The Last Boleyn(161)

“I would certainly have told Your Grace if the child was yours. I would have told you long ago, for the boy’s sake and yours, Sire.” She held her breath and stared deep into his eyes. She must convince him now, before he somehow cast the Boleyns adrift forever and kept her son to please his own vanity and passion for a live and healthy son as he had done long ago with poor Bessie Blount’s boy. If he ever guessed the lad could as easily be his as Will’s and that only Staff knew that truth, he might throw caution to the winds and keep Harry as his own.

“That is as I thought,” he said finally. “I tried once to reckon it back to see if we had bedded then, and we had. But I was much about with others then and Carey was home those months, and, too, you would have told me.”

“Yes, Sire. I was with Will and you were much about with others then.”

“I will not have your recriminations, though you were always more sweet and understanding than your sister. Her recriminations are unending.”

“I meant no recrimination, Sire.”

“And now you have another son by Stafford?”

“Yes. Andrew,” she offered in the empty silence.

“Why were you not the Boleyn who held out, Mary, instead of that sour and bitter sister of yours? Well, what is past is well past. You were well worth the bargain before all these—these complications set in.” He rose, and in one step towered over her and pulled her to her feet, trapped between him and the table and her chair.

He placed his huge hands on either side of her head and stared down at her alarmed face. “You will bear no sons for Henry Tudor, Mary, but some lovely lass shall, as sweet and fair as yourself. Take that rebel husband of yours and be gone on the morrow, for I do not want you about the queen and her people. You will thank me later for that. Go and hide your pretty head at Colchester and bear him sons, but do not forget that once you belonged to your king.” His face was almost touching hers and his hot breath smelled of cloves and mace. “Go from this room now or I shall take my first sweet revenge on the Boleyns in a way I had never dreamed. Sweet, sweet revenge. But, then, I have no quarrel with your Lord Stafford.” Still he held her head in a vise-like grip, staring down at her, his mouth poised inches from hers.

“Please, Your Grace.”

“Yes, go on before I force you to that bed and we relive our first night together here, so long ago. Do you remember?” He bent to kiss her lips, but she wrenched away and backed off in a half curtsey.

“As you ordered, Sire, I shall be going.” Her voice sounded choked and she wobbled on her legs. Still facing him, she pulled the door latch. “I shall remember you to Lord Stafford,” she heard herself say. “He will always be your loyal servant even as I shall.”

He stood staring at her, somehow suspended between anger and awe. She tried to force a smile but could not. Gripping her purse strings in her cramped fingers, she turned in the hall and saw George and Staff hurrying toward her, far down the corridor. Ignoring the anxious faces of Weston and Norris, she walked unsteadily toward Staff.



Though she and Staff had decided they could not gainsay the king to stay beyond the next day, they went with Anne and her entourage to the joust the next morning planning to leave directly from the tiltfields on their awaiting and packed horses. Norris and George were to be part of the joust, as was the king. They were settled in their seats only a moment when one of Anne’s servants elbowed through the press of people and whispered something in the queen’s ear. Anne’s face went stark white, and she motioned Weston to her side. Mary sat next to the queen and Staff was on his wife’s other side, so Mary could hear the desperate words clearly.

“It is of Smeaton, Your Grace, as you had asked,” the girl whispered, her wild eyes darting to Mary’s face behind the queen’s.

“Yes, Joan. Did they find him? Where has the rogue been?”

“He went to Master Cromwell’s to dine yesterday after Cromwell returned with your sister. Then Smeaton disappeared.”

“Mark Smeaton was asked to dine at Cromwell’s?” Anne’s hand grasped the girl’s wrist in a cruel grip. “There is more! Tell me the rest!”

The girl’s face turned pouty and she began to whimper. “Stop that and tell me, or I will have you thrown under the horses!” Anne hissed at her. “And keep your voice down.”

“Cromwell’s men took the poor boy to The Tower late at night. A guard was bribed to admit that Cromwell was questionin’ the poor boy under torture, Your Grace.”

“Torture? Sweet, gentle Smeaton? Thinking he will tell them what? Oh, go on! Be gone and hold your tongue.” Weston looked almost green with fear. Anne turned to Mary’s wide-eyed stare and saw that Staff had heard too. “Did you mark that? Cromwell is desperate indeed if he has to hurt my little lutenist to get information of my supposed spying or plotting or whatever His Grace is so desperately trying to concoct. But a desperate Cromwell is dangerous, and bears close watching.”

The king sat encased in armor on his huge destrier at the end of the field, and Anne waved bravely to him as though they were the most intimate of lovers. He merely nodded and, as they turned to watch George in the first matchup, Mary’s eye caught her father, who had just seated himself behind them. He was so much older, older than the two years that had passed since she had last seen him.