Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

“Keep
your mouth shut,” his hiss pursued me around the corner. “Or I’ll shut it for
you!”

To
Shelton Hall, Norfolk

Sunday,
March 23
^rd
1533

The
sleigh got stuck once on the road home. I volunteered to get out and mind the
horse while our groom Simon dug it out. Semmonet complained of the delay, but
her joints allowed naught more.

Gabrielle
and Emma urged me to hurry. They were hungry; they were cold. I felt neither
;
only the relentless sting of loss. I wanted to be away
from them—away from the long, dull-witted days in Norfolk and back in
London.

Tom
Clere had promised that. With the Earl of Surrey for patron he could deliver
it. Our plan had been simplicity: when Surrey’s sister, the Lady Mary Howard,
finally wed the King’s bastard son, the Duke of Richmond at Christmas,
I—as Mrs. Thomas Clere—would have a place in the new Duchess of
Richmond’s grand household.

Clere
would put this to my father when he asked for my hand. Father’s approval was
foregone. A married daughter at court was an asset, a credit to his
name—and a boon to his purse. One less daughter under his roof meant more
to go around. Clere had his place with Surrey and surety of a new post at court
to come—groom in the King’s household at least. We’d be married at the
New Year—the Chapel Royal at Greenwich or Norfolk House in London. I
would wear a russet gown, and bear a posy of dried violets. And we’d name our
first son John.

Perfection.

The
cold bit through the toes of my boots. I leaned against the mare. Feathery
steam rose from her chestnut coat. I stroked her shoulder, remembering my last
time aboard her broad back. The last ride I took over the emerald fields of
Greenwich with Tom Clere, happy, ignorant of what the next month would bring: a
summons to court for Clere. Lord Surrey was going to Calais in the King’s train
where
Anne would be received by King François as the
Queen-to-be of England
.

A
week after their arrival Clere sent word that plans had altered. Richmond and
Lady Mary Howard were not to wed at Christmastide. No, Richmond, instead, would
join King François’s court in France indefinitely. And so would Lord Surrey.
And Clere.

Et voila!

I
was abandoned to suffer another wretched winter in Norfolk. Excitement eschewed
the country life like Luther did the Mass. It was anathema to the
soul—poisonous to the heart. You rose with the odor of offal in your
nose, plied a needle while the light lasted, birthed babies til you died of it,
and never got your way. And you lived amongst the ignorant that saw witchery in
the wind. People were known to go mad in the country—women especially.

One
of our mother’s kin had done; drowned herself in the moat at Uncle Wiltshire’s
manor house down in Kent. I shivered, thinking on such an end. I could never
kill myself by water. But she was Irish, a cousin brought over to marry a
Boleyn neighbor, and as every Englishman knew, the Irish were a mad people.

I
scratched the mare’s nose. “I wish you’d thrown me and I’d broke my neck.”

The
mare shifted, bouncing me from her shoulder. I patted her black cheek.

“I
do not mean it.”

I
gazed at our land spreading in all directions, flat, cross-hatched by hedges
and unmortered stonewalls. Empty. I felt its emptiness like a stomach dulled by
hunger. A bottomless aching nothing could ever fill.

The
nearest woodlands lay east on Sir Ralph’s property. The Wodehouses needed more
pasturage and we Sheltons needed fuel.

Cows and kindling. I’m sold for a pile of
wood stock.

Tom
Clere had wanted me for myself.

“So
he said, and so he lied.” I said and stamped my feet against the cold.

Tom
Clere had been my last hope. All of the others had been extinguished months
ago. Our family had been sending gifts to Uncle Wiltshire, cousin George and
his wife, even the Duke of Norfolk, since last Easter to plead our cause. Only
Uncle Wiltshire had promised to speak with Anne.

I
too had sent Anne a gift. It cost all of my gambling monies, my pearl necklace,
and Tom Clere’s parting gift to purchase the book of French sonnets. Semmonet
had advised it would be more pleasing to Anne than a songbird or a jewel. I
could not afford a jewel anyway.

I
had tucked a letter inside the book. Semmonet had helped me craft it. It was in
my very best French. I recalled to Anne our last meeting—at Greenwich. I
did not mention we had gone to see Queen Katherine publicly dine with King
Henry for one of the last times before he had dismissed her from court. I
praised Anne’s kindness to me that day and said I kept her in my prayers every
night. Then I beseeched her favor and the privilege of serving her. I did not
beg for it, but maybe I should have. Maybe that was what she required of a
Shelton.

I would fall on my knees in the snow if
she demanded it.
Anything to leave Norfolk.

But
Anne had not replied. Not even an acknowledgement of the gift. Semmonet had
tried to reason with me.

“She
is distracted. She prepares for her trip to Calais,
mon coeur
,” she had said.

“A
note, Semmonet. She has a secretary—probably twelve.”

Semmonet
had stroked my cheek. “We will light a candle.”

“God
does not care!” I had cried. “Anne hates us because of Mother and a candle
won’t change it.”

I
knew Semmonet later went off to light two candles—one for Anne’s neglect
and one for my blaspheming.

I
kicked the snow and struck ice. My numb toes felt nothing. If I lost them to
frostbite, perhaps old Sir Roger would not have me.

“If
I showed him my mark he would definitely not have me,” I muttered. No, he’d set
the parish priest on me and send me off to the Bishop in Norwich for dunking.

“All
clear, Mistress Mary.” Simon doffed his cap.

I
rubbed the mare’s nose in farewell.

“It’s
too cold for courtesy, Simon.”

He
stuffed the shapeless thing back on his gray head before handing me back inside
the sleigh.

“Please
make good time,” I said. I wanted to find some privacy at home for the rest of
my brooding.

“The
best, mistress.”

I
re-settled myself beside Gabrielle. Semmonet dozed. Gabrielle and Emma played
one of their mindless games of Cat’s Cradle. The sleigh jerked forward.
Semmonet did not wake.

“Plotting
your escape?” Gabrielle whispered.

Emma
giggled. “The nunnery is up the road,” she offered.

“I’d
rather marry Sir Ralph,” I snapped.

Gabrielle
studied me. “He’s asked for you?”

“Never
mind,” I muttered.

Emma
sniggered. “He won’t have you once he sees it.”

Gabrielle
rolled her eyes. “He’s blind in one eye and near blind in the other. Mary is
safe. Why do you think Mother’s let the thing go so far?”

“But
if someone should tell him,” Emma whispered.

Gabrielle
kicked her. “I would know you’d done it, and I’d tell Mother.”

Emma
stuck out her tongue. Gabrielle sighed, ignoring it.

“In
a way, it is fortunate Tom Clere proved fickle,”
Gabrielle
continued. “How would you have hidden it from him?”

Emma
sucked her thumbnail, nodding. “It would have been a great scandal when he cast
you off, and we would have been ruined too.”

“Why
should he cast me off?” I snapped. “For foolish superstition? He was educated
alongside the Earl of Surrey and the Duke of Richmond not some wool-heads from
the Fens.”

Something
akin to pity softened Gabrielle’s eyes. “That may be,” she said, “but you never
know what a man will do when he feels he’s been cheated.”

Shelton
Hall, Shelton, Norfolk

Monday,
March 24th 1533

Gabrielle—God
curse her—planted a seed that sprouted in my brain just before I fell
asleep.

What
would
a man do when he felt he’d been
cheated?

I
stared at the ceiling where broken lines of firelight played across the stout
oak beams. The soft peal of St. Mary’s bell ringing midnight carried across the
open fields. I cursed Gabrielle, safe asleep in her bed across the chamber, for
costing me a night’s rest. I rolled on my side, away from Emma’s twitching
feet, and let the question resolve itself.

My
brother Tom had broken the gardener’s boy’s left hand when he caught him using
false dice.

That
was a man’s justice—swift and painful.

But
what would a man do to a woman?

If
I’d done the same as the gardener’s boy, my brother would not have harmed me.
No, he would have demanded a promise not to sin again or simply refused my
invitations to dice.

Was
my flaw so much worse than cheating?

I
wriggled under my half of the counterpane. Emma’s slight body stirred and I
froze. Emma’s nose for my turmoil could be active even in her sleep.

My
brother Tom would have shown me mercy, because he loved me. Tom Clere had said
he loved me.

If
this was his love then Gabrielle was right—I was best off.

A
cold, dark shiver swept my chest.

Dear Lord, I will do anything you ask, just
please let Sir Ralph marry elsewhere—anywhere but among our house. Amen.

Surely
He must be moved by my consideration for my sisters. We were not friends, but
we shared the same blood. And Sir Ralph deserved no part of me.

Hooves
shrieked against the courtyard’s damp flagstones right under our bedroom
window. Light erupted behind the bed curtains.

Emma
flung the blanket over me, speeding her way—and slowing mine—to see
what was happening below. I made to follow her, and froze.

Was
Father’s messenger come?

God strike me dead.

Emma
bounced on her bare toes before the window. “Tom is here!”

Tom
Clere’s fathomless blue-green eyes flashed in my mind’s eye.

Thank God!

Ralph’s
hateful threats and my despair vanished. I scrambled out of bed, running to the
window hungry for sight of his face. I would not scold him for forgetting to
write. But I would make him swear not to do it again.

Emma
brushed past me, running for the door.

“’Tis
brother Tom.” Gabrielle peered over my shoulder at the swarm of lathered horses
and men below. “Tom Clere’s still across the sea, ninny.”

I
tore the curtain out of her hand. “You’re the ninny to let Emma reach our
brother first. She’ll wheedle whatever presents he’s brought from London for
herself.”

Gabrielle
knocked my shoulder before running out. I turned back toward the window where
the torchlight had been extinguished, and the night showed black and
starless.
 

It’s not Tom Clere. It will never be Tom
Clere riding into our courtyard before dawn. I am a ninny
.

I
crawled back across my bed, curled up like a spent caterpillar against my
pillow.

So,
my favorite brother had been sent to deliver Father’s verdict. At least I’d
have someone to cry to. My tears would only fluster Semmonet, who’d been sewing
things for my dower chest since my weaning. Gabrielle would shrug and ask me
what else had I expected; Emma would gloat. Ralph would order a fat meal and
dancing. If God were good, he would choke at table.

Boots
pounded in the hallway, pursued by the whispery padding of stockinged feet.

“Where
is my favorite sister?” Tom’s raspy voice invaded the bedroom.

“Monsieur
Thomas!” Semmonet’s horrified squeal lifted my head.

Gabrielle
entered, bearing a thick candle. Emma pushed Tom across the threshold. Semmonet
dangled from his arms, bony arms and legs flailing like a spider plucked from
its web. Wisps of silver hair escaped her nightcap.

Emma
slapped the back of Tom’s leather jerkin. “When did she become your favorite?”

“Your
pardon Semmonet,” he said and gently set her down. Semmonet swayed. Gabrielle
grabbed her arm before worse happened. “I know the proprieties must be
observed, so you will do the observing.”

Semmonet
glared at him. “
Perfide
!”

Tom
wagged his finger in my direction. “Do not put this on my head. If that one had
come down as she ought, I would not have come in here.”

“Mademoiselle
Marie did rightly. Your news can wait for a proper hour to be heard.”

What,
I thought, was a proper hour for hearing your life was over?

Tom
bussed her chin. Semmonet slapped his hand away, lips flat as paving stones.
“Your father would not approve,” she said, wrinkled chin quivering.

“Oh,
Semmonet, just let him speak.” Gabrielle inserted herself between them. “He
won’t tell us anything without Mary to hear it.”

Tom
threw the bed curtains completely aside and dropped his full length onto my
bed. I bounced like a flea in the rushes. He crossed his legs, dangling his wet
boot heels over the side.

“
Mon Dieu
.” Semmonet clutched the silver
rosary she never took off.

Emma
lit the extra candle at our bedside. The light warmed Tom’s grayish skin,
showed the dust glazing his riding leathers. Purple bruised the flesh under his
Shelton blue eyes. His damp black hair hugged his head tight as a skullcap.

I
sat up, tucking my nightdress under my knees. “Well met, brother.” I leaned in
for a kiss and recoiled. Tom’s lips carried frost. “My God, were you all night
on the road?”

Tom
wrinkled his nose. “Indeed. Our parents demanded I reach Shelton Hall with due
haste.”

“Whyfor?”
Emma demanded.

“What’s
happened?” Gabrielle said.

I
froze, knowing what it must be. Knowing the reaction of everyone in the room.
Knowing there was no earthly escape.

Tom
looked each of us in the face, eyes growing wider, drawing the moment out too
long and my temper broke.

“For
pity’s sake, just say it!” I cried.

Tom
bussed my chin. “Shrew,” he snarled with a smile. “The reason I am here and not
in my bed in London, listening to
Father
snore to
crack Heaven’s gate wide open is…” His wide-set eyes touched everyone’s a
second time then settled on mine. “Cousin Anne has married the King.”

Gabrielle’s mouth opened wide enough to
receive a whole pork roast.
“She did not!”

“
Mon Dieu
!” Semmonet grabbed Gabrielle’s
shoulder as her knees gave.

Emma’s
dewy lips fluttered. Gabrielle, burdened with keeping Semmonet upright, managed
to meet my eyes. We’d grown up on Semmonet’s tales of Anne and the King.

We
had inherited our Semmonet from our Boleyn cousins after Anne, the youngest,
went off at age seven to be educated in the court of the Regent Margaret of the
Netherlands. Semmonet’s reminiscences were nursery stories to us almost as old
and revered as Greek myth. Anne was Daphne, ever pursued by Apollo until her
river-god father turned her into a laurel tree. We did not expect Anne to go
tree-like, but neither did we ever truly anticipate the story ending with her
being caught—no matter what I’d said to Ralph, I had never believed it
would come true. It remained fantasy. Kings did not divorce their wives of some
twenty years to marry their mistresses.

No.
If a king wanted a new wife, he found another princess—usually French
since they always had so many—not a commoner. There could be only one
reason our King Henry felt safe to do so.

I
gripped Tom’s arm so hard, he squealed. “Is Queen Katherine dead?”

Tom
plucked my hand away and answered us in turn. “Yes, she did. God had naught to
do with it. And no, she is very much alive and still living in state at The
More.”

“How
did the King manage it?” I scoured his gleeful face for clues. “The Pope has
not declared for him has he?”

Tom
poked the tip of my nose with his frigid riding glove. “The Pope is to be
demoted. The Bishop of Rome is his new title in England. Henceforth, the
Archbishop of Canterbury rules on matters spiritual.”

“Blasphemy.”
Semmonet’s voice scraped and squeaked like the worn hinges of an ancient door.
“Sacrilege. The Pope is the Vicar of Christ. He cannot be set aside.”

Tom
corrected her by a gentle shake of his head. “Wives, pontiffs, traditions can
all be set aside in Bluff Hal’s England, my dear Semmonet. Best not meddle with
it if you want to keep your place.”

Semmonet’s
fierce look wilted. She clung to Gabrielle’s arm, as though the King himself
came to throw her back across the sea.

I
cuffed Tom’s shoulder. “Semmonet will never be dismissed.”

“Never,”
Gabrielle seconded, putting her arm around the old woman’s thin, trembling
shoulders.

Tom
yawned and slapped my knees. “Words of warning, sisters. Tell anyone you don’t
care to see unemployed to put a good face on the thing, and their complaints in
a bag. And bury the bag deep. The King’s patience for Rome is exhausted. ‘Tis a
new world we live in.”

Another
yawn seized him. “But still a world where nature made night for sleep. I need
my bed.” He rolled over the side and to his feet.

Emma
scrambled onto the bed in his place. “But what does it mean for us?” she cried.

Tom
chuckled. “The youngest and the most ambitious.” He wagged a finger at me.
“Beware oldster.”

Emma
slapped the bed. “Tell me.”

“I
will tell you all.” Tom said then ducked out the door. “On the road to London.”

“London?”
Gabrielle clutched the name like she was neck deep in the Fens with the tide
coming in.

“Of
course, London.” Tom’s sleepy voice retreated down the hall toward his chamber.
“You cannot attend the Queen of England from Norfolk.”