“No, silly goose! The best news yet! We are free. He is dead! The dear, fat, old cardinal is dead—and”—she reached far over to slap a guzzling George on the back, who spilled wine all over himself and came up snorting—“he no doubt stands at the very gates of hell this moment. His Grace has probably heard the delightful news by now. Perhaps he will join us later. If he does,” she added, winking conspiratorially at her amused father and grabbing George’s goblet from his hand to drink herself, “we shall have a fine masque ready for him, finer by far than the one he gave me tonight.”
Anne again threw her arms around the stunned Mary and turned to address them all. “Yes, a masque showing how the very Vicar of Hell who has dared to plague us all these years dies and finds he has been appointed guardian of the jakes of hell. Yes. Perfect. Music, my Mark, music suitable for an entry into hell!”
Mary stood stock-still as Anne released her and strode energetically about the room, yanking back chairs and her embroidery frame to give them open floor space. Dear Saint George, the girl is serious, Mary thought. The poor old man is dead and her hatred of him still possesses her after all these years. Mary shuddered and felt her father’s eyes calm and cold upon her, just watching. He grinned on one side of his taut mouth, but somehow the other side drew down into a grimace.
“Besides the poor cardinal’s sad fall and demise, Mary, I think you should know that the cause of all this unabashed delight is that when Wolsey was arrested to be brought back and tried for treason against the state,” Anne lectured her, suddenly more calm, “he was arrested by none other than the long lost Harry Percy, Eighth Earl of Northumberland—my once dear love whom the cardinal has abused so badly. If you cannot rejoice for my cause, think of the fact that Wolsey’s choice triumphed over poor Eleanor Carey when we had asked to have her be made Prioress of Wilton last year. Think on that rather than Percy if you must, to get into the spirit around here!”
“Anne arranged for Harry Percy to arrest the sick, old cardinal?” Mary asked her father quietly as Anne turned to chatter to George again.
“No, girl, it just happened,” he answered low. “My messengers were waiting here with the news when we returned from Westminster. His Grace no doubt has his own informants on the matter. It was evidently the king who sent Percy to do the dirty work.”
“I can hear every word you are telling Mary, father, but say on, say on. It is all music to my ears sweeter than dear Mark’s well-tuned melodies. Can you imagine it, Mary? That old man had fallen so far from his pompous power when he dared to tell me whom I would not wed. I love it! He dared to separate an insignificant lad and lass in love—eventually, that lad arrests him for treason though, coward that he is, he catches a chill and dies on the road to his trial—and the trivial, foolish girl is the next queen!” Her voice rose to a high pitch, and tears of pity flooded Mary’s eyes.
“At least you can look happy with the rest of us, Mary. I think I had best make you Cerberus, the terrible dog who guards the gates of hell, in this playlet if you cannot look happier than that. The Boleyns are well rid of him, Mary. Harry Percy is justified and His Grace takes me to France—not Catherine. I shall be queen of England and the fat, hateful cardinal shall rot in his grave.” She whirled back, giving orders to Mark Smeaton while Jane Rochford hovered behind them, bending to hear their words.
Thomas Boleyn set down his empty flagon and took Mary’s elbow firmly. “I know it is a shock to see her so wild with joy, Mary. I like it not either. I prefer the sleek, calculating little Anne, but this has been pent-up in her for a long time and is best exorcised before His Grace sees such a display. He is so openly jealous, he might misinterpret it as still-harbored love for Percy. Go along with the foolishness and maybe she will calm down. I depend on you to be a sobering influence. By the rood, George and Jane are hardly any help to me in that.”
“All right, stand over here, Mary. Here. George, do you not think it would be wonderful if father would play Satan, to pass the final words of condemnation, I mean?”
“Sweet Anne, I hardly think...,” Thomas Boleyn began, as George and Anne dissolved into laughter. Mary could not smother a smile at last.
“There, you see, George. I knew Mary would see the fun in the whole situation!” Anne shouted. “Besides, I truly think her sour looks lately are caused by the attentions of a certain handsome man, whose name I shall not mention, to that ravishing Dorothy Cobham.”
“Enough of your teasing, Anne.” Mary raised her index finger as though to scold a naughty daughter. “I will not have you going on like this.”