Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

I
could not stop my eyes going to the birch rod hanging from its peg beside the
door. It had come with the house, with this very chamber that had once been
cousin Anne’s. Mother had claimed it as her especial tool for curbing our
faults. She did not spare us the worst for being girls, the way Father might
have done. I think the distinction leant her a heavier hand. Gabrielle had a
half-moon shaped dimple on her lower back that no poultice would erase. Last
spring, I’d come to table for half the month of May, to take dinner, kneeling
on my chair—all for the sin of repeating the gossip about Ralph and
Thomasine Brewer.

I
found my wits first and fell to one knee. Emma toppled next to me. Gabrielle
sank down last of all, her wounded cheek held up like a beacon.

Mother
went to Gabrielle. She touched Gabrielle’s chin, turning her face toward the
window’s shy sunlight.

“Very
pretty.” She released her, turned toward toward Emma and I.

“Stand
up.
Two against one.
Fair odds. What
is the game, daughters
?”

I
knew better than to answer her mockery. Emma, being a year younger and the
unspoken favorite in the room, dared otherwise.

“No
game, madam. ‘
Twas an accident.
Gabrielle tripped.”

Mother
took a step closer. Emma’s shoulders shrank.

“Tripped
against what? Mary’s fist if I’ve been rightly told.”

The
edge of a pale brown skirt flashed outside the door. Janet!

I should have paid her.

“Is
Semmonet giving boxing instruction now or are you dallying with the stable
boys?”

“Never,
madam!” Emma’s outrage started Mother’s foot tapping.

“So,
I am to believe you learned how to brawl like common ale house slatterns on
your own?”

We
cringed. Sheltons were decent folk. We did not brawl, frequent taverns or piss
in public streets. We were respectable.

Mother
scrutinized us like the blackbirds on the hanging tree. The first to show their
tongue would have it pulled. Emma squirmed, but kept silent.

“I
had expected to have this interview in the formality my news demands. But,
since your manners were lost on the road from Norfolk, you are not fit to join
the rest of the family downstairs. You will remain here until tomorrow
morning.”

Supper!

My
stomach knocked at my lowest rib. We’d had nothing but cold mutton and manchet
since dawn and a hard, wet ride with barely a stop to water the horses. Still,
hunger was better than the rod.

“The
reason your father summoned you from the country is to do with your cousin
Anne. Thomas has told you that Anne has wed the King.”

“Yes,
madam,” I answered for the three of us.

“This
Easter Sunday she will be formally prayed for as Queen in every church in England.”

So,
it had really come to pass. Somehow, hearing it from Mother’s own lips put a
seal on it that hearing it from Tom had not. Queen Katherine was done. Emma and
I sneaked a glance. The entire world had shifted beneath our feet, and cousin
Anne was the cause. If Anne Boleyn could marry the King then…

Anything is possible
.

“The
lady formerly called queen is to be styled Princess Dowager of Wales,” Mother
continued, “which is her true title and has been these past twenty years.”

I
blinked at Mother’s indifferent tone. She might have been sharing a recipe for
mince pie with the cook, not the final verdict on six years of tortuous legal
and spiritual maneuverings to put aside a wife and queen.

How
does she do that?

Mother’s
voice brightened. “Your cousin, the Queen, has offered two of our family places
in her household.”

Only
two?

The
same taut golden wire pulled all of our spines straight as a coxcomb. Gabrielle
came out the better for it, but I still overtopped Emma by a good hand. Spite
and desperation crackled between us.

“You
brother John’s wife
has
been given a place as
lady-in-waiting.”

Who gives a fig about Madge?

“The
other position offered is Maid of Honor.”

“Whom
did she ask for?” Gabrielle blurted before Emma could.

Mother’s
withering stare made her regret it.

“She
asked for none of you by name. Your father and I will decide who shall go.”

Emma
beamed. I swallowed a stinging mouthful of bile.

I
wanted to take some hope from the fact that I too had been summoned to London.
The result was not foregone. Emma was our family pride, Gabrielle the family
beauty. I, Mary, was the girl born between them. I should have been a boy.

Boys
are valued no matter their accomplishments or looks—our brother Ralph
being the finest example I knew. He could neither read nor speak French, played
only the virginals well (a womanly instrument in Father’s opinion), and his
pocked face might scare the Devil. But, if he behaved himself and gave Tom no
cause to accomplish his threat, Ralph would someday marry the very pretty Amy
Wodehouse. Ralph’s prospects were fine, and he was not even first born.

“Your
father is returning from Whitehall this evening. We will give our decision in
the morning.”

Mother
turned on her heel, ending the interview. We dropped into our deepest curtsies.

“Janet
will bring you a tray,” she threw at us as she swept out the door. “But no
dessert. One plump bird in our dovecote is enough.”

Shelton
House, London

March
1533

I
slid behind the hall door. If I remained completely still, they would never
notice me in the dark hallway, beyond reach of their candles.

“It
should be Gabrielle.”

My
skin turned December cold.

How can they decide so quickly?

Fear
had chased away sleep and primed my ears for the noise of Father’s arrival.
Gabrielle and Emma were long asleep when it finally came. I had crept
downstairs, padding through pools of moonlight gleaming against the oak floors
just in time to see him walk into the dining chamber.

I
peeked through the narrow space between the door and frame. My parents sat at
the near corner of our massive oak dining table. No servants lined the walls.
Logs had been stacked in the grate, but were unlit. Father’s tall pewter
tankard of ale kept company with Mother’s Venetian glass goblet of French wine.
Candlelight licked their thoughtful faces bright then dark, dark then bright,
erasing the careworn lines and crow’s feet from ‘round Father’s eyes, the pale
brown spots on the backs of Mother’s hands.
 

“Should
we not send both girls and let Anne choose for herself?” Father asked.

Mother
recoiled, as though he’d thrust a hot brand in her face. “Are you mad? She will
refuse them both if they behave as they did this morning.”

Father’s
emerald thumb ring flashed as he tapped the top of his tankard. “Not well done,
I admit, but surely they have learned their lesson.”

Most assuredly, Father. The next time I
won’t slap Gabrielle where Janet might hear.

“How
little you know your daughters, sir.”

Father’s
scowl leapt through the dark. “Their upbringing has been your provenance,
madam. By your wish,” he snapped.

“By
default, sir,” her brisk tone disemboweled his reprimand. “We will not argue
past choices; it is the future we must decide. Whom do you favor?”

Father’s
cobalt eyes gleamed in the half-light. “Gabrielle, of course. She is the most
beautiful.”

No
matter the milk baths for my face, the rosemary oil brushed through my hair, my
hard won princely posture that would always be true. Still, my heart folded
hearing it from Father. After my elder brothers John and Tom, I was his
favorite hunting companion. He’d taught me to hunt grouse then pheasant as my
aim proved truest among the girls, and I never spooked the quarry with silly
chatter. We did not speak of many things beyond wild game and the weather for
chasing it, but I harbored no regret. It was more than Gabrielle or Emma spoke
with him. Until this moment, I had hoped it leant me some weight in his esteem,
but Father, as everyone did, favored Gabrielle’s looks, and I would never
outshine them.

And
neither will cousin Anne. I wanted to shout. If I were Queen I would never
allow anyone more beautiful than I to serve me. Anne will hate her!

“But
her French…” Mother shook her head. Candlelight bounced off the seed pearls
decorating her hood. “She will embarrass herself.”

She cannot even pronounce her own name
with the proper accent!

“She
dances well, sings beautifully,” Father countered.

No better than I!

“I
know, I know.
But her French.
She has no way with
words in English either.”

Veritablement! Elle
est
un grand gaffeur.

“She
is very charming,” Father defended. He pulled a quick draught of ale, licked
his lips dry. “Everyone says so.”

Mother
sighed. “She needs to be more than charming. She must be clever.”

They
went quiet, contemplating that glaring deficit in my sister’s otherwise
remarkable fashioning.

Father’s
sigh stirred the long hairs above his lip. “It is a pity Emma is too young.”

Thank God in His wisdom!

“I
know.” Mother’s long fingers strangled the stem of her goblet. “She would be my
first choice as well. But Anne will not take anyone under thirteen. She must be
scrupulously traditional in everything she does now.”

Father
snorted. “She cannot do otherwise after overturning the royal marriage
cart—throwing good Queen Katherine in the ditch.”

“The
Princess Dowager,” she corrected. “Slip up in front of Anne and she’ll have
your tongue.”

“Shrewish,
you Boleyn women,” he chuckled.

His
amusement evaporated under her stony stare.

“It
is the Boleyn “shrews” who seem to have hastened this family’s rise, sir,” her
voice sliced. “Niece Mary, niece Anne, and now one of our own if we choose
rightly.”

Father
fidgeted. He hefted his tankard then set it down. His eyes darted toward the
door. I stopped breathing.

“Then
it must be Mary, of course,” he growled. “She is the proper choice.”

“Yes,”
Mother sighed. “Mary.”

My
feet twitched. I wanted to dance a
volta
right there without a partner. Joy alone could toss me
in the air.

“Gabrielle
might have caught an earl,” Father muttered.

“Mary
could do as well.” Mother’s hollow tone spoke against it. “Look at Mistress
Anne Boleyn. Did you ever imagine she would go so far?”

Father
shook his gray head. “Never. I’d’ve sooner wagered on seeing the Second
Coming.”

“Aye,
so did we all. Yet,” Mother spread her hands, “she will be Queen crowned and
anointed by midsummer at the latest.”

Father
nodded, leaned back against his chair. “So, it’s to be Mary.”

“Mary,”
Mother echoed. Father raised his tankard to it.

I am going to court! I do not care that I
am not their first choice—I am the one going!

“But,”
Mother paused as she raised her goblet to seal their decision, “as you say,
Gabrielle is the more beautiful…”

I
tore from behind the door. Father erupted from his chair, overturning the
tankard, as his hand flew for the sheathed dagger on his belt. The sweet bite
of ale flooded my nose as I landed at Mother’s feet.

“Mother
of God!” Father shouted.

I
grabbed the edge of Mother’s skirt.

“Madam,
if you give this chance to me, I promise to make the greatest marriage you
could ever hope for.”

“For
shame!” Father’s voice cracked above my head like God’s own thunder. “Is this
how you raise your daughter, madam?”

I
kept my chin bent to my knee. At such moments, a raised face invited slapping.

“Take
yourself away, mistress,” Father bellowed. “You are not fit to serve your
cousin!”

His
fist crashed against the table, punctuating the order. My bones jumped, but
somehow my weak flesh held me fast to the floor. If I fled, I was done for.

“On
my oath,” I declared, my stomach coiling in a sharp, burning knot. “I will be a
success.”

“A
successful skulker and eavesdropper,” Father mocked. “Oh yes, the court needs
another one of those.”

Cool
fingers brushed the bottom of my chin then raised it. Mother’s inscrutable
black eyes enveloped mine.

“I
never suspected such slyness in you, Mary.”

Fire
washed my face. I should make some denial, some apology for my behavior, but
her appraising look held me silent.

“You
will need slyness to be successful at court.” A wistful note stained her
usually crisp voice. “Watch the other ladies, see everything they do, remember
everything they say. You will write me every week.”

“Of
course, Mother.”

Of course, I will spy for you. I think I
would murder for you—God forgive me—for this chance.

“You
should not reward her waywardness, wife,” Father snapped.

“Be
grateful we can turn it to our good, husband,” she shot back. “Mayhap court is
the only place for it. It certainly seems so for Mistress Anne.”

Father’s
laugh stopped my heart again. “Mary Shelton is no Anne Boleyn!”

Mother
stroked my hairline.

“No,
she is not,” she readily agreed. “She is our daughter, and the best we have to
play for now.”

__________

For
now
.

I
shivered in the dark, hearing it again.

Cousin
Anne had not asked for me in particular, only offered a position to a daughter
of her dear natural Aunt Shelton. Emma would be thirteen come September.

I
had six months. If I
was
not a success, they would
give my place to Emma.

Father’s
withering look had promised as much, as I retreated from the dining hall and
went back to bed.

Emma—Mother’s
favorite daughter, sometimes Father’s as well. Even cousin George had noted her
out. He’d danced with her at his wedding to Jane Parker eight years ago and
told the company he wished she had been his bride. She was four. Jane had
laughed. We all had, but no one found it truly funny.

I
blessed Anne’s stinginess. If she had offered two places or one without age
limit, I knew I would be the one weeping into my bolster. Gabrielle’s soft,
resigned snores floated from her bed across the chamber. She’d cried herself to
sleep. Neither had believed me at first, but my smugness finally convinced them
it was true.

“For
pity’s sake Emma, I need to sleep!”

Emma’s
bed rattling sobs stopped. “I hope you take the pox like brother Ralph.”

“Ill wish me as much as you like,” I muttered.
“It changes nothing.

She kicked off our blankets.

“Stop
playing the baby,” I growled, pulling them back.

Emma
reared up. Moonlight revealed her anguished face: red, splotched cheeks, eyes
near swollen shut. If she was not Emma, I might have felt pity for it.

“I
am not a baby! Cousin Anne went to serve the Regent Margaret when she was only
seven. How can a year make so much difference?”

“Anne’s
household, Anne’s rules,” I crowed. “Complain to her.”

“You
are the most hateful sister in the world!” Emma choked.

“No,
mistress, that is yourself. Mother and Father chose me.”

“Because
they had to,” she snarled. “Come September, when I turn thirteen, we’ll see
what they decide.”

“Your
tears won’t change their minds,” I said, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten.

Emma
stifled another sob. “I won’t have to shed a one. You will be a failure and our
parents will fetch you home before Christmas. By then I will have grown enough
to fit your court dresses.”

She
flung herself down, pulling the covers off of me again.

“Just
wait and see, Mary Shelton. Come September, I’ll be at Court catching a
husband, and you’ll be the one rotting in Norfolk.”