Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (44 page)

BOOK: Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1)
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Chapter Sixty-eight

Greenwich
Park, Greenwich

September
12th 1533

 

“Lord
Surrey? He’s gone hunting with the King not an hour ago,” Joan Percy said. “But
why—wait! Mary! Don’t run off—Madge has called for you!”

I
ran out of the Presence Chamber for the stables. I would not give Mariah the
chance to reach her brother first and warn him.

I
stumbled into the quiet stable yard. Half the court must have gone hunting with
the King.
Half the court and more than half the horses.
Every stall I peeked in proved empty.

“There
must be a nag somewhere!”

I
darted inside the next barn and spotted a stocky, chestnut-haired man in muddy
leathers walking away.

“Master
Stafford!” I called.

His
broad shoulders swung my way.

“I
need a horse,” I said. “I’ve a message for the King.”

“He’s
in the field, mistress.
A good mile past the Duke’s Tower.
I will take it for you.”

I
shook my head. “’Tis private words from the Queen.”

Stafford’s
solemn eyes sifted me. He knew
I’d been cut by the Queen
.
The entire world must know it by now. Why then would she choose me for her
messenger?

“My
cousin Mary Carey gave me the errand, sir. She knows me for a keen rider. And
the message is urgent.”

And
if I broke my neck chasing down the King’s party, the Queen would not mourn.

Stafford
rubbed his knuckles across his stubbly cheek. “Then you’d best take my mare.
She’s still saddled.”

____________

I
spurred Stafford’s mare faster. My quarry was just a horse length ahead of me
now. Stafford’s flawless directions caught me up with the hunt just beyond the
Tower.

I
had no crop, a mercy for the mare. But I used my fist to beat another burst out
of her that pulled us neck and neck with Surrey. My hand shot out, grabbed his
reins and pulled.

His
mare whinnied as the bit yanked her tender mouth sideways. I pulled my own
mare’s head to a desperate four-footed stop that sent the forest floor flying.

“Are
you mad
?!

Surrey
jerked his rein out of my hand. If not for Stafford’s gloves it would’ve torn
my skin.

“You
kept my letters from Clere!”

Surrey’s
outraged face smoothed. He made a languid shrug. “So I did.”

Disbelief
froze me. I had not prepared myself for honesty. I stared into his long,
arrogant face. Contempt laced his thin-lipped smile as if we were back at the
White Tower, dancing to his tune.

“Why?
Why would you do this to me?”

Surrey
frowned. “To you? Mistress Shelton, I assure you, I had no malicious intent
toward your person. It was all done for Tom’s benefit. Though, if you are
clever you may come away from this a countess,” he said. “But I warn you, de
Vere’s a worthless rake. My sister cast him off when she learned what he was.
You’d be wiser to stay away from him.”

“Keep
your advice, sir. How did it benefit Clere to ruin things between us?”

Surrey
gave me a pitying look. “What was ruined? A tiny affair d’amour that would have
led to nothing.”

“He
promised to marry me.”

Surrey’s
smile vanished. “Did he? He never mentioned it to me. Being his closest friend
I find it an odd thing for him to forget having done.”

“You’re
a liar.”

Surrey
laughed. “If you were a man, you’d answer for that.”

I
stuck my chin out. “Strike me if you will. You are what I said you are.”

Surrey
stared at me then turned his mare’s head back toward the direction the hunt had
taken.

“Tom
Clere is my best friend. With his father dead his prospects are not so bright
as they might have been. He is a third son. You know what that means. You are
what? The third or fourth Shelton daughter.”

“Third.”

Surrey
nodded. “What does your family most want for you?”

“A
good marriage.”

“Just
so. It is the same for Clere. Which means wedding an heiress. Are you an
heiress Mistress Shelton?”

“Do
not mock me.”

Surrey
grinned. “Your pardon. But I take that for a no.” Surrey’s mare tossed her
head. He checked her with a sharp tug of the reins. “Yes, I took your letters,
by the Queen’s command. She confided her wishes before we sailed for Calais
last winter. She even proposed Lady Grace. She knew about you and Clere long
before I.”

“Stop
lying!” I cried. “No one knew but you. No one cared, but you.”


Au contraire, mademoiselle
. The Queen
cared very much. Why, I know not. Care not.” He hawked and spat. “Now,
mistress, the King hunts a monstrous she-boar that disembowled Lord Suffolk’s
horse this morning. I’d like to be there when he kills the thing. So, if you
please?”

He
pointed his chin at my hand still holding his bridle.

“I
know you’re a liar,” I told him. “One day Clere will know it too. And then
you’ll have no friend worth the name.”

Surrey’s
crop struck my mare right between the eyes. She screamed and bucked half a
dozen times. I sawed at the reins until I got her head down. By the time I did,
Surrey was gone.

Chapter Sixty-nine

Greenwich
Park, Greenwich

September
12th 1533

 

Stafford
made no comment at the lathered state of his mare. I returned his gloves,
declined his escort, and hurried back to my chamber. My muscles shook,
exhausted by the ride and the outrage.

Surrey
was guilty. But why did he and Mariah insist on lying about Anne knowing the
truth of Clere and I first? What did it gain them? The Queen made a ridiculous
scapegoat.

Exhausted,
my foot missed a step. My shin barked the stair edge.

Christ
on the cross! How was I to see Anne before tomorrow?

“My
brother must come to court—today—tomorrow morning latest.”

I have been too slow!

The
shock of John’s betrayal had dulled my wits and given them the advantage. I
should have sent for my brother the day of the Christening. With the affray
fresh and everyone unsettled, I would have held the advantage. Fitzroy would
have believed me, and his outrage alone might have swayed any doubters.

“No
matter! Send for him now. He promised to stand by you and so he will.”

I
crested the last step, eager for pen and paper and came face to face with a
Gorgon named Madge.

She
grabbed the back of my neck and swung me around back down the stairs.

“Lady
Rochford called for you at noon, then at half past, and again at one.”

My
foot slid off the edge of the last step and would have thrown me to the floor
but for Madge’s grip.

“Lady
Rochford?” I gasped. “But Joan—Joan never said—she said it was you
who called me,” I babbled.

“When
I call you, it is Lady Rochford calling you,” Madge snapped. “Sweet Jesu, your
head’s a hayrick.”

My
fingers dove into my hair, raking at the snarls. Madge slapped my hand away.

“You’re
making it worse.”

“Wh-what
does Lady Rochford want of me?”

Madge
hesitated. “Cromwell wants a word with you.”

Oh, my God.

“But
whyfor?”

“Take
yourself to his chamber and you’ll find out,” she snapped and left me.

____________

“Ah,
Mistress Shelton.
A good day to you.
Please, have a
seat.”

The
only empty chair stood beside Cromwell’s desk. The others were piled with books
and scrolls and assorted baskets for carrying such.

“Please
forgive the clutter,” he said. “I am leaving for a week at Westminster tonight.
Fresh Parliamentary matters before the new session opens.”

Master
Wriothesley sat beside Cromwell, pen at the ready.

Cromwell
saw my scrutiny. “Master Wriothesley will merely note anything pertinent you
may offer our enquiry. We are speaking with many people today as you may
imagine.”

“Of—of
course, sir,” I lied.

Cromwell
nodded at me, then motioned to Wriothesley.

Wriothesley
held out the pen.

“Will
you please write the first psalm, verse one, Mistress Shelton?”

I
stared, blank faced at the pen, mystified by the request.

Blessed is the man

Who walks not in the counsel of the
ungodly,

Nor stands in the path of sinners,

Nor sits in the seat of the scornful;

 

I
took the pen, dipped the nib in the inkpot and wrote what he asked.

When
I’d done, Wriothesley gently eased the pen out of my stiff fingers and slid the
parchment to his side of the table. He sanded the ink dry and handed it to
Cromwell.
The clock on the
plinth behind Cromwell’s desk chimed thrice.

Cromwell’s
eyebrows wiggled. “Indeed? My lord Richmond will be most put out to hear it. He
says the ring was his betrothal gift to Lady Mary Howard. How do you think Lord
John came to have it?”

“I
could not say, sir.”

Wriothesley’s
pen resumed its damnable scratching.

“It
is not something a lady is likely to dispose of—such a token.”

“No,
sir, not likely…”

Cromwell
nodded. “Well, it is merely a symbol of the betrothal, not the proof so its
“misplacement” does no harm…to them.”

Wriothesley’s
pen paused again. I glanced at it and saw Wriothesley watching me, waiting on
me to provide something so he might continue. Cromwell’s hands joined in an
attitude of prayer, palm to palm. I stared at his blunt fingertips, deep nail
beds stained gray from ink, not soot like his father the blacksmith’s must be.

A
man could rise at court in ways a woman never could. Honest ways that required
no lies, no deceptions—no humiliations. You could win the King’s
favor—even friendship—through a sharp, loyal mind alone.

“A-am
I to be dismissed, Master Cromwell?”

Wriothesley
sighed and raised his pen. Cromwell waved it down.

“I
think—until Michaelmas at least—that entirely rests with you,
mistress.”

I
bit the inside of my mouth, exchanging bile for the clean iron tang of blood.
“How would you advise me, sir?”

The
corners of his eyes crinkled, suppressing a laugh most like. But his tone and
look remained courteous, respectful.

“I
would not presume, mistress. That is for your Uncle Wiltshire to do.”

“We-well,
how—if you had a daughter…in similar circumstances, what would you say to
her?”

Wriothesley
lowered his eyes. And too late I remembered that Cromwell had no daughters;
they’d both died of the sweat years ago.

“F-forgive
me, Master Cromwell,” I gasped.

I
could not look at him. I stared at the floor, wishing as I’d never wished
before to melt into it.

Cromwell
cleared his throat.

“Firstly,
I should be very glad to see my daughter at court. I would wish her long life
and the best of health. If it were my daughter before me now, I would propose a
suitable marriage be contracted…soon.”

His
gentle voice astonished me. I looked up and this time his smile slipped the
leash.

Relief
spun my head. Kindness from Cromwell! I had not time to ponder its meaning.
Cromwell, leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his chest, patiently
awaiting my response.
 

“Is
there aught else she might do?”

Wriothesley
tapped his pen against the blank space on the parchment as if he too considered
my question. But Cromwell’s steady look told me he had the answer.

“Bring
me the thing I am looking for,” he said with a hint of wonderment in his voice.

I
drew a ragged breath. “Or something like it?”

Cromwell’s
smile contracted. He leaned toward the table. “Yes, a close resemblance would
do.”

“A-and
then would my place be safe?”

Cromwell’s
tight black eyes gleamed. “Mistress, it will be safe as the baby princess in
her cradle.”

Chapter Seventy

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

September
12th 1533

 

I
snuck back to my chamber and found it empty. I sank onto the stool at the
dressing table and tucked my hands under my legs, willing them to stop shaking.

I
stared at my reflection. I looked like Anne of a month ago, red-rimmed eyes,
burdened with purple bags; skin sallow as aged parchment. The wan sunlight cast
deep shadows across my collarbones and the hollow of my throat. The pulse beat against
my windpipe rapid and thready.

I
held my eyes in the mirror.

John.
Surrey. Clere. Mariah. I could no longer tell where my hatred left off for one
and began for another. Their self-serving conspiracies had combined to snare me
and drag me to the edge of ruination. I was nothing to them.
Less
than nothing.
I was a thing to be used and discarded at their pleasure.
I was less than the dirt on their shoes.

My
reflection wavered, fractured as the tears came.

Cromwell
advised marriage. I had a marriage already. One the bridegroom would deny with
his last breath. But, if Cromwell took my part…even John’s father could not
stop it being publicly acknowledged. Cromwell had made Anne’s marriage to the
King—he could without doubt do the same for me. All he asked was that I
bring him something like the book.

I
scraped my sleeve across my eyes.

I
could do better than that. I could bring him the book’s authors.

All of them.

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