The Last Boleyn(142)

“Anne?”

“Yes?”

“You might talk with Cromwell about not sending Harry too far away. He should have some companion to be educated with. I would not have him be a solitary monk.”

“All right. We have a bargain, but you might tell Cromwell yourself, you know. He much covets your good will. Hurry, Mary. Then come right back and tell me.”

Mary assumed she would find her father in his massive suite just down the hall. He had spread his secretaries and clerks out into George’s room too, now that George was appointed Commander of the Cinque Ports and spent much time at his new gift of Beaulieu Castle ninety miles from London. It was just like a party for Anne when their brother returned from each trip or mission. If only George were here now, he could calm Anne and help her to regain her strength.

Cromwell and Jane sailed out of the door to Lord Boleyn’s rooms as Mary approached. Cromwell doffed his black velvet hat and stood firm in his tracks to bow to her. Mary managed a smile, for she sensed that this cold, square-shaped man could be of more help than harm to her in the days to come. He wielded much power with both the king and queen, and she and Staff would need every ally they could muster when they told them of their marriage and the babe.

“You were just going to see your father, Lady Rochford?” Cromwell always put his statements in ominous-sounding questions, Mary had long noted.

“Yes, Master Cromwell. And you are going to see the queen?”

He smiled and his eyes went quickly over her as they always did, though she no longer trembled at the possibility that he would take the next step of intimately touching her. “Perhaps I shall be back to see you while you are still closeted with Lord Boleyn, then,” he said smoothly. “The queen’s interviews last briefly lately, though I am certain she will make every effort to be up and about now the lovely spring is here. I see you have been strolling the gardens.”

Her face showed surprise. Had he seen them? Had his spies reported to him already?

“You have ripped your gown on a briar and have grass marks on your slippers, lady,” he explained. “If only I did not have to work so hard inside the palace, I would love to accompany you outside sometime. We could discuss where your son Henry shall be transferred on our walk perhaps? Good day. Lady Jane?” He nodded to Mary and swept off down the hall with Jane Rochford in his smooth wake.

Mary knocked on the door, wondering why the guards were not about. If only she could see Staff before she walked into this lion’s den, she would feel more secure. Yet, she was stronger now. She was changed. Surely, she did not love her father and could stand up to anything he dared to propose.

Both guards and a messenger stood with her father at his huge desk when another man opened the door for her. He did not see her until she approached several steps, wondering if his alert eyes would also discover she had been walking in the gardens.

“Mary, come and sit. These men were just leaving.” He shooed them away and seated her. She felt, with great alarm, the deep irrational happiness which always bubbled to the surface when he centered his attentions on her.

No, she thought distinctly to herself. Protect yourself. Do not trust his mask of smiles and love.

“We have hardly talked lately,” he began. “You have been such a help to Anne in the loss of this second child. I was about to send for her mother, but I think she is snapping out of it a bit.”

“Yes. I have just seen her and I am certain of it. She wants to get her strength back, and I am sure she will soon. When His Grace sees her smiling again, she will be back in his good will soon enough.”

“Let us be realistic about that, Mary. The light for her has gone out of his eyes. I have seen it happen before.”

“Yes, father. So have I.”

His eyes narrowed nervously. “Yes. Well, we must do everything to see that Anne at least has other opportunities to bear the Tudor son who will rule after His Grace, whatever his relationship may be to her in the future.”

Mary sat stock-still and stared at him until he glanced down at his folded hands. “His Grace, as you may or may not know, daughter, has been on a bull’s rampage bedding court ladies since the unfortunate loss of this second child. The women are all without principle and would hope to lure the king away from his rightful wife.”

“In other words, father, nothing ever changes.”

“Hush and listen, Mary. This is serious business for the Boleyns—and that includes you and your two children.”

“Will Carey’s and my two children.”

“We will not argue that again, girl.” He stood and began to pace back and forth before the oriel window which flooded the room with warm light and cast his shadow across Mary as he passed. “He can stud as many of the little bitches as he wants for all I care, but there is one different, one who threatens. Anne has her here as lady-in-waiting now at His Grace’s request, though I do not think Anne suspects her at all.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“That simpering, smiling Jane Seymour from Wolf Hall in Wiltshire. Her family is full of overprotective brothers and so far she refuses the king and that can breed disaster as we have all seen. Now, either Jane Seymour must be eliminated, or the king must be lured away. Do you follow me?”

“Cannot Anne send the little Seymour back to Wolf Hall?”

“I fear that would be a foolish move. It would be like taking the target away from the king at butts or breaking his favorite tennis racquet. The repercussion might be, well, unpleasant.”