The Last Boleyn(120)

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 back 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...”