The Last Boleyn

by Karen Harper

  “Mary, I am sorry, truly I am. Anne is too. If I get some extra money dicing, you shall have it.” When she did not answer as he had expected, he plunged on, “But you look magnificent tonight, sister, absolutely beautiful as always. The golden net in your hair is fine and the necklace looks new.”

  “Thank you, George,” she said, refusing to give in to his gentle hint for an explanation of her net and garnets.

  “I did hear, though,” she said to change the subject, “that the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk are arguing over the situation also. The duke, of course, sides with his friend the king, but I cannot fathom my dear friend the Princess Mary taking Her Grace’s part. She has always been a promoter of love matches and she will ruin her happy marriage if she persists in this. I hope this will not mean that little Catherine must be taken from her daughter’s nursery.”

  “Yes, as you say, she will ruin her precious love match. But that marriage was a freak anyway, admit it, Mary. The both of them far gone in mutual love and the lady picks the man she marries! Ha! A rare miracle and not to be believed. And the king’s sister and his best friend at that! Most marriages about the royal court are made in hell, not heaven. I can attest well enough to that. Well, I see we are almost there. I had best get back to escorting Anne as His Grace sent me to do, or she will be put out. See you later, Mary.”

  “Yes, dearest George,” she whispered to herself. Poor George, trapped with a woman he detested who would never bear him children, while Margot Wyatt played wife to some strange landowner in the north. And poor, bitter Anne still haunted by ghosts she could not exorcise. Mary was certain of it now, for Anne had leapt at the chance to help Eleanor Carey become Prioress of Wilton when she had seized on the thought that it would discomfort Wolsey if the king refused his candidate. To be so eaten by hatred of Wolsey after all these years without her Percy lad. If only Anne truly loved the king now, all this would be so much easier to accept.

  Mary rose and walked steadily across the width of the still-rocking barge and from the little party awaiting them, Henry Norris gave her his hand. He looked well, she thought, for a man whose wife had died in childbirth only a few months ago. Anne strode off far ahead toward the palace, her gauzy silver jeweled headpiece floating across her black tresses and winking in the torchlight on the landing. She walked between George and father, the only Boleyns who really mattered anymore. Staff was right. She and mother would never be anything but Bullens despite the royal rain of titles on them. Bullens from Hever and proud of it, thought Mary as she lifted her head and smiled up at Norris.

  Mary did as Staff had bid her when she sighted him with the beautifully gowned Cobham wench across the room. She kept a smile on her lips and chatted with her cousin Francis Bryan as the court assembled for dinner. After all, she had Staff’s gift around her bare throat and she could feel its metal weight along the swell of her breasts. And tonight he would be in her bed, not in flirty Dorothy Cobham’s.

  “It is in the wind that there will be another Tudor visit to the court of Francois du Roi now that the sticky situation with France improves somewhat,” Francis was saying. “I have a wager on that the king will take Anne with him. Personally, I think it might be His Grace’s plan to test the waters to see if he can get support for the marriage elsewhere in case he does not get aid from Pope Clement.”

  “Really, Francis,” Mary said low as her eyes went over his shoulder to her father, who was in earnest conversation with Anne and George on the royal dais, awaiting the king’s entry. “I think we had better forget the divorce if His Holiness does not grant it. It may mean Wolsey’s utter ruin, but the king can hardly circumvent the pope.”

  Francis’s eyebrows raised in unfeigned surprise. “Then you are less in the council of Anne and your father than I had imagined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The king has a new advisor now to whose dark, sly voice he harkens well. See the short, square man in black by the dais—the one who entered with your father?”

  “Yes, I see him. Who is it?”

  “Thomas Cromwell, once a clerk, now a wily lawyer. And he will be more—much more. He has been Wolsey’s henchman and now he reports directly and only to the king.”

  “So that is Master Cromwell. The king gave him the manor at Plashy, the Carey manor, you know. But I have never seen him about the king socially. Come, Francis. Do not coddle me. I have been through enough to handle whatever you have to say about the king’s Cromwell.”

  “I know that, sweet Mary. Cromwell counsels that His Grace can have his divorce without the Holy Father’s word. All the king has to do, you see,” his hand swept through the space between them as if he were brushing a pesky fly away, “is become the head of the English Church in place of the pope, and do whatever he damn pleases about the divorce.”

  “So that is what he meant to imply about Anne and His Grace ruining Wilton,” she breathed, remembering Staff’s warning of this afternoon.

  “Who implied? And who mentioned Wilton?”

  “Someone I used to know, dear Francis. Here comes the king.”

  “Hail to our next pope,” Francis whispered, chuckling close to her ear.

  Before the blare of trumpets had even died away in the crowded room, the king had cut a straight course toward the radiant Anne and was slapping George and Thomas Boleyn on their backs in some huge private jest. Then he and Anne began to circulate slowly through the crowd with George and the Duke of Suffolk on either side like stone bulwarks against the press of people.

  “I wonder where the duchess is tonight?” Mary observed. “I had hoped she would go up with me to the nursery to see the children.”

  “Weston told me they are not speaking over the ‘King’s Great Matter.’ They are always such turtledoves, I would not believe it of them, but they may not even be bedding together. This mess has certainly divided the court and is likely to get worse unless Wolsey can pull off some sort of miracle. It is nice to be related to the Bullens—ah, the Boleyns—in these days, for no one ever asks me how I feel or what I think about it. They assume they already know.”

  “And do they, my lord Francis?” she inquired sweetly.

  “I always keep in mind, my beautiful cousin, that appearances can be deceiving.”

  “So do I, Francis, though it is a lesson I have learned rather late.”

  “Do not look now, Mary, but here comes trouble.”

  “The king with Anne? I did not think she would dare to drag him over here,” she said low without turning to look.

  “No, lady. I am referring to your father. He looks like the worst winter storm I have seen in a while.”

  Mary’s heart lurched as she pivoted slowly to face Thomas Boleyn. Perhaps I should give him lessons in hiding his feelings from the court, she thought when she caught his grim expression. Had Anne blurted out her plan to help the Carey woman already, and it had unsettled him so?

  “Good evening, Francis,” her father nodded. “Daughter, I want to speak with you. His Grace is busy and no one dares to sit until he does. Will you walk with me?”

  “I think you are poorly informed, father,” she returned calmly. “It looks to me that Anne and the king have made as much conversation as they please for now, and will sit to eat. I would be pleased to walk with you now though, if you wish.”

  “No, no, I must go back then, but I will see you after the meal. See to it that you do not go skipping off to see your child before I talk to you.”

  “I will be looking forward to our interview, my lord. It is so seldom I am able to find time to see you.” She smiled up at him and dared to hold the look while his dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “You will not be so pert when you hear what I have to say,” he threatened low so Francis could not catch his words. Then his head jerked up sharply as the royal trumpet fanfare blared again. “Judas Priest,” she heard him say and his face turned ashen. “It cannot be the queen. She would not dare come here where she is not wanted.” He darted off
toward the dais, bobbing and weaving on his swift path through the astounded crowd.

  It was indeed Queen Catherine and four of her ladies, all dressed in black like harbingers from hell’s gates. The king went red and looked as though he would choke from anger, and Anne’s ebony eyes blazed defiance as she held her ground at the king’s elbow. The hiss of whispers dulled to a low buzz as the fanfare ceased.

  “But she does dare!” Francis Bryan said at Mary’s side. “She does dare!”

  The queen bowed low to the king, ignoring the haughty cluster of Boleyns and their supporters perched at the king’s side on the dais. “I have missed my husband,” her clear voice rang out with its unmistakable Spanish accent. “I have missed him sorely and our daughter Mary misses him also.” She gathered her heavy skirts and mounted the two steps to the dais. She sank slowly into the huge chair to the right of the king’s, where Anne would have sat, and two of her women hastened to arrange her skirts and move the chair closer to the table.

  The king stood stock-still, a frozen statue of pent-up rage. He spun his vast back to the hushed crowd and bent low over the gold- and-silver-laden table in front of his wife. If he meant his words to be low enough that no one could hear, he failed utterly.

  “Madam,” he said distinctly, “you are not bidden here, nor have you been announced.”

  “But I never see you otherwise, my husband,” she returned bravely. Mary’s eyes caught Anne’s for an instant as they swept the crowd helplessly. Mary read the controlled panic in them.

  The king’s voice went on, dripping with venom. “The king will see you when he chooses, madam, and he does not choose so now. You have your own household and you may go anywhere you want within it, but...not here!” His back shook and his piercing voice seemed to echo off the rafters of the timbered hall.

  Mary’s nails bit deep into her palms and she was amazed to find herself so torn for this proud queen who had lost the man she had loved and whose desperation made her brave enough to hazard all. Mary tried to summon up her natural sympathy for Anne, but she was bereft of feeling for the slender, dark-haired girl who stood so straight between her father and her king. No wonder others risked all for the queen’s cause in the face of His Grace’s wrath and ruin of their dreams!

  There was a grating scrape as the queen slid back her chair and rose unsteadily to her feet. “I was not truly hungry for the feast, my king, just for the sight of you. I will await you in the privy chamber and after you are finished here with your—friends—we shall talk. I shall be waiting.” She nodded slowly to the crowd. She looked so tiny on the dais, especially next to His Grace and the clump of Boleyns on his other side, two forces tugging at the power between them.

  Queen Catherine descended the dais, and Mary’s eyes followed her black-covered head as she exited behind the huge metal screen set to stop the winter drafts. The exit was quite near where she still stood with Francis Bryan, the doorway which led to the king’s privy chamber off the Great Hall.

  Everyone sat awkwardly, silently at the head steward’s signal and Mary noted the king apologizing profusely to Anne, who suddenly smiled no more. The meal was interminable and Mary could not even catch a glimpse of Staff from where she sat. She and Francis made hushed conversation about everything trivial as did the rest of the feasters until, gratefully, they were released to stream into the long gallery for dancing.

  Mary rose and stretched, her eyes quickly scanning the crowd for Staff and for Norris, to whom she had promised the first dance. Before she was even in sight of the doorway, though, her father was at her elbow again. “Let us step into the hall,” he said bluntly. “Everyone else is hurrying the other way. They will not miss us for a moment.”

  “I doubt that they will miss me at all, father,” she told him as he propelled her behind the screen into the corridor through which the queen and her ladies had left so dramatically.

  “Look, Mary,” he began as they stood in the dim hall, “I can understand some bitterness and jealousy that the king will marry Anne, but you have to buck up, girl. Stop this testiness and, well, this disrespect I have sensed lately.”

  “Anne and I are on the best of terms, father, as are George and I.”

  “I meant to me, Mary, and well you know it. I cannot help it that His Grace saw fit to dole out the Carey lands to others. They were his to give; they are his to take. He leaves little Harry safely with Fitzroy at Hatfield, so be grateful to him. Some people think it means he refuses to let the lad inherit the Carey lands to show that he is not the son of Will Carey. Maybe he will give him more later—royal grants, Mary.”

  “Whoever says such things is quite mistaken. Harry is Will’s son, make no mistake about that, father. If such rumors to the contrary are circulating, I shall set them right.”

  “If you do, I shall have you out of your sister’s good graces on your backside in the street!” He bent menacingly close to her.

  “Please understand me, father. I wish I did not have to beg for your money like some poor distant relation, but I am an embarrassment to your fine Boleyn family, if you want to look at it that way. My newest dresses are two years old, and I own no stockings without my maid servant’s darning stitches all over them.”

  “Let me tell you something else, my girl,” he interrupted ominously. “I understand that William Stafford much fancies you and rows the murky Thames at night to visit you. See what you can get from him. No doubt a lusty man like that is enough to warm the blood in winter, eh? Will you be foolish enough to get nothing else from him for your sweet services just as you came away from His Grace after five years empty-handed?”

  Mindlessly, Mary flung out her hand in the direction of his leering face and felt her palm sting as it struck him. She recoiled instantly and, far down in the depths of her mind, began a silent scream as he threw her back into the wall and her head hit hard. As she started to crumple, his quick hands seized her above the elbows and pinned her flat against the carved wood behind.

  “Now listen carefully, Mary. Play the whore for Stafford if you will, for I trust him to be too clever to be caught. I care not about how you amuse yourself. Only, keep your mouth shut about my grandson. Your sister has had the brains and pluck to rise far, and you will not misbehave to harm our chances. You will serve her and our family and do it prettily or you will deal with me. And, as for your wardrobe, Anne went to His Grace with the request that I support you, and so, I shall do so. When Anne becomes queen, you will receive 100 pounds a year. Until then, you will have your new dresses and trinkets from your father’s purse. That must satisfy you, girl. And next time you need funds, do not get His Grace involved. See me directly.”

  “I never see you directly anymore, father. Please understand that the money—it is not for trinkets. I do not often dine with Anne, you know. The money is for food and candles as well as clothing.”

  “Spend it where you will, only be certain to look presentable. We shall have to find you a husband sooner or later and, thanks to your sister, he may be a fine one. If so, you may pay me back then.”

  “I think I have already paid you many times over, father,” she said recklessly, still jammed tightly against the wall. “Loose me, please.” To her amazement he did so, though she continued to lean against the wall to support her shaking legs.

  “Do not think, Mary, just because His Grace bid me support you and I agreed that you are somehow back in his favor. One of the reasons this trial has gone so poorly for him is that the queen’s damned lackey Campeggio has been citing the Leviticus exhortation against bedding the sister of one’s wife. We can all thank His Grace’s lawyers that they have proved what is incest for a brother’s widow, as Queen Catherine, does not hold for a concubine as you were. Remember that.”

  He leaned one hand on the wall beside her head and bent closer. “I am trying to forgive your terrible actions,” he ground out. “I know it is difficult to lose a husband and king both and see your sister mount the pinnacle of the realm. Be grateful you have
a strong family around you and never—never—dare to strike me again!”

  She glared at him. Tears stung her eyelids and began to spill down her cheeks. “I want you to understand, my lord, that I am crying for a little girl who is long dead and who trusted and loved you once. Now she fears and hates you and, oh, God forgive her, she loves you still!” A sob wracked her body and her shoulders heaved. He stood narrow-eyed, staring at the wild display.

  “Get hold of yourself, Mary,” he finally said quietly. “I cannot stand here while you carry on like this. Anne may have need of me. This has been a horrible night for her with the queen crashing in like that. Think of poor Anne. Dry your eyes and go upstairs to visit your daughter if that would help, but steer clear of His Grace’s willful sister if you see her. She has deserted us and the king’s side too. I shall send the money over in the morning. Cheer up now. When Anne is queen, there will be many fine dresses for you and little Catherine. You will see.”

  Unbelievably, he was gone. Thankful no one was in the hall, she leaned into the linen-fold paneling and sobbed wretchedly, silently until she could hardly breathe. Damn her foolish heart, she loved him through all the hate. Her father was the slayer of happiness. He was a thousand times worse than Francois du Roi, who tortured little girls who trusted and loved! She could never face Staff tonight after this. But she loved Staff. There was nowhere to flee but into the circle of his strength.

  There was a gentle rustle in the hall and Mary glanced up, horrified through a blinding veil of tears. It was the queen! Mary curtseyed crookedly, her hand for support on the wall. Two of the queen’s ladies stood behind her peering around their mistress’s angular headpiece with concern on their faces. One was old Lady Guildford.