The Last Boleyn(153)
“Yes, we do. Is that the nature of your business here, to tell us we are to lose our last line to the court?”
“No, of course not. I wanted mostly to see you and know how you are faring. It is a small manor, but a productive one, I would judge.”
“Do not try to put me off, George. I have been around longer than you and know how things go. Did Cromwell or father send you? I cannot dare to hope it was Anne.”
“I am sorry, Mary. It was not Anne. Truly, Cromwell sends his fondest greetings. Do you actually trust Cromwell, then?”
“My Lord Stafford is not such an innocent to trust Cromwell, but they have made some sort of bargain to work together it would seem. George, will you carry a letter I have written to him? We usually wait until he sends a messenger and then just return a note with the man.”
“I shall take it back for you. You alone wrote this letter? Is it secret?”
“Not secret, but I want him, and anyone he would care to tell, to know what it is really like for me now. Anne has not forgiven me, and I am grieved for that, but I regret nothing. It is there on the mantel. If you will get it, I will read you a part. Thank you. I do not want it to be secret, George. It is my letter to the world, if you would call it that.”
She began to read from the parchment, “You see, Master Cromwell, the world sets little store by me and My Lord Stafford, and I have freely chosen to live a simple, honest life with him. Still, we do wish to regain the favor of the king and queen. For well I might have had a greater man of birth and a higher, but I assure you I could never have had one that loved me so well, nor a more honest man. I had rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest queen christened. And I believe verily he would not forsake me even to be a king.”
“I should like a copy of that, love,” came Staff’s voice behind her chair. “It is most beautiful and likely to be wasted on the silly ears at court.” He leaned over her chair and kissed her on the cheek. “George, you are welcome here to Wivenhoe. Did you come to see if you are an uncle again?”
They shook hands warmly, and Staff sat on the hearth bench near Mary’s chair. He had been working hard at something, for his hair was windblown and there was rich, dark mud on his boots. “Then you have a message?” Staff’s eyes bored into George’s wary ones.
“I think you are the sort of man with whom it is best to come straight to the point, Staff,” George ventured.
“And I think you will find that your sister is that sort of woman, George. Say on, but realize that anything which concerns Mary is now of utmost importance to me.”
“Yes, of course. I bear a request from father.”
“He could not come himself?” Mary asked sharply.
“Hush, love,” Staff said. “Do not goad George, for he is only the messenger, not Thomas Boleyn incarnate.”
“Things are as bad as I am sure Cromwell has told you,” George began slowly. “Anne does not conceive of another royal child, although the king has bedded her off and on all summer. He goes from mistress to mistress as he has long done, but father fears that he is increasingly under the influence of one lady and her rapacious family.”
“Jane Seymour still,” Mary thought aloud. “Does she still hold him off? Then it would seem she has taken her ambitions and tactics from the queen.”
“Exactly, Mary. That is exactly what father says. The Boleyns must hold the king, pull him from the Seymours until Anne bears the heir. Or, if she cannot, father fears Elizabeth will never get to the throne. It will be the bastard Fitzroy or...” His words hung in the air, and Mary feared as she had long ago learned to do when father sought her help. Staff and Mary said nothing and George cleared his throat.
“Sister, do you not remember how the king referred to you as the woman who bore live sons the day he discovered Anne was not really with child and they argued so terribly?”
“Yes. I remember. It was an awful scene. If this has to do with my son Harry, George, tell father to forget it. The king knows well, and has for some time, that the lad is not his flesh and blood.” She rose awkwardly to her feet. “Father’s secret trips to Hatfield to fill the boy’s head with dreams were quite wasted. Whatever he is thinking, the answer is no. No, no, no!”
Staff rose to stand beside her and rubbed her shoulders as if to tell her to keep calm. “I am fine, my lord, truly,” she assured him, but her voice quavered.
“I think you are wrong, sister,” George pressed on. “I have seen the boy a few months ago. He looks Tudor through and through.”
Mary took a step toward George, ignoring Staff’s gentle touch trying to push her back to her seat. “He is a Carey through and through! He resembles Will Carey!”
“Then that just goes to show how people can disagree over it, but not be certain, sister. The lad is tall and healthy and clever, and Fitzroy is skinny and often weakly. His Grace will leap at the chance to declare Harry his own, if only you will say so.”
“Mary,” Staff’s voice came low at her, but she could not stop the flow of feelings.
“I will not keep calm and be silent, my lord. I cannot!” She tried not to shout, but she could not control her voice. “Tell your father that Harry is William Carey’s son and would have been his heir if His Grace had not taken the boy’s lands and birthright and given them to his love Anne Boleyn and his henchman Cromwell.”