October 1541
Lady Rochford stood outside her mistress' door, dutifully watching the corridor for sign of anyone approaching. She was to give three short, urgent knocks on the door if she heard footsteps, but who in their right mind would be wandering past the queen's chambers at such a late hour? No one was going to venture down here; she was wasting her time standing here like part of the decor. Who knew treason could be so boring, she thought to herself, leaning back against the wooden panelling and rolling her eyes. She'd been stood here for at least an hour and a half already, just stood here doing absolutely nothing. She'd never been so mind-numbingly bored, not even when she had been married to George Boleyn.
The door to the queen's chambers opened almost silently. In the light that flooded out, Jane saw Thomas Culpepper emerge, still tucking his undershirt into his breeches. His mousy hair was ruffled and sticking up in all directions, and in one hand he carried his shoes.
"See you tomorrow, my good Lady Rochford." He said with a rueful smile and a wink, shutting the door gently behind himself. Jane nodded curtly.
"I'll send for you when her majesty is ready." She whispered. Culpepper smirked.
She watched as he padded barefoot back to the king's chambers at the other end of the palace. Taking another glance around the corridor, making sure that not a soul lingered in the shadows, she entered the queen's chamber. Lord knew Jane knew the risks - Anne Boleyn had been, and technically was still, her sister in law. Queen Catherine was Anne's first cousin. Culpepper saw the king's temper on a daily basis, stood by his side whilst he signed the death warrants of his closest friends and advisors. Each of them knew the dangers of this game they were playing, and knew damn well that if discovered the king would send each of them to the block without a second thought. Still, Jane thought, it livens things up a little at least.
November, 1541
Henry opened the letter. He had sent away all of his attendants first, and when reading the contents of the letter, he had been glad he had done so. It had been left on his seat in the chapel, and he had waited hours, deliberating over whether or not to open it. His first urge was to throw it into the fire, laugh it off and disregard it. His second urge was to throw things and smash the contents of his bedchamber.
The letter was from archbishop Thomas Cranmer - a man whom Henry trusted beyond measure, who surely would not fall victim to idle gossip. It was about his wife, about the queen. Cranmer, a sensible man, had been, he said, persuaded to inform the king of news regarding the queen that had only recently come to light. The queen, Henry read, had in her youth "lived most corruptly and sensually”; she had engaged in a carnal relationship with Sir Francis Dereham. Cranmer went further; he had reason to believe there was a pre-contract between Catherine and Dereham.
Henry rubbed his temples. There was every chance that Cranmer had been fed false information. But if not, a small voice in Henry's mind whispered, if this is true, how can you expect a son and heir? Any child Catherine bore him would be a bastard if she had been pre-contracted to marry another man. A pre-contract was just as binding as a marriage; if she had entered into one with Dereham, her marriage to the king was void. His children would be bastards. No, he thought to himself. This matter must be dealt with immediately. Summoning his attendants back, he rose from his chair.
"Send me Thomas Wriothesley. Bring him to me, now." He ordered. Wriothesley had helped him secure a divorce from Katherine of Aragon, he had been instrumental in the dissolution of the monasteries and for years had served as his ambassador in Brussels. "And..." He began. The man who was about to scurry out of the door to summon Wriothesley stopped and turned. "After Thomas has gone, have the Lady Mary Stafford brought here." He said, turning his attention back to Cranmer's letter. "I would like her advice on an important matter." He muttered.
She wanted to scream in delight, she wanted to lie on her back and kick her legs in the air in sheer happiness. Instead, Anne folded Mary's letter into the bodice of her dress, resolving to keep it close to her heart.
With Mary at court and Elizabeth at Hever, Anne had been left quite alone. Alone, but certainly not idle. She had already fluttered her eyelashes at the garden boy and had been having long conversations with him about the different effects of plants. Already she had learnt which could heal and which could kill. She had written them down in a small book she kept tucked between her dresses in a chest. To foreign eyes, not privy to her schemes, it would appear that she was simply taking an interest in home medicine. She smiled to herself every night, content that she would soon be taking away Henry's happiness, just as he had taken hers.
Mary had informed her that she was already back in Henry's bed - Anne was overjoyed to read Mary's descriptions of her former husband, the Henry that had cast her aside was fat and ailing, sickly, grumpy and above all, seeming older than his years - and she was lauding Elizabeth's praises at every opportunity. Her own son had made a miraculous recovery from the illness he had never had - the excuse to get Henry to invite her back to court had worked well. Anne had laughed at how Henry had forgotten all about his sick son as soon as Mary had gotten on her knees. Typical.
Her dark eyes looked out of the window at the Pembrokeshire countryside. Rain lashed at the panes, dark clouds making visibility an issue. Here, in the relative comfort of the castle, inside and dry, she wanted to smile. For the first time in a long time she felt like the wheel of fortune was turning again - for a long time it seemed to have stopped turning - but now it wasn't just Elizabeth's fortunes rising, it was her own.
She picked up her quill to write a reply to her sister. Finishing the letter, she added one single post script:
Get to Gregory Cromwell.
As Anne scribbled her letter to Mary, Mary wandered the corridors of the court. She had missed it terribly, and it reminded her so much of her youth in France. The splendour, the intelligent conversations debating humanism and theology; she was content to sit back and listen to what was going on around her. As she walked, she nodded to those she knew and liked. She curtseyed to her uncle Norfolk when he passed her, deep in conversation with Suffolk.
"Lady Stafford," a voice called. She turned to see a young man in the king's livery. "The king would like to see you before dinner." He said, motioning for her to follow. She was shocked; when the king summoned her it was after nightfall, never during daylight hours. Her affair with the king had picked up where it had left off all those years ago, but even back then she had visited his chambers only when the rest of the court had gone to bed. Apart from their illicit meetings in dark corridors away from prying eyes, they had always tried to keep up an illusion of discretion. Summoning her so publicly was something he had never done before. Perhaps this time he wanted more than sex, she wondered as she made her way to his chambers. Wriothesley was leaving as she entered, and he looked her in the eye. Concern was written on his face and Mary's heart dropped to her stomach. What if the king had somehow managed to discover Anne's plan? They'd all be killed for sure this time.
Her heart was beating three times as fast as it should, but when she entered, Henry welcomed her with open arms and ushered her to a velvet chair.
"Your grace requested me?" She asked. Henry nodded vigorously.
"I need your advice, Mary." He said swiftly. "You have always been honest with me. You have never feared to tell me the truth. I need you to be honest with me now." He said, handing her Cranmer's letter.
Mary read it quickly, her eyes widening the further she read on.
"Is this true, your majesty?" She asked. She had resumed referring to him properly during daylight hours; it was only after dark that she was permitted to call him Henry.
He shook his head.
"I do not know. That is why I have asked you here. You are her cousin; is there anything, anything, you can remember from your youth... a conversation between your mother and father perhaps, condemning the pre-contract of your young cousin Catherine? A comment from your uncle Norfolk, anything, anything, that could prove this true?" He asked. Mary sensed desperation in his tone, and was again struck with pity. She began to think he was weary of marriage, and didn't blame him for wanting to believe the best in his fifth wife. He was getting old; the prospect of a sixth wife was daunting.
"I can't help you, your grace. I confess I hardly know the Queen. In our youth I was in France and she was in the Duchess of Norfolk's household. I would wager if there was a pre-contract, it would have been kept in the utmost secrecy." She answered sympathetically. He nodded slowly.
"I thank you anyway, Lady Stafford. You may leave." He said, grasping her hand and holding it between his palms tightly. She nodded and curtseyed. Meeting her eyes, he smiled wanly.
"I made such a mistake all those years ago." He murmured. Before she could respond, he dropped her hand and turned, leaving his privy chamber through the door that led to his bedchamber. Mary was left standing before the king's desk, wondering what mistake he meant.
She did her sisters bidding and went to find Gregory Cromwell. Against her better instincts, she plied him with wine and ale and invited him back to her own chamber. When he was at the perfect level of drunkenness - his tongue was loose, but he was not yet sleepy - Mary quizzed him on his father. A sadness clouded his irises, and he downed another glass of wine before setting his cup on the table with a bang.
"I miss him." He said simply. He looked her in the eye and Mary looked down at her hands. Guilt bubbled in her gut as she laid the seeds that Anne would cultivate.
"The king has put to death many that didn't deserve it." She whispered. Gregory nodded, filling his cup again and lifting it up in a toast. "To those that still deserve their heads." He said. Mary joined him, thinking only of George, and the life that was cut so short by the man that she had invited back into her bed.
"I pray Edward is a fairer monarch than his father." Gregory whispered.
"There is always Elizabeth, if he is not." She replied curtly. Gregory laughed.
"A woman can't rule England." He scoffed.
"Elizabeth can." Mary said simply. Gregory blinked and swayed a little in his chair. She was losing him to the alcohol, but it mattered not. He was considering what she had said.
"She is a fiery child. Strong. Fierce. Powerful." He considered. Looking up at Mary from under his eyelashes, he said: "Like her mother."
Mary nodded. He was brave to mention Anne. As she thought of her sister, the woman that had convinced a king to divorce his queen, had brought about the complete expulsion of the Catholic church from England, had managed to go further than any other mistress had gone, Mary was certain that if any woman could rule England, it would be the daughter of the king that had split the church and the woman that had drove him to it.
"Like her mother." She replied.
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