by Karen Harper
“I admire your courage, Your Grace.” Mary sat in the nearby chair Anne’s jeweled hand had indicated.
“It comes from having everything to lose rather than nothing. It is only the ones with nothing to lose who are afraid to act. Well, that is my new credo, anyway. Have you heard from Hever? Is mother quite well?”
“Yes. All is well there. My Catherine will keep mother occupied for the summer. Semmonet has arthritis, but she is managing. It has only slowed her down a bit.”
Anne leaned her head on the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “Ah, quiet Hever, where no one shouts, gossips or demands.” Her eyes shot open. “But did you only come to welcome us home, Mary? You came for a purpose, did you not? When I do not summon my dear Mary, she usually chooses not to come.”
“Yes, sister. I have come to ask you a great favor. I feel I have served you well and I would always be your friend. I am in dire need of your love and blessing.”
“What? Say on.” Anne’s eyes went instinctively to Mary’s covered midriff, and Mary felt her courage ebb.
“As you well know, Your Grace, the Lord Stafford and I have been in love for some years.”
“Lovers, you mean. That was the gift I gave you after you lost everything, Mary. I know he visited your room almost nightly. I am glad you have been happy, but do not ask me to let you wed him. You are the sister of the queen now and not just some penniless widow of a poor esquire. Do not look at me that way, Mary. I am sorry, but I have problems of my own, as well you know. I will not propose to His Grace that the queen’s sister marry far beneath her.”
Mary stood and backed a few steps away from Anne’s chair. Jane Rochford was listening so intently that her mouth hung open behind Anne, and George looked anxiously from one sister to the other.
“I am sorry to disappoint or anger you, my sister, but I have never loved anyone as I love Staff, nor shall I ever. Like the king’s own sister, I married once at the royal bidding to serve the king as he would have me do. When I was cast off, I began to live my own life and make my own decisions even as you have, Your Grace. I am proud to inform you that Lord Stafford and I have been wed for over a year now. I have never been happier and I regret no moment of my decision or my marriage.”
For once Anne was speechless. Her dark eyes glittered then narrowed. “After all I have done for you,” she said low, “you dare to repay me this way? Your son well cared for with a fine allowance and tutor by my hand. I went to father to get you enough money to replace the rags on your back after Will Carey died and, you dare—you dare—to wed the rebel with the farmlands at God-forsaken Wivenhoe, wherever that may be?”
“His Grace has long favored Lord Stafford, and he has served the king well. The Bullens have only risen so high recently by hanging on your skirts, sister. I feel I am eminently suited in class and birth to be Lady Stafford.”
“You damn fool! Mary, I have loved you, but you were always a fool. George’s marriage was one thing. That was long before the Boleyns—not the Bullens any longer, remember, Mary—ascended. George’s marriage was one thing, but this from you? You could have at least had a duke. Norris has always favored you.”
Jane Rochford’s voice interrupted. “I think Norris favors your cousin Madge Shelton now, though his competition is somewhat stiff. I applaud Mary’s backbone. Stafford always was a handsome stud and he is obviously wild for Mary. I cannot wait until Lord Boleyn hears the news.”
“Get out of my sight, you she-ass,” Anne screamed, turning to throw the empty goblet at Jane. “Bray your gossip in someone else’s ear. Go! Never set foot in the queen’s rooms again!”
Jane darted sideways to miss the flying goblet and was nearly out the door as the metal vessel thudded to the floor. She almost collided with Staff, who looked immensely relieved to see that the curses and goblet were directed at Jane and not Mary.
“Confession time all around is it not, George?” Anne said over her shoulder as she saw Staff on the threshold.
Staff strode in and bowed low. He dared to stand only several feet from the seething Anne while Mary stood her ground farther away. “Your Grace, Mary has told you of our news? I have told the king.”
“And?”
“And, to put it true and blunt, Your Grace, we have his reluctant blessing.”
“I wish he had sent you to The Tower as well I may yet, Stafford. However did you manage his blessing at all? He favors you, I know, but I would wager his motive is intended to be more punitive toward father and me—a sign that the Boleyns cannot rise so far as they think to rise.”
“That was my assessment of his reaction exactly, Your Grace.”
Anne took a step closer to Staff, and he stood stock-still towering over her. “You always did tell the blatant truth, Stafford. What I like best about you is that you are the only one I know who can somehow keep the king off balance—now that I no longer have the power to do so, that is. That is what amuses me, Stafford. You have always had some kind of power over him where there was none given.”
“I have been and always will be full loyal to the king and he knows that well.”
“Really? It seems to me this clever little marriage move on your part shows you are quite the rebel still, my lord. But a rebel who favors gentle game. Too bad. Too bad. Did His Grace say anything else?” she probed.
“I spoke to him of my love for Mary, Your Grace. There is quite a romantic in him under all the gross power.”
“Oh, yes. I remember well his version of romance. Letters, lockets, passionate vows, promises of eternal love. But there is no such thing. It is all another of the world’s lies.”
“Eternal? Maybe not, sister,” Mary said, coming to stand by Staff’s side, “but quite enough for a whole lifetime as far as I can see.”
“And now I shall ask you the next touchy question, Lord and Lady Stafford. Why have you now decided to tell us this? Why have you tarried so long? Did you ask His Grace to let you go to live at your country farm because you are sick to death of the reeking atmosphere of the palace and my marriage or, indeed, was there another compelling cause?”
“I did ask His Grace that he let us retire to Wivenhoe.”
“Say on.”
“He said we might go for a time, but he could not spare us permanently. I was grateful for that much.”
“And, further?” Anne prodded, her voice nearly breaking as her tone rose dangerously. She stared hard at Mary and her clear brow creased into a severe frown.
“Yes, sister,” Mary said quietly, standing tall beside her husband, but not reaching to touch his arm for support as she longed to do. “Yes, I am carrying a child.”
Anne whirled away and yanked a tall-backed chair after her so that it spun crazily toward the stunned George. A sob tore her throat and she swung her fist, catching Staff on the jaw. He stood stock-still until Anne recoiled and sprang toward Mary. “Let me see your sin!” she screamed, clawing at Mary. Both George and Staff darted forward. Mary sprang back behind Staff, whose strong arms went around Anne before George could reach them. He held her to his chest as she thrashed, screamed, and sobbed.
“How dare you!” she cried over and over against his shirt. “It is not fair! Damn you both!”
“No, it is not fair, Your Grace, and I am sorry for that,” Staff said gently against her raven hair as Mary and George stood still on either side of them. “You deserve another child, Your Grace, and surely you shall have one. If not, you have a beautiful and clever Tudor daughter who is pure English unlike the Spanish Catherine’s girl. Keep calm. Do not be afraid and all can yet be well.”
Anne stopped struggling and screaming and leaned against him for a silent moment. Then she lifted her tear-streaked face and looked long at Mary. Staff released her.
“When will the child be born?” she asked tonelessly.
“In the autumn, sister. I love you, Anne, and I would wish your blessings.”
“I cannot give you that, Mary. No, I cannot. You have deceived me terribly when
you said you were my friend and I trusted you. It is enough I let you go away. Does the king know of the child?”
“No, Your Grace,” Staff said low.
“You may rest assured George and I will not tell him,” she said and her eyes went jerkily over Mary’s shoulder toward the door. “But perhaps Master Cromwell will.”
Cromwell glided toward them across the carpet. “I am sorry I could not come as soon as you sent me word I was needed, Lord Stafford. I was leaving by barge and had to be rowed back to shore. What service may I give?”
“The question is, Master Cromwell,” Anne said, moving a few steps to face him, “what have you heard already? What did you know of all this long ago? I warrant you knew as many of the details as Lord Stafford himself.”
“Of their liaison, Your Grace?”
“Of course! Did you think I spoke of archery practice or jousting?”
“I have suspected for some time that Lady Stafford was with child, Your Grace, though I knew nothing of the marriage.”
“For conversation’s sake, I will assume that is a truthful answer,” Anne replied. “Then you two are to be congratulated. You gave Cromwell’s army of clever spies the slip. That is almost amusing, is it not, Cromwell?”
When he did not answer, the queen’s desperate control shattered again. “Get them out of my sight, king’s man! Banish them, get them well on the road before my father or the king hears of the pregnancy—not for the daughter whose very being depends on it, no, but for the beautiful daughter with the Howard looks and simple heart who bears live sons! Get out of here, all of you. I have much to do!”
Mary wanted to hug Anne farewell, but she felt crushed and exhausted, not terrified as she had expected. She curtseyed and backed away, but Anne had turned to the window and George, dear loyal George, put his hands to her shoulders, and they were still standing like that unspeaking as the doors closed.
In the hall courtiers still clustered around the queen’s threshold as though awaiting favors. There will be no favors today, Mary thought grimly, as she took Staff’s arm and they wended their way through the maze of people behind Cromwell. Jane Rochford darted up from nowhere, no doubt lagging about to hear the rest of the screaming through the door.
“Lord Stafford, Mary, I am so happy for you!” she gushed.
“Thank you, Jane,” Mary said low. “Please, please do not goad the queen so, and try to be a friend to her.”
“George is friend enough for her and that pretty musician Smeaton,” Jane replied tartly. “I do not see that George left with the rest of you.”
They walked on leaving the girl behind, but Mary could still hear her petulant voice speaking to someone else. They were nearly on the road to Wivenhoe now, and soon there would be a great distance between them, gossip and the court. They would be on the road to freedom from all of this and, God willing, they might be able to stay away a very long, long time.
“You lead a charmed life, Stafford,” Cromwell finally spoke when they were out of the crush of eager faces in the hall by Mary’s room. He smiled at them, but his voice was as cold as usual no matter what the words. “It is a rare man indeed who can flaunt authority and propriety and walk away unscathed. Will you need a contingent of guards on the road?”
“Thank you, no, Master Cromwell. Mary and I have four servants between us and that shall suffice.”
“Then let me only say,” Cromwell went on, his eyes shifting to Mary’s face, “that I shall be your ally and not your enemy should you have the need of aid even at little—where is it now?”
“Wivenhoe, near Colchester, Master Cromwell.”
“Yes. Maybe I shall visit you sometime. I would like to meet your ghosts.” He pivoted stiffly to face Staff. “Let us say it plainly, Lord Stafford. You and I have always been clever chess players. You are one of the few who have even beaten me. Now you are off on an adventure which greatly intrigues me.” He glanced at Mary again. “The Boleyns, all of the Boleyns, may need friends, and I am simply volunteering. Do you believe me, Stafford?”
“Yes, Cromwell, for various reasons, yes. Only remember that I am quite through having my wife be a pawn in anyone’s chess game ever again. I will die first.”
“Then we understand each other perfectly, as I thought we always did. Good luck to you both. If you wish to know the winds of the times, you have only to write to me.”
“Thank you, Master Cromwell,” Mary said and forced a small smile. “If you have any influence on my sister, sir, please counsel her to curb her temper and the king can be hers again.”
He stared squarely into Mary’s wide eyes. “We can only hope for that, I think, Lady Stafford, and hope is often a last resort.” He bowed to them in the deserted hall and was gone.
“We are going to Wivenhoe, girl,” Staff told the sleepy Nancy when they entered Mary’s room. “The whole world knows your mistress and I are wed and will soon enough know of the child. Pack several dresses and we will have the rest sent after us. The day is getting late, but we will not sleep under this roof tonight.”
“Oh, I am so glad!” Nancy hugged Mary and turned back to Staff. “Are you in disgrace and banished then?”
“More or less,” Mary answered, yanking open the top drawer of her wardrobe. “Come on, Nance. We will talk on the way.”
“You see, lass,” Staff teased as he felt the tremendous impact of their sudden freedom assail his brain, “Stephen is going, too, and with the tight accommodations at Wivenhoe manorhouse, your lady and I would be most grateful if you and he could see fit to share a room. And, though I fear your betters have not set you a very good example, we would prefer that you wed with him first, if the two of you would do us so kind a favor.”
Nancy’s face went from incredulous, to stunned, to joyous, to embarrassed.
“Staff, did you have to tell her that surprise now? You are just like a little boy who cannot wait for dinner,” Mary scolded. “Nancy, you must keep packing or we will end up in a dungeon somewhere and have to rescind the suggestion.” She smiled broadly at Staff as the girl bent to her packing and stuffing with a vengeance.
Within an hour the Wivenhoe party clattered away from Whitehall along the river and soon turned eastward with the sun warm on their backs. Thomas Boleyn had not appeared to scold or stop them as Mary had feared he would. She was glad not to see him, but somehow it only said he did not care. She thought again of brave and loving Meg Roper with her father’s head in her lap as they left The Tower behind and cantered through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Staff’s great stallion, Sanctuary, snorted as though he already scented the far distant Wivenhoe, and Eden kept well abreast of the huge horse as they rode side-by-side toward Colchester.
CHAPTER THIRTY
October 22, 1534
Wivenhoe Manor
It had been the most marvelous summer Mary could remember. Now the trees and shrubs and flowers of Wivenhoe flaunted their riot of autumn colors, and she wondered how long the sequestered beauty would dare to last in her life. She was heavy with child, but the joy she felt with her husband and daughter about her in their new home made her almost forget the agonies of her heart. Despite the peace of Wivenhoe, her thoughts went often to London and she prayed that her sister would find peace and love and bear her husband an heir. And too, she prayed that Anne would forgive her this secret marriage and the child—forgive her, as Will Carey had not, for the love she bore Staff. When her prayers turned to her father, no words would come—only rattled hopes and jagged emotions.
“Do you really think today will be the day, mother?” nine-year-old Catherine asked for the third time in the last hour. “It is so exciting, and you promised I could help care for him after he is born.” The girl’s eyes darted up from the sampler she was stitching and she smiled.
“Yes, my dear, you will be a tremendous help. But remember, the babe may well be a little sister.”
“Somehow, mother, somehow I just feel it is a boy. We never see Harry much, so it will take his place.�
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“One child never really takes the place of another in a parent’s love, Catherine. You will understand that someday.” Mary tried to sit erect on the stone bench in the herb garden, but her back ached so it really did no good. She would have to lie down or get Staff or Nancy to rub it. It worried her that she felt so tired when she was surely on the threshold of labor, where she would need all her strength. It had been nine years since she had delivered a child.
“But if the queen bears the king a son, it will surely replace my cousin Elizabeth in their love, mother,” Catherine was arguing. “Then she will be most sad when she grows up that her father will love her not. Brennan told me...”
“You must not listen to Brennan so much, my love,” Mary chided gently, trying to keep the scolding tone from her voice. “Brennan is only the cook in a small country manor and knows nothing of London and the court. Besides, Elizabeth will grow up to be a fine princess of the realm at the very least. You must keep her spirits up and be a friend to her should the queen send for you to live in the princess’s company as she has promised she would.”
“Maybe the queen is so busy that she forgot, mother. I have been here a whole two months since I left grandmother at Hever.”
“Well, let’s not speak of that now, sweet. Run and fetch Nancy for me. Staff is out making some sort of bargain with his threshers in the grain fields and he will be back soon. I may take a little nap.”
“But it is not your time, is it?”
“No, my lass. Now go fetch Nancy.”
Catherine scurried off, her flying feet on the gravel path making a rapid rhythmic crunching. She ran behind the stone fence and Mary could see only the top golden curls of her head bobbing along before she disappeared into the kitchen entry. The ivy-draped walls of the house reflected in the fishpond and the stark contrast of whitewashed walls and dark patterned wood made an image of a second Wivenhoe in its calm watery surface. Mary treasured Wivenhoe, as she always had Hever, for the calm and peace it gave. Then, too, there were gentle water lilies floating endlessly on this tiny pond as they had at The Golden Gull in Banstead. Even the manor’s ghost disturbed them not, though Mary had heard the stairboards creak at night and sensed unrest. Staff told her it was her own unrest and that the spirit visits had never yet occurred when he had been in the house. It was only the senile ravings of his old maiden aunt, he said. But Mary thought otherwise.