She began to read from the parchment, “You see, Master Cromwell, the world sets little store by me and My Lord Stafford, and I have freely chosen to live a simple, honest life with him. Still, we do wish to regain the favor of the king and queen. For well I might have had a greater man of birth and a higher, but I assure you I could never have had one that loved me so well, nor a more honest man. I had rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest queen christened. And I believe verily he would not forsake me even to be a king.”
“I should like a copy of that, love,” came Staff’s voice behind her chair. “It is most beautiful and likely to be wasted on the silly ears at court.” He leaned over her chair and kissed her on the cheek. “George, you are welcome here to Wivenhoe. Did you come to see if you are an uncle again?”
They shook hands warmly, and Staff sat on the hearth bench near Mary’s chair. He had been working hard at something, for his hair was windblown and there was rich, dark mud on his boots. “Then you have a message?” Staff’s eyes bored into George’s wary ones.
“I think you are the sort of man with whom it is best to come straight to the point, Staff,” George ventured.
“And I think you will find that your sister is that sort of woman, George. Say on, but realize that anything which concerns Mary is now of utmost importance to me.”
“Yes, of course. I bear a request from father.”
“He could not come himself?” Mary asked sharply.
“Hush, love,” Staff said. “Do not goad George, for he is only the messenger, not Thomas Boleyn incarnate.”
“Things are as bad as I am sure Cromwell has told you,” George began slowly. “Anne does not conceive of another royal child, although the king has bedded her off and on all summer. He goes from mistress to mistress as he has long done, but father fears that he is increasingly under the influence of one lady and her rapacious family.”
“Jane Seymour still,” Mary thought aloud. “Does she still hold him off? Then it would seem she has taken her ambitions and tactics from the queen.”
“Exactly, Mary. That is exactly what father says. The Boleyns must hold the king, pull him from the Seymours until Anne bears the heir. Or, if she cannot, father fears Elizabeth will never get to the throne. It will be the bastard Fitzroy or...” His words hung in the air, and Mary feared as she had long ago learned to do when father sought her help. Staff and Mary said nothing and George cleared his throat.
“Sister, do you not remember how the king referred to you as the woman who bore live sons the day he discovered Anne was not really with child and they argued so terribly?”
“Yes. I remember. It was an awful scene. If this has to do with my son Harry, George, tell father to forget it. The king knows well, and has for some time, that the lad is not his flesh and blood.” She rose awkwardly to her feet. “Father’s secret trips to Hatfield to fill the boy’s head with dreams were quite wasted. Whatever he is thinking, the answer is no. No, no, no!”
Staff rose to stand beside her and rubbed her shoulders as if to tell her to keep calm. “I am fine, my lord, truly,” she assured him, but her voice quavered.
“I think you are wrong, sister,” George pressed on. “I have seen the boy a few months ago. He looks Tudor through and through.”
Mary took a step toward George, ignoring Staff’s gentle touch trying to push her back to her seat. “He is a Carey through and through! He resembles Will Carey!”
“Then that just goes to show how people can disagree over it, but not be certain, sister. The lad is tall and healthy and clever, and Fitzroy is skinny and often weakly. His Grace will leap at the chance to declare Harry his own, if only you will say so.”
“Mary,” Staff’s voice came low at her, but she could not stop the flow of feelings.
“I will not keep calm and be silent, my lord. I cannot!” She tried not to shout, but she could not control her voice. “Tell your father that Harry is William Carey’s son and would have been his heir if His Grace had not taken the boy’s lands and birthright and given them to his love Anne Boleyn and his henchman Cromwell.”
“Some believe he took the Carey possessions to show to the world that the boy was not Will Carey’s son, Mary,” George pursued doggedly.
“I have heard that argument before, and it is a lie. If father even suggests to the king that Harry is his son, I shall walk all the way to London if I must and deny it to the king’s face! Tell father that. Tell him that someday he should try to love someone when they can do him no service for his dreadful lust for Boleyn power! Tell him that he should go back to Hever, for our foolish mother loves him still, though how she does I can never fathom. Tell him...”
Staff’s arms were around her in the next moment, almost in the same instant in which she felt the first stabbing pain. It surely was the child, but she was so beside herself with anger and hurt that it could have been her mind playing tricks on her again.
Staff carefully picked her up in his arms when he saw the pain on her face. George stood by, clearly distraught as Staff carried her from the parlor and up the silent stairs.