by Karen Harper
Mary felt somewhat guilty that she liked the seventeen-year-old girl so much, for the whole truth was that Mistress Shelton had been brought to court by Thomas Boleyn to hold the king’s attentions for his petulant and increasingly nasty Queen Anne. In one fell swoop, as Thomas Boleyn had planned, the green-eyed Madge had become her royal cousin’s maid and the king’s latest mistress. Mary hoped fervently that the three-week sabbatical and the new pregnancy would soothe Anne’s vile torment of the girl. Mary also prayed that the joy over the new child would allow Staff and her to tell Anne of their marriage and ask to be retired to Wivenhoe.
It had been almost a half hour now since the huge royal entourage had clattered into the courtyard of Whitehall, and Mary began to pace in her room, wondering how long it would take Staff to free himself and come to see her. When he saw her waist, he would know the time of secrecy had passed for them, for neither cloaks nor dresses with high waistlines could hide it now. She glanced down at the completed and painstakingly written letter on her table under the sunny window. She began to skim the words, though she knew them by heart and the old haunting feeling returned. It was like guilt, hate and love all mingled together in a crucible of pain.
The door sprang open and she turned, half expecting to see Nancy with another report on the returned travelers since she had heard no footsteps in the hall. But it was Staff, so tall and handsome, grinning, and he had come back to her.
“My love, I was waiting and waiting...” she began, but he smothered her words with a crushing kiss. Then, with a look on his face of more awe than concern or worry, he put his hands on her shoulders and stood her armlength away.
“Lady Stafford, I believe the whole world will know you are pregnant now as well as your sister. We can delay their being told no longer. That is obvious. Who has guessed or asked? I did not imagine three weeks could make such a difference, but indeed, sweetheart, the child has blossomed and that means a certain end to our secret. I thank God they are in a fairly hopeful mood because of the queen’s new pregnancy. Does your father know of our child? Cromwell?”
“I have not seen my dear father, Staff. He has been about and Madge has seen him, but he stays well out of my way.”
“Then Madge must know. You have seen much of her then? I am not sure that is wise, for the sharp edge of the queen’s wrath may yet fall on the girl.”
“Really, my love,” Mary said, looking up into his concerned face, “the girl is my cousin, though I have not seen her for years before father hauled her into this mess. But she is new here and alone, and I remember how terrible that can be in a vast court.”
Staff sank down on the bed, and pulled his boots off and sighed, wiggling his toes. “I applaude your sweet motives, lass, but the wench is hardly alone. In her first week at court this spring, the king bedded her, the queen screamed at her, and Norris continues to make a fool of himself over her whenever His Grace is not around. Just be careful you do not stand too close to her if the queen’s axe should fall. I would have to bet that Her Grace will have little Madge Shelton, cousin or not, out of here in a week. So anyway, Madge has no doubt guessed about your babe. And Cromwell?”
“I have seen him twice, but I wore a pelisse each time. He has been very busy with the king gone, but he approached me in the gardens by the river once and I dared not run away as I wished. We walked for a little while.”
“I assume he behaved himself, except for his beady eyes, that is, which try to caress you every time you are in view.”
“Do not be angry, Staff.” She sat beside him on the bed. He draped his arms over her shoulders and pulled her gently to his side.
“I am not angry, love. I only hate myself every time I think of you left behind here with the vipers. Lately, my Mary has taken quite good care of herself, but I hate not having you and the babe out of here and safe.”
“But now we must tell them, so then we shall see.”
“Yes, sweetheart. Then we shall see. I am exhausted, Mary, and had best be back by supper. Will you lie beside me here?”
They cuddled in the middle of the bed, Mary on her back and Staff on his side facing her with his arm under her head. She put his open hand on her belly. “See, my love, he moves about more than ever now.”
“Or she,” he said sleepily. “I still would not mind a miniature of your Catherine. Is she well at Hever? I know how much this summer will mean to your mother having her there again.”
“She is quite well. But all men want a son, Staff.”
“Yes, and I also. But there will be time for at least another child before you begin hobbling around on a cane,” he teased. He opened one eye then the other and stared at her fine profile. “Is there something else besides having to face them that is troubling you, Mary? Have you not come to terms with your father’s last wretched scheme to use you as bait?”
“No, Staff. It is not that. But there is something that has been haunting me. I have dreamed of it, Staff.”
“Tell me.” His eyes were wide awake on his tired face.
“While the court was away on progress—the first week you were gone—word came here that after Sir Thomas More was beheaded on Tower Hill, the king’s men put his head on a pike on London Bridge and gave his family only the trunk of his body for burial.”
“Look Mary. It is only another indication of how terrible the times are and how far the king has sunk into the mire of treachery. Sir Thomas More may have been His Grace’s loyal advisor and friend these years, but the king turned against him completely when More dared not to sign the Act of Supremacy declaring the king head of the new church. I do not doubt that the king or Cromwell told his henchmen to make a clear example of More. Fear not for his body being separate from his head. The Lord God has need of men with the moral strength of Thomas More on resurrection day whether their heads be buried with their bodies or not. You must put the whole awful thing out of your mind.”
“I cannot. How can I? You do not, and I know you blame yourself that we all signed the document like sheep. But that is not all.”
“What more?” He sat up cross-legged on the bed facing her, leaning over her, intent.
“After his head had been there on the pole a week, for they say it was guarded that long and by then the crows had been at the eyes and...”
“Mary, do not torture yourself with this.”
“I must tell you, Staff. After a week, it hardly looked like a man’s head. But then, when the guards dispersed, his eldest daughter Meg Roper...”
“Yes, the tall girl. She married a lawyer in the king’s household.”
“Staff, his daughter loved him so much that she went out at night in a boat to London Bridge and bribed the keeper of the bridge to drop his head to her. She took it in her skirts and carried it home in her lap to bury it with his body. She loved him so much, she did that!”
Staff’s big hand reached out and curled around hers, clenched at her side. Her tear-filled eyes still haunted by the wonderment of her own words of Meg Roper sought his face.
“I am sorry, Mary. It is a fearsome thing, but you must not carry these thoughts around with you. For the babe’s sake, at least.”
“I have prayed for Meg Roper, Staff. I have written to her, too, telling her that I admire her courage and her love. I apologized that the Boleyn family had any part in bringing her the loss of her dearly beloved father.”
“Lass, you cannot go about the kingdom trying to gain forgiveness for the Boleyns. Do not put that burden on yourself. You are not a part of them and will be well rid of them soon. Your mother we shall keep close. The rest will be most difficult to hold over the years. There is always some sort of disaster brewing on the horizon around your father and I will have you and the child well rid of it.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have changed my mind. This is no time for sleeping. They have returned from a triumphant trip through the central shires and even testy Anne is in a good mood. The prospect of a child has returned the gl
ow to her cheeks, and she was hardly booed at all along the way. His Grace has dreams and hopes of a legitimate son again and has sweet Madge to serve his every whim while he waits for the heir’s arrival. We shall tell them now before supper, before someone sees you and all hell explodes.” He began stuffing his breeks back in the tops of his boots.
“Still, I will send the letter to Meg Roper, Staff.”
“Fine, love. Send the letter. But you must cease to carry guilt around with you for your family’s actions or your disappointment in the father you love. Fetch a pelisse to cover yourself. I will not have your sister screeching at us before we can present it to them calmly first.”
Though the day was warm, Mary wrapped a loose blue pelisse around her shoulders and arranged its folds carefully. Staff kissed her and sent her on ahead, through the crowded halls to the queen’s privy chamber and said he would be along to join her shortly, after he had told the king and begged his indulgence. “If you can keep from discussing it with your sister until I arrive, do so. Do not play the heroine, for I want to be there. And if the king walks in with me, do not panic,” Staff had instructed her moments ago. His last words went over and over in her mind. Do not panic. I will be there.
The walk to Anne’s chambers was not long, but it seemed an eternity. The time had come. Time always thrust things swiftly upon one and then one had to act. Time would bring her to the labor bed to birth Staff’s babe; time would bring Anne’s next child; time had brought death to a beloved friend; time had brought separation from Hever; time had brought a daughter who loved her father so much that she would carry his poor bloody head home in her lap.
Anne’s bedchamber was full of hovering Boleyns and, worst of all, the king was there and in a rage. Mary nearly fled in alarm, but the yeoman guards behind her had closed the door and stood against it. At least Staff would be here quickly when he did not find the king where he sought him. Only the impassive Cromwell is needed to complete this scene, Mary thought, but no one looked impassive here. She wrapped her pelisse protectively about her and lurched back against the wall as the suspended tableau before her exploded.
“Am I to understand, madam, that this entire trip where you had me prancing through Derby and Rutland and Shropshire was a cruel hoax, a deception?” The king’s ruddy face went increasingly livid as his voice rose. “No child! Am I to believe a woman who has borne a child and been pregnant yet again cannot tell when she is with child! You misread the signs? ’Sblood, madam, the whole thing has been a typical Boleyn trick. My people are right when they shout ‘Witch! Witch!’”
“Please, my lord, the signs were there. And if I am not with child, I can be soon again. Our trip was so wonderful, so placid and jovial and we...”
“And I touched you not and you were well content of it, madam, so how you plan to get with royal child is quite beyond me!”
“Does not the fact that the queen did not encourage Your Grace to bed her indicate that she truly believed she was with child and was afraid to harm her delicate condition?” Thomas Boleyn said low in the angry hush in the room.
Henry Tudor swung his great head toward the voice and glowered, but his quick mind was working and he hesitated.
“Indeed, my lord, that is true,” Anne said, “for it is only now the riding back to Whitehall brought on my monthly flow and all my hopes were crushed. I did not know, Your Grace. In my supreme joy to believe I was carrying your child again, I did not know. I am grief-stricken to my very soul.”
“And well you should be. I put off an important state visit to Calais for this...this charade!” He sat hard on the chair near Anne, but when she reached out to touch his shoulder, he recoiled.
“Are you certain the blood was not a miscarriage? You were not far pregnant?” he asked low, staring at her taut face.
“I am certain. I am sorry I have failed you, my dear lord. I will truly conceive now. You will see,” she said and forced a smile.
“Perhaps the rest without a child growing in her womb will lend the added strength necessary, Your Grace,” came Thomas Boleyn’s soothing voice again. “First a fine daughter—true Tudor indeed with her red-gold hair—and then a fine son.”
“I tell you this, madam,” the king said quietly, apparently ignoring Lord Boleyn’s words, “there had better be a son soon and a live one. I have a son in Henry Fitzroy and perhaps others, so lack of sons is no fault of mine.”
Mary’s pulse began to race at the implication of other unlawful sons the king could claim, and she glanced fearfully at her father’s rapt face. Evidently, they had not even noticed her entry, for their attention was all bent toward the center of their universe.
“So, indeed, if another child be lost, it is obvious where the fault—the sin—lies. I am going riding now. Eat with your own little court of Boleyns and Rochfords and Norfolks. I am tired of it all.”
He rose and his short purple cape swept in an arc behind his massive shoulders. His eyes bored into Mary’s wide azure ones as he approached the door.
“Your Grace,” came Anne’s well-modulated voice behind him, and he turned back to his audience as he stood near Mary. “I will do everything I can to ensure Your Grace a fine heir—as fine as Elizabeth in whom you rightly place such fatherly pride. I will do whatever Your Grace would bid, but I would ask one small favor from you in return.”
“Well?”
Anne glanced to her father’s worried face and then said quite clearly, “I would beg Your Grace to send my cousin Madge Shelton from court back to her parents in Essex. It bothers me to have her always about and not a friend to the queen much as other of my ladies who are not loyal to me.” She stood erect, poised, and faced the king across the endless space of rich Damascene carpet.
From where she stood behind him, Mary could see the sinews in his bull neck swell, and the muscles on his huge forearms seemed to jerk. She drew in a quick breath and braced herself against the wall.
“You may have been made queen, madam, but be confident that is no assurance you may tell your lord king how to behave. You will learn to bear such things, as...as your betters have done before you.”
The guards opened the double doors at the king’s approach, and Mary moved from the wall to keep from being crushed. The king nearly collided with her and put his hands out to roughly move her from his path. Staff’s face appeared in the whirl somewhere over the king’s shoulder as his strong hands set Mary back into the room.
“You see, madam,” the king ground out to Anne through clenched teeth, “your sister bears live sons. Look to her example. Stafford, come with me.”
All the eyes in the room focused on Mary left standing at the open double doors with Stafford standing half behind her. Everyone stared—George nervously, her father bitterly. Jane Rochford could hardly smother a simper at the whole scene of the Boleyns’ dismay, and Anne merely whirled her back to them. Staff broke the spell by whispering in Mary’s ear as he turned to follow in the angry wake of the king.
“Keep your cloak tight. I will calm His Grace and only tell him we are wed and ask to go to Wivenhoe. The rest is not safe now. I will hurry back. And I will somehow send Cromwell for your protection.”
“No, not Cromwell,” she started to say, but he was gone on a run and she ached to follow him.
“How nice that all the family could assemble for that dressing down,” Jane Rochford said in the quiet of the room.
“Shut your mouth, Jane, or I will have you out in the street with the rest of the cheap gossips and tat tales,” Anne shot out without looking up. “It is enough I had to bear your company these last three weeks, though at least your dear Mark Gostwick kept you occupied enough for some respite.”
“Do you intend to let your wife be so spoke to, George?” Jane prodded.
“Stop this foolish bickering,” Thomas Boleyn’s voice cut in. “Jane, you will take whatever words the queen gives you or cease to serve her and be quit of here. We all need to stand together on this.”
“We h
ave long ceased standing together, father, if indeed we ever did,” Anne shouted. “You brought doe-eyed Madge to court. Now I am telling you to get rid of her if you do not wish to see that damned skinny Fitzroy on the throne in place of your own grandchild.”
“That problem, I am afraid, is yours, Anne. I cannot help you there.”
“No, father, You cannot help me at all. At least George and Mary are still faithful in this mess. George always, and you must admit Mary stood up to that last desperate plan of yours to have her seduce the king. And, as for the cow-faced Seymour with the big innocent eyes, I shall have her out of here soon enough.”
“You dare not, Anne.”
“Dare not? Get from my sight, father. The queen is telling you to leave.”
“I am going, daughter—Your Grace—to give you time to get yourself together and to realize that time has altered your influence here. As I said, you dare not touch the little Seymour. You can only vie for the royal bed and hope to God you conceive a son. I will be back later. See that when His Grace returns from the hunt you look ravishing and greet him in the courtyard. Fight hard for him, Anne. That is your only chance now.”
He strode to the door and Mary moved far out of his way. “Did you mark His Grace’s interest in your son, Mary?” he said as he passed.
The characters in the room rotated positions again with the other powerful protagonist offstage. Anne sank in the chair the king had vacated and George stood at a loss for words first on one foot and then the other. Jane hovered watchful in the wings. Anne motioned for Mary to join her. Mary made her entrance with her pelisse still draped around her.
“It is good to see you after three weeks with the same faces, sister. Do not look so frightened. I am not, I assure you,” Anne said tonelessly.