CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

June 9, 1534

Whitehall Palace

As her baby grew and Mary’s waistline swelled, she withdrew more and more from the court around her. That was easy enough lately, for the king and queen had been on a leisurely summer progress through the green midlands of England. His Grace had even cancelled an important diplomatic trip to France to take Anne on the journey. It was commonly known that the queen was with child again and that Henry Tudor had given her one last chance to produce his heir. But now, the king and queen had returned to Whitehall and this happy retirement of Mary’s would soon be over one way or the other. Either her sister would need her enough to keep her about when she knew she was with child and married to a man not of her choosing, or she would be banished or worse.

Staff had been forced to accompany the royal party, for the king favored his attendance in whatever martial or sporting endeavor he undertook. The three weeks had dragged by for Mary. She had spent the time walking, thinking, and talking to Nancy and to the Boleyn cousin Madge Shelton, whom their father had brought to court as one of Anne’s new ladies-in-waiting. The girl was winsome and lovely with a perfect oval face and curly blonde hair almost as light as her own. Madge’s green eyes danced with the excitement of being at the court even though its royal lord and lady had been gone these last weeks. The king had wanted to take the new and charming Mistress Shelton along on the trip, but had given in to his wife’s refusal when he discovered that the queen was beginning another pregnancy.

Mary felt somewhat guilty that she liked the seventeen-year-old girl so much, for the whole truth was that Mistress Shelton had been brought to court by Thomas Boleyn to hold the king’s attentions for his petulant and increasingly nasty Queen Anne. In one fell swoop, as Thomas Boleyn had planned, the green-eyed Madge had become her royal cousin’s maid and the king’s latest mistress. Mary hoped fervently that the three-week sabbatical and the new pregnancy would soothe Anne’s vile torment of the girl. Mary also prayed that the joy over the new child would allow Staff and her to tell Anne of their marriage and ask to be retired to Wivenhoe.

It had been almost a half hour now since the huge royal entourage had clattered into the courtyard of Whitehall, and Mary began to pace in her room, wondering how long it would take Staff to free himself and come to see her. When he saw her waist, he would know the time of secrecy had passed for them, for neither cloaks nor dresses with high waistlines could hide it now. She glanced down at the completed and painstakingly written letter on her table under the sunny window. She began to skim the words, though she knew them by heart and the old haunting feeling returned. It was like guilt, hate and love all mingled together in a crucible of pain.

The door sprang open and she turned, half expecting to see Nancy with another report on the returned travelers since she had heard no footsteps in the hall. But it was Staff, so tall and handsome, grinning, and he had come back to her.

“My love, I was waiting and waiting...” she began, but he smothered her words with a crushing kiss. Then, with a look on his face of more awe than concern or worry, he put his hands on her shoulders and stood her armlength away.

“Lady Stafford, I believe the whole world will know you are pregnant now as well as your sister. We can delay their being told no longer. That is obvious. Who has guessed or asked? I did not imagine three weeks could make such a difference, but indeed, sweetheart, the child has blossomed and that means a certain end to our secret. I thank God they are in a fairly hopeful mood because of the queen’s new pregnancy. Does your father know of our child? Cromwell?”

“I have not seen my dear father, Staff. He has been about and Madge has seen him, but he stays well out of my way.”

“Then Madge must know. You have seen much of her then? I am not sure that is wise, for the sharp edge of the queen’s wrath may yet fall on the girl.”

“Really, my love,” Mary said, looking up into his concerned face, “the girl is my cousin, though I have not seen her for years before father hauled her into this mess. But she is new here and alone, and I remember how terrible that can be in a vast court.”

Staff sank down on the bed, and pulled his boots off and sighed, wiggling his toes. “I applaude your sweet motives, lass, but the wench is hardly alone. In her first week at court this spring, the king bedded her, the queen screamed at her, and Norris continues to make a fool of himself over her whenever His Grace is not around. Just be careful you do not stand too close to her if the queen’s axe should fall. I would have to bet that Her Grace will have little Madge Shelton, cousin or not, out of here in a week. So anyway, Madge has no doubt guessed about your babe. And Cromwell?”

“I have seen him twice, but I wore a pelisse each time. He has been very busy with the king gone, but he approached me in the gardens by the river once and I dared not run away as I wished. We walked for a little while.”

“I assume he behaved himself, except for his beady eyes, that is, which try to caress you every time you are in view.”

“Do not be angry, Staff.” She sat beside him on the bed. He draped his arms over her shoulders and pulled her gently to his side.

“I am not angry, love. I only hate myself every time I think of you left behind here with the vipers. Lately, my Mary has taken quite good care of herself, but I hate not having you and the babe out of here and safe.”

“But now we must tell them, so then we shall see.”

“Yes, sweetheart. Then we shall see. I am exhausted, Mary, and had best be back by supper. Will you lie beside me here?”

They cuddled in the middle of the bed, Mary on her back and Staff on his side facing her with his arm under her head. She put his open hand on her belly. “See, my love, he moves about more than ever now.”

“Or she,” he said sleepily. “I still would not mind a miniature of your Catherine. Is she well at Hever? I know how much this summer will mean to your mother having her there again.”

“She is quite well. But all men want a son, Staff.”

“Yes, and I also. But there will be time for at least another child before you begin hobbling around on a cane,” he teased. He opened one eye then the other and stared at her fine profile. “Is there something else besides having to face them that is troubling you, Mary? Have you not come to terms with your father’s last wretched scheme to use you as bait?”

“No, Staff. It is not that. But there is something that has been haunting me. I have dreamed of it, Staff.”

“Tell me.” His eyes were wide awake on his tired face.

“While the court was away on progress—the first week you were gone—word came here that after Sir Thomas More was beheaded on Tower Hill, the king’s men put his head on a pike on London Bridge and gave his family only the trunk of his body for burial.”

“Look Mary. It is only another indication of how terrible the times are and how far the king has sunk into the mire of treachery. Sir Thomas More may have been His Grace’s loyal advisor and friend these years, but the king turned against him completely when More dared not to sign the Act of Supremacy declaring the king head of the new church. I do not doubt that the king or Cromwell told his henchmen to make a clear example of More. Fear not for his body being separate from his head. The Lord God has need of men with the moral strength of Thomas More on resurrection day whether their heads be buried with their bodies or not. You must put the whole awful thing out of your mind.”

“I cannot. How can I? You do not, and I know you blame yourself that we all signed the document like sheep. But that is not all.”

“What more?” He sat up cross-legged on the bed facing her, leaning over her, intent.

“After his head had been there on the pole a week, for they say it was guarded that long and by then the crows had been at the eyes and...”

“Mary, do not torture yourself with this.”

“I must tell you, Staff. After a week, it hardly looked like a man’s head. But then, when the guards dispersed, his eldest daughter Meg Roper...”

“Yes, the tall girl. She married a lawyer in the king’s household.”

“Staff, his daughter loved him so much that she went out at night in a boat to London Bridge and bribed the keeper of the bridge to drop his head to her. She took it in her skirts and carried it home in her lap to bury it with his body. She loved him so much, she did that!”

Staff’s big hand reached out and curled around hers, clenched at her side. Her tear-filled eyes still haunted by the wonderment of her own words of Meg Roper sought his face.

“I am sorry, Mary. It is a fearsome thing, but you must not carry these thoughts around with you. For the babe’s sake, at least.”

“I have prayed for Meg Roper, Staff. I have written to her, too, telling her that I admire her courage and her love. I apologized that the Boleyn family had any part in bringing her the loss of her dearly beloved father.”

“Lass, you cannot go about the kingdom trying to gain forgiveness for the Boleyns. Do not put that burden on yourself. You are not a part of them and will be well rid of them soon. Your mother we shall keep close. The rest will be most difficult to hold over the years. There is always some sort of disaster brewing on the horizon around your father and I will have you and the child well rid of it.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have changed my mind. This is no time for sleeping. They have returned from a triumphant trip through the central shires and even testy Anne is in a good mood. The prospect of a child has returned the glow to her cheeks, and she was hardly booed at all along the way. His Grace has dreams and hopes of a legitimate son again and has sweet Madge to serve his every whim while he waits for the heir’s arrival. We shall tell them now before supper, before someone sees you and all hell explodes.” He began stuffing his breeks back in the tops of his boots.

“Still, I will send the letter to Meg Roper, Staff.”

“Fine, love. Send the letter. But you must cease to carry guilt around with you for your family’s actions or your disappointment in the father you love. Fetch a pelisse to cover yourself. I will not have your sister screeching at us before we can present it to them calmly first.”

Though the day was warm, Mary wrapped a loose blue pelisse around her shoulders and arranged its folds carefully. Staff kissed her and sent her on ahead, through the crowded halls to the queen’s privy chamber and said he would be along to join her shortly, after he had told the king and begged his indulgence. “If you can keep from discussing it with your sister until I arrive, do so. Do not play the heroine, for I want to be there. And if the king walks in with me, do not panic,” Staff had instructed her moments ago. His last words went over and over in her mind. Do not panic. I will be there.

The walk to Anne’s chambers was not long, but it seemed an eternity. The time had come. Time always thrust things swiftly upon one and then one had to act. Time would bring her to the labor bed to birth Staff’s babe; time would bring Anne’s next child; time had brought death to a beloved friend; time had brought separation from Hever; time had brought a daughter who loved her father so much that she would carry his poor bloody head home in her lap.

Anne’s bedchamber was full of hovering Boleyns and, worst of all, the king was there and in a rage. Mary nearly fled in alarm, but the yeoman guards behind her had closed the door and stood against it. At least Staff would be here quickly when he did not find the king where he sought him. Only the impassive Cromwell is needed to complete this scene, Mary thought, but no one looked impassive here. She wrapped her pelisse protectively about her and lurched back against the wall as the suspended tableau before her exploded.

“Am I to understand, madam, that this entire trip where you had me prancing through Derby and Rutland and Shropshire was a cruel hoax, a deception?” The king’s ruddy face went increasingly livid as his voice rose. “No child! Am I to believe a woman who has borne a child and been pregnant yet again cannot tell when she is with child! You misread the signs? ’Sblood, madam, the whole thing has been a typical Boleyn trick. My people are right when they shout ‘Witch! Witch!’”

“Please, my lord, the signs were there. And if I am not with child, I can be soon again. Our trip was so wonderful, so placid and jovial and we...”

“And I touched you not and you were well content of it, madam, so how you plan to get with royal child is quite beyond me!”

“Does not the fact that the queen did not encourage Your Grace to bed her indicate that she truly believed she was with child and was afraid to harm her delicate condition?” Thomas Boleyn said low in the angry hush in the room.

Henry Tudor swung his great head toward the voice and glowered, but his quick mind was working and he hesitated.

“Indeed, my lord, that is true,” Anne said, “for it is only now the riding back to Whitehall brought on my monthly flow and all my hopes were crushed. I did not know, Your Grace. In my supreme joy to believe I was carrying your child again, I did not know. I am grief-stricken to my very soul.”

“And well you should be. I put off an important state visit to Calais for this...this charade!” He sat hard on the chair near Anne, but when she reached out to touch his shoulder, he recoiled.

“Are you certain the blood was not a miscarriage? You were not far pregnant?” he asked low, staring at her taut face.

“I am certain. I am sorry I have failed you, my dear lord. I will truly conceive now. You will see,” she said and forced a smile.

“Perhaps the rest without a child growing in her womb will lend the added strength necessary, Your Grace,” came Thomas Boleyn’s soothing voice again. “First a fine daughter—true Tudor indeed with her red-gold hair—and then a fine son.”

“I tell you this, madam,” the king said quietly, apparently ignoring Lord Boleyn’s words, “there had better be a son soon and a live one. I have a son in Henry Fitzroy and perhaps others, so lack of sons is no fault of mine.”

Mary’s pulse began to race at the implication of other unlawful sons the king could claim, and she glanced fearfully at her father’s rapt face. Evidently, they had not even noticed her entry, for their attention was all bent toward the center of their universe.

“So, indeed, if another child be lost, it is obvious where the fault—the sin—lies. I am going riding now. Eat with your own little court of Boleyns and Rochfords and Norfolks. I am tired of it all.”

He rose and his short purple cape swept in an arc behind his massive shoulders. His eyes bored into Mary’s wide azure ones as he approached the door.

“Your Grace,” came Anne’s well-modulated voice behind him, and he turned back to his audience as he stood near Mary. “I will do everything I can to ensure Your Grace a fine heir—as fine as Elizabeth in whom you rightly place such fatherly pride. I will do whatever Your Grace would bid, but I would ask one small favor from you in return.”

“Well?”

Anne glanced to her father’s worried face and then said quite clearly, “I would beg Your Grace to send my cousin Madge Shelton from court back to her parents in Essex. It bothers me to have her always about and not a friend to the queen much as other of my ladies who are not loyal to me.” She stood erect, poised, and faced the king across the endless space of rich Damascene carpet.

From where she stood behind him, Mary could see the sinews in his bull neck swell, and the muscles on his huge forearms seemed to jerk. She drew in a quick breath and braced herself against the wall.

“You may have been made queen, madam, but be confident that is no assurance you may tell your lord king how to behave. You will learn to bear such things, as...as your betters have done before you.”

The guards opened the double doors at the king’s approach, and Mary moved from the wall to keep from being crushed. The king nearly collided with her and put his hands out to roughly move her from his path. Staff’s face appeared in the whirl somewhere over the king’s shoulder as his strong hands set Mary back into the room.

“You see, madam,” the king ground out to Anne through clenched teeth, “your sister bears live sons. Look to her example. Stafford, come with me.”

All the eyes in the room focused on Mary left standing at the open double doors with Stafford standing half behind her. Everyone stared—George nervously, her father bitterly. Jane Rochford could hardly smother a simper at the whole scene of the Boleyns’ dismay, and Anne merely whirled her back to them. Staff broke the spell by whispering in Mary’s ear as he turned to follow in the angry wake of the king.

“Keep your cloak tight. I will calm His Grace and only tell him we are wed and ask to go to Wivenhoe. The rest is not safe now. I will hurry back. And I will somehow send Cromwell for your protection.”

“No, not Cromwell,” she started to say, but he was gone on a run and she ached to follow him.

“How nice that all the family could assemble for that dressing down,” Jane Rochford said in the quiet of the room.

“Shut your mouth, Jane, or I will have you out in the street with the rest of the cheap gossips and tat tales,” Anne shot out without looking up. “It is enough I had to bear your company these last three weeks, though at least your dear Mark Gostwick kept you occupied enough for some respite.”

“Do you intend to let your wife be so spoke to, George?” Jane prodded.

“Stop this foolish bickering,” Thomas Boleyn’s voice cut in. “Jane, you will take whatever words the queen gives you or cease to serve her and be quit of here. We all need to stand together on this.”

“We have long ceased standing together, father, if indeed we ever did,” Anne shouted. “You brought doe-eyed Madge to court. Now I am telling you to get rid of her if you do not wish to see that damned skinny Fitzroy on the throne in place of your own grandchild.”

“That problem, I am afraid, is yours, Anne. I cannot help you there.”

“No, father, You cannot help me at all. At least George and Mary are still faithful in this mess. George always, and you must admit Mary stood up to that last desperate plan of yours to have her seduce the king. And, as for the cow-faced Seymour with the big innocent eyes, I shall have her out of here soon enough.”

“You dare not, Anne.”

“Dare not? Get from my sight, father. The queen is telling you to leave.”

“I am going, daughter—Your Grace—to give you time to get yourself together and to realize that time has altered your influence here. As I said, you dare not touch the little Seymour. You can only vie for the royal bed and hope to God you conceive a son. I will be back later. See that when His Grace returns from the hunt you look ravishing and greet him in the courtyard. Fight hard for him, Anne. That is your only chance now.”

He strode to the door and Mary moved far out of his way. “Did you mark His Grace’s interest in your son, Mary?” he said as he passed.

The characters in the room rotated positions again with the other powerful protagonist offstage. Anne sank in the chair the king had vacated and George stood at a loss for words first on one foot and then the other. Jane hovered watchful in the wings. Anne motioned for Mary to join her. Mary made her entrance with her pelisse still draped around her.

“It is good to see you after three weeks with the same faces, sister. Do not look so frightened. I am not, I assure you,” Anne said tonelessly.

“I admire your courage, Your Grace.” Mary sat in the nearby chair Anne’s jeweled hand had indicated.

“It comes from having everything to lose rather than nothing. It is only the ones with nothing to lose who are afraid to act. Well, that is my new credo, anyway. Have you heard from Hever? Is mother quite well?”

“Yes. All is well there. My Catherine will keep mother occupied for the summer. Semmonet has arthritis, but she is managing. It has only slowed her down a bit.”

Anne leaned her head on the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “Ah, quiet Hever, where no one shouts, gossips or demands.” Her eyes shot open. “But did you only come to welcome us home, Mary? You came for a purpose, did you not? When I do not summon my dear Mary, she usually chooses not to come.”

“Yes, sister. I have come to ask you a great favor. I feel I have served you well and I would always be your friend. I am in dire need of your love and blessing.”

“What? Say on.” Anne’s eyes went instinctively to Mary’s covered midriff, and Mary felt her courage ebb.

“As you well know, Your Grace, the Lord Stafford and I have been in love for some years.”

“Lovers, you mean. That was the gift I gave you after you lost everything, Mary. I know he visited your room almost nightly. I am glad you have been happy, but do not ask me to let you wed him. You are the sister of the queen now and not just some penniless widow of a poor esquire. Do not look at me that way, Mary. I am sorry, but I have problems of my own, as well you know. I will not propose to His Grace that the queen’s sister marry far beneath her.”

Mary stood and backed a few steps away from Anne’s chair. Jane Rochford was listening so intently that her mouth hung open behind Anne, and George looked anxiously from one sister to the other.

“I am sorry to disappoint or anger you, my sister, but I have never loved anyone as I love Staff, nor shall I ever. Like the king’s own sister, I married once at the royal bidding to serve the king as he would have me do. When I was cast off, I began to live my own life and make my own decisions even as you have, Your Grace. I am proud to inform you that Lord Stafford and I have been wed for over a year now. I have never been happier and I regret no moment of my decision or my marriage.”

For once Anne was speechless. Her dark eyes glittered then narrowed. “After all I have done for you,” she said low, “you dare to repay me this way? Your son well cared for with a fine allowance and tutor by my hand. I went to father to get you enough money to replace the rags on your back after Will Carey died and, you dare—you dare—to wed the rebel with the farmlands at God-forsaken Wivenhoe, wherever that may be?”

“His Grace has long favored Lord Stafford, and he has served the king well. The Bullens have only risen so high recently by hanging on your skirts, sister. I feel I am eminently suited in class and birth to be Lady Stafford.”

“You damn fool! Mary, I have loved you, but you were always a fool. George’s marriage was one thing. That was long before the Boleyns—not the Bullens any longer, remember, Mary—ascended. George’s marriage was one thing, but this from you? You could have at least had a duke. Norris has always favored you.”

Jane Rochford’s voice interrupted. “I think Norris favors your cousin Madge Shelton now, though his competition is somewhat stiff. I applaud Mary’s backbone. Stafford always was a handsome stud and he is obviously wild for Mary. I cannot wait until Lord Boleyn hears the news.”

“Get out of my sight, you she-ass,” Anne screamed, turning to throw the empty goblet at Jane. “Bray your gossip in someone else’s ear. Go! Never set foot in the queen’s rooms again!”

Jane darted sideways to miss the flying goblet and was nearly out the door as the metal vessel thudded to the floor. She almost collided with Staff, who looked immensely relieved to see that the curses and goblet were directed at Jane and not Mary.

“Confession time all around is it not, George?” Anne said over her shoulder as she saw Staff on the threshold.

Staff strode in and bowed low. He dared to stand only several feet from the seething Anne while Mary stood her ground farther away. “Your Grace, Mary has told you of our news? I have told the king.”

“And?”

“And, to put it true and blunt, Your Grace, we have his reluctant blessing.”

“I wish he had sent you to The Tower as well I may yet, Stafford. However did you manage his blessing at all? He favors you, I know, but I would wager his motive is intended to be more punitive toward father and me—a sign that the Boleyns cannot rise so far as they think to rise.”

“That was my assessment of his reaction exactly, Your Grace.”

Anne took a step closer to Staff, and he stood stock-still towering over her. “You always did tell the blatant truth, Stafford. What I like best about you is that you are the only one I know who can somehow keep the king off balance—now that I no longer have the power to do so, that is. That is what amuses me, Stafford. You have always had some kind of power over him where there was none given.”

“I have been and always will be full loyal to the king and he knows that well.”

“Really? It seems to me this clever little marriage move on your part shows you are quite the rebel still, my lord. But a rebel who favors gentle game. Too bad. Too bad. Did His Grace say anything else?” she probed.

“I spoke to him of my love for Mary, Your Grace. There is quite a romantic in him under all the gross power.”

“Oh, yes. I remember well his version of romance. Letters, lockets, passionate vows, promises of eternal love. But there is no such thing. It is all another of the world’s lies.”

“Eternal? Maybe not, sister,” Mary said, coming to stand by Staff’s side, “but quite enough for a whole lifetime as far as I can see.”

“And now I shall ask you the next touchy question, Lord and Lady Stafford. Why have you now decided to tell us this? Why have you tarried so long? Did you ask His Grace to let you go to live at your country farm because you are sick to death of the reeking atmosphere of the palace and my marriage or, indeed, was there another compelling cause?”

“I did ask His Grace that he let us retire to Wivenhoe.”

“Say on.”

“He said we might go for a time, but he could not spare us permanently. I was grateful for that much.”

“And, further?” Anne prodded, her voice nearly breaking as her tone rose dangerously. She stared hard at Mary and her clear brow creased into a severe frown.

“Yes, sister,” Mary said quietly, standing tall beside her husband, but not reaching to touch his arm for support as she longed to do. “Yes, I am carrying a child.”

Anne whirled away and yanked a tall-backed chair after her so that it spun crazily toward the stunned George. A sob tore her throat and she swung her fist, catching Staff on the jaw. He stood stock-still until Anne recoiled and sprang toward Mary. “Let me see your sin!” she screamed, clawing at Mary. Both George and Staff darted forward. Mary sprang back behind Staff, whose strong arms went around Anne before George could reach them. He held her to his chest as she thrashed, screamed, and sobbed.

“How dare you!” she cried over and over against his shirt. “It is not fair! Damn you both!”

“No, it is not fair, Your Grace, and I am sorry for that,” Staff said gently against her raven hair as Mary and George stood still on either side of them. “You deserve another child, Your Grace, and surely you shall have one. If not, you have a beautiful and clever Tudor daughter who is pure English unlike the Spanish Catherine’s girl. Keep calm. Do not be afraid and all can yet be well.”

Anne stopped struggling and screaming and leaned against him for a silent moment. Then she lifted her tear-streaked face and looked long at Mary. Staff released her.

“When will the child be born?” she asked tonelessly.

“In the autumn, sister. I love you, Anne, and I would wish your blessings.”

“I cannot give you that, Mary. No, I cannot. You have deceived me terribly when you said you were my friend and I trusted you. It is enough I let you go away. Does the king know of the child?”

“No, Your Grace,” Staff said low.

“You may rest assured George and I will not tell him,” she said and her eyes went jerkily over Mary’s shoulder toward the door. “But perhaps Master Cromwell will.”

Cromwell glided toward them across the carpet. “I am sorry I could not come as soon as you sent me word I was needed, Lord Stafford. I was leaving by barge and had to be rowed back to shore. What service may I give?”

“The question is, Master Cromwell,” Anne said, moving a few steps to face him, “what have you heard already? What did you know of all this long ago? I warrant you knew as many of the details as Lord Stafford himself.”

“Of their liaison, Your Grace?”

“Of course! Did you think I spoke of archery practice or jousting?”

“I have suspected for some time that Lady Stafford was with child, Your Grace, though I knew nothing of the marriage.”

“For conversation’s sake, I will assume that is a truthful answer,” Anne replied. “Then you two are to be congratulated. You gave Cromwell’s army of clever spies the slip. That is almost amusing, is it not, Cromwell?”

When he did not answer, the queen’s desperate control shattered again. “Get them out of my sight, king’s man! Banish them, get them well on the road before my father or the king hears of the pregnancy—not for the daughter whose very being depends on it, no, but for the beautiful daughter with the Howard looks and simple heart who bears live sons! Get out of here, all of you. I have much to do!”

Mary wanted to hug Anne farewell, but she felt crushed and exhausted, not terrified as she had expected. She curtseyed and backed away, but Anne had turned to the window and George, dear loyal George, put his hands to her shoulders, and they were still standing like that unspeaking as the doors closed.

In the hall courtiers still clustered around the queen’s threshold as though awaiting favors. There will be no favors today, Mary thought grimly, as she took Staff’s arm and they wended their way through the maze of people behind Cromwell. Jane Rochford darted up from nowhere, no doubt lagging about to hear the rest of the screaming through the door.

“Lord Stafford, Mary, I am so happy for you!” she gushed.

“Thank you, Jane,” Mary said low. “Please, please do not goad the queen so, and try to be a friend to her.”

“George is friend enough for her and that pretty musician Smeaton,” Jane replied tartly. “I do not see that George left with the rest of you.”

They walked on leaving the girl behind, but Mary could still hear her petulant voice speaking to someone else. They were nearly on the road to Wivenhoe now, and soon there would be a great distance between them, gossip and the court. They would be on the road to freedom from all of this and, God willing, they might be able to stay away a very long, long time.

“You lead a charmed life, Stafford,” Cromwell finally spoke when they were out of the crush of eager faces in the hall by Mary’s room. He smiled at them, but his voice was as cold as usual no matter what the words. “It is a rare man indeed who can flaunt authority and propriety and walk away unscathed. Will you need a contingent of guards on the road?”

“Thank you, no, Master Cromwell. Mary and I have four servants between us and that shall suffice.”

“Then let me only say,” Cromwell went on, his eyes shifting to Mary’s face, “that I shall be your ally and not your enemy should you have the need of aid even at little—where is it now?”

“Wivenhoe, near Colchester, Master Cromwell.”

“Yes. Maybe I shall visit you sometime. I would like to meet your ghosts.” He pivoted stiffly to face Staff. “Let us say it plainly, Lord Stafford. You and I have always been clever chess players. You are one of the few who have even beaten me. Now you are off on an adventure which greatly intrigues me.” He glanced at Mary again. “The Boleyns, all of the Boleyns, may need friends, and I am simply volunteering. Do you believe me, Stafford?”

“Yes, Cromwell, for various reasons, yes. Only remember that I am quite through having my wife be a pawn in anyone’s chess game ever again. I will die first.”

“Then we understand each other perfectly, as I thought we always did. Good luck to you both. If you wish to know the winds of the times, you have only to write to me.”

“Thank you, Master Cromwell,” Mary said and forced a small smile. “If you have any influence on my sister, sir, please counsel her to curb her temper and the king can be hers again.”

He stared squarely into Mary’s wide eyes. “We can only hope for that, I think, Lady Stafford, and hope is often a last resort.” He bowed to them in the deserted hall and was gone.

“We are going to Wivenhoe, girl,” Staff told the sleepy Nancy when they entered Mary’s room. “The whole world knows your mistress and I are wed and will soon enough know of the child. Pack several dresses and we will have the rest sent after us. The day is getting late, but we will not sleep under this roof tonight.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” Nancy hugged Mary and turned back to Staff. “Are you in disgrace and banished then?”

“More or less,” Mary answered, yanking open the top drawer of her wardrobe. “Come on, Nance. We will talk on the way.”

“You see, lass,” Staff teased as he felt the tremendous impact of their sudden freedom assail his brain, “Stephen is going, too, and with the tight accommodations at Wivenhoe manorhouse, your lady and I would be most grateful if you and he could see fit to share a room. And, though I fear your betters have not set you a very good example, we would prefer that you wed with him first, if the two of you would do us so kind a favor.”

Nancy’s face went from incredulous, to stunned, to joyous, to embarrassed.

“Staff, did you have to tell her that surprise now? You are just like a little boy who cannot wait for dinner,” Mary scolded. “Nancy, you must keep packing or we will end up in a dungeon somewhere and have to rescind the suggestion.” She smiled broadly at Staff as the girl bent to her packing and stuffing with a vengeance.

Within an hour the Wivenhoe party clattered away from Whitehall along the river and soon turned eastward with the sun warm on their backs. Thomas Boleyn had not appeared to scold or stop them as Mary had feared he would. She was glad not to see him, but somehow it only said he did not care. She thought again of brave and loving Meg Roper with her father’s head in her lap as they left The Tower behind and cantered through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Staff’s great stallion, Sanctuary, snorted as though he already scented the far distant Wivenhoe, and Eden kept well abreast of the huge horse as they rode side-by-side toward Colchester.