The Last Boleyn(140)

Mary flounced out her skirts and hoped Lady Wingfield would not notice the tiny pulls in the materials from the mad spinning against the rose vines. She raised her hand to Nancy as the two women caught sight of her strolling toward them.

“I was trying to call loudly for you, my lady,” Nancy assured her with a conspiratory wink.

“Thank you, girl,” Lady Wingfield cut in. “You did indeed know where your mistress likes to walk in the afternoons. Lady Rochford, the queen is calling for you and unless you come quickly with me, the others will bear the brunt of her temper.”

“Then we shall go directly, Lady Wingfield. Do you know the cause of the summons?”

They hurried across the spring gardens, somehow changed by the fact that Mary had to go back to Anne’s dark, vaulted room where she had only two weeks ago borne the dead child.

“The cause, lady? Hurt, and vile temper, and fear, but I beg you, do not tell the queen or the little Rochford I said so.”

Mary glanced at the sweet-faced, gray-haired matron as they climbed the stairs. “No, lady, I will not tell her that her dear companion can see things clearly.”

“I know you do also, Lady Rochford,” the woman whispered to Mary as they wended their way among the small crowd outside the queen’s chambers. “You are somehow different from the others.”

“’Sbones, where have you been hiding, Mary?” came Anne’s sharp voice from the depths of the bed, even before Mary could see her pinched white face staring out at them all.

“In the gardens, Your Grace. I did not know you would be requiring me again or I would not have strayed.”

“Dreaming you were home at Hever, I suppose. Well, you had best stay closer in the future. As it is, both father and I wish to speak with you.”

A tiny knot twisted in Mary’s stomach. She and her father had hardly been on speaking terms this last year since she had argued with him about his secret visits to her son at Hatfield. He had even taken to sending Cromwell as go-between if he wished to ask her a question or give an order.

“Sit here on the bed, sister,” Anne motioned with a slender jeweled hand. “I get rather dizzy with everyone standing about or moving around the room all the time.”

Mary sat gently on the foot of the bed. Anne’s body had fully healed from her miscarriage, but she seemed unwilling to rise from her bed despite what the doctors said.

“First, I would have some of the truth, and I know I will not get it from the simpering faces around me. Jane Rochford tells me—at my insistence—that my husband the king has been visiting others at night. I know that if he is seeing them at night, he is bedding them. I have long known there are various court ladies who are greedy little sluts enough to let him do as he will. Is that true, what Jane says? Is it come to that already? Tell me, Mary, for I would know. Cromwell, father and George are lying to me. Is it true?”

“I seldom see the king, sister, as you know. And I am not there to see...”

“Is it true, Mary? You may not be there but Stafford is about, and I know you two still see each other. Well?”

Mary held her breath, then let the words out in a rush. “I have heard that your information is correct, Your Grace.”

“Then I must arise and get my strength back. Father is planning something drastic and it does not include me. I must get my looks and laughter back and then we shall see who holds this king! I can conceive again, Mary. This child was ill-formed and it was not my fault. They whisper I am the cause of it, but it is not—it cannot—be true. They say I bewitched him and my sixth tiny finger shows that I am a witch!” Her voice broke and Mary pressed her thin hand between her own.

“Who has told you these vile rumors, Anne? Jane Rochford?”

Ignoring her question and comforting touch, Anne plunged on, “The Boleyns have fine healthy children like Elizabeth, like your Henry and Catherine. I shall have another—a boy!” The queen struggled to the edge of the bed and dangled her legs still under the sheets. “No, get back all of you and leave us for a while. My sister will help me. Rochford and Lady Wingfield may stay. Everyone else, leave me!

“Here, Mary, let me lean on you. In a week I shall be back with him and there shall be no more fly-by-night whores in his bed. I shall get the names and if any of them are my ladies, they will be banished.” Anne’s eyes refocused on Mary’s worried face and she seemed to calm somewhat. “Here now, sister, I had something to tell you of your little Harry. His Grace is sending Elizabeth in style with a full household of her own to be raised at Hatfield, so Henry Fitzroy and your son will be sent elsewhere for their tutoring.”

Anne rose with Mary’s help and walked a few unsteady steps. “Really, Mary, do not look so distraught. You must not expect the lad to stay with Fitzroy much longer anyway, since Bessie Blount’s illegitimate son is older and should be sent to the law courts soon. Your Harry is only nephew to the king by marriage.”

“Yes, Your Grace, I understand. Where will he be sent?”

“I am not certain. Cromwell is deciding a good place. I cannot fathom that I could feel so exhausted from but a few steps.”

“Cromwell? Cannot you decide, Your Grace?”

“Yes, of course the final decision is mine. Cromwell only works for me, you know.”

“Rather like, he serves the king,” Mary replied before she could stop her thoughts.