Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

May
Day Evening 1533

That
evening Master Wyatt’s play was staged in the Queen’s Watching Chamber, and by
the applause and whistles was well received. The King attended and threw Wyatt
a purse surely full of gold crowns.

Anne
accepted Wyatt’s fulsome thanks as her due.

No
one noticed my effort. I played a nymph bearing a golden apple inscribed with
the word Bountiful.

Weston
snatched the apple from my hand the instant I left the stage. I chased him into
a curtained alcove others used for a trysting place. He brandished the apple
just beyond my reach.

“A
kiss will redeem it, mistress.”

I
stared at him. “Sir Francis, the King is here.”

Weston
winked. “He would approve this play far more than Wyatt’s.”

“The
Queen will not. And Mrs. Marshall will beat me.”

Weston
tossed the apple, caught it in his other hand. “That drab? She cannot harm you,
no matter her threatening looks.”

“Sir
Francis, please…”

I
wanted that apple. It was dusted with real gold. Emma and Gabrielle should die
of envy seeing it on my dressing table at home.

Weston
grinned. “You know my price.”

I
shook my head. “I will not pay it.”

Weston’s
smile darkened to a stormy pout. “You already hold my heart to ransom,
mistress. A little kindness is all I seek.”

“You
demand a kiss?”

Weston
smiled. “It is the finest currency of the court.”

“You
are no gentleman to hold my prize for ransom.”

Weston’s
brow lifted. “I am importunate from desperation.”

His
rosy lips lifted, exposing his beautiful white teeth. The urge to resist him
began slipping away like sugar through a sieve. My fingernails picked at the
top of my skirt.

Would
a kiss truly be so dangerous?

Weston
scented my weakening. He grabbed my wrist, pulled me within the alcove, and
shut the heavy curtain.

“One,”
I said.

Weston
crossed his heart. His face orbited mine closer then closer. My chin rose,
compelled like the tide by the full moon. For an instant I couldn’t feel his
lips. The frantic beating of my heart drowned out all other sensations. Then
his tongue tickled my bottom lip.

Let him keep the apple forever…

The
curtains flew away. Mrs. Marshall’s chilly eyes dove at Weston.

“The
men are dicing in the gallery, Sir Francis.” She pitched her voice low, for
discretion’s sake, but it mattered not. Dozens of people craned their necks
trying to see around her.

Weston’s
flippant smile brushed her interference aside. “The dice are dull. Unlike
Mistress Shelton’s company.”

Marshall’s
beady glare evicted me from the alcove. I scurried out and she took my place.

“I
wonder how your wife would like it?” she snapped.

Weston
scowled. “You tiresome old dragon.”

Marshall
put out her hand. “Do not make me speak with the Queen, Sir Francis.”

Weston’s
eyes flicked to me as he dropped the apple into it.

“Come
along, Mistress Shelton.” Marshall shot off faster than a kestrel on a coney.
Weston waved farewell as I hiked my skirts and chased her. I caught her at the
little gallery where a thicket of revelers blocked the passage.

“Not
here a month and ready to lose your maidenhead to that wastrel,” Marshall
muttered. “Keep up!”

The
crowd took pains to avoid her, but none for me. I dodged through and around the
Queen’s guests, throwing out mea culpas for every every elbow I bumped.

Marshall’s
course ended at the sideboard in the Presence Chamber where the repast was
laid. She shoved a silver gilt platter at me and began tossing victuals on it.
Grapes, figs, and capon.
Hunger squeezed my stomach.

“Sweet
talk behind a curtain is not Pass-the-Time,” she said, spooning tiny eggs onto
the platter.

“Your
pardon, Mrs. Marshall, but might I have my apple back?”

Marshall’s
sour frown declared me a fool to ask. “Lured by a shiny bauble. What a ninny. I
thought that Mortimer girl would be my worst problem, but you’ve outdone her.”

She
stabbed a piece of pork with a dull knife. “Pass-the-Time is not an invitation
to debauchery. There are rules. Did your mother teach you nothing?”

“No,
sh-she did, Mrs. Marshall,” I stammered.

“Well,
she made piss-poor work of it,” she groused. “Stay at my heels for the rest of
the evening girl, I am too tired to chase you about.”

Marshall
flung a cut of roast pheasant atop the other morsels. “Come along,” she
muttered.

We
went to the Privy Chamber door. Mrs. Horsman was at her post, fingers tapping a
goblet in time to the music as her stocky body swayed.

“Were
you in time?” she asked, amusement rippling her deep voice.

“Barely,”
Marshall snapped. “He would have plucked her right there with the Queen not a
dozen yards away.”

Mrs.
Horsman shook her head. “He’s a bold one. Ah well, no harm done in the end.”

“Only
to my wits,” Marshall snorted. “Country bred fools. I won’t be losing my place
because they can’t keep their legs closed.”

Mrs.
Horsman clucked. “’Tis a trial.”

“Not
my last,” Marshall sighed. “The plate is for Lady Rochford.”

Horsman
nodded. “She’s still within.” She opened the door. “You’re not taking her?” she
said when I made to follow Marshall.

“He’ll
fox her like a chick from the henhouse if I let her out of my sight.”

The
folds around Mrs. Horsman’s ample mouth plunged to new depths. “The Duke and my
Lord Wiltshire are also within,” she murmured to Marshall.

I
forgot my empty belly. I had not seen the inside of Anne’s Privy Chamber since
my presentation two weeks ago. Everyday I had to watch her favorites come and
go as they pleased, all of them unaware how much their ease infuriated me. I
had quickly deduced that I would never outwit the older ladies in gaining one
of the sewing circle stools with a view of the Privy Chamber doors. They seemed
to have a system for keeping new arrivals like myself out of them. So I took
the one closest to the doors and memorized every voice I heard coming out of
the chamber. Margot’s I’d committed on first hearing it. Mariah’s too. The
others I was slower to learn, but by the end of the second week I knew everyone
with ready access to the Privy Chamber, including some of the Queen’s servants.

I
often neglected my stitching to focus on the welcome sound of footsteps
approaching and leaving the door, and if it proved to be Mariah or Margot I
timed my turning to rise on their exit. But they never stopped as they had the
first day.

Where did I go wrong?

They
easily chatted with other Maidens of my lesser rank. I refused to ask Madge. I
had done my best to avoid her company without seeming to since her outburst at
Easter.

Mrs.
Horsman opened the door just wide enough for us to slide within. The Privy
Chamber was full to bursting. Mark Smeaton occupied the window seat, strumming
a violent, Italian tune on the guitar. Three ladies spun in the tight space
beside him. Their whirling skirts struck the hand working the neck of the
instrument. Mark never lost a note. The mutable candlelight revealed Mariah’s
joyful face, then Lady Frances. The third girl was just another forgettable
Howard cousin.

Ladies
and gentlemen lined the walls in small groups and pairs. Others reclined on
cushions on the floor. Goblets and platters littered the tables and floor.
Urian snatched a chicken bone from one and dove under Anne’s chair.

Anne’s
chair, framed by the fireplace, was the eye of the whirlwind. Lady Rochford and
the Countess leaned over the Queen’s shoulders as Anne conversed with the Duke
and my Uncle Wiltshire. Seated on a stool, the Duke looked nothing like
himself
, the formidable aura of grim authority was banked.
He looked like any old graybeard back in Norfolk, telling stories by the fire.

Uncle
Wiltshire stood behind him, cupping a glass goblet. His eyes roamed the chamber
even as he laughed along with the Queen and Norfolk.

“Stay
here,” Mrs. Marshall ordered, taking the platter from me. She wound her way
through the press, and delivered it up to Lady Rochford.

Lady
Rochford presented the platter to the Queen. Anne’s fingers reached for a piece
of pheasant then stopped.

Her
eyes went round as the thumb-sized pearls at her throat.

Lady
Rochford pulled the platter back too late. Anne’s fist struck the edge. Pheasant,
pork, figs, grapes flew. The Duke turned and caught a cut of venison against
the shoulder of his velvet coat.

Anne
erupted from her chair, black hair whipping the air behind her. The Duke leapt
off the stool, retreating. An invisible scythe cut everyone else, including
Uncle Wiltshire, to
their
knees.

“I
am in better state than ever you wished on me!” Anne shouted, hands fastening
around her belly.

Uncle
Wiltshire raised his hands, placating. “Your Grace,” he said. “No one rejoices
more at your great fortune than your kin.”

Anne’s
furious eyes cut him too. “It was not fortune raised me, but God’s good grace
and my own perseverance.” Her voice climbed higher. “Where were you when the
rabble chased me out of London? Where were you when the Pope ordered the King
to send me from court and take back that Spanish cow?” Scorn glittered in her
enormous eyes. “I heard neither of your voices raised to defend my rights.”

“Your
Grace,” Wiltshire said. “That is hardly so.”

“It
is enough!” Anne’s finger stabbed the air at Norfolk’s nose. “Christ on the
cross has not done more for you!” Then it swung at her father’s head. “Nor for
you, my lord!”

Her
eyes flew about the chamber. “The Howards and Boleyns at court outnumber the
fleas!” Her eyes found me, frozen against the door. “I even raised up one of
Lady Shelton’s brats for your sake, my lord Wiltshire. God knows it was not
done for my own!”

Norfolk’s
eagle beak lifted. “It is one small keepership, Your Grace, hardly worth
this—this spleen. Is this well done by a Queen?”

Anne
reared back like a viper. “I will break a storm over your head, and you will
lick my feet like the dog you are to receive it.”

Crimson
exploded across Norfolk’s sharp cheeks. “By God! I will not be handled so. Not
by you, niece. Not by any woman
be
she called Queen or
putain.”

The
air went out of the chamber. Shock stole it in one daring swoop as we all
stood, open-mouthed at the Duke’s insult. Everyone turned to stone except Urian
who bayed from under her chair.

“Get
out!” Anne’s scream pierced my skull. “Out of my sight!”

Norfolk’s
eyes thinned to pinpoints. Then he broke every rule of court by turning his
back on the Queen. The folk on the floor threw themselves out of his way.

“Move!”
Marshall’s voice broke my rigor. I flung myself aside as Norfolk reached for
the door himself. He threw it against the wall, inches from my head, and went
out.

_______________

The
King’s arrival put everyone out of the Privy Chamber. Marshall had already
evicted me.

“Stay
by Mrs. Horsman,” Marshall said, shoving me out the door a bare moment after
Lord Norfolk. “I must see to Lady Rochford.”

Mrs.
Horsman pulled me out of the stream of suddenly sober revelers fleeing the
Privy Chamber. Most got no farther than the dais, everyone in the Presence
Chamber pressing
them
for details. Mariah and Lady
Frances darted out last of all. Mariah’s eyes touched mine, but registered no
recognition. She drew Frances to the middle of the room. No one approached
them. If, as was likely, the Duke was out of favor, the same might fall on his
children.

The
King appeared moments later, lips bunched, fists curled. Mrs. Horsman threw the
doors wide and showed her face to the floor. I did likewise.

Sir
Henry Norris usurped Mrs. Horsman’s role and gently shut the doors. Mrs.
Horsman blew a gusty sigh.

“God
in Heaven, what an uproar,” she said as Mrs. Marshall darted out of the chamber
just ahead of the closing door.

“And
more to come,” she muttered then grabbed my wrist. “Come.” We marched up to my
chamber.

“My
maid will sleep across the door,” she said. “She cannot be bought so spare me
any story of your tears.” The door slammed in my face before I could protest
her assumption.

The
bed curtains tore open. Joan, nightdress laced askew, kneeled on the edge of
the bed. “Are you meeting Sir Francis?” Her bright eyes prayed that it was so.