The Last Boleyn(146)

The walk to Anne’s chambers was not long, but it seemed an eternity. The time had come. Time always thrust things swiftly upon one and then one had to act. Time would bring her to the labor bed to birth Staff’s babe; time would bring Anne’s next child; time had brought death to a beloved friend; time had brought separation from Hever; time had brought a daughter who loved her father so much that she would carry his poor bloody head home in her lap.

Anne’s bedchamber was full of hovering Boleyns and, worst of all, the king was there and in a rage. Mary nearly fled in alarm, but the yeoman guards behind her had closed the door and stood against it. At least Staff would be here quickly when he did not find the king where he sought him. Only the impassive Cromwell is needed to complete this scene, Mary thought, but no one looked impassive here. She wrapped her pelisse protectively about her and lurched back against the wall as the suspended tableau before her exploded.

“Am I to understand, madam, that this entire trip where you had me prancing through Derby and Rutland and Shropshire was a cruel hoax, a deception?” The king’s ruddy face went increasingly livid as his voice rose. “No child! Am I to believe a woman who has borne a child and been pregnant yet again cannot tell when she is with child! You misread the signs? ’Sblood, madam, the whole thing has been a typical Boleyn trick. My people are right when they shout ‘Witch! Witch!’”

“Please, my lord, the signs were there. And if I am not with child, I can be soon again. Our trip was so wonderful, so placid and jovial and we...”

“And I touched you not and you were well content of it, madam, so how you plan to get with royal child is quite beyond me!”

“Does not the fact that the queen did not encourage Your Grace to bed her indicate that she truly believed she was with child and was afraid to harm her delicate condition?” Thomas Boleyn said low in the angry hush in the room.

Henry Tudor swung his great head toward the voice and glowered, but his quick mind was working and he hesitated.

“Indeed, my lord, that is true,” Anne said, “for it is only now the riding back to Whitehall brought on my monthly flow and all my hopes were crushed. I did not know, Your Grace. In my supreme joy to believe I was carrying your child again, I did not know. I am grief-stricken to my very soul.”

“And well you should be. I put off an important state visit to Calais for this...this charade!” He sat hard on the chair near Anne, but when she reached out to touch his shoulder, he recoiled.

“Are you certain the blood was not a miscarriage? You were not far pregnant?” he asked low, staring at her taut face.

“I am certain. I am sorry I have failed you, my dear lord. I will truly conceive now. You will see,” she said and forced a smile.

“Perhaps the rest without a child growing in her womb will lend the added strength necessary, Your Grace,” came Thomas Boleyn’s soothing voice again. “First a fine daughter—true Tudor indeed with her red-gold hair—and then a fine son.”

“I tell you this, madam,” the king said quietly, apparently ignoring Lord Boleyn’s words, “there had better be a son soon and a live one. I have a son in Henry Fitzroy and perhaps others, so lack of sons is no fault of mine.”

Mary’s pulse began to race at the implication of other unlawful sons the king could claim, and she glanced fearfully at her father’s rapt face. Evidently, they had not even noticed her entry, for their attention was all bent toward the center of their universe.

“So, indeed, if another child be lost, it is obvious where the fault—the sin—lies. I am going riding now. Eat with your own little court of Boleyns and Rochfords and Norfolks. I am tired of it all.”

He rose and his short purple cape swept in an arc behind his massive shoulders. His eyes bored into Mary’s wide azure ones as he approached the door.

“Your Grace,” came Anne’s well-modulated voice behind him, and he turned back to his audience as he stood near Mary. “I will do everything I can to ensure Your Grace a fine heir—as fine as Elizabeth in whom you rightly place such fatherly pride. I will do whatever Your Grace would bid, but I would ask one small favor from you in return.”

“Well?”

Anne glanced to her father’s worried face and then said quite clearly, “I would beg Your Grace to send my cousin Madge Shelton from court back to her parents in Essex. It bothers me to have her always about and not a friend to the queen much as other of my ladies who are not loyal to me.” She stood erect, poised, and faced the king across the endless space of rich Damascene carpet.

From where she stood behind him, Mary could see the sinews in his bull neck swell, and the muscles on his huge forearms seemed to jerk. She drew in a quick breath and braced herself against the wall.

“You may have been made queen, madam, but be confident that is no assurance you may tell your lord king how to behave. You will learn to bear such things, as...as your betters have done before you.”

The guards opened the double doors at the king’s approach, and Mary moved from the wall to keep from being crushed. The king nearly collided with her and put his hands out to roughly move her from his path. Staff’s face appeared in the whirl somewhere over the king’s shoulder as his strong hands set Mary back into the room.

“You see, madam,” the king ground out to Anne through clenched teeth, “your sister bears live sons. Look to her example. Stafford, come with me.”