by Karen Harper
She meant to answer and to tell him how warm and comforting the memory was, but a sharp pain swept her words away. Staff was removing her shoes and telling her how much he loved her when Nancy’s face appeared close over her. “Stephen has gone for the midwife, Lady Mary. I will not leave you.”
“Can we send for my mother, Staff?” Mary heard herself ask suddenly. “Send George away and tell him to bring mother.”
“I shall ask him, love, but I think he must return to court.” Concern was stamped on Staff’s strong features, and she gripped his hand tight in the next wave of pain. “We shall send Stephen to bring your mother for a visit after the child is born as we discussed, all right?”
“Father will not like her to come here to Wivenhoe, Staff.”
“Then your father be damned, my love. Lady Elizabeth will come.”
Nancy and Staff had her into a clean loose frock now, and she felt much better, and not so tired. But surely the Lord in Heaven would give her strength for this trial. She was no longer afraid.
“You do not fear to have the child here, do you, Mary?”
“Here at Wivenhoe, my lord? Of course not.”
“In this room, I mean. Did you think you saw the ghost in here?”
“How did you know, Staff? Did I tell you?”
“No, sweetheart. I guessed. Nancy said you were standing wildly in the hall, and when you told me you saw the ghost...”
“He opened the door and came in to see me when I was resting,” she interrupted his gentle question. “I heard him on the stairs and then he touched my back. Then I was not afraid any longer, Staff, and I am not afraid now.”
“That is fine, my love. That is as it should be.”
“Do you think I am dreaming or lying, Staff? Tell me you believe it!”
“Of course I believe it. Did I not tell you he would want a good look at my beautiful wife?”
She started to laugh at his tease, but the dark hands of pain descended on her again. She bit her lip to stop the scream. Then Nancy shooed Staff from the room as Mary began the hours of labor to bring forth a child for Wivenhoe.
A son was born nearly at midnight and they called him Andrew William as they had decided. They wanted the child to have his own freely given first name and not be named for someone in high position as were Henry and Catherine. William they gave as a middle name in remembrance of Staff’s dead father and for Staff’s own first name. Mary whispered the baby’s name over and over on her lips and wondered, as she finally fell asleep, if the watchful ghost would come to see his namesake. Staff was beside himself with joy and pride. Nancy told her later that he had even wept, and Stephen had been sent to fetch a whole keg of precious wine from the cellar in celebration.
The next midmorn, George came to see the child before he and his man set off on the road back to Greenwich. He looked nervous and bleary-eyed to Mary, as though he had not slept. “George, I am sorry you must be the bearer of news back to court, not only that I will have none of his nefarious plot to dupe His Grace into believing Harry is his, but that you are the one who will tell them that Staff and I have a son when one is desperately needed elsewhere.”
“Coward that I am, sister, I may lie low on that news until Cromwell tells someone, though Anne could hear it best from me perhaps. She needs me more and more now, Mary. I try to cushion her pain as best I can, but she gets wild sometimes and no one can stand her actions or the things she says.”
“Every woman needs a man to cushion her pain, George.” Mary reached out and took Staff’s hand.
“Jane rants and raves about the time I spend with Anne, of course. It is almost as though she were jealous, but I know that cannot be, since Anne is only my sister and not some paramour.”
“I resented Eleanor Carey once in much the same way. She and Will were somehow soulmates, and I resented that. I can understand Jane’s unease.”
She thought George meant to argue the point, but he suddenly blurted, “Forgive me for upsetting you so, sister. I fear it brought on the child.”
“No, George. All is well. The child came in his own time.”
George nodded and shuffled nervously to glance at the sleeping newborn babe again. “Well, there is no red hair on this one,” he observed foolishly, but Mary did not let the words upset her. “I will be on the road, then. Thank you, Staff and Mary, for your hospitality. It is wondrous quiet here at Wivenhoe. I am not sure how I would do here after a while.”
“It is that calm and quiet we love, George. Farewell.” She smiled weakly up at him.
George bent to kiss Mary’s cheek and shake Staff’s hand. Staff walked him out of the room and down the stairs. Their voices faded away and the room was suddenly silent again. No boards creaked and she began to doze.
Staff came back just as the babe started to fuss for nursing. He lifted the brown-haired mite into Mary’s arms and lay down carefully next to them. He watched while his son suckled greedily and Mary felt her love flow out to them both. When the child slept again, Staff said suddenly, “I wish to thank you again for our son, my love. Catherine is quite beside herself with joy, and it will be a battle to keep her from picking him up all the time. She wants to cuddle him like a doll.”
“And so do I, my love, though he is more—much more. My first love child, though the Lord above knows I cherish the other two also. But I would die for this one.”
“I pray that will never be a necessity, sweet, only that you change the toddling clothes, wipe the nose, and untangle the leading strings.”
“What else did George tell you in private after I made my dramatic exit, Staff?”
He reached over and lazily stroked her loose golden hair as he spoke quietly. “Your little cousin Madge Shelton is to marry Henry Norris, for one thing.”
“Anne never managed to be rid of Madge? She could not accomplish even that?”
“No, though His Grace beds no longer with the girl. As for the other gossip, there was not much to interest you.”
“What else did he say of the Boleyn fortunes and the queen, Staff? Please, I would know. I will worry less then, truly.”
“Remember you are here with me and safe, sweetheart, but things are bad and getting worse. Unless Anne can somehow conceive, the dire handwriting is on the royal wall.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the king is more desperate than ever for a son as you can guess from George’s little visit to us. If Anne can give him none, he will try to get one somewhere. As usual, your wily father reads the signs correctly when he thinks to pawn little Harry Carey off on His Grace. But the king wants a true heir, a legitimate son.”
“But if there is only Elizabeth, and the queen cannot bear him a son...what then?”
“It boggles the mind. The Boleyns have risen so high they can never really retreat, only somehow be pulled off the lofty perch.”
“Do you believe he would dare to divorce Anne as Catherine before her, claiming that their marriage is cursed for their dead children? No, Staff, he cannot. He would look most foolish after the ruination of the church and the killing of a raft of friends and advisors such as Sir Thomas More.”
“That is my reasoning exactly, sweet. Indeed, what can he do? It will be something calculated and desperate, I fear. Clever Anne sees it too. George said she came upon Jane Seymour perched on the king’s lap last week in the queen’s chambers and threw a raving fit for two days.”
The babe suddenly stirred fitfully in her arms, and Mary rocked and shushed him. “He senses the times are bad, Staff. And now his Aunt Anne will hate him through no fault of his own, for she hates the mother who bore him even more.”
“You must not think so, lass. Anne cannot help herself.”
“I know. I know. I forgive her, but how I wish she could forgive me. I feel sad and guilty that I bear this beautiful child now when her whole life depends on a son.”
“You had best not feel guilty about my son, Mary, no matter what the times are like. Sweetheart, you must cea
se to be haunted like this for Anne or your father or the king. You are no longer their plaything but a woman of your own—and mine.”
She turned her face into his hand, which caressed her cheek as he spoke. She kissed his palm. “Are you saying I have ghosts in my head, Staff? Can you deny you carry much of the cruel past about with you? The rebellion? Your entrapment by the king all these years when you would rather have been here? Perhaps you only do not show your ghosts as much as I, my lord.”
He sighed and lowered his hand to stroke Andrew’s velvet cheek with one bent finger. “You are right, Lady Stafford. You know your lord quite well now, and I think you love him still.”
“Still, Lord Stafford? I love him more each day than I ever knew possible. But I would sleep now, too. Would you put your son back in his cradle?”
Staff stood and lifted the child carefully, the span of his two hands running the entire length of the babe’s body. He put him in the cradle and covered him. “I had best go down and see how the reeve is doing with his accounts, love,” he said leaning over her on the bed. “Will you sleep well here alone?”
“Of course. But I am not alone even when you are not here. There is Andrew and the other. I am not afraid here, Staff. I think it is rather my favorite room.”
He kissed her lingeringly on the lips and straightened. “That is good to hear, madam, for one way or the other, you had better plan on spending a lot of time right where you are now.” He grinned and left the door ajar behind him.
She smiled at his familiar impudence. Yes, she was thrilled with the child, guilt over Anne or not, for her sister may be now lost to her forever. But she was so tired and she must sleep before the babe woke again to demand feeding. If she heard the stairs creak she would not fear at Wivenhoe for the atmosphere was free and good. If only she could smother her desperate thoughts, then only outside the sanctuary of the manor and Staff’s encircling love would there be real ghosts to fear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
February 2, 1536
Wivenhoe Manor
Mary’s two-year calm at Wivenhoe raising her son and daughter and being the beloved wife of one of the shire’s leading landowners was shattered quite suddenly one mild winter afternoon as the icicles on the eaves dripped in random beats upon the sodden flower beds. The crisp note from Master Cromwell brought by the usual messenger said only that the king’s chief minister himself would arrive by noon on the morrow with important news. Mary showed the note to Staff, who had scooped up the toddling Andrew in his arms the instant he had entered the parlor.
“Master Cromwell himself,” Staff said coldly and handed the crisp paper back to Mary. “I do not think we can hope that he merely desires a respite in the country.”
“Now that the queen is with child again, maybe she forgives us and wants us to come back.”
“I doubt it,” Staff said, grinning at the delighted Andrew as he bounced the child on his knee. “She is barely three months pregnant. Forgiveness might come after an heir is birthed, but probably not before.” He turned his head toward Mary’s concerned face. “Do you still grieve so much over Anne’s cursing you when we left? You have not mentioned it for a long while, and I had hoped you had come to terms with it. If the queen wishes to see you, would you go?”
“I would like to see her, Staff, but I would not wish to stay. Wivenhoe is my home. And I would not venture to court without you, even to visit.”
“Especially not with that dark raven Cromwell in tow, you would not.”
“I thought you and he had a bargain these past years.”
“The bargain is there and well enough kept on both sides, I think, but that does not mean I do not see the man clearly.”
“Yes—‘to see things clearly,’ Master da Vinci tried to tell me that in France ages ago.”
He eyed her strangely and forgot to bounce Andrew until the child began to shout, “Horse, horse, papa!”
“You had best tell Brennan and Nancy then, sweetheart, for he will surely bring several men and we must ask him to stay the night.”
“Yes.” She turned back to him at the doorway. “Perhaps the queen has finally remembered her promise to have Catherine educated with the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield.”
“I doubt if Cromwell tromps clear out to Wivenhoe for that tidbit, Mary. No, I think we had better brace ourselves and try to hang on to all we hold dear together.”
Mary hurried toward the kitchens to find Brennan and Nancy as Staff began to bounce their sandy-haired toddler on his knee.
“Motherhood and fresh country air has enhanced your beauty, Lady Stafford,” Cromwell said as he bent low over her hand.
“Motherhood and Wivenhoe have quite enhanced my happiness at any rate, Master Cromwell,” she answered calmly.
“Stafford, as always, you look in charge of life,” the stocky man observed as they escorted him into the parlor for wine and fresh cheese. “A lovely retreat,” he said as his eyes swept the room.
“A retreat in a way, Cromwell, but a home indeed. Mary and I have no wish to permanently return to court,” Staff said, immediately on the offensive against the smug, closed face of the king’s closest advisor.
“Then we must all hope that will not be necessary, Lord Stafford. But I do bring very sad news that needs a warm response from the queen’s sister.”
“Sad news? Is Anne all right? Not the babe!” Mary’s voice came in a strangled tone.
“Yes, tragically, the queen has miscarried of her child, and...”
“No, no, it cannot be!” Mary shrieked and Staff bent over her with his crushingly strong arms around her shoulders.
Cromwell’s small, piercing eyes drank in the emotional scene. “I am sorry, lady, but there was no gentle way to give you that news. It seems the early delivery was brought on by a wretched accident to His Grace. In the queen’s fifteenth week, the king was riding in heavy armor in the lists at Greenwich. When he became unhorsed by an opponent, his stallion fell full weight on him. The court was paralyzed with fear, for he lay unconscious for nearly two hours and we thought he might die.”
Mary sat away from Staff’s chest now, her teary eyes fixed on Cromwell’s face. “When your Uncle Norfolk carried the tragic news to the queen she went into premature labor and was delivered of a dead child. It would have been a son.”
“Then God help us all,” Staff murmured and Mary could not find the words to say anything.
“When His Grace recovered and heard of the dead son, he stalked into the queen’s chambers and screamed that...”
“Yes, Cromwell, we can quite imagine what His Grace might have said,” Staff cut in.
“Ah, of course. And that terrible scene took place on the very day that the Princess of Wales, Catherine of Aragon, was buried. The king had previously found Queen Anne and her ladies cavorting dressed in gayest yellow when they had heard of her death at Kimbolton, and he blamed the queen for witchcraft after she lost their son. He has told many courtiers it was God’s judgment on him for being so bewitched all of these years.”
“How dare he talk to her that way after he chased her like a lustful bull all those years!” Mary said vehemently. “Witchcraft! Does he take his cues from the ignorant common folk who spit at her on the day she was crowned and shouted ‘witch! witch!’? How dare he!”
Cromwell leaned forward, one elbow on his knee as though to observe her passionate outburst more closely. “It is well known, despite the fact the queen tries to hide it, lady, that she does have a tiny sixth finger on one hand—the devil’s mark folk would have claimed years ago.”
“Master Cromwell, if my lord and I thought you believed this horrible rubbish for one moment, we would have to ask you to leave our home no matter how kind you have been to us over the years.”
Cromwell smiled and slowly held up a palm as if to ward off her anger. “Please, sweet lady, calm yourself. I am here on a personal mission to help your sister and to fulfill a request she has made of me. The king hunts winter boar at
Eltham and does not know I am on the queen’s errand. Will you listen further now?”
Mary only nodded, but Staff’s eyes bored into Cromwell’s face, and he held tight to Mary’s hands.
“Whether or not people believe the rumors of witchcraft from a foolish and greedy court is not my concern. My duty is to serve my master the king, and therefore, what the king wishes, I must enact. But I owe the Boleyns much, for it was through acquiring the great divorce that I first came to serve the king. And, then too, your father has helped me quite as much as I have helped him over the years.”
An involuntary icy shudder shot through Mary’s body, and Staff put one arm around her shoulders. Cromwell watched her closely as he spoke.
“The queen has begged me to fetch you to her at Greenwich. She promises you your safety and prays you will come to her in her great hour of need. She bid me tell you that time is slipping fast away, and she would see your sweet face. She asks you to trust me as her messenger, for she was afraid to send anyone whom you might not believe. George and her closest allies—Norris, Weston, and Brereton—must stick close to the king at Eltham, of course.”
“When does the king return to Greenwich, then, Master Cromwell?” came Staff’s low voice in the jumble of Mary’s thoughts.
“He is quite erratic these days. I cannot promise you he would not suddenly return. He has taken to staging elaborate masques and jousts even though the weather be biting chill, so he may be back to Greenwich soon on a whim. In short, I do not know. But the queen has great need of you and no one else can comfort, it seems. Surely the Lady Mary would be quite safe going for a brief visit to her royal sister.”
“I go with her, Cromwell. You would understand that?”
“Of course. It is good to have a larger party on these roads in the winter.”
“And the queen would have to understand that my home is here with my husband and the two children I raise. I could not stay. Would you tell her that?”