“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!”