Read Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) Online
Authors: Catherine McCarran
Anne’s
look sharpened. “Obviously not. I will have Mrs. Marshall pay especial
attention to educating you.” She waved her hand, dismissing me.
I
bolted to a place among the other maidens, and pretended to watch the jousting.
As soon as it ended, I flew from my seat to find Mary Carey.
“Cousin
Mary, I need to borrow a crown.” Lord Surrey turned around. I grabbed Cousin
Mary’s arm and pulled her away. Surrey’s laughter followed me ‘til we were out
of earshot.
“Why
do you need a crown?” she asked.
I
leaned as close as I could. “Payment for Joan Dyngley. Lady Worcester had a man
in the Queen’s Privy Chamber when I went to fetch her footstool. Mrs. Dyngley
wants a crown to tell me his name.”
She
blinked as though the sun had caught her eyes. “You don’t need it. I already
know who it is.”
My
lips fell open. “How?”
Cousin
Mary looked Surrey’s way. “My Uncle Norfolk has spies in every important
household in England. Some in France as well.”
My
mouth fell. Could he have one in mine?
She
shook her head, reading my look. “I don’t know. Perhaps. If your family becomes
important enough.”
That goes in my next letter home.
“So,
who is it?” I asked.
“Eliza’s
lover? Can you not guess?”
Eliza.
Countess of Worcester.
I rummaged through the list of
her family connections, the stale gossip of her past liaisons.
Her
brother was Sir Anthony Browne, the King’s Master of Horse
;
her half-brother Sir William FitzWilliam, the King’s Treasurer. Her
sister-in-law was married to Sir William Brereton; and her husband was the
King’s cousin.
She
was a notorious flirt and the Queen’s clear favorite. None of it gave me a
clue.
Trumpets
blared as the King and Queen left the tourney field and returned inside the
palace. The sound struck my brain like a hammer hitting a nailhead and jarred
something loose.
“Smeaton
is very conspicuous in the Queen’s rooms,” I heard myself say.
Cousin
Mary clapped her hands. “Eliza would strangle you for that! Guess again.”
“Not
Weston?” It pained me to put his name to her. Pox or no pox, I did not want his
attention going to someone who hated me.
Cousin
Mary giggled. “He’s too obvious, but you are getting warmer.”
Weston
was boon companion to cousin George.
“Not
George?”
“
Trés bien
,
ma petite Marie
!”
“But
he was supposed to be jousting!”
Her
laughter carried and the Queen looked over her shoulder. Cousin Mary ducked her
head and went on softly. “Sir Henry Norris took his place against Sir Francis
Bryan. George took Norris’s opponent tomorrow.”
“No
one knows why?”
She
waved her hand. “Oh, George blamed the late night—preparations for his
trip to France when the tournament is done.” Cousin Mary patted my shoulder.
“It happens all the time.”
“But
the Queen’s Privy Chamber…?”
She
gave me a look loaded with pity. “What do you think the Queen does in there
with the King?”
The
suggestion took my breath. “Surely not! Not while she’s with child.” I lowered
my voice. “‘Tis a sin.”
She
pinched my cheek. “There are other ways of giving pleasure. French tricks.”
Whore’s
tricks, she meant.
Cousin
Mary slid her arm through mine.
“Speaking
of French tricks,” she murmured. “I have heard a delicious murmuring that Lord
John de Vere is smitten with you.”
I
shook my head, pretending indifference while my heart soared. “Bess says the
same,” I said in my most demure voice, “but it was only a dance.”
Cousin
Mary elbowed my waist. “I think not. He has asked more than Lady Frances about
you.”
My
stomach fluttered. “Whom did he go to?”
“He
was discreet. He spoke with George.”
I
frowned. George, though always kind, knew less of me than the Queen.
“What
could he say about me?”
Cousin
Mary giggled. “What could he not? He spun so magnificent a web of seductive
accomplishment around you, I think he tempted himself.”
Cousin
George lied for me?
“He
properly extolled all of your virtues. He compared your beauty to Danae, your
wit to Minerva, your chastity to Daphne. Mary Wyatt was quite moved recounting
it. She overheard the entire conversation in the Queen’s gallery this morning
after Mass.”
Lord
John de Vere. My mind’s eye revisited his face. Wide set eyes, the color of
burnt almonds, wavy almost black hair, sun-warmed skin, relaxed kissable lips.
Kissable? How could I think of kissing John de Vere so soon after Tom Clere?
I
was
addled.
“A
flirtation is the best remedy for a broken heart,” Cousin Mary’s words startled
me.
“I-I
am
not flirting with Lord John de Vere.”
Cousin
Mary’s doe eyes gentled my rush to deny it.
“Peace,
coz. I have heard no tales and I have told none. But you looked grim as death
after our stay in the Tower. I’ve seen that look in my own mirror more than
once.” She patted my hand. “Far more. And after every one I found my remedy in
a new love.” Cousin Mary’s warm sigh soothed me.
A new love?
With the Earl of
Oxford’s heir?
Don’t be a ninny. God did not return Lord
John de Vere from France for you.
My
stomach throbbed.
But
what if He had? It would perfectly explain Lord John’s rescue. The throbbing
deepened.
Cousin
Mary stroked the back of my hand. “God is good, coz,” she said, as if again
hearing my thoughts. “You are young and at court. You should enjoy yourself
mightily.” Her breath touched my ear. “Just don’t get caught.”
Written
this 3rd day of June
From
the Palace of Whitehall
Madam—
I pray this finds you and
Father in perfect health.
The court rests at
Whitehall another two days. The revelry remains high. Entertainments, picnics,
gaming consume the days and nights.
The King dines with Anne
every day, and when apart sends her messages and gifts almost on the hour.
Lady Margaret Douglas took
her leave of the Queen this morning. She goes to Beaulieu again to summer with
the Lady Mary Tudor. The Queen bid her remain among us, but Lady Margaret
declined with so much sorrow I thought she might cry.
Lord John de Vere left
court after the Coronation festivities were ended—no one knows where or
whyfor. Though he told his sister he longed to see me again, he had done
nothing to make it so. I must suppose his attention merely a thing of the
moment and naught more.
I am called away to join an
entertainment, so must beseech your pardon and your blessing.
God bless our good Queen
Anne and prosper her forever.
By the hand of your
obedient daughter,
Mary
Palace
of Whitehall, London
June
3rd 1533
“Mariah,”
the Queen said. “You will take Mistress Shelton.”
Lady
Mary Howard bowed her head, accepting Anne’s order. Cousin Mary winked at me.
Thank you, Cousin Mary!
Mariah
should thank her too. Since Margot had left for Beaulieu that morning, she
might have been partnered with little Joan Percy who didn’t look strong enough
to lift the ball let alone throw it.
“That
leaves Lady Joan and Mistress Seymour,” said Lady Rochford.
The
Queen sat under a wide green and white striped canopy set up beside the
bowling green
. The Countess and Lady Rochford hovered at her
elbows like spite-filled bookends, filling her cup, amusing Urian, and
gossiping. Dozens of courtiers stood about the canopy, and a thick throng of
commons, dressed in their best, milled on the periphery to watch the Queen
arranging her contest.
“The
prize is my girdle,” the Queen announced, and held its bottom links aloft. The
gilt caught the sun, turning its silver momentarily gold. I imagined its weight
round my waist.
Jane
Seymour put a good face on being stuck with Joan. Bess had won the toss to
choose her partner first and had taken Mary
Wyatt
as
she should. Mistress Wyatt was the best bowls player among the Queen’s ladies.
Since she shied from Pass-the-Time she had the leisure to practice.
“You should play for higher stakes,”
Cousin George declared. George had been set to sail for France, bearing word of
Anne’s coronation to King François, immediately after the banquet at
Westminster Hall. But Anne had begged the King keep him at court to share her
pleasure a few days longer. The King, as always, had acquiesced.
Anne
rolled her eyes. “What do you suggest, brother?”
“Damn
you Cousin George!” I silently fumed. “I wanted that girdle.”
Lady
Rochford stepped aside as George leaned over Anne’s armrest. “A kiss, Your
Grace.” He darted a quick one against her cheek. “The winner may have a kiss
from any gentleman here she chooses.”
The
ladies applauded the idea; the gentlemen preened.
Anne
shook her head. “These are my maidens, Lord Rochford. Their reputations are
under my care.” But the glint in her eye belied her words.
George
pressed. “What harm in it, Your Grace, with a green full of witnesses under
God’s open sky?”
Anne
fanned herself, considering. “I suppose it is a harmless prize. One kiss made
here before witnesses.” Her lips relaxed. “Very well, the prize is a kiss my
maidens, from any gentleman of your choice.”
My
eyes flew through the crowd praying he would materialize as magically as he’d
done two days ago, but Lord John was gone. I had not seen him since the
Coronation, and as he had sent me no message, I would not make myself look
foolish or forward by asking for him. I sighed and scanned the gentlemen for a
tolerable alternative.
Sir
William Brereton—too old. Sir Henry Norris—the same. Sir Richard
Page—too short. Sir Thomas Percy—Joan’s father. Sir Francis
Bryan—one-eyed.
George—kin.
Thomas
Wyatt—too scandalous. Sir Francis Weston—too dangerous with Mrs.
Marshall standing not ten feet away.
Confidence
lit Weston’s sapphire eyes. He bowed. Wyatt’s lips twitched.
I
threw them the bold smile I’d learned from watching Bess. It made Wyatt pause
and Weston blink. Marshall folded her arms.
There
was little harm, I knew. I was a middling player at best. Mistress Wyatt was
sure to take the prize. But what would she do with it? She was too timid to
enjoy it.
Bess
and Mary Wyatt opened the match. Mariah and I played next, then Joan and
Seymour. By the fourth throw it was clear that Joan and Seymour would not
contend. Joan looked ready to weep as another of Seymour’s throws missed an
easy point. Seymour covered her mouth as she giggled.
“Forgive
me, Lady Joan. I am so out of practice.”
“If
you need instruction, I’m certain one of these gentlemen would oblige,” Bess
said.
Seymour
simpered. “I would not presume, Mistress Holland. Though Lord Rochford, I am
told, has a neat hand for instructing the ladies.”
Lady
Rochford burst out laughing. “Lord Rochford’s instruction is neither neat nor
for the ladies. Wherever did you hear otherwise?”
Seymour’s
eyes flickered toward the Countess, but swived away before the fatal moment and
alighted on Bess herself. Lady Rochford’s smile went flat as a Mass wafer. She
glared at the back of cousin George’s dark head. George whispered in Anne’s
ear.
Anne
flicked her fan. “Mistress Holland. I feel a chill. Fetch my silk mantle to me,
if you please.”
Bess
had no choice. She abandoned her plain victory with better grace than I
expected. She curtsied to Anne, handed her ball off to Mistress Wyatt, and went
away, knowing her quick return was not expected.
“My
apologies, Mistress Wyatt,” Anne said. “But you are disqualified from the
match. ”
Mary
Wyatt bit her lip. “As you wish, Your Grace.” She retreated from the green
still clutching Bess Holland’s ball.
“Play
on,” the Queen commanded.
Seymour’s
aim improved from that moment so that the conclusion was not foregone, but in
the end Mariah’s skill lifted us to victory.
The
company applauded us as we returned to the canopy to claim our prize.
Wyatt
and Weston’s eyes pricked me, demanding my attention, but I kept mine on the
Queen.
“Well
played,” said Anne. “And who do you claim for your prize, cousin Shelton?”
The
Countess tittered. “She should do like Solomon and call for a sword.”
Lady
Rochford snorted. “And will you claim the other half, my lady?”
Anne
waved her hand. “Hush, sister. Let us hear Mistress Shelton’s choice.”
Weston’s
tongue darted, wetting his bottom lip. Wyatt brushed his moustache back from
his upper lip.
I
looked at Madge for help. She shrugged and went back to picking at her
embroidered sleeve.
My
choice would offend the other and by the rules of Pass-the-Time demand redress.
My choice would also be establishing my preference. Either way might send the
game into higher play or end it as the loser sought another lady’s favor.
I do not want it to end.
Despite
Cousin Mary Carey’s warning against Weston, I relished the attention of both
and the fame their contesting had brought me from the court. I enjoyed Bess’s
jealous looks whenever one of Wyatt’s little rhymes appeared under my pillow. I
savored the Countess’s brittle smiles whenever Weston left her company to join
mine.
How
could I keep them both?
“Are
you tired from the play little cousin or has the sun faded your wits?”
“Your
pardon, Your Grace,” I said with a little curtsey, stalling. And then it came
to me. If this did not win Mariah’s favor nothing would.
“As
I owe my victory solely to the Lady Mary Howard’s skill and none of my own, I
will leave the choice to her.”
Madge’s
eyes rolled shut.
Cousin
George chortled. “My God, she’s cut herself on her own sword.”
Mariah
raised a brow. “It is right fitting, my lord Rochford. As Mistress Shelton has
said, it was my play won the day for us.”
She
made me a winning smile then turned toward Wyatt and Weston. Both straightened
themselves for her consideration.
“Well,
who is your choice, Mariah?” George prompted.
Mary
Howard’s suddenly fey grin alarmed me.
“Mark
Smeaton.”
Laughter
burst out from the onlookers, including the commons when they figured out whom
she meant. The Countess applauded. The gentlemen glowered, muttering.
George,
their spokesman, challenged her. “He is no gentleman, my lady.”
Mariah
tossed her head. “I won the contest, Lord Rochford. That is my choice.”
“Are
these gentlemen so unworthy?” George pleaded.
Mariah
smiled. “All are most worthy, my lord. But Master Smeaton is my choice.”
George
shook his head. “The Queen must rule on this.”
We
all looked at Anne. A little smile played on her lips. She tapped the rim of
her cup, pretending to think.
“Whilst
true Mark is no gentleman,” she began, “I cannot deny my lady’s right to choose
the prize.”
My
mouth stole open.
I cannot kiss a servant!
My
fragile standing at court would not survive it, even though it
be
the Queen’s wish.
I
darted a look at Anne’s bemused face. I detected no malice, but something like
it must compel her.
No. She favors Mary Howard over me.
‘Tis that simple.
My
stomach fell to the ground as Mary Howard smiled at me. “Come along, Smeaton.
Mistress Shelton is eager for her prize.”
Mark,
dressed in peacock blue, handed his fiddle to the tambor player. He bowed to
the Queen then approached me. He knelt at my feet like some knight errant come
to rescue the damsel. The shoulders of his coat trembled.
As they should!
He
should have refused, made some excuse, claimed his insufficiency—his
unworthiness to dare dream of approaching me let alone kissing me. That was
part and parcel of Pass-the-Time—and if he truly thought he played such
with me, he should have spoken. That is what a gentleman or a would-be
gentleman should do. So much for his pretensions!
“Mistress
Shelton,” Mariah prompted. “Claim your reward.”
My
heart pounded in my ears, muffling the Countess’s giggles—a mercy.
It
was mine to do. Smeaton would not kiss me; I must kiss him. Every muscle
twitched. Could humiliation induce a seizure? Please God it was so. Mother
would beat me to pottage if I did not make a way to escape this.
“Hold.”
The
Queen’s soft voice overrode the laughter.
“Lady
Mary, I have not ruled.”
Mariah
bowed her head. “Your pardon, Your Grace.”
Anne
pointed her fan at Mariah’s face. “You are too much a Howard, my lady. Remember
who
We
are.”
Mariah’s
chin fell to her chest.
Anne
glanced at me. “The wager was a kiss from a gentleman. As Lord Rochford has
said, Mark is no gentleman, so…my lady Mary’s choice is forfeit. I claim it.”
Weston’s
pout
evaporated as Anne looked on him. Wyatt groaned.
Then Anne’s eyes leapt to me. Her lips stretched, languid as a sunning cat. Her
matchless Boleyn teeth flashed.
“Lord
John de Vere!” she called. “Present yourself.”
“He’s
not here—he’s gone home to Oxford,” George said.
I
scanned the gentlemen again, those among us, and those watching at a distance.
No, George was not mistaken. I had not been mistaken. Lord John was gone.
A
thorough Scot stepped from the crowd of commoners. He was kitted out in every
bit of that country’s outlandish finery. Kilt and tartan of a tri-colored
plaid—like one of Seymour’s costumes, and the long, wicked knife they
called a dirk sheathed at his waist. Bare, brown knees showed above his boots.
Joan Percy blushed for his indecency. As he approached the canopy, the nearest
yeoman lowered his halberd.
“Let
him pass,” Anne commanded.
He
came under the canopy’s shadow and a sticky heat bloomed at the base of my
spine.
Lord
John de Vere doffed his hat, and knelt before the Queen.
“You are
unmasked, my lord,” the Queen said with a whimsical laugh.
“Happily so, Your Grace,” he said with a little laugh of his own. “How may I
serve you?”
“What
are you doing here, Lord John?” George asked, looking hard at his sister. “Your
father sent you home.”
“He
did, my lord. But the lure of court proved too strong.”
Anne
tapped a finger against her lips. “You may interrogate Lord John another time,
brother. He is here to settle our contest.”
George
subsided, with a dubious sidelong glance for his sister.
“Lord
John,” Anne said. “You have watched the contest. You know the outcome. You know
Mariah’s choice fell forfeit to me. I am exercising it now. You may kiss the
winners—but only one of them. And who that shall be…I leave to you.”
The
audience gasped then laughed, titillated by Anne’s sly ruling. My insides wilted
like a honey confection left too long near the oven. I glanced at Mariah. She
stood perfectly still, hands folded, as if oblivious to what had just come
about.