The Last Boleyn(158)

“Mary, are you all right?” Staff’s voice came low in her ear.

“Yes, my love. All right when I know you are near.”

“I shall be, Mary. You will have to go to the queen alone, but I shall be near.”

Cromwell hurried them along the path toward the queen’s wing. “Will we see her immediately, Master Cromwell?” Mary questioned, suddenly realizing it was all rushing too fast toward her.

“I shall first announce that you are here, Lady Stafford, while you and your lord take a moment’s respite and have some heated wine.”

“Will my father be about, by chance, Master Cromwell? I did not come to see him.”

“I realize that, lady. Do not worry. He sticks close to the king these days and is at Eltham.”

“And Jane Seymour?”

“Seymour, lady?”

“Yes. Is she at Eltham, too?”

“I believe she was invited and declined. She is at Wolf Hall with her family and will not be back until the king acknowledges he will insist no more on her forbidden affections. She seems to be quite the Boleyn ally lately.”

“Hardly that! I am no wench new brought to court, Master Cromwell. That only means she plays for high stakes and you and my lord know it well enough. Do not think I am so untutored.”

“I apologize, Lady Stafford. It is seldom that such a stunning woman thinks in a—well, in a political way. I see you have learned to do so.” He opened a door. “In here. Rest by the fire and ask my man for whatever refreshment you would have. I shall return shortly.”

They took off their cloaks. Cromwell’s servant poured them wine and scraped the mud from their boots. “Can you not feel it, my lord?” she said low to Staff as they sat before the blazing hearth.

Behind the servant’s back, Staff held a quick finger to his lips and shook his head. “Feel what, sweetheart?” he inquired smoothly.

“Well, just how familiar it all is.” She had wanted to tell him how the palace was oppressive and terrifying to her. How the very walls and heavy tapestries smothered her after the plain stucco and rough beamed walls of Wivenhoe. But, indeed, Staff was right to urge caution. Cromwell was well known for his spies, and she and Staff had talked late last night planning how careful they must be if they chose to walk among the snares of Cromwell and the court in such unhappy times.

Cromwell was back almost immediately. “Her Grace is ecstatic that you have come and awaits you now, Lady Stafford. Will you follow me? Your lord can be summoned from here if the queen wishes it.”

Mary touched Staff on the shoulder as she followed Cromwell from the room. The strength she sought, the love she would give in this interview would be her own, nurtured by sanctuary at Wivenhoe, but it would come from her dear husband too.

Only Lady Wingfield was in attendance on the queen when Mary entered the chamber, and Anne dismissed her with a wave of her hand. How barren the room looked without the familiar clusters of ladies sewing or talking. Not even the ever-present musician Smeaton sat on table or chair or the corner of the queen’s vast bed as he often had before. Surely the king would not dare to diminish the queen’s household in his anger, nor would Anne’s temper make them all desert her in her hours of need.

“Sister. Mary. Come here. I am so happy you have come to see me. It has been long.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed to pierce the dimness of Anne’s curtained bed. The drapes of the room had been drawn and several candles burning low littered the huge table next to the bed.

“Sit, sit here with me so I might see you. You are not changed, not at all changed, Mary.”

“I am changed inside, Your Grace. And I am much grieved to hear of the lost child, sister.”

“Speak not of that. It is over. It is all over now.” Anne looked thin and her face was long with dark shadows under each almondshaped eye. How those eyes used to dance with flirtation and fire, Mary remembered. She took Anne’s delicate hand in her own warm ones.

“I was so happy that you sent to see me, Your Grace. I have missed you these two years and have thought of you often and prayed for—for your happiness.”

“God is not answering Boleyn prayers lately, Mary, though I thank you for your loving words. And will you not call me Anne today? George does when we are alone. He told me of your child and your home. I made him tell me all about you. It sounds rather like a little Hever there, but then you would like that.”

“Yes, Anne. I do like it.”

“And you are very, very content there with Stafford? And he loves you still?”

The pitiful eagerness of Anne’s voice and face frightened Mary. This kindness, this desperate reach for love was somehow more terrible than the ranting and raving she remembered and feared. A single tear traced its lone path down Mary’s cheek.

“Yes, I know. Do not be afraid to tell me. You have a man who truly loves you and two sons besides. I have accepted it all now, Mary. Do not be afraid to be here.”

“You have Elizabeth, Anne, and Cromwell says she is beautiful and His Grace loves her well.”

“He can hardly help loving her, for she is clever-witted and as red-haired as himself. But daughters do not really count in the royal scheme of things, so that is that. Princess Elizabeth will live and die a princess if the king has anything to do with it. But now, here, you and I have some business to take care of before we just enjoy talking. Can you fetch me that document right there? I am guilty of long neglecting members of my family who need my love in return for the good service they have always rendered me.”