“She once told me that perhaps I could find a way to have the man I would choose to love as she had chosen the duke. Only, I have not found the way. They would all go straight up through the roof of Whitehall or Westminster or wherever, and forbid us to see each other again.”
He bent to kiss her nose though she parted her lips in readiness. “Suffice it to say you have found the man, lass. We will yet, and soon, find the way. If they should marry indeed and then have a son, I would ask the king direct. He might be glad enough to have you off their hands, only your sharp sister and her dearest ally Lord Boleyn would never allow it if they caught wind of it. It worries me that if you were sister to the queen, they would think you suited for some foreign dynastic marriage.”
“But that would be foolish!”
“Not to them, Mary. Perhaps you are too close to them right now to see how out of touch they are becoming. The people curse Anne in the streets as a bawd, the king’s ‘Great Whore.’ The masses love their true queen. Sweetheart, there is much trouble ahead and sometimes I think the only way to keep you well out of it is to desert the court, kidnap you to Wivenhoe and ask their forgiveness from there.”
“Staff, you would not dare!”
“They would hardly throw us both in The Tower, you know. And would you not like being my prisoner in my little castle? Remember when I played the Sheriff of Nottingham and seized you prisoner in my castle at the masque?”
“Of course, I remember. You brazenly stole a kiss on the night of the performance.”
“A poor substitute for what I really wanted to do, lass. But the king was waiting as he may well be now. But tonight I am not on call at his bed chamber, so I will be back; rain, sleet, or hail. Stephen and I will row over as soon as I can get away. See your door is unlocked and you have a warm drink and bed awaiting me.” He kissed her hand and released her. “Damn, I nearly forgot. I have a gift for you.”
He dug into his small leather pouch and pulled out a long chain dripping with garnets. They looked shiny black against his velvet chest.
“My lord, it is beautiful, but you must not bring me gifts.” She looked at him, but made no move to take the necklace.
“You will not accept my money, sweet, nor will you take even a bolt of silk I offer you. I will not have them looking down on you because the Bullens—Boleyns or whatever they call themselves these days—are too damned stingy to see that their Mary, who got them where they are in the first place, is dressed suitably.”
He dropped the necklace in a noisy little pile on the table. “Wear it or not, as it pleases you. It belonged to my lady aunt. If you think it is meant to be a bribe for my possession of you tonight or ever, you are wrong. It is a love gift meant to catch the cherry color of your lips in candlelight. I will see you at Westminster tonight. And think to guard your face if you see me with other ladies. Until we decide we shall tell them, I will not have your dangerous sister banish me or separate us somehow on one of her catty whims.” He nodded to her, opened the door, and was gone.
She scooped the necklace from the table and examined it in the pale February sunlight. It was a fine piece, square-cut garnets strung along the thin golden links. She would treasure it, and she had hurt him in heartless acceptance of it. She would let him know how she valued it and his love. She would show him tonight, for she would wear her crimson gown whether or not it was a three-year-old style. She would wear it with the golden snare in her hair from Banstead and this garnet necklace from his beloved Wivenhoe.
Mary was grateful that the night was so mild for February, for she had no warm robe or coat to replace the one they had burned after Will had died. She had cherished that robe once, for Staff had first made love to her on it. But that was long ago and this green pelisse would have to do for now.
“Are you warm enough, Mary?” George’s face came around her shoulder like a beacon of light in the gray dusk.
“Yes, George, I am fine. How are your other charges?”
“Anne is nervous and my dear wife is as nasty as always. Not that I give a damn, about Jane, I mean. Let Mark Gostwick have her if he wants her. Anne has him sent from court to annoy Jane, but I really do not care what she does. I would not put it past the little bitch to side with the queen against us.”
“George, you must not talk like that no matter how much she vexes you. She is your wife,” Mary scolded as gently as she could.
Completely misunderstanding, he said only, “She might support the queen’s side, Mary. Our own Norfolks have split over it and our foolish aunt dares to champion Catherine’s cause. I think though,” he lowered his voice though no one could hear them, “the true cause of the rift is that everyone knows dear Uncle Norfolk prefers the hot bed of his children’s laundress, Bess Holland, to the icy sheets of his lady wife.” George chuckled and Mary spun to face him.