Brazen (11 page)

W
HEN
WE
STEP
OUTSIDE
,
THE
WIND
CUTS
THROUGH
THE
DA
MASK
of my bodice and brings a rash of gooseflesh. I wrap my arms around myself and rub them hard.

“Where are we going, Madge?”

“To the fields of course,” Madge says, leading the way across the base court. “To see the men. And the boys. And to sort the one from the other.”

“You expect us just to walk up and kiss someone?” Margaret asks. She keeps up easily with Madge’s trot, her long legs covering more ground in one stride than mine do in three.

“Of course not,” Madge replies. “But I do expect us all to get a little attention. They can’t want to kiss us if they don’t know we’re here.”

Madge pulls us through the massive two-story gate and across the bridge over the moat. The outer courtyard is busy with workers and messengers and servants and piled with bricks and lengths of timber.

“They’re all out attacking each other and the quintain or whatever it is they do because they can’t do it to the French delegation when they arrive.”

Madge pauses in the final gate and we peer around her. King Henry has plans to build a tiltyard in the empty fields between the outer court and the great orchard, but for now it’s a wide expanse of flattened earth.

The archery butts have been set up at the far end of the field, and the men seem to be betting on who is the best shot. I pause to watch Fitz—his red hair obvious in the sea of brown and blond—take aim. The
thwack
of the arrow driving home reaches my ears while the arrow still quivers from the impact.

“They are supposed to watch
you
,” Madge says, grabbing my wrist, “not the other way around.”

Madge pushes me out onto the field and disappears into a half-built structure obviously used for storage. She comes back with three wooden broadswords, the kind boys use to practice war games. She grabs one by the “blade,” turning the handle toward me, and throws.

“Catch!”

The sword sails through the air—surprisingly swiftly and surprisingly far, considering how tiny and delicate Madge looks. I reach out my left hand, and the hilt cracks my knuckles.

“Ouch!”

The sword clatters at my feet as I put my fist up to my mouth, trying to suck out the sting.

“Pick it up, Mary.” Madge hands another sword to Margaret, who takes it as one might a dead animal.

“Is this really necessary, Mistress Shelton?” she asks.

“Watch,” Madge tells her, and turns back to me, holding her broadsword in both hands, her stance wide.

I look down at the wooden sword. There are stains on the blade of it. I hope they’re mud.

“We could get hurt doing this, Madge.”

“We could get hurt going down the spiral stairs, Mary. We could get hurt eating a capon. We could get hurt falling in love. But we do it anyway. Pick it up.”

She almost spits the last words.

“Are you teaching me, Madge? Or fighting me?”

She softens a little. “Just trying to get you riled up. Unbalance your complacency.”

“Are you challenging me to a duel?” I ask, picking up the weapon. It’s heavier than it looks, the long blade tipping the weight of it back toward the ground. My wrists bend unnaturally and I struggle to straighten them.

Madge lunges forward, swinging her sword like a tennis racket, knocking mine sharply to the right. I follow it, so she slaps me on my backside with the flat of her blade and laughs.

“That’s not fair!” I drop my weapon and rub the offended area.

“All is fair in love and war, my friend!” she sings, turning circles with her sword held out in front of her, the weight of it carrying her around in a dizzy spin. I step back. Directly into Thomas Wyatt.

“It looks like you could use some instruction,” he says, steadying me before flourishing a bow. “Your Grace.”

I ignore Madge’s ridiculously delighted giggle and struggle to keep my gaze on his eyes.

Not his lips.

“Would you like some pointers, Your Grace? Between us, I think we can beat your whirlwind over there.”

“We were just playing,” I say.

“You shouldn’t play at love or war, Your Grace.” I wonder for a moment if he’s flirting with me, but his tone is serious.

He retrieves the sword, abandoned in the mud.

“Would you like to learn?”

“Love or war?” I blurt, and, thankfully, he laughs—a rolling rumble that comes from deep in his chest.

“I told you,” he says, stepping behind me to place the hilt of the sword in my hand, and I can feel his words along the curve of my ear. “You shouldn’t play at either.”

Is Thomas Wyatt flirting with me?
I think frantically.
And am I flirting back?

“I don’t intend to play,” I say.

Wyatt laughs again. “You will certainly break some hearts, Your Grace.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” I heft the sword with both hands.

“You will without knowing it, Your Grace, for your beauty is unsurpassed.”

I almost drop the weapon again, fumbling the handle slick with mud. I jerk back on it to keep my grip and elbow Wyatt in the stomach. His breath comes out in a laughing gasp.

“I’m afraid I’m as clumsy at flirtation as I am with this sword, Master Wyatt,” I say, and try to lighten things by adding, “I don’t suppose you have anything to teach me there?”

Wyatt’s expression completely closes down.

“No, Your Grace.”

Wyatt steps away from me. I have made another complete blunder. I glance at Madge, who is leaning on her sword and looking at me bemusedly. Behind her, I see Hal and Fitz together, walking toward us.

Madge tosses her head. “I need some instruction, Master Wyatt!” she calls. “In love
and
war.” She lowers her voice seductively. “And I never play games.”

“Everything is a game to you, Mistress Shelton,” Hal says as he reaches us. “You help my sister, Wyatt. I’ve got this one under control.”

“You could never control me, Surrey,” Madge quips, and starts to spin again, but he grabs her from behind and wraps both arms around her, gripping the broadsword. He whispers something into her ear, and one corner of her mouth rises.

I dare not look at Thomas Wyatt, for fear I’ll see that same expression of desperation I saw on Fitz’s when I tried to kiss him. The same one Fitz wears now, standing at a distance. Watching.

“Do you think he needs rescuing?” Wyatt asks. He sounds sympathetic. Or perhaps he’s just sorry for Fitz, with such a clumsy wife. Gracelessness.

“Don’t we all?” I reply.

“Your Grace!” Wyatt calls. “I dare not abandon this fair maid except to one more qualified than I.”

I freeze, and Fitz turns pink. I feel more than hear Wyatt’s chuckle as he turns to Margaret. “My Lady Douglas,” he says. “Would you accept the humble instruction of one such as I?”

Madge crows. “Remember the list!”

Margaret raises her sword with little effort, looking like Boadicea out for vengeance.

I look down at my own sword, the tip still settled in the mud. And then I feel the length of Fitz’s body as he reaches both arms around me and places his hands over mine on the sword’s grip. His are so warm. I resist the urge to turn my face to his as he guides me through a sweeping gesture with the sword.

He has grown in the last five months. At least an inch taller. And definitely broader. He’s more man than boy—his nearness makes that conspicuously clear.

I look up to where Madge and Hal are practically bonded together, laughing so hard they can’t control her sword.

“I think Mistress Shelton can take care of herself,” Fitz says. He raises my arms and angles my body to show me how to slash with the sword.

“It’s not Madge I’m worried about,” I say. I am overly conscious of my heartbeat. Of the taste of his words. Of the pressure of his chest on my back and the touch of his skin on mine.

Fitz releases me. “Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about Hal, either.”

I attempt to slash with the sword on my own, and he ducks away, laughing. But my momentum pulls me sideways, my train tangling my ankles.

Fitz rescues me in one swift, graceful move that catches me before I crumble and takes my breath away. For an instant, I hang suspended in his arms, and everything else disappears. I can do nothing but stare into his eyes as he effortlessly sets me back on my feet.

“Thank you,” I say and add, stupidly, “That was impressive.”

“As you once said, I do excel at some . . . physical pursuits.”

I try to suppress my blotchy blush.

“It is time to choose, my friends!” The yard comes back in a rush at Madge’s shout. She has stepped away from Hal and holds her sword up above her head.

“Love or war?” she asks.

I look up at Fitz, only to discover him smiling at me, so subtly it makes my insides wobble.

“I know which one I choose,” he says.

T
HE
F
RENCH
ARRIVE
,
AND
WITH
THEM
ALL
THE
FESTIVITIES
OF
the holidays. Everyone delights in the revelry and the debauchery. In the innuendos and the insinuations against the French. The court is a whirl of fine fabrics and subtext, of one thing covering another.

After the greatest of the banquets thus far, the king and queen sit with Chabot—the French admiral. He has curly hair and an even curlier beard, both cut so straight that his head looks rectangular. He has the round cheeks of someone jovial, but eyes that are suspicious of everyone.

I study the king and queen from a distance. They married for love. Went through hell for love. Faced censure and name-calling and ill will and even excommunication for love. If anyone sets an example for me of how to love or what it means, it should be them.

Yet I cannot forget their argument I overheard at Sutton Place. The abuse. The venom. The ease with which the king said that he could make her nothing.

I believe he could do it, too. The Act of Supremacy has made King Henry the head of the church in England. He has made the pope—once universally thought to be God’s representative on earth—into nothing. King Henry could do the same to the queen. People who refuse to acknowledge the king’s supremacy—who refuse to take the oath imposed by the Act—are imprisoned. Margaret’s prediction has come true. He has taken control of our faith.

But through the Act of Succession, it is also treason to speak against the queen. People are being imprisoned (and possibly worse) for saying Anne should be burned. One was imprisoned for calling Archbishop Cranmer a pimp, thus implying that Queen Anne is a whore. Daily, I wonder when it will be my mother who is sent to the Tower.

The king does it for Queen Anne. He protects her virtue, champions her name. He believes in her. In their love.

Doesn’t he?

The queen’s sister didn’t seem to think so.

The king and queen seem happy today, if a little tense. The presence of Admiral Chabot could excuse that. Word is that we need French support. That Katherine of Aragon’s nephew—the Holy Roman emperor—is likely to declare war to defend her honor.

Our king is using Princess Elizabeth as a bargaining chip. Offering her in marriage to a French prince, the Duke of Orléans. She’s barely a year old. He’s eleven. The French know how desperate King Henry is. So he plies them with wine and promises and calls for dancing.

I see Margaret dancing with one of the French delegation. Doing her duty for the English cause. My uncle Thomas stands to one side, his gaze never leaving her.

“Any progress?” Madge asks, appearing at my elbow.

“Not for me,” I muse. “But I think perhaps Margaret has come closer than we expected.”

Madge narrows her eyes, watching Thomas as a cat would a mouse.

“He’s definitely smitten.”

Margaret’s own eyes are lowered as the Frenchman leads her into a turn.

“Do you think she is?” Madge asks.

“It’s hard to tell,” I say. “She’s so reserved. She certainly doesn’t divulge any secrets.”

“Then she’s the right kind of friend to have.”

“True. But it’s hard to know what she’s thinking. Not like you and Hal. Everyone on the tiltyard knew what you were up to.”

Madge smiles. “I’m not married. I’m not related to the king. I have little reputation and few prospects. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“What about your heart?”

“Come,” she says by way of reply. “Let’s dance.”

“Together?”

“We dance together all the time in the queen’s rooms. It’s not like we don’t know how. We can set a precedent! Things don’t change unless people are willing to change them.”

The dance is a pavane, so at least there is no lifting involved. Madge dances well—especially when she knows she’s being observed. All I have to do is follow.

“Get a little more lively, Duchess!” Madge whispers as we circle around each other.

She does a little twist that flares her skirts and shows off the sensual movement of her hips.

“Try that. Your husband is watching.”

I don’t look up, but I try Madge’s move. I like the feel of my skirts as they brush against my hips and twist around my ankles. So I do it again.

“Ha!” Madge crows. “I knew you could!”

We laugh and ignore the prescribed steps of the dance as we turn the circle, each trying to outdo the other. Madge shakes her sleeves, putting her hands up over her head, wrists exposed, hands turned out. I attempt one of her signature twirls, which gets us laughing again.

I try another and stumble. The hand that catches me isn’t Madge’s. It glitters with rings, tight to the fingers. And the gold embroidery at the cuff of the sleeve is delicately traced with roses.

I am suddenly ashamed and hide my blush in my skirts when I curtsy.

“Your Majesty.”

“As lovely as you ladies look dancing together, I had to interrupt, and take the pleasure myself.”

The king’s voice rolls like honey, syrupy and viscid. As the king cannot be refused, I look up to accept, but he has already taken Madge’s hand and is escorting her into the next steps of the dance. She doesn’t take her eyes off his face.

I step backward, ready to lose myself in the crowd, and come up hard against another velvet doublet behind me.

“You seem to have lost your partner to the king,” Fitz says into my ear. “Allow me to rescue you and finish the dance.”

“I don’t really need rescuing.” I sound hoarse. I press my lips together and look at him over my shoulder.

“You danced so . . . bewitchingly, I had hoped you would want to continue. Even if it means dancing with me.”

I can’t help myself. “Sounds dangerous.”

Fitz laughs. “Perhaps we shouldn’t. If only for the safety of the other dancers.”

We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other.

“Come with me?” he asks, holding out a hand.

I take it but hesitate when he leads me toward the crowded watching chamber.

He turns, his eyebrows raised in a question.

“I . . .” I can’t tell him about my fear of crowds. He will think me irrational. Absurd. “I shouldn’t leave the queen.”

He guides me to a quieter spot near the dais. The queen sits alone with the admiral, but she seems a bit inattentive.

“Did you know we’ve been married for a year?” Fitz asks.

I shake my head and smile. My whole world changed. Yet it seems like it’s been this way forever.

“You’ve forgotten?” He almost looks hurt.

“No!” I remember how tight my bodice felt. The challenge in his eyes when I entered the chapel. I remember stepping in front of my mother. Being in bed with him when he almost kissed me. “I just didn’t think . . . I didn’t know it was today.”

“The day after tomorrow, actually.” He rolls his eyes. “But who’s counting?”

I laugh. He seems much more of a boy again. Silly, almost. Like Madge.

Then he adds, all in a rush. “We’ve been married a year, and I feel I don’t even know you.”

“There isn’t much to know. I’m the daughter of the Duke of Norfolk. Sister of the Earl of Surrey. And now the wife of the Duke of Richmond and Somerset. End of story.”

“I should think there’s much more than that. I’ve been a duke for as long as I remember. But that’s not who I am.”

The queen said much the same thing to me. A long time ago. And yet, I still haven’t changed my answer.

“So who are you?” I challenge.

Fitz tips his head slightly and smiles at me.

“I’m still working on that. Aren’t we all?”

“Well, what do you want? Out of life?”

“To be happy.”

I laugh. It’s such a frivolous desire. Not to serve God or the people. Not to help the poor or defeat France or promote religious reform.

“Happy.”

“Yes. Like the queen.
The most happy
.”

The queen’s motto. I glance at her. She’s half listening to Philippe de Chabot, half watching the dancers.

“And what makes you happy?” I ask.

“Being who I am.”

“You speak in circles, Henry FitzRoy.” I can’t help but laugh again. Until I turn back to him and see the intensity of his gaze.

“Please call me Fitz. It’s part of who I am.” He suddenly seems far too close. I can feel his warmth and breath and heartbeat, even through the distance between us. “And I’d like to get to know you.”

I can hardly breathe, but manage to squeak, “We’re not allowed to know each other.”

“We’re not allowed to sleep together,” he says bluntly. “But at this point, I’d rather know you as a person. I think it”—he coughs—“helps.”

My face flashes hot and I turn to hide it, but end up pressed against his chest. He’s telling me he’s slept with another girl. He’s admitting it to my face. I suppose I wished for honesty. I certainly got it.

“It was in France,” he says quickly. I lift my eyes and watch his lips moving, barely able to follow his words. “And I fancied myself in love. It was before—before we were married. Before I met you.”

Fancied himself in love
.

“But you haven’t . . . since?” I can’t ask the question outright. If he’s bedded anyone. Or fallen in love again.

He shakes his head. “I take my vows seriously.”

“That makes you unique in this court,” I say.

“It’s not just the vow, Mary. It’s this.” He moves his hand back and forth through the narrow distance between us.

What about this?
I want to ask. I want to ask if he likes me, but it seems hopelessly juvenile. So instead, I count back the months to his time in France. He was only fourteen.

“Weren’t you awfully young?”

“Probably too young,” he agrees. “Certainly too young to know if I was in love.”

“And your father has forbidden you to . . .”

“The king doesn’t know.”

“Obviously.”

Fitz sighs. “Sometimes, I think the king is too protective of me, Mary. And sometimes, I think he asks too much.”

“You are his only son.”

“A son who can never be king.”

I wonder if he’s right. Father seems to think differently. But the sadness in Fitz’s eyes tells another story.

“That doesn’t stop him from loving you.”

He stares hard at the dancers. Margaret is dancing with my uncle. They are matched in height, and look into each other’s eyes.

The king has Madge in an embrace that approaches the boundary of impropriety. I think about our lists.
Good dancer
.
Pleasant voice.

Power.

“Is it love?” Fitz asks quietly. “Or is it self-interest?”

We watch silently as Madge leaves the room. Seconds later, the entire assembly drops their heads—bows and curtsies rippling like waves—because the king exits through the same door.

I think about our other list. The one Hal isn’t on. But the king is.

A noise behind me turns me back to the head table. Queen Anne’s shoulders are shaking, her mouth open. The sound coming out of it is more of a howl than a laugh. Next to her, Philippe de Chabot sits stiff and unmoving, his face as craggy and cold as roughly cut marble.

“Is she laughing at him?” Fitz asks, and I hear an edge of fear in his voice. “She could destroy our relationship with France.”

“She’s not laughing at him.” I can’t take my eyes off her. She sheds no tears, but her eyes gleam like glass.

The admiral stands and bows.

“How now, madam,” he says. “Are you amusing yourself at my expense?”

Queen Anne stands with elegance, but with great speed, wiping her already dry eyes.

“Sir,” she says, and her voice rings out across the nearly silent room. Everyone is watching. Everyone is listening. “I mean no offense. My husband had gone to bring another guest for me to entertain.” She begins to chuckle. “Someone important. But on the way . . .” She begins to laugh. “He met a lady. And the errand has gone straight out of his head!”

This time the tears stream down her face. Chabot looks horrified, and the English courtiers begin to buzz—fervid with gossip.

The question
who was she?
sparks through the room like the crackle of fireworks.

I look at Fitz, whose mouth is in a straight line. He knows, just as I do. But he doesn’t say a word.

I can add another item to our list of things to love.

Can keep a secret.