The Last Boleyn(148)

For once Anne was speechless. Her dark eyes glittered then narrowed. “After all I have done for you,” she said low, “you dare to repay me this way? Your son well cared for with a fine allowance and tutor by my hand. I went to father to get you enough money to replace the rags on your back after Will Carey died and, you dare—you dare—to wed the rebel with the farmlands at God-forsaken Wivenhoe, wherever that may be?”

“His Grace has long favored Lord Stafford, and he has served the king well. The Bullens have only risen so high recently by hanging on your skirts, sister. I feel I am eminently suited in class and birth to be Lady Stafford.”

“You damn fool! Mary, I have loved you, but you were always a fool. George’s marriage was one thing. That was long before the Boleyns—not the Bullens any longer, remember, Mary—ascended. George’s marriage was one thing, but this from you? You could have at least had a duke. Norris has always favored you.”

Jane Rochford’s voice interrupted. “I think Norris favors your cousin Madge Shelton now, though his competition is somewhat stiff. I applaud Mary’s backbone. Stafford always was a handsome stud and he is obviously wild for Mary. I cannot wait until Lord Boleyn hears the news.”

“Get out of my sight, you she-ass,” Anne screamed, turning to throw the empty goblet at Jane. “Bray your gossip in someone else’s ear. Go! Never set foot in the queen’s rooms again!”

Jane darted sideways to miss the flying goblet and was nearly out the door as the metal vessel thudded to the floor. She almost collided with Staff, who looked immensely relieved to see that the curses and goblet were directed at Jane and not Mary.

“Confession time all around is it not, George?” Anne said over her shoulder as she saw Staff on the threshold.

Staff strode in and bowed low. He dared to stand only several feet from the seething Anne while Mary stood her ground farther away. “Your Grace, Mary has told you of our news? I have told the king.”

“And?”

“And, to put it true and blunt, Your Grace, we have his reluctant blessing.”

“I wish he had sent you to The Tower as well I may yet, Stafford. However did you manage his blessing at all? He favors you, I know, but I would wager his motive is intended to be more punitive toward father and me—a sign that the Boleyns cannot rise so far as they think to rise.”

“That was my assessment of his reaction exactly, Your Grace.”

Anne took a step closer to Staff, and he stood stock-still towering over her. “You always did tell the blatant truth, Stafford. What I like best about you is that you are the only one I know who can somehow keep the king off balance—now that I no longer have the power to do so, that is. That is what amuses me, Stafford. You have always had some kind of power over him where there was none given.”

“I have been and always will be full loyal to the king and he knows that well.”

“Really? It seems to me this clever little marriage move on your part shows you are quite the rebel still, my lord. But a rebel who favors gentle game. Too bad. Too bad. Did His Grace say anything else?” she probed.

“I spoke to him of my love for Mary, Your Grace. There is quite a romantic in him under all the gross power.”

“Oh, yes. I remember well his version of romance. Letters, lockets, passionate vows, promises of eternal love. But there is no such thing. It is all another of the world’s lies.”

“Eternal? Maybe not, sister,” Mary said, coming to stand by Staff’s side, “but quite enough for a whole lifetime as far as I can see.”

“And now I shall ask you the next touchy question, Lord and Lady Stafford. Why have you now decided to tell us this? Why have you tarried so long? Did you ask His Grace to let you go to live at your country farm because you are sick to death of the reeking atmosphere of the palace and my marriage or, indeed, was there another compelling cause?”

“I did ask His Grace that he let us retire to Wivenhoe.”

“Say on.”

“He said we might go for a time, but he could not spare us permanently. I was grateful for that much.”

“And, further?” Anne prodded, her voice nearly breaking as her tone rose dangerously. She stared hard at Mary and her clear brow creased into a severe frown.

“Yes, sister,” Mary said quietly, standing tall beside her husband, but not reaching to touch his arm for support as she longed to do. “Yes, I am carrying a child.”

Anne whirled away and yanked a tall-backed chair after her so that it spun crazily toward the stunned George. A sob tore her throat and she swung her fist, catching Staff on the jaw. He stood stock-still until Anne recoiled and sprang toward Mary. “Let me see your sin!” she screamed, clawing at Mary. Both George and Staff darted forward. Mary sprang back behind Staff, whose strong arms went around Anne before George could reach them. He held her to his chest as she thrashed, screamed, and sobbed.

“How dare you!” she cried over and over against his shirt. “It is not fair! Damn you both!”

“No, it is not fair, Your Grace, and I am sorry for that,” Staff said gently against her raven hair as Mary and George stood still on either side of them. “You deserve another child, Your Grace, and surely you shall have one. If not, you have a beautiful and clever Tudor daughter who is pure English unlike the Spanish Catherine’s girl. Keep calm. Do not be afraid and all can yet be well.”