The Last Boleyn (42 page)

“Come on, my lass. We are off to Hatfield or else this dirty little inn will have to serve for our nuptial chamber.” He grabbed his black cloak and hat and they strode hand in hand for the door.

By the time the early dusk turned the clean snow to evening gray, they had reached Hatfield and Mary had spent two hours with Henry Carey. He was lanky, freckled, auburn-haired, polite, and achingly adoring. He recited Latin and Greek verses for her and told her of his good relationship with his tutor and with His Grace's son, Fitzroy. He expressed his fervent wish to see his aunt the new queen whom he could not remember from his early days at court and reminded her twice that he was to be remembered to his dear grandsire. Something awful twisted deep inside Mary when the boy spoke of his grandsire the second time and, quietly, she pursued her fear.

“How often have you seen Grandsire Boleyn, Harry?”

“Oh, quite often, mother. Two weeks last. He brings fine presents and talks for hours of the court, and he promised me I shall go there someday. He has told me I might rise high in His Grace's favor with his help, and I will not forget that.”

“No, of course not. Now that your aunt is queen, you can attain a favored position. She mentioned to me that you might be a companion to her children when they should be born.”

“But Grandsire told me I would rise high long ago, mother, even before the new queen took the place of—well, became queen.”

Damn my father, she thought distinctly. He never told me of any of these visits. But, of course, he would not want to me to know he has been long poisoning the lad's mind. When I return, I shall tell him he will stop or else I shall tell His Grace what my precious father most fears I will tell him. He will not use this child as his next plan should his other power schemes go awry!

“Mother, you look so angry. Are you all right?” His pale, earnest face bent close to hers.

“Yes, of course, my Harry. Now enough talk about the court. It is far enough away from here.”

“Only twenty miles, Grandsire says, mother.”

“Well, yes. Now tell me more of the geography Master Gwinne has been teaching. They used to think the world was flat, you said?” And, the words echoed in her mind, I used to think my father was to be trusted. He has bent children's minds before in his hail-fellow-well-met mask, and he will not do it again to Harry. If only Anne were not Harry's guardian now!

“Are you listening, mother?” He smiled at her, his beautiful golden-haired mother with the blue eyes and troubled face. And she had been so happy today when she first came to see him. Had he said something amiss to her? Did she think he should be further in his studies?

“Yes, my dearest, I am listening. Say on and then we should eat and go to bed, for by morning light I must set out.”

“Shall I recite the lineage of our dear king for you instead, mother?” he inquired, his earnest eyes still on her face.

The thatched roof of The Golden Gull glittered as though it were strung with chains of diamonds in the afternoon sun. It had taken them longer than Staff had calculated on the stretch from the Kent Road west to Banstead, for a sifting of new snow had fallen and they had to keep the horses under tight rein because of hidden ruts on the covered road. Despite the biting air, they chatted and stopped to kiss and admire the powdered white beauty of the evergreen forest and the brown iced etching of the lonely trunks of elm or beech while Stephen and the two grooms dropped farther and farther behind.

Banstead lay silent but for the thin lines of smoke trailing their fingers into the winter sky, and few human footprints marred the untouched carpet of snow. The Whitmans had been awaiting them, for Staff had sent word days before, and soon the roaring hearth thawed out their hands and feet.

“Be the place as you remember it then, milady?” Master Whitman asked, seeing her scan the room repeatedly.

“No, Master Whitman, much more lovely than I remember it,” she told him. “I am looking carefully so I am certain to remember all of it.”

“Aye, one's weddin' day is a special day to remember,” Mistress Whitman put in. “My John brought me from Dover the very next day after our weddin', but I recall and well the little inn we stayed in down on the waterfront. There was a real feather bed in the next room, though ours was straw, and I recall that well, too.” She blushed as she caught her husband's warning eye and Staff's grin. “Well, I do so recall it, and I shall tell it if I want to, John!”

“But 'tis their weddin' day, and they do not want to sit here and be told of yourn,” he growled back.

Staff's voice cut in to settle the potential spat. “Now, John, we have been here long enough to warm up, so I wish us to go. Are you certain the priest will be there?”

“Aye, milord. All afternoon 'til you come, he said.”

“Then if Mistress Whitman would help Lady Carey change dresses, we will be off to the church. The winter nights come early and I intend to catch all of this one, eh, Mistress Whitman?”

She laughed as she and Mary climbed the stairs. “I know yer teasin' us both, milord,” she called back over her shoulder, “an' I will not rise to the taunt.”

Mary unpacked her ivory and pink May Day gown with tiny roses and shook the wrinkles out of it. She had wanted to have one made especially for today, but there was no unusually fine court occasion in the near future and she was afraid someone would become suspicious. Staff himself had requested this dress, she thought, as Mistress Whitman laced it up for her. She missed Nancy's sure hands on her hair, but her tresses were badly tangled by the wind, so on a whim she left her hair long and Mistress Whitman brushed it out for her. The golden snare he had bought for her here in Banstead so long ago has no place at this wedding, she thought, for she was freer today than she had ever been before.

His eyes lit when he saw her. He had changed to a velvet ivory and yellow doublet which matched her gown beautifully. He put the warm cloak around her shoulders. Holding her skirt hems from the snow, she let him lift her onto Sanctuary's back. The Whitmans trailed after them as Staff walked the horse the short way toward the Gothic spires which dominated the little village. They stamped inside and Mistress Whitman took their cloaks away while Master John went off to find the priest.

“You look the most lovely I have ever seen you, my Mary, and I have studied you and dreamed of you for long years now.” He brushed her lips with his and straightened. “I never despaired that this day would not come, but to tell you true, now that it has, I can hardly believe it.”

“You are not sorry?”

He put back his head and gave a short laugh. “You are the one who will be sorry, my love, if you try to put me off one more minute from what has always been mine since I first was swept under by that beautiful face. And, when I found there was a beautiful woman trapped behind the face, I was lost forever.”

“That is a strange way to put a compliment, Staff.”

“Shall we argue, then, love?” He pinched her arm gently and grinned down at her. “Here comes the priest.”

“Father Robert, milord and lady,” John Whitman said awkwardly.

The priest's eyes showed recognition when he saw Mary. “Yes, I believe I remember that you passed through in the terrible summer of the sweat,” he said. “We spoke briefly, did we not?”

“Yes, father. I remember. You will marry us then?”

“Gladly, gladly. And, may I inquire if the lord and lady are from the court in London? You are from no family hereabouts and yet choose to be wed in little Banstead.”

The statement was a request for information about this curious wedding. Staff's voice came in the stillness close beside her. “We are from London, father, and for sentimental reasons wish to be wed today. Will you comply?”

“Indeed. Then you will both vouch that there be no impediments to the union?”

“None, father.”

“And the lady?”

“None, father. My lord and I are both free to wed and will have it so.”

“Then, come, come, my children.” They strolled slowly up the narrow central aisle between the few chairs and benches which graced the very front of the vaulted church. The colored windows stained their clothes and faces in vibrant hues. “By what names shall you be called and registered?” Father Robert inquired quietly as he turned to face them holding his worn black prayer book.

“I am William Stafford and this is Mary, Lady Carey,” Staff told him before she could answer. Staff took her hand and faced the priest squarely.

“Then we shall begin,” the father said simply, and he began his recital in Latin.

Mary stared hard at the golden crucifix against his black garments. It looked like one her dear friend Mary Tudor had worn so long ago in France, but she must not think of that now. And it was not quite as heavy as the one which used to swing from the ample bosom of now-exiled Queen Catherine, who had been so kind to her when there was no need to be.

She turned her head and found Staff's eyes warm upon her. She looked down at their clasped hands as he slipped the gold band on her finger. Of course, she would have to hide it somewhere. Not on a chain around her neck, for it would show with the low-cut gowns Anne had made quite the style at court. Poor bitter Anne had had her secret wedding too. But now she would bear the king a child and be safe no matter if his ardors cooled as they had toward Mary so long ago.

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.”