“See, George, we got her attention at last,” Anne giggled. “At least that certain rogue is one man to be trusted by both His Grace and me, so fear not we will send him into exile at his house at wherever it is, sister. He at least, unlike the butcher’s son of a cardinal, always knows his place. I am convinced Staff never plans to climb so high as others around the court.”
Mary turned fearfully to look at her father. She had worked so hard the past year to do as Staff advised her, so her family would not suspect they were in love. Yet she knew her father had spies, many spies. He had told her in a fit of anger to play the whore for Stafford if she wished. He would never understand their love, so let him think what he wanted. Only Anne was right, too. She was very upset at her lover’s avid attentions to the beauteous Dorothy Cobham lately. Tonight at the masque he had gone much too far. Perhaps she was just moping for herself or was hurt by Anne’s terrible revenge, but Staff’s actions annoyed her just as much as Anne’s tonight.
“All right. Now who in hell shall we get to play Wolsey himself?” Anne asked and laughed uproariously at her own pun.
She seemed on the verge of a crying jag, Mary thought. Her face looked happy, but her glassy eyes and piercing voice gave away an inner desperation.
Before the laughter died away, there was an echoing knock on the door. They all froze like thieves caught with booty. Thomas Boleyn held up his jeweled hand for silence and motioned to the guard to open the door. Mary could see several guards in the hall and Nancy’s serious face beyond as she pressed against the wall in the corridor. Yet no one stood at the door to enter. Surely the king would not come to tell the Boleyns the news of the cardinal’s death himself. But if he did, Staff might come too. She would like to give him a piece of her mind after his display with Dorothy Cobham tonight! She cared nothing for all of this Wolsey nonsense compared to that.
She heard Jane Rochford’s swift intake of breath as a dark-cloaked Thomas Cromwell stepped past her father into the room. His black eyes swept over them all like a bowshot. He bent stiffly to Anne and nodded to Lord Boleyn. How perfect he will be to play Wolsey in hell if my hysterical sister has the nerve to ask, a small voice in Mary’s head told her. If Wolsey had many friends like this viper, no wonder his enemies got him in the end.
“I come with a sad message from His Grace for you, Lady Anne,” his voice came distinctly at them. He always spoke in a dull monotone, but people everywhere hung on his words. Even when the meaning was pleasant, his voice dripped venom—and power.
“I hope His Grace is as well as when we left him but an hour ago,” Anne’s sharp voice answered him.
“His Grace is well and sends his love anew, lady. The news concerns my late master the Cardinal Wolsey, who, as you know, was to be arrested and brought back to London to stand trial.” He hesitated. “Do I sense that the tragic news has preceded me, Lady Anne? Perhaps your father’s, ah, messengers have told you the news?”
Staff is right, Mary thought. A cold fear bit at her insides, not in concern for her family, but at the fact that this man knew everything. She thanked the good Lord that Thomas Cromwell favored the Boleyn cause.
“We have heard somewhat of the news, I must admit, Master Cromwell, but we would be pleased to have it from your lips. It is good to hear the cardinal so gently remembered by one who worked for him so closely and yet gladly left his service,” Anne taunted carefully, just on the edge of accusing Cromwell of traitorous behavior.
“As I have heard you say many times, Lady Anne, we all serve the king here. Am I not correct?” He pivoted his square face slowly and his dark gaze touched each of them in turn properly, politely.
“Have I interrupted some family revel?” he probed again. His thin lips formed a knowing smile.
“Mere amusement and foolishness after too much sitting and drinking all night,” came Thomas Boleyn’s amused voice. “You understand how it is, Thomas, for you work much too hard yourself lately.” Lord Boleyn strode several steps toward the king’s advisor and clapped him on the shoulder. “Will you stay the night with us before going back? I am going there myself at dawn.”
“I am sorry. I must decline the kind offer and head back. There are plans to be laid for the royal conference with the French king at Calais. And, as we both well know, my friend, there is no duty, task or price too great when one serves the king. No price too great.”