Mary Stafford, née Boleyn, "The Great Prostitute" as they used to call her, was an attractive woman.

She had a pretty, even face and glowing skin, long chestnut hair, and a slender, lithe body that had aroused many a man, including two kings. In fact, judging from a conventional point of view, she possessed more classic beauty than her sister Anne, who had eclipsed her in so many ways.

There was a natural friendliness and candour about her that set her apart from Anne, and yet she was like her in so many ways that Thomas was instantly reminded of why, in their glory days, they had never been anything but kind and loving to each other, as sisters of the blood ought to. Mary had Anne's humor and that air of sensuality that was so captivating, in parts also her boldness and zest for life.

Yes, they were alike indeed, and it was a comfort to Thomas to watch her and be reminded of Anne. Still, it also brought forth a sharp pain, for Mary's loveliness and charm were tainted with sadness.

Together with her husband, William Stafford, she had arrived at Hever Castle the day before, with the intention of staying for a week at least. Seeing Thomas outside the great entrance, she had been suprised and delighted to find him at her parents' home, and they greeted each other like old friends. Thomas was quickly introduced to William who, although not of noble birth, seemed to be a witty and respectable young man. Thomas had been so glad to see them that he would have loved to talk to them then and there, but he was reluctant to stay at Hever any longer. Therefore he asked them to come to his father's house, Allington Castle, the next day.

And here they were, walking the well-tended gardens together, Thomas to Mary's right, William to her left, her arm entwined with hers. For the past half an hour or so, they had been talking about nothing substantial; Thomas told them about his doings as a poet and courtier, and Mary disclosed details about how she and her husband lived.

They had settled down in Staffordshire after their marriage, and lived there in relative obscurity and with very little money. Anne had banished them from court after their marriage, and neither of them had returned, although they kept asking their royal relatives and also Cromwell for financial help. Eventually, Anne had relented and sent them a golden cup and some money. They were able to make ends meet now, but definitely not rich.

All the while, as the beautiful warm air of late Spring caressed them, it was to Thomas as if they all tried painstakingly to avoid the topics that troubled them most. The dark shadow of Anne's memory and his own involvement hung over them like a cloud. He was reluctant to make the first step, but he knew that he only had a limited amount of time. It he wanted to go through with his plan of avenging Anne and get something moving, he would have to start now. And he needed Mary. When he had seen her riding up the path to Hever, he had known that her arrival was a sign. A sign that she had to play a part in this.

He was about to speak up once more, when Mary halted suddenly and turned to look at him.

"Mother told me what happened yesterday," she said calmly, but her eyes were sad. "After you left, we went inside, but no one greeted us except the few servants that are left. They told us that they had heard loud voices and a scream from the library not long ago, and that you had stormed outside even as my mother wailed miserably. It disturbed me a great deal, for I've been worried about my parents ever sine... you know."

Their eyes met, and for a moment Thomas saw in her dark orbs the same sorrow and pain that must be in his own. He nodded, and she went on.

"It is true they have not always been kind to me, especially Father. After our banishment from court he did not even speak to us any more and did nothing to help us. As I said, it was Anne who sent us money. And Mother, well, she is a good woman, but she has always held back, especially when Anne was at the height of her power." There was a bitter undertone to her voice.

"But now," she continued, "I'm willing to forgive all of that. It doesn't matter now. I wish to let bygones be bygones, you know?"

"I know." answered Thomas. "Everything is changed now. But not for the better. Your father..." He didn't know how to say it, for he did not wish to offend her.

"He is not himself," put in William, who had not said much so far. "I fear the turmoil of the past weeks has broken his mind."

Mary nodded solemnly. "Yes. He is broken. And yet, do not think it is just because ... because they are dead. It is mostly because he has lost everything. I can be no comfort to him."

"Pray tell me what your mother said to you after I left yesterday," Thomas said, unwilling to be reminded of the old Boleyn's coldness.

"Ah, yes," she said, shaking her head as if to gather her thoughts. "We found Father in the library, sobbing and with a strange hunted look in his eyes. It scared me to see him like that - I have only ever known him to be in command, so suave, so entirely sure of himself. Anyway, we then went looking for Mother, and found her in her rooms. She was sobbing, too, but I think hers is a different sorrow. She has lost the two she loved most in the world, and now she's bewildered. And she feels guilty, too, I guess."

"She told us about your plans," William added. "She said that her husband would not do anything, for fear of losing his head. But she said she would press him for money, and give you money of her own, or at least some jewels which you could sell off."

"Indeed?" Thomas sighed in relief. "That's what I had hoped for. I knew she'd help me."

"And so shall we," William said, putting an arm around Mary's hip and looking down at her. She nodded in agreement, and then looked at Thomas.

"Yes, Thomas. I have known you almost from your mother's womb," she said smilingly, "and I love you as a friend. For the trust I put in you, and for the love I bore my siblings, I am willing to help you. No matter what." She said this last with a stern face, and there was great conviction in her eyes. There was a streak of the infamous Boleyn boldness in her gaze, of Boleyn loyalty also.

Thomas smiled and kissed her hand affectionately. "This is glorious news. I thank you. I had thought I'd have to convince you."

Mary shook her head. She bent down and picked up a single daisy, twisting its stem between her thumb and index finger.

"Nay" she said, "you don't have to. From the moment I saw you, I knew you had something in mind and that you were as grievous as I. And then when Mother told me you wanted to avenge Anne and the others, I knew I'd help you." She stood still for a moment, looking at the little flower in her hand.

When she spoke again, her voice was strained, as if on the verge of tears. "You know how it feels, Thomas... the pain, the heartbreak. No matter who Anne was or what she did to me after my marriage to William, I loved her. I still love her. And I remember that once we were as close as sisters can be. I'm shocked, Thomas. Shocked and disbelieving, and I can't believe she's gone." A single tear slipped from her eyes, and she flicked the daisy away. William embraced her from behind, holding her tight.

Thomas turned away from the sight, so bitter was it to see her weep for the sister she had loved. But at least now he knew that she would help him, and her husband, too. He had taken a liking to the young fellow, and was more than happy that he would support their mission.

But what exactly was he going to ask of them?

So far, he had not managed to make a definite plan. He had ideas, yes. He had written down the names of possible allies, had played with the idea of going to Wolfhall, the counrty manor of the Seymours, soon. He had also meant to send someone to court, and then go there himself after a while. But there was nothing certain, no real plan.

He needed peace and quiet, had to shut himself away in his rooms and come up with something. He had to ask his father's advise once more. Maybe even his mothers. He would have to write letters and get in contact with people who might be willing to help him. And then he would have to consult Mary and William again and tell them what he'd thought up.

Had he not been so sad, he would have smiled. He was suddenly eager to begin, filled with energy. This was a new purpose, and a just and good one, and it pushed the pain and misery to the back of his mind.

"Will you come again in two days?" He asked his two friends. "I have to think and speak to my parents, and write to people. Then I'll now what to do."

"We will think of something, too," William threw in, and Thomas liked him even more.

"But always and ever be cautious," Mary intervened. "If we go through with this, we're all going to be in peril. Peril of our lives. We must be careful."

Thomas nodded solemnly. "Yes. I know of the dangers. And yet, what other choice do we have? It is we, Mary, who must mend the wrongs done to Anne and the others."

And with that said they walked back to the castle, where Thomas bid them goodbye and watched as they rode away at a great speed.

Since his parents were out, Thomas spent he next couple of hours making notes and writing letters. He rummaged through his documents in search of the list of names he had drawn up the other day. Some names had been crossed out afterwards, some stood out more promintenly than others.

Boleyn. Norris. Brereton?

Cranmer.

Smeaton. (crossed out)

Misseldon.

Brooke.

The Brookes were the family of his wife Elizabeth, from whom he had seperated a long time ago. She lived in adultery with another man, and he had not seen her or her relatives for years, but perhaps he'd be able to persuade them to help him. Elizabeth's brother George, Baron Cobham, was a clever and ambitious man, and Thomas had always liked him, no matter what his sister had done.

He had crossed out the name Smeaton as that family was of no account. They were commoners and would hardly be able to contribute money or wisdom. Alas that they would have no chance to avenge their poor son. It was Thomas himself who would have to set that in motion.

The matter of the Boleyns was now settled, and he knew what to expect of them. Help and support from the mother, and some money. That was a good start. He would have given a lot to have Thomas Boleyn's help, for despite his madness he was a trained courtier and knew many people. But it was as it was.

There remained the families of Brereton and Norris. Thomas was not sure about the Breretons. William had falsely confessed to having commited adultery with Anne, and Thomas knew him to have been a staunch Catholic. It was probably wise not to ask his family for help.

He was sure though that Henry Norris' family would be eager to contribute to the success of this mission, since Henry had been a good and noble man and died innocently. So, the first letter Thomas wrote was adressed to Richard Norris, the late man's father. He told him that he greatly wished to speak to him in the matter of his son, and included careful hints as to where he stood politically, for example by using Anne Boleyn's motto in his writing.

"If you chose to grant me a visit at Allington Castle, our family home, in the nearest future, I would be The Most Happy."

Before signing his name, he copied down Norris' part of the eulogy he had written for those who had died with Anne.

"Ah! Norris, Norris, my tears begin to run

To think what hap did thee so lead or guide

Whereby thou hast both thee and thine undone

That is bewailed in court of every side;

In place also where thou hast never been

Both man and child doth piteously thee moan.

They say, 'Alas, thou art far overseen

By thine offences to be thus dead and gone."

He knew that if this letter found its way into enemy hands, he was as good as dead, but he had no choice. If he wanted to achieve anything, he would have to be bold and take the risk.

An hour later, he had finished three more letters, one to George Brooke, the second to the Misseldons, a family of reformers which he had befriended a long time ago and who had but recently sent a daughter to Court, and a third one to Archbishop Cranmer, who had always been so fond of Anne. In all these letters Thomas carefully avoided any hints to his real intentions, but to a keen mind they would be obvious. His only hope was that his writings would be handled carefully, and that all addressees would be willing to aid him in his quest.

When at last he put down his quill, a deep sigh escaped his parched lips. "I need a drink," he muttered to himself and got up, all the while trying not to soil his clothes with his ink-stained fingers.

He called for James, his most trusted servant, who brought wine and water. They were on friendly terms, if a relationship between liege and attendant could be described thus.

"James," he said after a while, an idea taking shape in his mind. "Would you be willing to go on an errand for me? I know you're needed here, but I remember you told me once you were keen to have some more adventure in your life."

James smiled brightly, his young face suddenly eager. "Of course, my lord," he replied, then sobered somewhat. "That is, if Master Wyatt will grant it," he added ruefully.

"Oh, he will," Thomas put him off, "trust me. Listen, if this does not sound like an adventure to you."

Then he told him of his plans, never doubting his loyalty and love for a moment. He ommitted some of the grave details, but told him plainly that he wished to take revenge on Cromwell and the Seymours.

"And that's where you come in, my lad. I had thought of going to Wolfhall myself, but I'll be too busy here, receiving people, corresponding, and so on. You see? But a visit to Wolfhall is crucial, since I need more information about the new queen."

James nodded. "I see. But, forgive me, would it not be too dangerous for you to send me there? You were but recently imprisoned. Perhaps the Seymours and the king would find it odd for a servant of yours to show up at their family home so soon after your release."

"You have a shrewd mind, James," Thomas said approvingly, "and you are right. It is not without risk. But risks I must take. And anyway, I was not condemned for anything. I am as free as a man can be. Few people escape the Tower, and yet I did. Cromwell still thinks fondly of me, or he would never have helped me during my imprisonment, and if I'm lucky, the king will soon welcome me back at court, too."

"But surely you would not want the Seymours to know anything of your conduct..." When Thomas shook his head, he went on: "Then what exactly would you have me do at Wolfhall?"

His master rubbed his chin as if in contemplation. "Good question, James. The good thing is that I'm pretty sure neither Edward Seymour nor his father will be there, and certainly not the Queen herself, so you don't have to fear their scrutiny. But there will be servants, and friends maybe, and the Lady Wentworth, the Queen's mother. I would want you to pay your respects to her on behalf of me and perhaps to deliver a small gift. It won't do any harm for the Seymours to think I'm supporting them, if you get my meaning."

"Yes, my lord. But still..." he had that look on his face that said: You're a courtier and a poet. We need the opinion of a real statesman! Your noble father would...

"Peace, James!" Thomas stopped him before he could say anything more. "I'll ask my father as soon as he returns to the house."

Even as he spoke, he heard the creaking noise of a coach coming to a halt on the driveway. He dismissed James for the time being and went downstairs to greet his parents.

A few minutes later, the three of them were seated in the library. Thomas had asked his father for a talk in private, but his mother had insisted on coming, too.

"Well, son," Henry Wyatt began. "What have you been doing today?"

He quickly told them about Mary Boleyn's visit, the letters he had written and the plans he had for James.

"As for the letters," his father began carefully. "I think you have chosen well. You know what I think of this whole business, but I said I'd support you, so I might as well tell you what I have in mind. I am sure Cranmer and the family of Norris will agree to help you. Norris family is old and influential, and they have a lot of money. And Cranmer - well, few men of the church have ever had such power."

"That's what I thought. And what then do you think of the Misseldons - and the Brookes?"

The old man scoffed. "The Brookes! I don't know about Elizabeth, I do not think she would be willing to help you." He laughed boisterously at Thomas' sullen face, but sobered quickly. "But I can imagine that her brother might be willing to help. Anyway, I think the Misseldons are a good choice. If you could win them over, they might ask their youngest daughter, Ursula, to collect some information about the Queen. She's a lady in waiting now."

"Indeed, yes," Lady Wyatt said suddenly. "It is crucial for you to have information about what is going on at Court while you're away."

"Very well," Thomas nodded, satisified. "I'll have these letters dispatched immediately after our conversation."

"And what about Wolfhall?" old Henry asked. "You're planning to send James there? I don't know if that's very wise."

Thomas told them what he had in mind. "You see, if they think I'm flattering them, supporting them, they won't guess what I really want to do."

He looked to his father for an answer, but again it was his mother who surpised him.

"Then do as you must," she said gently, "but do not send gifts, I beg you. At least, nothing outrageous like jewels. Until recently you were imprisoned for admiring a woman the king had his eyes on, remember? I don't want him to think you're after his next Queen." She said it jestingly, but there was a dark undertone to her voice. She was worried.

"As you wish," Thomas said simply, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, wishing to reassure her of his love for her.

That night, though worn out by the exhaustion of the day, Thomas could not sleep. Lying awake in the gloomy darkness of his bed-chamber, he stared out of the windows at the night sky and frowned. Why could he not find rest, not even after all the hard work he had done today? The knuckles of his hands were so sore from writing they might fall off any mintute, his tongue was wound from talking, his brain weary after hours of contemplation.

Yes, he had truly earned his sleep today, and yet it eluded him.

He was strangely restless, had been so ever since he'd made up his mind to go through with his plan, there in the gardens at Hever. It seemed to him as if he would not find true rest until this matter was settled and all things mended.

And there was another thing.

He had been busying himself so much in order to push away the memory of the faces that would otherwise haunt him once more, the faces of those who were dead.

"The Bell Tower showed me such sight that in my head sticks day and night..."

His own words invaded his mind with full force now that the darkness closed in about him, and the silence of the late hours weighed him down. He was full of sorrow once more for the men who had died but two weeks ago, two of which had been his trusted and close friends. Alas for Mark and George, with whom he had feasted and celebrated in happier times. Alas for Norris, so great a mind and loyal a man. Alas for Brereton who should never have come into the disaster that befell him.

"These bloody days have broken my heart..."

Alas for Anne, whose cruel death was the end to what had been a magnificent life. He mourned her so much that during the day he had not dared to think of her, for fear of losing his mind. But now, as the walls of his bower seemed to be closing in about him, he could push away his despair no more.

"Who hastes to climb seeks to revert..."

He wished for the thousandth time he could undo it all, but he could not. All he could now hope for was that his plans would succeed, although he did not really know what he wanted or expected the overall outcome to be. He prayed only that by restoring Anne's good name he would find peace.

But, what he truly wished for was to see her again and hear her voice, her pearling laughter, like music to his ears. She had not come to him since Hever, and he was getting anxious.

He lay still and waited breathlessly, hoping against hope that by thinking of her he would summon her to him. But there was nothing, only the faint sound of a nightly bird outside.

When would she come again?

At last he fell into a troubled sleep, Anne's name still on his lips.

Alright, this chapter is looong, I know. But it was kind of necessary.

Note: This story is based on the TV series, which is why I have made some changes to the characters. For example, Wyatt's two sisters do not exist here since they were never mentioned in the series. Also, Mary has no children by her first husband, in fact she has no children at all (in the series she's pregnant in season 2, well, in this story she never was).

For those of you who wonder if Anne will continue to play a role in this story, I can only say, yes, definitely. I think I may be going a little more supernatural with this story later...

Just to let you know, Jane Seymour's gonna get her come-uppance in this story ... I think I ain't gonna be too nice to her. For a more friendly and profound Jane, check my other story, "Henry Injured".

Keep reading ;)