The Last Boleyn

by Karen Harper

  Staff leaned down to kiss her. They embraced each other and then the beaming Whitmans. It seemed like a dream. She was his wife and little Catherine had a loving father, though it might be months before she could be told. They could never take Staff away from her the way they had her firstborn, her pride and even her body. Now, now it was all hers to keep!

  They signed the huge parish registry as lord and lady and sat in the tiny room which served as an office while Father Robert inked in their names on their official marriage parchment on a shaky table.

  “I fear greatly for the holy church, my lord,” the priest said directly to Staff in an abrupt change from the small talk he had been pursuing. “Do you understand? Is there anything you could say to reassure me?”

  “I am sorry, father,” Staff answered, looking directly at the pale man. “The latest act of Parliament forbidding direct appeals to Rome is only a first step. I am sorry, but you no doubt read the times rightly.”

  “Yes,” he said only, and bent his head to his lettering. Then he added under his breath, “I have prayed that these terrible happenings might be an indication of our Lord’s Second Coming, but I fear our earthly king is only misguided and hardly the Antichrist. Is it true the one they call ‘The King’s Great Concubine’ has so besotted his soul that he would kill the Holy Church to keep her? Spanish Catherine is queen anointed and true church folk know it well.”

  Mary gave a tiny gasp, and the priest’s eyes sought hers. “I am sorry, Lady Stafford. I did not know where your sympathies would lie, and I should not have spoken so. But I am only a priest of a small village and, therefore, I am not afraid to say what my soul would have me say.”

  “You are fortunate then, indeed, Father Robert, and I wish you safety in the times ahead,” Staff said.

  “Thank you for your concern, but that is the Lord’s business. I shall tend the relics and pray over the graves and nourish the little flock and leave the rest—including our king and court—to Him. That is the Lord’s business too.”

  “Yes, Father. It comforts me to think of it that way,” Mary said honestly. “And you may be assured that the king is not the Antichrist.”

  “Perhaps not, lady, but some sort of evil is coming for a fall. Mark my words, evil only corrupts itself everlastingly and it will be rooted out.” He stood with his thin hands on his little desk. “Go your way now and pax vobiscum.”

  “Thank you, father,” Staff said and left a bag of coins on the rickety table which nearly tottered under his touch.

  The setting winter sun was etching great black shadows on the church as they left. The graves of the village forefathers looked like snowy miniature houses, and the first touch of eventide wind whistled in the carved entryway. Rows of icicles dripped from the carved eaves like jagged teeth of a stone monster waiting to devour whoever ventured within. Mary turned to imprint the little church in her memory, but it suddenly loomed behind dark and lonely, and she turned back wrapping her warm cloak about her.

  Though the Whitmans had planned to serve Staff and Mary a fine wedding supper in the privacy of their room, the newly married couple insisted that they eat with the Whitmans at their hearth in the hall. They raised many toasts, laughed and reminisced and the four Whitman children sat wide-eyed by the blazing fire, in wonderment at having so fine a lord and lady eating at table with their parents. Mary cuddled three-year-old Jennifer on her lap, remembered little Catherine at that age and dreamed of the children she would bear Staff someday, but not, hopefully, until they saw fit to tell the court and her family of their marriage and could go to Wivenhoe. She never wished to attempt to raise a son or daughter in the emotional confines of the court again.

  “We will make this last toast, then, to a sound night’s winter sleep,” Staff was saying with his goblet aloft again. He winked at Mary and, to her dismay, she could feel a blush spread over her neck and cheeks. The fire was entirely too warm and the wine lightly touched her face and mind with laughter.

  They mounted the stairs together, and she turned back shyly to wave at the beaming little family of Master Whitman. She felt every bit a first-time bride even though she had been possessed by far too many men, and the Whitmans would be shocked to know of her unhappy past.

  “I much prefer this to the screaming and running and undressing at court,” she observed quietly as he swung open the door to their room.

  “You will never know how much I suffered that night, lass.”

  “What night?”

  “The night you were wed at court. I heard them all tearing through the hall laughing, and I went to the stables and got raving drunk with the grooms and stable boys. Lost a good bit of money gambling, too.”

  “Did you, my love? You never told me that.”

  He closed the door and shot the bolt firmly. “There are many things I never told you of my suffering for you, sweetheart. But that is all behind us now and, pray God, things will always be better for us in the future together.”

  He smiled a deep, lazy smile and pulled her gently over to the fire. The room smelled of fresh herbs and clean rushes rustled on the wooden floor. Deftly he unlaced her dress and it fell in a pink pool at her feet. His arms encircled her and they stood in the warmth of the fire and their love.

  “Wine, sweet?” his voice came quietly in her hair.

  “I think I have had quite enough wine, my Staff.”

  He lifted her in one fluid motion before she even sensed he would do so. “I think you have had quite enough of everything except me and the loving I intend to give you, Mary Bullen, Lady Stafford.”

  He laid her gently on the bed and stood to undress. His voice came muffled from under his shirt and doublet as he pulled them off as one garment. “I promise you, sweet, if you do lie on this bed awake half the night, it will not be with longing that I would touch you as last time we were here.”

  Her mouth dropped open in surprise. “But you were long sleeping. How did you know of that?”

  He laughed deep in his throat as he bent to strip off his breeks. “I told you, golden Mary, there are some things in my longing for you that you do not know. You had best make a careful study of me over the years, and perhaps you will learn what I mean.”

  “I intend to my lord. If only we could live together openly!”

  “We will, sweetheart. We will, somehow and as soon as we can manage it. If Anne should bear him a son, I will ask him outright, but enough of that other world. This one is ours.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  March 17, 1534

  Hampton Court

  It was the earliest spring Mary could remember and the mazelike gardens were newly alive with tiny nubs of purple and yellow crocus, and the thin branches of forsythia stirred with new life in their golden buds. She gently stroked her flat belly against the mauve velvet of her gown. It gave no sign yet, but soon enough she would begin to swell with the growth of Staff’s first child. They had waited a year for this and now she would tell him. He would be somewhat alarmed, for he knew that the babe would eventually necessitate their telling the king and queen and asking to be dismissed or allowed to live together at court. But they were so happy, whether they had to meet in secret or not, that they could weather even that.

  She inhaled a deep breath laden with the aromas of moist spring earth and sat on the marble bench in the deserted rose garden near their hidden bower where they often met during the afternoons when they could slip away. Married more than a year, she mused, the smile on her lips again. If only the Boleyn fortunes had not been so shaky lately and Anne so hysterical and distraught, they would have told them long ago.

  Mary glanced up at the wing of the nursery which directly overlooked these gardens. The six-month-old Princess Elizabeth no doubt slept or played beyond those windows—the child who was to have been the prince Anne and the king’s astrologers had promised him. It was a white-faced, red-haired child whose christening at Greenwich the king refused to attend. The Boleyns had huddled behind Archbishop Cranmer a
s he blessed their best hope to hold the crown. And worst of all, Anne had newly miscarried of a pregnancy. Now the Boleyns were in fear and disarray and even father showed desperation in his darting eyes. This was no time for them to be told of a new marriage or pregnancy of their black sheep daughter Mary. But if only the king would cease to look elsewhere as he had lately with various mistresses and would bed with the queen, Anne could conceive again. Then they would surely tell them, and then...

  There were quick footsteps on the gravel path, and she ducked back into their little bower. The interior was not so hidden with its leaves and flowers yet to come, but the vines and briars were fairly thick. Staff was here, his head and shoulders blocking out the garden beyond.

  “Stephen tells me his Nancy says you wanted to see me, sweetheart. Is anything amiss?” He took a step toward her and his hands went to her waist.

  “Not amiss, love, but I wanted to tell you something. Did you have difficulty getting away?”

  “No. His Grace is with a messenger from his sister in Suffolk, and Cromwell is closeted with your father. Cromwell has taken to giving me one raised eyebrow lately and wishing me a good night’s sleep, so I assume he knows or suspects how much I see you.”

  “But he could not know we are wed!”

  “Sometimes I do not know what the man knows or thinks. But I do sense that he is amazingly protective of you, for His Grace obviously knows nothing of us. It seems to have dropped from the king’s realm of interest what I do, although he always wants me about on the sporting field. At least he has given up on that foolish Dorsey match for me.” He smiled rakishly and took a step deeper into the bower. “I do not fancy two wives to please.”

  She pushed out her lower lip in an intentional pout. “I am starting to believe you do not deserve to hear what I have to tell you at all.”

  “No? It is important then? Tell me!” He gave her waist a little squeeze.

  “Well, my lord, it is only that we are going to have to weather the storm sometime in the near future and tell them we are wed.”

  “Your sister would go right through the roof, sweet, and His Grace has been continually on edge since he signed his friend Sir Thomas More’s bill of execution.” His face changed suddenly and his eyes widened. “Why did you say we must tell them in the near future, love? What are you telling me?”

  She smiled up at him and her arms went around his neck. “My dear Lord Stafford, you have always known everything about me without my having to tell you. Have you so changed? Has marriage so dulled your senses?”

  He stared down incredulous. “Mary!” He picked her up and tried to spin them, but her feet and skirts caught in the wooden trellis and the briars pulled at their clothes.

  “Put me down, Staff! You cannot do that in here!” They both collapsed against each other weak with laughter.

  He seized her hands in a powerful grip against his red velvet chest. “You are with child, my love?”

  She nodded wide-eyed, drinking in his wordless joy.

  “How long? Did you just discover it?”

  “I did not just discover it, my lord, but now I am certain. In late September or early October I would judge. An heir for Wivenhoe, my love.”

  “Yes, an heir for Wivenhoe and for freedom away from court and all their damned intrigues. But, lass, unlike some, I will be happy with a beautiful daughter that has her mother’s eyes.” He bent and kissed her gently as though he were suddenly afraid she were fragile.

  “I will not break, you know, Staff, not even when I begin to swell. I would not want you to think that you have to...”

  “Have no fear of that, my sweetheart.” He bent to kiss her again, but raised his head and listened. “Now who the deuce is shouting like that at such a momentous time? I am so happy for our wonderful news, Mary.”

  “Did you think it would never happen? Thirty years of age is hardly past childbearing years, you know.” She gave him a playful poke in his midsection and he grinned like a small boy. Then she heard it too, a call from far away in the gardens. Nancy’s voice calling her name?

  “Oh no, not a summons to Anne’s chamber. I cannot bear her ranting and raving, Staff. She is utterly beside herself. It is worse than that week in France when you all rode out with Francois and she stormed and screamed for five days. I know she is desperate and frightened, but any words of comfort she just rips to shreds.”

  “Yes, it is Nancy, sweet, and Lady Wingfield. Go on now, I may be late tonight, but I will wake you if you are asleep, and we will properly celebrate our good news then.” He kissed her quickly and disappeared in the direction of the river opposite from Nancy’s approach. She suddenly wished she had waited to tell him when they were really alone with no interruptions upon their joy. But, then, this place had its own beautiful memories, and she had always planned to tell him here when it happened.

  Mary flounced out her skirts and hoped Lady Wingfield would not notice the tiny pulls in the materials from the mad spinning against the rose vines. She raised her hand to Nancy as the two women caught sight of her strolling toward them.

  “I was trying to call loudly for you, my lady,” Nancy assured her with a conspiratory wink.

  “Thank you, girl,” Lady Wingfield cut in. “You did indeed know where your mistress likes to walk in the afternoons. Lady Rochford, the queen is calling for you and unless you come quickly with me, the others will bear the brunt of her temper.”

  “Then we shall go directly, Lady Wingfield. Do you know the cause of the summons?”

  They hurried across the spring gardens, somehow changed by the fact that Mary had to go back to Anne’s dark, vaulted room where she had only two weeks ago borne the dead child.

  “The cause, lady? Hurt, and vile temper, and fear, but I beg you, do not tell the queen or the little Rochford I said so.”

  Mary glanced at the sweet-faced, gray-haired matron as they climbed the stairs. “No, lady, I will not tell her that her dear companion can see things clearly.”

  “I know you do also, Lady Rochford,” the woman whispered to Mary as they wended their way among the small crowd outside the queen’s chambers. “You are somehow different from the others.”

  “’Sbones, where have you been hiding, Mary?” came Anne’s sharp voice from the depths of the bed, even before Mary could see her pinched white face staring out at them all.

  “In the gardens, Your Grace. I did not know you would be requiring me again or I would not have strayed.”

  “Dreaming you were home at Hever, I suppose. Well, you had best stay closer in the future. As it is, both father and I wish to speak with you.”

  A tiny knot twisted in Mary’s stomach. She and her father had hardly been on speaking terms this last year since she had argued with him about his secret visits to her son at Hatfield. He had even taken to sending Cromwell as go-between if he wished to ask her a question or give an order.

  “Sit here on the bed, sister,” Anne motioned with a slender jeweled hand. “I get rather dizzy with everyone standing about or moving around the room all the time.”

  Mary sat gently on the foot of the bed. Anne’s body had fully healed from her miscarriage, but she seemed unwilling to rise from her bed despite what the doctors said.

  “First, I would have some of the truth, and I know I will not get it from the simpering faces around me. Jane Rochford tells me—at my insistence—that my husband the king has been visiting others at night. I know that if he is seeing them at night, he is bedding them. I have long known there are various court ladies who are greedy little sluts enough to let him do as he will. Is that true, what Jane says? Is it come to that already? Tell me, Mary, for I would know. Cromwell, father and George are lying to me. Is it true?”

  “I seldom see the king, sister, as you know. And I am not there to see...”

  “Is it true, Mary? You may not be there but Stafford is about, and I know you two still see each other. Well?”

  Mary held her breath, then let the words out in a rush. �
��I have heard that your information is correct, Your Grace.”

  “Then I must arise and get my strength back. Father is planning something drastic and it does not include me. I must get my looks and laughter back and then we shall see who holds this king! I can conceive again, Mary. This child was ill-formed and it was not my fault. They whisper I am the cause of it, but it is not—it cannot—be true. They say I bewitched him and my sixth tiny finger shows that I am a witch!” Her voice broke and Mary pressed her thin hand between her own.

  “Who has told you these vile rumors, Anne? Jane Rochford?”

  Ignoring her question and comforting touch, Anne plunged on, “The Boleyns have fine healthy children like Elizabeth, like your Henry and Catherine. I shall have another—a boy!” The queen struggled to the edge of the bed and dangled her legs still under the sheets. “No, get back all of you and leave us for a while. My sister will help me. Rochford and Lady Wingfield may stay. Everyone else, leave me!

  “Here, Mary, let me lean on you. In a week I shall be back with him and there shall be no more fly-by-night whores in his bed. I shall get the names and if any of them are my ladies, they will be banished.” Anne’s eyes refocused on Mary’s worried face and she seemed to calm somewhat. “Here now, sister, I had something to tell you of your little Harry. His Grace is sending Elizabeth in style with a full household of her own to be raised at Hatfield, so Henry Fitzroy and your son will be sent elsewhere for their tutoring.”

  Anne rose with Mary’s help and walked a few unsteady steps. “Really, Mary, do not look so distraught. You must not expect the lad to stay with Fitzroy much longer anyway, since Bessie Blount’s illegitimate son is older and should be sent to the law courts soon. Your Harry is only nephew to the king by marriage.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, I understand. Where will he be sent?”

  “I am not certain. Cromwell is deciding a good place. I cannot fathom that I could feel so exhausted from but a few steps.”