The Last Boleyn(137)
His eyes lit when he saw her. He had changed to a velvet ivory and yellow doublet which matched her gown beautifully. He put the warm cloak around her shoulders. Holding her skirt hems from the snow, she let him lift her onto Sanctuary’s back. The Whitmans trailed after them as Staff walked the horse the short way toward the Gothic spires which dominated the little village. They stamped inside and Mistress Whitman took their cloaks away while Master John went off to find the priest.
“You look the most lovely I have ever seen you, my Mary, and I have studied you and dreamed of you for long years now.” He brushed her lips with his and straightened. “I never despaired that this day would not come, but to tell you true, now that it has, I can hardly believe it.”
“You are not sorry?”
He put back his head and gave a short laugh. “You are the one who will be sorry, my love, if you try to put me off one more minute from what has always been mine since I first was swept under by that beautiful face. And, when I found there was a beautiful woman trapped behind the face, I was lost forever.”
“That is a strange way to put a compliment, Staff.”
“Shall we argue, then, love?” He pinched her arm gently and grinned down at her. “Here comes the priest.”
“Father Robert, milord and lady,” John Whitman said awkwardly.
The priest’s eyes showed recognition when he saw Mary. “Yes, I believe I remember that you passed through in the terrible summer of the sweat,” he said. “We spoke briefly, did we not?”
“Yes, father. I remember. You will marry us then?”
“Gladly, gladly. And, may I inquire if the lord and lady are from the court in London? You are from no family hereabouts and yet choose to be wed in little Banstead.”
The statement was a request for information about this curious wedding. Staff’s voice came in the stillness close beside her. “We are from London, father, and for sentimental reasons wish to be wed today. Will you comply?”
“Indeed. Then you will both vouch that there be no impediments to the union?”
“None, father.”
“And the lady?”
“None, father. My lord and I are both free to wed and will have it so.”
“Then, come, come, my children.” They strolled slowly up the narrow central aisle between the few chairs and benches which graced the very front of the vaulted church. The colored windows stained their clothes and faces in vibrant hues. “By what names shall you be called and registered?” Father Robert inquired quietly as he turned to face them holding his worn black prayer book.
“I am William Stafford and this is Mary, Lady Carey,” Staff told him before she could answer. Staff took her hand and faced the priest squarely.
“Then we shall begin,” the father said simply, and he began his recital in Latin.
Mary stared hard at the golden crucifix against his black garments. It looked like one her dear friend Mary Tudor had worn so long ago in France, but she must not think of that now. And it was not quite as heavy as the one which used to swing from the ample bosom of now-exiled Queen Catherine, who had been so kind to her when there was no need to be.
She turned her head and found Staff’s eyes warm upon her. She looked down at their clasped hands as he slipped the gold band on her finger. Of course, she would have to hide it somewhere. Not on a chain around her neck, for it would show with the low-cut gowns Anne had made quite the style at court. Poor bitter Anne had had her secret wedding too. But now she would bear the king a child and be safe no matter if his ardors cooled as they had toward Mary so long ago.
Staff leaned down to kiss her. They embraced each other and then the beaming Whitmans. It seemed like a dream. She was his wife and little Catherine had a loving father, though it might be months before she could be told. They could never take Staff away from her the way they had her firstborn, her pride and even her body. Now, now it was all hers to keep!
They signed the huge parish registry as lord and lady and sat in the tiny room which served as an office while Father Robert inked in their names on their official marriage parchment on a shaky table.
“I fear greatly for the holy church, my lord,” the priest said directly to Staff in an abrupt change from the small talk he had been pursuing. “Do you understand? Is there anything you could say to reassure me?”
“I am sorry, father,” Staff answered, looking directly at the pale man. “The latest act of Parliament forbidding direct appeals to Rome is only a first step. I am sorry, but you no doubt read the times rightly.”
“Yes,” he said only, and bent his head to his lettering. Then he added under his breath, “I have prayed that these terrible happenings might be an indication of our Lord’s Second Coming, but I fear our earthly king is only misguided and hardly the Antichrist. Is it true the one they call ‘The King’s Great Concubine’ has so besotted his soul that he would kill the Holy Church to keep her? Spanish Catherine is queen anointed and true church folk know it well.”
Mary gave a tiny gasp, and the priest’s eyes sought hers. “I am sorry, Lady Stafford. I did not know where your sympathies would lie, and I should not have spoken so. But I am only a priest of a small village and, therefore, I am not afraid to say what my soul would have me say.”
“You are fortunate then, indeed, Father Robert, and I wish you safety in the times ahead,” Staff said.