The Last Boleyn(156)

She smiled at his familiar impudence. Yes, she was thrilled with the child, guilt over Anne or not, for her sister may be now lost to her forever. But she was so tired and she must sleep before the babe woke again to demand feeding. If she heard the stairs creak she would not fear at Wivenhoe for the atmosphere was free and good. If only she could smother her desperate thoughts, then only outside the sanctuary of the manor and Staff’s encircling love would there be real ghosts to fear.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


February 2, 1536


Wivenhoe Manor

Mary’s two-year calm at Wivenhoe raising her son and daughter and being the beloved wife of one of the shire’s leading landowners was shattered quite suddenly one mild winter afternoon as the icicles on the eaves dripped in random beats upon the sodden flower beds. The crisp note from Master Cromwell brought by the usual messenger said only that the king’s chief minister himself would arrive by noon on the morrow with important news. Mary showed the note to Staff, who had scooped up the toddling Andrew in his arms the instant he had entered the parlor.

“Master Cromwell himself,” Staff said coldly and handed the crisp paper back to Mary. “I do not think we can hope that he merely desires a respite in the country.”

“Now that the queen is with child again, maybe she forgives us and wants us to come back.”

“I doubt it,” Staff said, grinning at the delighted Andrew as he bounced the child on his knee. “She is barely three months pregnant. Forgiveness might come after an heir is birthed, but probably not before.” He turned his head toward Mary’s concerned face. “Do you still grieve so much over Anne’s cursing you when we left? You have not mentioned it for a long while, and I had hoped you had come to terms with it. If the queen wishes to see you, would you go?”

“I would like to see her, Staff, but I would not wish to stay. Wivenhoe is my home. And I would not venture to court without you, even to visit.”

“Especially not with that dark raven Cromwell in tow, you would not.”

“I thought you and he had a bargain these past years.”

“The bargain is there and well enough kept on both sides, I think, but that does not mean I do not see the man clearly.”

“Yes—‘to see things clearly,’ Master da Vinci tried to tell me that in France ages ago.”

He eyed her strangely and forgot to bounce Andrew until the child began to shout, “Horse, horse, papa!”

“You had best tell Brennan and Nancy then, sweetheart, for he will surely bring several men and we must ask him to stay the night.”

“Yes.” She turned back to him at the doorway. “Perhaps the queen has finally remembered her promise to have Catherine educated with the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield.”

“I doubt if Cromwell tromps clear out to Wivenhoe for that tidbit, Mary. No, I think we had better brace ourselves and try to hang on to all we hold dear together.”

Mary hurried toward the kitchens to find Brennan and Nancy as Staff began to bounce their sandy-haired toddler on his knee.



“Motherhood and fresh country air has enhanced your beauty, Lady Stafford,” Cromwell said as he bent low over her hand.

“Motherhood and Wivenhoe have quite enhanced my happiness at any rate, Master Cromwell,” she answered calmly.

“Stafford, as always, you look in charge of life,” the stocky man observed as they escorted him into the parlor for wine and fresh cheese. “A lovely retreat,” he said as his eyes swept the room.

“A retreat in a way, Cromwell, but a home indeed. Mary and I have no wish to permanently return to court,” Staff said, immediately on the offensive against the smug, closed face of the king’s closest advisor.

“Then we must all hope that will not be necessary, Lord Stafford. But I do bring very sad news that needs a warm response from the queen’s sister.”

“Sad news? Is Anne all right? Not the babe!” Mary’s voice came in a strangled tone.

“Yes, tragically, the queen has miscarried of her child, and...”

“No, no, it cannot be!” Mary shrieked and Staff bent over her with his crushingly strong arms around her shoulders.

Cromwell’s small, piercing eyes drank in the emotional scene. “I am sorry, lady, but there was no gentle way to give you that news. It seems the early delivery was brought on by a wretched accident to His Grace. In the queen’s fifteenth week, the king was riding in heavy armor in the lists at Greenwich. When he became unhorsed by an opponent, his stallion fell full weight on him. The court was paralyzed with fear, for he lay unconscious for nearly two hours and we thought he might die.”

Mary sat away from Staff’s chest now, her teary eyes fixed on Cromwell’s face. “When your Uncle Norfolk carried the tragic news to the queen she went into premature labor and was delivered of a dead child. It would have been a son.”

“Then God help us all,” Staff murmured and Mary could not find the words to say anything.

“When His Grace recovered and heard of the dead son, he stalked into the queen’s chambers and screamed that...”

“Yes, Cromwell, we can quite imagine what His Grace might have said,” Staff cut in.

“Ah, of course. And that terrible scene took place on the very day that the Princess of Wales, Catherine of Aragon, was buried. The king had previously found Queen Anne and her ladies cavorting dressed in gayest yellow when they had heard of her death at Kimbolton, and he blamed the queen for witchcraft after she lost their son. He has told many courtiers it was God’s judgment on him for being so bewitched all of these years.”