowshot. He bent stiffly to Anne and nodded to Lord Boleyn. How perfect he will be to play Wolsey in hell if my hysterical sister has the nerve to ask, a small voice in Mary’s head told her. If Wolsey had many friends like this viper, no wonder his enemies got him in the end.
“I come with a sad message from His Grace for you, Lady Anne,” his voice came distinctly at them. He always spoke in a dull monotone, but people everywhere hung on his words. Even when the meaning was pleasant, his voice dripped venom—and power.
“I hope His Grace is as well as when we left him but an hour ago,” Anne’s sharp voice answered him.
“His Grace is well and sends his love anew, lady. The news concerns my late master the Cardinal Wolsey, who, as you know, was to be arrested and brought back to London to stand trial.” He hesitated. “Do I sense that the tragic news has preceded me, Lady Anne? Perhaps your father’s, ah, messengers have told you the news?”
Staff is right, Mary thought. A cold fear bit at her insides, not in concern for her family, but at the fact that this man knew everything. She thanked the good Lord that Thomas Cromwell favored the Boleyn cause.
“We have heard somewhat of the news, I must admit, Master Cromwell, but we would be pleased to have it from your lips. It is good to hear the cardinal so gently remembered by one who worked for him so closely and yet gladly left his service,” Anne taunted carefully, just on the edge of accusing Cromwell of traitorous behavior.
“As I have heard you say many times, Lady Anne, we all serve the king here. Am I not correct?” He pivoted his square face slowly and his dark gaze touched each of them in turn properly, politely.
“Have I interrupted some family revel?” he probed again. His thin lips formed a knowing smile.
“Mere amusement and foolishness after too much sitting and drinking all night,” came Thomas Boleyn’s amused voice. “You understand how it is, Thomas, for you work much too hard yourself lately.” Lord Boleyn strode several steps toward the king’s advisor and clapped him on the shoulder. “Will you stay the night with us before going back? I am going there myself at dawn.”
“I am sorry. I must decline the kind offer and head back. There are plans to be laid for the royal conference with the French king at Calais. And, as we both well know, my friend, there is no duty, task or price too great when one serves the king. No price too great.”
Cromwell bowed low to Anne. His eyes, well hooded by his thick brows, swept over Mary appreciatively as they always did when they met or talked. It was as though he had some sort of dire plan for her. She nodded slowly to him and had the strangest impulse to cover her breasts and cross her legs for protection. That was what she always felt near him—the fear that he wanted her, that he undressed her with his piercing eyes. But that was foolish. He would never dare.
“Since I see my news has preceded me, I shall save time and be on my way back to Westminster before high tide. And to your question, Lady Anne, I did serve His Eminence the Cardinal closely and carefully. Indeed, before I came to know His Grace as well as I do now, the wily cardinal taught me everything I know of how to deal with dangerous problems. Good evening to the Boleyn family.” He bowed and was gone.
The door shut behind him. “’Sblood, that man can throw a pall on a party faster than anyone I know. I always thank God in my prayers that he is on our side,” Anne said quietly. The wild look was gone from her eyes and Mary was silently grateful for that.
“I think we had best remember,” Thomas Boleyn said, pouring himself another goblet of dark, red wine, “that Master Cromwell and men like him are on the side of no one but themselves.”
It takes such a man to recognize one, Mary almost said, but she held her tongue. She and her lord father had kept a truce of silence since the terrible row they had had at Westminster on the night the queen had rescued her. If the Boleyns had known of the gentle Catherine’s kindness to her, and if they had ever guessed how she pitied the poor queen the loss of husband, position, and the right to raise her daughter, she would never have heard the end of it from any of them.
“Well, the masque in hell was a fine idea, anyway, Lady Anne,” Jane Rochford put in as she sat back in a velvet chair.
“I only thought His Grace might come himself as he did to tell me I would go to France with him. I thought it might amuse him. Could it be he still harbors some concern for the vicious, dead, old cardinal?”
“Wolsey served the king well and for a great while, Anne,” their father said, and he sank slowly into the chair next to Jane’s. “Again, it would do the Boleyns well to remember that the cardinal also taught His Grace much of what he knows of rule and authority—and ultimate power.”
“Ultimate power, father?” Anne giggled and leaned ba
ck on her hands on the huge polished table near her now-silent lutenist. “Shall I show you ultimate power? I can have the king here at this door, at my bidding, in the time it can take some poor simpleton to row the river twice.”
“And for what, Anne? What do you give him when he comes?” her father challenged. “Some silly little play about Wolsey? How long before you run out of pretty trinkets and sweet sayings and promises of sons to come? For five years you have dangled maybes and hopes before a starving man. I think...”
“You will not lecture me, Earl of Wilton! Earl of Wilton thanks to my power over the king! I would not be queen and merely the second Boleyn mistress if I had listened to your counsels long ago!”
The words stung Mary, but did not seem to faze their father, who sat motionless, his goblet perched on the arm of his chair. Mary stood mesmerized at this confrontation between her father and sister. For, although George had told her of the increasing frequency and intensity of their arguments, Mary had never beheld them herself.
“I am wiser, child, and know this king better than you. The miracle is that you have had it your way this long. But I tell you, I have seen him turn on those he loved when it suited him. When his beloved sister Mary wed in France with the duke, he...”
“Stop it! No one knows this king better than I, or is closer to his heart. He can never go back on me now. He is committed. He dissolved the church for me and they will all stand behind him, all the men who bow and need his goodwill. I go to France to meet with the French king, not Spanish Catherine, his incestuous sister-in-law who rots away in some dusty house in the country! And I will marry him, and I will bear him sons!”
“I pray God that will be the way of it, Anne,” he answered and downed his wine. “Now that he cannot go back, I am only counseling that you begin to share his bed before he doubts the sincerity of your promises—and passions.”