The Last Boleyn(157)
“How dare he talk to her that way after he chased her like a lustful bull all those years!” Mary said vehemently. “Witchcraft! Does he take his cues from the ignorant common folk who spit at her on the day she was crowned and shouted ‘witch! witch!’? How dare he!”
Cromwell leaned forward, one elbow on his knee as though to observe her passionate outburst more closely. “It is well known, despite the fact the queen tries to hide it, lady, that she does have a tiny sixth finger on one hand—the devil’s mark folk would have claimed years ago.”
“Master Cromwell, if my lord and I thought you believed this horrible rubbish for one moment, we would have to ask you to leave our home no matter how kind you have been to us over the years.”
Cromwell smiled and slowly held up a palm as if to ward off her anger. “Please, sweet lady, calm yourself. I am here on a personal mission to help your sister and to fulfill a request she has made of me. The king hunts winter boar at Eltham and does not know I am on the queen’s errand. Will you listen further now?”
Mary only nodded, but Staff’s eyes bored into Cromwell’s face, and he held tight to Mary’s hands.
“Whether or not people believe the rumors of witchcraft from a foolish and greedy court is not my concern. My duty is to serve my master the king, and therefore, what the king wishes, I must enact. But I owe the Boleyns much, for it was through acquiring the great divorce that I first came to serve the king. And, then too, your father has helped me quite as much as I have helped him over the years.”
An involuntary icy shudder shot through Mary’s body, and Staff put one arm around her shoulders. Cromwell watched her closely as he spoke.
“The queen has begged me to fetch you to her at Greenwich. She promises you your safety and prays you will come to her in her great hour of need. She bid me tell you that time is slipping fast away, and she would see your sweet face. She asks you to trust me as her messenger, for she was afraid to send anyone whom you might not believe. George and her closest allies—Norris, Weston, and Brereton—must stick close to the king at Eltham, of course.”
“When does the king return to Greenwich, then, Master Cromwell?” came Staff’s low voice in the jumble of Mary’s thoughts.
“He is quite erratic these days. I cannot promise you he would not suddenly return. He has taken to staging elaborate masques and jousts even though the weather be biting chill, so he may be back to Greenwich soon on a whim. In short, I do not know. But the queen has great need of you and no one else can comfort, it seems. Surely the Lady Mary would be quite safe going for a brief visit to her royal sister.”
“I go with her, Cromwell. You would understand that?”
“Of course. It is good to have a larger party on these roads in the winter.”
“And the queen would have to understand that my home is here with my husband and the two children I raise. I could not stay. Would you tell her that?”
“Yes, lady. Be assured.”
“Then, shall I see Nancy and begin to pack, my lord?” She looked up at Staff’s impassive face. He continued to stare unblinkingly at Cromwell.
“Yes. Fine. And I shall stay behind now with Master Cromwell. He needs a small tour of Wivenhoe before we eat an early supper and retire to rest for the journey. Nancy must stay behind with Andrew, of course.”
Mary rose shakily. Her knees felt terribly weak as though she had ridden clear to London in a hard saddle already. As she left the parlor, she heard Staff say to Cromwell, “Tell the rest of it to me now, Thomas. I would know it all or the queen’s sister stays here with me and you return quite alone.” She halted in the dim hall and held her breath. The terrible secrets of her parents’ argument so long ago while she eavesdropped at Hever came back to her hauntingly.
“The rest of it, Stafford?”
“Though you do not say so, I sense this is your last favor for the poor queen. You feel you owe her a little something and this is the final payoff.”
“Really, Stafford, you read in far too much. The queen, whom I have served so faithfully as adjunct to the king, desperately wishes to see her sister. Exactly why, I am not certain, for she would not say.”
“But we know whom you will serve next week or next month if he decides to rid himself of her. It is obvious there could be no divorce. This queen would not be shuffled off to some deserted country house with few servants or permanently forbidden to see her daughter. How will you manage it for him, Cromwell, since your very being will depend on it?”
“Anne Boleyn is still Queen of England, Lord Stafford and, as king’s chief minister, I cannot listen to such insinuations. Will you show me your charming Wivenhoe or shall I only await our early morning departure in my room? I have brought dispatches and parchments to tend to.”
“I will show you the little farm I love, Master Cromwell. I will show it to you so that you may think on its peace and security when someday you shall need such as the poor, desperate queen does now.”
Mary darted toward the kitchen as she heard the chair scrape on the floor, for the sudden plans meant much work for her and the servants. She nearly stumbled over Andrew’s blocks of wood strewn about the red-bricked entryway as she hurried away from Cromwell’s droning voice.
The last part of their journey to the court at Greenwich was by horse barge, which Cromwell had arranged to wait for them under London Bridge in the City. Through occasional flakes of snow, Mary stared up at the stony supports of the bridge and remembered that this was where the brave Meg Roper had retrieved her father’s head. It was still mild for February and the only river ice was the brittle, fragile kind which clung to the shallow shoals near the banks. The gray Tower glided coldly past and massive Greenwich appeared from behind the bare arms of the trees. The memories staggered her: she had come here as Will’s bride; here the king had first seduced her; here Staff had first kissed her; here Staff had proved to her his undying love when they had returned from Plashy. Here...