Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

April
1533
 

Madge
paused on the threshold of the Queen’s Watching Chamber to adjust one of her
damask foresleeves and give our names to the Yeomen Warders flanking the doors.
The long chamber buzzed like an enormous hive.

Sixty
sets of eyes pricked me—more people than lived at Shelton Hall—as
we entered. Their trenchant eyes scoured me, measuring my posture, my dress, my
walk—all the details Mother then Madge had devoted the past nine days to
polishing. The attention struck a flint inside my stomach. I pressed my folded
hands against it, hoping to smother the burning.

I
tried to tell myself these eyes did not matter, only the Queen’s. But if I
could not impress the hangers on in the Watching Chamber, what were my chances
with the Queen?

For
the first time since she’d married my brother, I thanked God for Madge. She
sailed through the crucible, oblivious to its heat.

If Madge can ignore them, so can I.

I
sucked in my stomach—a trick to force my back straight and chin up. I
could not take a deep breath, but that only served to cool my stomach. It was
always better to faint than vomit.

Madge
marched down a brief and narrow gallery into a smaller, but grander room than
the last—the Queen’s Presence Chamber.

The
wood paneling had recently been painted ivory—it required five coatings,
Madge informed me, to cover the scarlet from Spanish Katherine’s day.

“It
looked like the pit of hell,” Madge sniffed. “Now it wears the respectable glow
of heaven.”

Heaven?
If Heaven reeked of sour lemons, stale rushes, and a dozen noxious odors
beside. Their collision inside my nose almost smothered me. Every body I passed
reeked of some personal scent whose sole intent could only be to overpower its
neighbor. And such neighbors!

A
murder of crows looked more welcoming than those who watched me. My ears caught
snippets of their voices as I passed.

“A
new bird for the cage...”

“Not
much plumage....”

“The
Lady hates peacocks.”
 
Tittering
followed that comment.

“Only
the female. She finds the male bird tres charmant.”

“She’s
the last Maiden to arrive…”

“She’s
a Shelton—Sir John’s next youngest…”

“Lady
Lisle was crying at the card table.”

“She
has her mother’s looks…”

“She
has a clever face.”

They know all about me.

Madge
appeared immune. She blew through the miasma, straight to the next set of
imposing doors and knocked.

The
left hand door opened a crack. A tune, composed of violin and a woman’s breathy
laughter, escaped. I strained toward the remarkable sound. Then the door shut,
slicing the melody in half.

Madge
led me a few steps away. “My sister is coming to greet you.”

Irritation
flared at the bald reminder of who Madge was. Her sister was the most important
woman in the Queen’s household. All England knew it by now.

Jane
Rochford was a greater snob than Madge, and cruel to her husband, my cousin
George. Everyone loved George, except for his wife. Three years ago I had
witnessed her slap him at Christmastide. George had laughed, leading everyone
else to laugh and forget the incident. Even so, Anne had made her Keeper of the
Queen’s Privy Purse—the most lucrative post in the Queen’s household.

Why
Anne put so much trust in her, I could not understand. I would not rely on her
to keep the time.

“Madge?”

We
turned toward the high-pitched voice. A woman of middle height wearing a
monstrous gabled headdress approached us.

“She’s
wearing a breadbox,” I mouthed at Madge.

“It
suits her,” Madge mouthed back before her lips slid into the same flat smile
she often gave me. “Mistress Seymour, I am pleased to see you.”

The
woman made a poised, but quick curtsey. “You look very well.”

How
Mistress Seymour could see to tell with those icicle blue eyes baffled me. No
hint of blood showed blue or pink at her cheeks or throat. A wax taper held
more heat.

She must wear such bold colors so no one
will mistake her for a mist.

Yellow,
scarlet, and jade battled to dominate her costume. There could be no victor as
all were in equal portions. I pitied her purse for the money she’d spent on the
fabrics. But they must be needed to keep people’s eyes from lingering on her
face. Jane Seymour looked like a man.

“Mistress
Jane Seymour, may I acquaint you with my sister by marriage, Mistress Mary
Shelton?”

Mistress
Seymour’s pale eyelids fluttered. “Mistress Shelton.” Haughtiness spiced her
high voice.

Well,
she’s a Seymour. Mother said they’re proud as Howards, but for no good cause.

They
were landed gentry like the Sheltons and dozens of others at court, but with a
distant blood connection to King Edward III. Like the Parkers, they placed too
high a value on it and looked ridiculous for it. They were not rich, connected
or powerful. And if Jane was any example, ugly as sin.

I
remembered my cassock and gave her a perfectly respectful curtsey. Offend no one—that
was my duty. And God had offended Jane Seymour for life with that face.

“You
are the last of the Queen’s maidens to arrive,” said Seymour, as her head
swiveled left toward a great bay window that looked out over a wide garden
filled with orderly rows of trees. A broad, almost treeless hill rose behind
the garden wall topped by the squat, square Duke Humphrey’s Tower. “Lady Honor
Lisle had held out hope you might sink into the Thames.”

Three
ladies not quite my mother’s age stood at the middle window, sunlight picking
out the seed pearls and small jewels decorating their French hoods. The one in
their center, dressed all in costly black velvet, sent us a charming, toothless
smile.

She
can smile like that and wish me drowned? What a witch.

Mistress
Seymour’s breadbox swung back. “It’s eating her alive.”

Madge
sighed. “When does she leave for Calais?”

“Directly
after the Coronation.” Mistress Seymour’s white lips sketched a moue. “She is
not best pleased by it. Happy to be the King’s aunt by marriage, unhappy to
find her new husband wants his wife near to hand.”

Madge
and Seymour shared a fierce, gleeful look. I joined in. Honor Lisle and her
ill-wishes
could go hang.

Seymour
lifted a squarish shoulder. “He knew her reputation.”

Madge
let out another gusty sigh. “Poor Lord Lisle.” Pretended sorrow creased her
brow. “Honor will put him in the ground before she gets her daughter a place
with Anne. She’s already got him sending French delicacies. He’ll be a pauper
by Christmastide.”

Seymour’s
hand flew to cover her laugh, but not quick enough to prevent my seeing her
butter yellow front teeth.

A
man’s face and horse’s teeth.
She’ll never
marry—her father’s not rich enough to lure a husband for that.

I smiled as Seymour laughed, exposing my
even rows of pearly teeth. Emma had the handsome Shelton blue eyes, but I’d got
the pretty Boleyn teeth. I’d never been so satisfied with them before.

The
high sweet note of a working violin ended our laughter. Anne’s Privy Chamber
door had opened again. I leaned around Madge trying to see inside.

“Anne?”

Madge
shook her head. “The Chamberlain announces the Queen, remember?”

Lady
Jane Rochford glided out. I tried to glimpse the room behind her, but the door
shut on her heels. I stamped out my first spark of frustration before it caught
and burned me.

Lady
Rochford’s heavy lidded amber eyes glittered. Laughter and rouge stained her
round cheeks. She had clearly been enjoying herself.

“Mrs.
Shelton. Mistress Shelton.” She called us to attention as my tutor did at home.
I copied Madge’s deep curtsey.

Lady
Rochford waved us up. “No formality.” Her eyes slid over Jane Seymour. “We are
kin.”

Butter-teeth
produced a carefree grin at her pointed dismissal and skimmed away, neck stiff
under her breadbox.

Madge
chuckled. “You do that so well.”

Lady
Rochford smirked. “Seymour is easy.” Her eyes flew at Honor Lisle. “Some test
me.”

Madge
chuckled again. “And lose. La Seymour reports that Honor is disappointed to see
Calais.”

“More
unhappy that her daughter will not be seeing court.”

Madge
shrugged. “If she had met your price, she would not be so put out.”

Lady
Rochford folded her hands. “She put her money on Lady Worcester’s pathetic
promises. Now she knows the whore’s value.”

Madge
smiled. “They all do.”

Self-satisfaction
lit their identical smiles.

Lady
Rochford’s eyes narrowed as they took me in. “I had thought they would choose
the older girl—the one with the creamy skin—“

“Gabrielle,”
Madge supplied. “I thought the same, but they decided on this one.”

Lady
Rochford studied me. “Her silence is tres charmant. Your instruction?”

Madge
snorted. “I think she’s overwhelmed. At home she’s a willful chatterer too
pleased with herself.”

The
burning in my stomach shot up my throat and lit my face.

Lady
Rochford grinned. “Who does that remind you of?”

Madge
tittered. “It’s in the blood.”

Lady
Rochford’s eyes went stern. “You must learn to take insults as well as you take
compliments, Mistress Shelton. Words are the weaponry of court. Insults couched
in compliments, gossip, promises, lies, you must learn how to receive and
deliver all of them without compromising your reputation or making dangerous
enemies.”

“Like
Honor Lisle?” I muttered.

Madge
glared, but Lady Rochford regarded me with interest. “The Lisles are not a
danger to you nor any of Anne’s kin. She wanted your place for one of her
daughters. So did a dozen other families. A high price was offered, but in the
end a Shelton was chosen.”

I
looked from Madge to Lady Rochford. “Why?”

“My
lord Wiltshire wished it.”

Uncle
Wilshire! Had Mother’s gifts moved him at last? Whatever the reason, I silently
blessed him for it.

Lady
Rochford glanced at Honor Lisle and pitched her voice to carry. “And are you
ready to swear yourself to the Queen’s service?”

Ready? They’re monstrous. How will I
serve at court with them?

The
answer was simple: Mother expected me to. And she had Madge to ensure it.

I
smiled as Mother had taught me. “I am ready, Lady Rochford.”

She
nodded and led me to a lectern standing beside an enormous oakwoood sideboard.
A fashionable Tyndale English Bible lay open at the first Psalm. I read a
snatch—Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked…

“Place
your hand upon it,” Lady Rochford commanded.

I’d
already wiped my palm against my skirt. The paper was cool, and so dry it sapped
the remaining moisture from my skin. Lady Rochford laid her hand atop mine. I
almost shivered at her clammy skin.

“Say
your name,” she said.

I
licked my tight lips. “Mary Shelton.”

“Mary
Shelton, do you swear to render true and faithful service to Anne, your Queen.”

I
heard myself swear to be honorable, truthful, discreet and a godly spectacle to
others—whatever that meant.

“Well
done,” said Lady Rochford. Then she handed me a little book bound in leather,
tied round with a slender silver chain. “This is the Queen’s gift to you. It is
a miniature Book of Prayer. You will always wear it to Mass, and any other
occasion the Queen requires.”

“Yes,
Lady Rochford.”

Lady
Rochford gave me a curt nod. “Find a seat in the sewing circle. Sister, the
Queen has called for you.”

Lady
Rochford knocked and the Privy Chamber door swung open. Neither gave me a
backward glance as they swept inside. The door closed just as the violin struck
an impossibly high, resonant note.

“And
so, you are made Anne’s servant.”

I
jumped in my shoes. Jane Seymour moved like a ghost.

“Do
you feel differently?” she asked.

I
felt she mocked me, but her colorlessness made it impossible to grasp for sure.

“I
feel honored, Mistress Seymour.”

The
hideous gabled hood bent toward me. “So you should, Mistress Shelton. Being of
the Queen’s blood will make your fortune.” Her hand hid her mouth again as she
pretended to yawn. “Or your ruin.”