CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

October 14, 1531

Whitehall Palace

Mary could hear Anne’s piercing laughter before the guard even swung wide the door for her. “She screamed for me to bring you, lady,” Nancy panted at her elbow as they rushed down the hall. “They are all there and everyone is laughing—just like that.” A squeal of raucous delight shredded the air as they entered the mad scene. Anne cavorted, still in her court dress, for they had returned only moments ago from Westminster, where a masque had been held for the Lady Anne, Marquise of Pembroke. George and Anne held hands like wild children and whirled around each other leaning back against the spin. Their father laughed aloud at their antics and downed a huge flagon of drink. And Jane Rochford hit at the whirling Anne and George with a down pillow, sending great puffs of fine feathers into the air. Mark Smeaton, Anne’s new and very talented lutenist, strummed a quickstep galliard from a sitting position in the middle of a fine polished table.

Mary stood aghast for an instant. She could not fathom what might have transformed them so quickly from the dour company who had only just left Westminster. Queen Catherine had long since been banished to More House and her retinue cut from hundreds to a mere twelve. Even that glorious occasion for the Boleyns when the king had finally deserted his queen at Windsor to ride off hunting with Anne and George had not caused such an explosion of joy.

“Mary! Mar—eee! Come on! Dance and sing with us!” Anne threw herself at her sister, nearly knocking her off balance, and hugged her hard.

“Anne—what is all this?” Mary smiled from the pure joy of their exuberance. She had not seen this sort of foolishness since the old days at Hever. “Has the divorce gone through? But surely His Grace would have been more buoyant tonight if that...”

“No, silly goose! The best news yet! We are free. He is dead! The dear, fat, old cardinal is dead—and”—she reached far over to slap a guzzling George on the back, who spilled wine all over himself and came up snorting—“he no doubt stands at the very gates of hell this moment. His Grace has probably heard the delightful news by now. Perhaps he will join us later. If he does,” she added, winking conspiratorially at her amused father and grabbing George’s goblet from his hand to drink herself, “we shall have a fine masque ready for him, finer by far than the one he gave me tonight.”

Anne again threw her arms around the stunned Mary and turned to address them all. “Yes, a masque showing how the very Vicar of Hell who has dared to plague us all these years dies and finds he has been appointed guardian of the jakes of hell. Yes. Perfect. Music, my Mark, music suitable for an entry into hell!”

Mary stood stock-still as Anne released her and strode energetically about the room, yanking back chairs and her embroidery frame to give them open floor space. Dear Saint George, the girl is serious, Mary thought. The poor old man is dead and her hatred of him still possesses her after all these years. Mary shuddered and felt her father’s eyes calm and cold upon her, just watching. He grinned on one side of his taut mouth, but somehow the other side drew down into a grimace.

“Besides the poor cardinal’s sad fall and demise, Mary, I think you should know that the cause of all this unabashed delight is that when Wolsey was arrested to be brought back and tried for treason against the state,” Anne lectured her, suddenly more calm, “he was arrested by none other than the long lost Harry Percy, Eighth Earl of Northumberland—my once dear love whom the cardinal has abused so badly. If you cannot rejoice for my cause, think of the fact that Wolsey’s choice triumphed over poor Eleanor Carey when we had asked to have her be made Prioress of Wilton last year. Think on that rather than Percy if you must, to get into the spirit around here!”

“Anne arranged for Harry Percy to arrest the sick, old cardinal?” Mary asked her father quietly as Anne turned to chatter to George again.

“No, girl, it just happened,” he answered low. “My messengers were waiting here with the news when we returned from Westminster. His Grace no doubt has his own informants on the matter. It was evidently the king who sent Percy to do the dirty work.”

“I can hear every word you are telling Mary, father, but say on, say on. It is all music to my ears sweeter than dear Mark’s well-tuned melodies. Can you imagine it, Mary? That old man had fallen so far from his pompous power when he dared to tell me whom I would not wed. I love it! He dared to separate an insignificant lad and lass in love—eventually, that lad arrests him for treason though, coward that he is, he catches a chill and dies on the road to his trial—and the trivial, foolish girl is the next queen!” Her voice rose to a high pitch, and tears of pity flooded Mary’s eyes.

“At least you can look happy with the rest of us, Mary. I think I had best make you Cerberus, the terrible dog who guards the gates of hell, in this playlet if you cannot look happier than that. The Boleyns are well rid of him, Mary. Harry Percy is justified and His Grace takes me to France—not Catherine. I shall be queen of England and the fat, hateful cardinal shall rot in his grave.” She whirled back, giving orders to Mark Smeaton while Jane Rochford hovered behind them, bending to hear their words.

Thomas Boleyn set down his empty flagon and took Mary’s elbow firmly. “I know it is a shock to see her so wild with joy, Mary. I like it not either. I prefer the sleek, calculating little Anne, but this has been pent-up in her for a long time and is best exorcised before His Grace sees such a display. He is so openly jealous, he might misinterpret it as still-harbored love for Percy. Go along with the foolishness and maybe she will calm down. I depend on you to be a sobering influence. By the rood, George and Jane are hardly any help to me in that.”

“All right, stand over here, Mary. Here. George, do you not think it would be wonderful if father would play Satan, to pass the final words of condemnation, I mean?”

“Sweet Anne, I hardly think...,” Thomas Boleyn began, as George and Anne dissolved into laughter. Mary could not smother a smile at last.

“There, you see, George. I knew Mary would see the fun in the whole situation!” Anne shouted. “Besides, I truly think her sour looks lately are caused by the attentions of a certain handsome man, whose name I shall not mention, to that ravishing Dorothy Cobham.”

“Enough of your teasing, Anne.” Mary raised her index finger as though to scold a naughty daughter. “I will not have you going on like this.”

“See, George, we got her attention at last,” Anne giggled. “At least that certain rogue is one man to be trusted by both His Grace and me, so fear not we will send him into exile at his house at wherever it is, sister. He at least, unlike the butcher’s son of a cardinal, always knows his place. I am convinced Staff never plans to climb so high as others around the court.”

Mary turned fearfully to look at her father. She had worked so hard the past year to do as Staff advised her, so her family would not suspect they were in love. Yet she knew her father had spies, many spies. He had told her in a fit of anger to play the whore for Stafford if she wished. He would never understand their love, so let him think what he wanted. Only Anne was right, too. She was very upset at her lover’s avid attentions to the beauteous Dorothy Cobham lately. Tonight at the masque he had gone much too far. Perhaps she was just moping for herself or was hurt by Anne’s terrible revenge, but Staff’s actions annoyed her just as much as Anne’s tonight.

“All right. Now who in hell shall we get to play Wolsey himself?” Anne asked and laughed uproariously at her own pun.

She seemed on the verge of a crying jag, Mary thought. Her face looked happy, but her glassy eyes and piercing voice gave away an inner desperation.

Before the laughter died away, there was an echoing knock on the door. They all froze like thieves caught with booty. Thomas Boleyn held up his jeweled hand for silence and motioned to the guard to open the door. Mary could see several guards in the hall and Nancy’s serious face beyond as she pressed against the wall in the corridor. Yet no one stood at the door to enter. Surely the king would not come to tell the Boleyns the news of the cardinal’s death himself. But if he did, Staff might come too. She would like to give him a piece of her mind after his display with Dorothy Cobham tonight! She cared nothing for all of this Wolsey nonsense compared to that.

She heard Jane Rochford’s swift intake of breath as a dark-cloaked Thomas Cromwell stepped past her father into the room. His black eyes swept over them all like a bowshot. He bent stiffly to Anne and nodded to Lord Boleyn. How perfect he will be to play Wolsey in hell if my hysterical sister has the nerve to ask, a small voice in Mary’s head told her. If Wolsey had many friends like this viper, no wonder his enemies got him in the end.

“I come with a sad message from His Grace for you, Lady Anne,” his voice came distinctly at them. He always spoke in a dull monotone, but people everywhere hung on his words. Even when the meaning was pleasant, his voice dripped venom—and power.

“I hope His Grace is as well as when we left him but an hour ago,” Anne’s sharp voice answered him.

“His Grace is well and sends his love anew, lady. The news concerns my late master the Cardinal Wolsey, who, as you know, was to be arrested and brought back to London to stand trial.” He hesitated. “Do I sense that the tragic news has preceded me, Lady Anne? Perhaps your father’s, ah, messengers have told you the news?”

Staff is right, Mary thought. A cold fear bit at her insides, not in concern for her family, but at the fact that this man knew everything. She thanked the good Lord that Thomas Cromwell favored the Boleyn cause.

“We have heard somewhat of the news, I must admit, Master Cromwell, but we would be pleased to have it from your lips. It is good to hear the cardinal so gently remembered by one who worked for him so closely and yet gladly left his service,” Anne taunted carefully, just on the edge of accusing Cromwell of traitorous behavior.

“As I have heard you say many times, Lady Anne, we all serve the king here. Am I not correct?” He pivoted his square face slowly and his dark gaze touched each of them in turn properly, politely.

“Have I interrupted some family revel?” he probed again. His thin lips formed a knowing smile.

“Mere amusement and foolishness after too much sitting and drinking all night,” came Thomas Boleyn’s amused voice. “You understand how it is, Thomas, for you work much too hard yourself lately.” Lord Boleyn strode several steps toward the king’s advisor and clapped him on the shoulder. “Will you stay the night with us before going back? I am going there myself at dawn.”

“I am sorry. I must decline the kind offer and head back. There are plans to be laid for the royal conference with the French king at Calais. And, as we both well know, my friend, there is no duty, task or price too great when one serves the king. No price too great.”

Cromwell bowed low to Anne. His eyes, well hooded by his thick brows, swept over Mary appreciatively as they always did when they met or talked. It was as though he had some sort of dire plan for her. She nodded slowly to him and had the strangest impulse to cover her breasts and cross her legs for protection. That was what she always felt near him—the fear that he wanted her, that he undressed her with his piercing eyes. But that was foolish. He would never dare.

“Since I see my news has preceded me, I shall save time and be on my way back to Westminster before high tide. And to your question, Lady Anne, I did serve His Eminence the Cardinal closely and carefully. Indeed, before I came to know His Grace as well as I do now, the wily cardinal taught me everything I know of how to deal with dangerous problems. Good evening to the Boleyn family.” He bowed and was gone.

The door shut behind him. “’Sblood, that man can throw a pall on a party faster than anyone I know. I always thank God in my prayers that he is on our side,” Anne said quietly. The wild look was gone from her eyes and Mary was silently grateful for that.

“I think we had best remember,” Thomas Boleyn said, pouring himself another goblet of dark, red wine, “that Master Cromwell and men like him are on the side of no one but themselves.”

It takes such a man to recognize one, Mary almost said, but she held her tongue. She and her lord father had kept a truce of silence since the terrible row they had had at Westminster on the night the queen had rescued her. If the Boleyns had known of the gentle Catherine’s kindness to her, and if they had ever guessed how she pitied the poor queen the loss of husband, position, and the right to raise her daughter, she would never have heard the end of it from any of them.

“Well, the masque in hell was a fine idea, anyway, Lady Anne,” Jane Rochford put in as she sat back in a velvet chair.

“I only thought His Grace might come himself as he did to tell me I would go to France with him. I thought it might amuse him. Could it be he still harbors some concern for the vicious, dead, old cardinal?”

“Wolsey served the king well and for a great while, Anne,” their father said, and he sank slowly into the chair next to Jane’s. “Again, it would do the Boleyns well to remember that the cardinal also taught His Grace much of what he knows of rule and authority—and ultimate power.”

“Ultimate power, father?” Anne giggled and leaned back on her hands on the huge polished table near her now-silent lutenist. “Shall I show you ultimate power? I can have the king here at this door, at my bidding, in the time it can take some poor simpleton to row the river twice.”

“And for what, Anne? What do you give him when he comes?” her father challenged. “Some silly little play about Wolsey? How long before you run out of pretty trinkets and sweet sayings and promises of sons to come? For five years you have dangled maybes and hopes before a starving man. I think...”

“You will not lecture me, Earl of Wilton! Earl of Wilton thanks to my power over the king! I would not be queen and merely the second Boleyn mistress if I had listened to your counsels long ago!”

The words stung Mary, but did not seem to faze their father, who sat motionless, his goblet perched on the arm of his chair. Mary stood mesmerized at this confrontation between her father and sister. For, although George had told her of the increasing frequency and intensity of their arguments, Mary had never beheld them herself.

“I am wiser, child, and know this king better than you. The miracle is that you have had it your way this long. But I tell you, I have seen him turn on those he loved when it suited him. When his beloved sister Mary wed in France with the duke, he...”

“Stop it! No one knows this king better than I, or is closer to his heart. He can never go back on me now. He is committed. He dissolved the church for me and they will all stand behind him, all the men who bow and need his goodwill. I go to France to meet with the French king, not Spanish Catherine, his incestuous sister-in-law who rots away in some dusty house in the country! And I will marry him, and I will bear him sons!”

“I pray God that will be the way of it, Anne,” he answered and downed his wine. “Now that he cannot go back, I am only counseling that you begin to share his bed before he doubts the sincerity of your promises—and passions.”

“And then,” came Jane’s voice as pointed as her face, “suppose you do not bear His Grace a son as soon as he wills it. Suppose he grows impatient. George and I have no son, so...”

“You stay out of this, Jane Rochford!” Anne glared at her sister-in-law, who merely shrugged at the words. “You bear no son to my brother because he loves you not, and I doubt if such cattiness as you show would breed anything but cats, or...or snakes! I am sorry, George, but it is true.”

Anne paced swiftly to Mary and her slender hand grabbed her sister’s wrist in a tight grasp. “Mary bore a son, even as our mother did before us. Our heritage for sons is good, and His Grace knows it well. Maybe Mary’s son was even from His Grace, so I have no fear of not bearing him sons. That is the least of my concern right now.”

Mary felt the urge to snatch back her arm. Anne’s words always hurt and she seemed to have lost all sense of the verbal cruelty she inflicted more and more on those close to her. Staff was right. It was as though some terrible demon seized the girl’s tongue at times, as though she feared something. But she knew Staff was wrong about one thing. Surely, Anne did not fear the king’s bed the closer she got to him in lawful wedlock. Surely that was what Anne had been striving for all these years.

The slim, raven-haired woman still held her sister’s hand although her eyes darted about somewhere past Mary’s head, and she said no more. Lord Boleyn motioned George and the stormy-faced Jane to leave. Then he pointed toward the door to the wide-eyed Mark Smeaton, who obeyed instantly, tagging behind the Rochfords. Still Mary and Anne stood facing each other and Lord Boleyn’s eyes swept carefully over them.

“You do understand? You do believe me, sister?”

Mary could not recall a question. It seemed such an interminable time that they had stood there. Anne’s dark-brown eyes still gazed into space behind Mary’s head. “Yes, of course, Anne. It is all right. Everything will be fine. You are tired now and we had both best go to bed. You are going falconing with the king in the morning, remember? It will be great fun.”

“And you are going with me to France and will stay very close, Mary. Promise me. If the French king will not receive me, I must have my own retinue, and a fine one. Father, Mary can have more funds, for dresses, can she not? She must be well dressed to show them that the Boleyns are not an upstart family, father.”

Their father moved silently to stand behind Anne. “Yes, of course, Anne. And Mary is right. I shall call your women. You need to go to bed. I did not mean for my words to unsettle you. It is important to us all that you be rested and lovely and happy in the morning.”

Anne released Mary’s wrist at last and pirouetted to face her father. “Do you think I am lovely, father? Lovely like Mary to hold the king over the years? I know I have not the Howard beauty of mother and Mary, but I shall hold him. I shall!”

“Yes, of course, you shall, my Anne,” her father comforted and patted the girl’s shoulder awkwardly. “You are of a different beauty than your mother or Mary, but a beauty indeed. And you are clever and talented. After all, you have the greatest king in the world chasing after you. That should end this discussion. Besides, neither your fond mother or your sweet sister have risen to the heights you have. You are the only one who has truly seen the possibilities and acted accordingly. A daughter after my own mold, a Bullen indeed!”

Anne stared at him oddly for a moment and did not answer. Then she turned tiredly, slowly toward her bedroom door. “I wish you to remember that our name is Boleyn now, father, and times have changed. Please go now. Go somewhere and serve your king.” Anne gestured to Mary with her right hand. “Please stay, sister. Please stay until I sleep.”

Awed at the strange and touching request, Mary followed Anne into her bed chamber without another glance at their father. Anne’s bed was huge and square, almost as great in size as His Grace’s bed, probably because he had at first expected to share it with his dear Anne when he had granted her vast Whitehall Palace. She hoped Anne would not ask her to sleep here or in call, for it was possible that Staff would pay her chambers a night visit.

Then her own world rushed back to her. Yes, she wanted to be there waiting for Staff. He would not find a sweet, compliant lover breathless for his hurried arrival as he was accustomed. She would show him a true Boleyn temper for his over-fond treatment of that Cobham wench, and if he would dare not to come at all, she would know he was with the woman. Her thoughts would take her no further. He was all she had but little Catherine. She would die if he should change his love for her.

“Do not be so grim, Mary. I do not know where our festive mood went so fast. It was that viper Cromwell ruined it all. I really meant to put on our own family revel in honor of the cardinal’s leave-taking of us all. My prayers are continually answered, it seems. Cromwell would have made a fine Satan, you know. I would like to talk Henry into getting rid of that little, shifty-eyed man.”

“I think you had best not dabble in the king’s power when it comes to Cromwell. Besides, father likes him.”

“And is that your recommendation for the man, sister, that father likes him?” Anne teased. They both smiled as Mary helped Anne shrug out of her tight satin bodice. “Rather a condemnation, I would think. I know you agree with me now on how to handle father. We shall be great allies in France.”

Anne lifted the covers and got in, ignoring the hairbrush Mary would have used on her long tresses. She pulled the covers up to her chin like she used to do when she was a little girl to ward off night goblins outside the comforting stone walls of Hever. Mary felt suddenly touched and she cherished the feeling since she had been so often angry with Anne’s growing petulance these last months. She opened her mouth to say something comforting and wise, but she was not sure what would do. If she could only think of something their mother might say now.

“Mary, forgive me, but I would ask you a question—a personal one.”

“Yes, Anne.”

“Will you tell me truly and not be angry?”

“Yes. I promise.” Unless you would ask of my love for Staff, little sister, Mary thought. But she smiled and crossed her heart the way they used to do when they had some deep secret to share.

Anne smiled up from her ivory silk pillow, suddenly radiant. “I had forgotten that, Mary. How silly we were then. What I wondered was whether His Grace is very demanding when he...when he possesses a woman’s body.” Her smile faded from her lips and she sat bolt upright clutching the sheet to her small breasts and leaning close to Mary. “You see, Mary, he has begun to make love to me many times and he is so strong and big. I mean, not just in kisses and caresses, but he has pulled my dresses down to my waist and feasted his eyes and hands and mouth. And then, too, he nearly took me standing once and lifted all my skirts and yanked off his huge codpiece and would have...have gone inside me right there had I not become hysterical from fear, and he thought he was hurting me and he apologized all over himself for at least half an hour. And then, lately, if I sit on his lap, he puts his hands up between my legs and strokes and probes and I have to pretend I like it, Mary. Please tell me if he is gentle when it comes to it. I seem so very small and he is so...so big, Mary.”

Her wide eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Mary’s love went out to her. She felt deep shock that this little sister, this Anne she had known to flirt and tease and scream like a fishwife at a man, could know fear. But then, somewhere inside, there must still be the little girl with all the questions.

“Anne, Anne, it will be all right. Yes, everything will be all right. The king loves you and it is obvious to anyone who sees him with you.”

“But there are things they do not see, Mary. It becomes harder and harder to hold him at bay.”

“You have said you are certain of his love and that he is yours indeed now and would never go back on that.”

“Yes, I said that.”

“Then he will marry you as soon as he is able. He is ridden hard by the passions you stir in him, Anne. You cannot blame him or fear him for that.”

“Why cannot he control himself as I can?”

“Foolish little Anne. His Grace is a man—the most powerful man in the world perhaps.” In the momentary silence Mary beat down the memory of herself in Francois’s demanding arms so long ago, entranced, ensnared, but frightened. “He is hardly used to waiting for anything he wants, Annie.”

“Is childbirth so terrible then?”

“Are you...but you have not?”

“No, Mary, I said no. Only I know children will come if I submit to him. You screamed horribly for hours when you bore little Harry at Hever.”

“I had forgotten, truly, Anne. The joy of a child is so great that after, well, after the pain and troubles, the thought of the bad part goes away. You will see.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Well, it must be done.” She pulled back slowly from her closeness to Mary. “Father is right, I fear, though I do not like to hear it from him. His Grace needs something extra from me romantically now. The dreadful divorce and all this nasty business with dissolving the pope’s wretched church is depressing him more and more. He cannot see the happy end of the road as clearly as he used to.”

“The forest for the trees,” Mary thought aloud.

“Yes. Exactly. I must sleep now. We are going to fly my new gerfalcon in the morning. He can hardly rape me with our falcons on the wing, you know.” Anne smiled impudently and Mary returned the look warmly.

“Fear not, little sister. ‘The dark outside the window is never so dark when you go out,’ dear old Semmonet would say if she were here. I tell you true, Anne, when His Grace gets right down to possession, he makes short work of it. That can have its rewards, but then it can mean tragedy too—if you love him.”

“Of course I love His Grace, sister,” Anne returned heatedly.

That sounded more like the new Anne. The mood of intimacy and warmth was broken. Mary rose slowly.

“Mary,” Anne’s voice floated to her as she blew out the cresset lamp and moved toward the door. “You were not speaking of love for this king just then, were you—about love having its rewards? Nor Will, I warrant.”

“Please, Anne, let it be.”

“But will you tell me sometime what true passionate love is like? To really feel the desire to lie with a man?”

Mary felt stunned anew. Anne had lived all those years in the bawdy French court a virgin and now kept private company with Henry Tudor as she had with Harry Percy in secret, and still sounded like an ignorant child. “It will come, Anne,” Mary said quietly, framed in the light of the doorway. “You will come to know all the answers and joys when you wed with His Grace and bear his children.” Liar, Mary thought to herself, liar, tell her now. She hesitated to turn back into the room, and a large black form of a man blocked her path in the dimness and shot his arm around her waist. She gasped and her heart crashed against her ribs.

“I am sorry I gave you a start, girl. I wanted to make certain you had settled her down. I am proud of the advice you gave her. It will help,” her father said quietly in her ear. She relaxed against his arm, and he squeezed her gently. How different this was of him, the caress, the gentle thanks.

“We must keep her calm. She panics the closer she gets to consummating her bargain with His Grace,” he went on. He released her waist as though he was surprised he still held her against him. He motioned her silently toward the hall.

“I will send Lucinda Ashton in case you need anything, Anne,” Mary turned to call back. “Good night.”

There was no answer. Her father closed the door quietly behind them. His eyes searched Mary’s face, and she stood still under his scrutiny. “I was thinking tonight how much you look like your mother when I first knew her, Mary. Would that Anne’s wily little brain had your beautiful wrapping.”

“I do not care for the implication that I am nothing but pretty wrapping, father. There is a thinking person in here, too.”

“I did not mean it that way. I know that only too well, but I meant that you are more gentle, yet wayward from the cause lately too.”

She felt her anger rise. “The cause? I assume you mean the Boleyn cause. I have not heard that phrase since Will died and left his precious Carey cause undone.”

“Do not get your hackles up. I would have us be much closer than we have been these last few years, Mary. You are so good with Anne and I appreciate it.”

“You mean, of course, that you would like to use me to keep her in line.”

“Damn it, Mary. Can we not have a civil conversation? She needs your quiet influence. That is what I meant.”

“To this lofty point on the ladder, father, you and Anne have done quite well without me. I see you so infrequently that I hardly feel I know you as a person, only as some powerful force pulling this way, pushing another.”

He stared at her tight-lipped and the avid look in his eyes hardened.

“By the way,” she plunged on, “am I to assume that you stood at the door while Anne got undressed and then listened to all the private things we had to say to each other?”

“That is enough. You are exhausted and testy, so you can take to your bed too. And you are accompanying your sister to France when she goes. I will not have your denial of that obligation.”

She turned away and started toward her room. The hall was deserted except for the usual sentries who stood stonelike as though they heard nothing on either side of Anne’s door. “Obligation? It will be an honor and I shall go gladly, but only because my sister asked me to go, father. It has nothing to do with your ordering me to do so. Good night.”

She turned the corner in a rustle of skirts and breathed a sigh of relief. She was exhausted and drained. At least he had not dared to scream at her or shake her. If he thought a little hug would bribe her to start trusting him again, he was a fool. Yes, Anne did have more brains than she did, for Anne had learned to distrust their father far younger than her older, blind sister Mary.

She pulled the latch on the door to her chamber expecting to find Nancy dozing by the fire, but the girl was not in sight. Indeed it was late, but it was not like her to leave before her mistress was safe abed. She sighed and shot the bolt. She stretched her hands to the low flames at the hearth. The fire took the chill from the brisk October night, but not from her thoughts. Then something moved in the dark.

“I was about ready to fetch you myself even if I had to tangle with your father and Cromwell.” He sat up on her bed. His shirt was open to his waist and his eyes glowed strangely golden in the firelight.

“Staff!”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“That is not funny.”

“I would have joined you when I first arrived, but I hesitated to interrupt the Boleyn revels at the happy news of Wolsey’s death,” he went on.

“It made me sick to see them cavorting around like that,” she admitted. “Anne was absolutely jubilant. But I imagine you were having your own revels tonight, since you mention it.”

“I hardly hated the old man the way your sister and father did.”

“I meant with sweet, cow-eyed Dorothy Cobham, of course.”

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and sauntered toward her. “Oh, of course, especially since I have loved Dorothy Cobham for some ten years now and visit her bed in Whitehall whenever I can, despite the danger and the damned cold weather,” he mocked. He bent to kiss her and she turned swiftly sideways to him, evading his mouth and hands.

“I know full well of your attentions to her. Everyone could see at the masque—the public nuzzling, the hand holding, her rude giggles which everyone heard.”

“I have no doubts your sister embellished the details well for you on the barge on your way back tonight. Perhaps since the grand Lady Anne was watching me so closely tonight I allowed Dorothy to put on a show for her.” Mary bit her lower lip guiltily and was glad it was too dim for him to see her face clearly.

“Or did your father tell you how I spent the afternoon riding with His Grace and that Dorothy was one of the women who went along? Well, whoever told you, I am pleased to have you jealous.” His hands crept to her waist.

“I am not jealous of that little twit.” She pulled from his grasp.

“What happened in Anne’s room tonight? Did they say something to hurt you?” he inquired.

“No more than usual, and I am pleased to say I handled my father rather well. He had more plans for me, you see.”

His voice came taut and hard in the low dancing firelight. “Like what?”

“To keep Anne calm and to accompany her to France.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you meant with His Grace or a marriage. The trip to France will be fun. I am going too.”

“And that is supposed to make it fun for me, or did you mean for yourself? Is little Dorothy going along? You surely do not think I relish seeing you fawning all over her whether in France or here, do you?”

“That is quite enough of this foolishness and your temper, sweetheart. The wind on the river was cold and I have missed you.”

She walked over to the table and sloshed wine in a goblet. “Did you hitch a ride with that dark raven Cromwell?”

“I would not ride with Cromwell if my life depended on it, lass. I will not have him know I visit here, though the man seems to breed spies and might know already. While I am in His Grace’s favor, I fear him not. Did Cromwell say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“About anything personal. I can tell by the way he looks you over every time he lays eyes on you he desires you, though I cannot blame him there.”

“Desires me? You think so?”

“Yes. The man would like to have you in every sense of the term, love, though I give him more credit than to actually ask for you as some sort of reward from your father or the king. He is clever. He does not openly covet advancement the way others have. Poor Wolsey’s riches pulled him into the mire as much as this damned divorce or the Boleyns.”

She felt icy at the thought of Cromwell’s eyes on her, so coldly, so completely. She drank her wine. “Did you send Nancy to bed?” she inquired while pouring another glass of wine.

“No. I told her where Stephen was awaiting me, and she went down to see him. She misses him. We really ought to find a way to merge our two meager households so they could be together.” His arms came around her from behind and he nuzzled her neck.

“I do not intend to be so easy for you when you are so sweet on that Cobham wench,” she said.

“And I do not intend to take long rides on the cold Thames and be turned out of the bed of the woman I love,” he returned, and his arms tightened.

“You may have the bed. I shall sleep elsewhere.”

“My temper is right on the edge, sweet. You have seldom seen my temper and you would not like it. Turn around, and I will unlace you.”

She began to tremble at his tone, but she was angry. What right did he have to order her into bed with him? Anne was lying down the hall thinking that William Stafford was the fondest, gentlest lover. And her father still meant to use her for whatever suited his plans. Play the whore for Stafford if you must, he had told her once. She did not belong to any of them to command like this!

She felt his hands on the laces at her back, and she pushed out hard against him. Startled, he dropped his arms, and she darted from his grasp toward the fireplace. She was instantly grabbed off her feet and plopped down on the bed in a tumble of skirts and loosed hair. Staff threw himself down beside her.

“Take your hands off m—,” she began, but he held her so close that their noses touched. He would not dare force her at Whitehall with people all around and her sister’s guards within shouting distance. Everyone would find out about them, and he would never allow that. He was bluffing.

She shoved him away, and it was the last thing she could remember doing for a long while after. She had intended to struggle but she only met his ardor with her own. When it all ended, her cheek was tight against his, and her lips rested in the short hair at his temple. She began to laugh, happily, crazily.

“What is it, my love?” he asked.

“It is not only you who are too strong for me, Staff. It is my love for you.”

This was the one man in the whole world she wanted to possess her, to use her, she thought deep in the swirl of her emotions. But the difference was she chose to have it so.

As soon as he stopped kissing her, she would tell him. She would tell him that she would choose to wed him as he had asked, whenever they could escape the lions in their surrounding dens.