Brazen (10 page)

W
HEN
WE
RETURN
FROM
TH
E
PROGRESS
, F
ITZ
IS
R
ECALLED
TO
court, and every day that goes by makes me more nervous. We haven’t seen each other in months. We haven’t spoken. Haven’t written.

Will my list change? Will it matter that he can’t dance?

Will he remember that he liked my kiss? Or will he, like his father, have found someone else? And if he has, will I be able to fight like Queen Anne did?

Will I want to?

At least it is a relief to pause at Hampton Court, despite the king’s endless building works. After months of packing and traveling and cramped quarters, I almost dread our impending move to Greenwich. But a delegation of French diplomats is coming to visit the court in November, and the king wants to entertain them away from the presence of bricklayers and glaziers. I think he especially wants to impress Philippe de Chabot, the admiral of France and one of the highest-ranking officers of the French crown.

Even with the chaos, Hampton Court feels comfortable and sheltered, though winter seems to have arrived early and a bitter north wind pecks determinedly at the windows.

As we sew in the queen’s rooms, I watch her. She sits with her head in one hand. Her eyes are trained toward the cloudy sky, but her thoughts are obviously elsewhere. The king’s affair seems to be over, but it has taken its toll on her. Her cheeks are a little more hollow. Her eyes rest deeply in their sockets, the skin around them smudged like a bruise. As I watch, she closes her eyes, presses her lips together. I see her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath.

She sits up, her back straight, puts her hands in her lap, tilts her head to one side, and gazes about the room. When she finds me watching her, she smiles. Just a tiny bit. I lower my head in deference. When I look up, her eyes have once again trailed to the window.

Behind me, I hear whispers. They sound like waves approaching the shore and retreating again. Buffeting. With each approach, they grow louder. I turn, and see women speaking behind their hands.

Whatever the rumor is, it feels malicious, like something crawling from beneath the floorboards and getting ready to pounce. I wonder how this rumor has started in a closed room, with only the servants entering and exiting. Perhaps it creeps through the chinks in the wall like fog.

The doors open and the usher stands aside to let a woman enter. She is of medium height and somewhat blonde, her brown eyes warm, but a little distant. Her skin is the color of poured cream, and though she is getting old, I can tell she was once very pretty.

She is the queen’s sister, Mary Boleyn. Now Mary Carey.

As she walks, people turn away. She doesn’t look left or right. Doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that precede and follow her. Doesn’t seem to care that everyone is staring.

Or what they are staring at.

Her approach is preceded by a belly so great she looks like a ship in full sail. Her husband died six years ago from the sweat.

“Oh my God,” Margaret whispers beside me.

I glance at Madge, who is just behind her, wide-eyed.

I turn to the queen. There is no color to her cheeks, to her lips. Her eyes are like stones in snow.

Mistress Carey sinks into a curtsy. The pregnancy makes it awkward and difficult, but no one moves to help her. She is absolutely huge.

“It looks like she could drop the baby right here on the floor,” Madge mutters.

Queen Anne says nothing. It is as if she has been turned to wax.

Mistress Carey keeps her head bowed. She lived at court for years and knows how things are done. Even though she must be uncomfortable, she waits without complaint. She doesn’t shift or fidget. She seems perfectly content to stay there all day.

“You know, some people say she was the king’s mistress,
before
.”

Before Anne. When we called Katherine of Aragon queen.

The room breaks into waves of whispers.

“Everyone said she was beautiful,” Madge says. “She’s got nice hair, I suppose, but do you really think she’s pretty?”

“She’s
pregnant
, Madge. It’s not like we can comment on her figure,” Margaret snipes.

“I wish to speak to Mistress—my
sister
.”

The queen’s voice cuts across the rumors. We all turn to go. No one wants to have to face the queen’s sharp tongue. Mistress Carey trembles.

“Cousins, attend me.”

I feel Madge startle beside me. The queen is looking at the two of us. She knows that we will keep her secrets. We’ve done it before. We stop, shoulder to shoulder, and wait as the room empties and the ushers close the doors from the outside.

“Stand.”

“Nan.” The word is a whisper, but we can hear it in the empty silence.

“Do
not
call me that.”

The queen steps down from her dais so she and Mistress Carey are face-to-face, like cats about to attack. They are still, yet they give the appearance of circling.

“What are you thinking, showing up here like . . . like that?”

Mistress Carey bows her head, her fingers linked below her belly as if it is too heavy on its own.

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Wanted to tell me
what
? That you have continued in the manner in which you acted at the French court? That you’ve come to me for assistance? For a position? For a person to take your baby on as ward? That you don’t know who the father is?”

The queen’s questions fall rapidly, like hailstones, and Mistress Carey flinches with every one. Until the last. She looks up.

“I know exactly who the father is. He is my husband.”

Again, the queen goes waxy and rigid as a candle. Then she raises one eyebrow.

“Your husband?”

The quiet question is somehow more frightening than the ones she shouted. But Mistress Carey doesn’t flinch.

“Yes. We have been married secretly this past year. The child is his.”

“Whose?”

“William Stafford.”

The queen leans forward, tipping one ear toward her sister as if she’s hard of hearing.

“Who?” she asks, her eyes snapping to the point of almost shooting sparks.

“William Stafford.”

“And who, pray tell, is he?”

Again the queen’s voice raises, and again Mistress Carey—Mistress
Stafford
—doesn’t flinch.

“My husband. I met him when I journeyed with you to Calais.”

I went, as well, at the age of twelve, when Anne was just Marquess of Pembroke.
Not
the king’s mistress. She made very sure everyone knew that. She was just . . . there. I don’t remember a William Stafford in the king’s entourage, or in my mother’s family. She is a Stafford—daughter of the Duke of Buckingham—and taught me the lineage like catechism.

“He was a soldier,” Mistress Carey continues. “A yeoman. His people own land in Essex.”

“A commoner,” the queen spits. “A man of no birth, no gentry, no nothing! Is he at least to inherit?”

“No. He is the second son.”

“You are the sister of the queen, Mary! How could you do that? Were you pregnant before? Is that why? Was he the closest thing you could get to security? You could have come to me. You know that. I would have found you something—someone—better.”

A moment spins out between them, and it is as if the two sisters are the only people in the world. I can see their shared history in their eyes and in the way they stand near each other—close, but not touching.

“My child was conceived in wedlock. And I could do no better, Nan.” Mistress Stafford looks up and her face is glowing. “I love him. There is nothing better than that.”

It shows in her pregnancy, in her attitude, in her countenance. Like the sun breaking free of swift-moving clouds. I want to know what she knows. I want to stand in full sun.

“I shall have to send you away,” the queen whispers. Madge inhales sharply, but the queen doesn’t seem to remember we’re in the room. “It cannot be tolerated. You’re . . . you’re the sister of the queen. You can’t just go marry whomever you like. You can’t marry without permission. Have babies . . . And showing up here . . . I can’t beg the king to bring your husband into the Privy Chamber. It’s just not possible.”

“I know.”

“Where will you go?” The queen’s voice drops even further, and I struggle to hear without giving the appearance that I am. “Father will not have you. He will cut you off. Completely.”

Mistress Stafford hangs her head. “I know.”

“Then why did you do it, Mary?” The words sound lodged in the queen’s throat. “Why did you marry him?”

Mistress Stafford looks her sister—her queen—in the eye.

“Because I love him. And I would rather beg alms from door to door with him than give that up.”

The queen’s face hardens and the pleading look dissolves.

Mistress Stafford straightens her shoulders, tips her chin up, and I see her chest rise and fall with a deep breath. When she speaks again, it is with absolute certainty.

“I would rather have him than be the greatest queen in Christendom.”

Madge gasps, and the queen takes a quick step back. Clenches her hands into the pleats of her skirt.

“Then go,” she says. “And never come here again.”

“S
HE
BANISHED
HER
OWN
SISTER
,” M
ADGE
TELLS
M
ARGARET
AS
we thread our way through the crowded galleries and courtyards on our way back to my lodgings. Hampton Court is teeming with courtiers who didn’t travel with us on the progress—all of them hoping to make themselves indispensable. I lose Madge as she slips between two fat barons before they close the gap. I go around.

Margaret never has to dodge. It is like a law of nature—water runs downhill, the sun rises in the east, and crowds make way for Margaret Douglas.

But Madge and Margaret don’t mind the press of bodies. They don’t shudder at the touch of strangers or feverishly count the heads between them and the next exit. All my fears slow me down, and my friends are already in my room by the time I catch up to them.

These days, my room is never empty. And I am no longer alone.

“She was so cold.” Madge continues her train of thought as though she was never interrupted. “Like blood doesn’t matter. Like rules are more important.” She sits on her favorite stool by the fire and takes her slippers off.

“Margaret says there are no rules in Anne Boleyn’s court.”

“Maybe not in Anne’s, but there are in the king’s,” Margaret says darkly.

“So if Mary here were to go and get herself impregnated by Fitz, she’d be expelled as well?”

A wash of nervous energy chills me. At the sound of his name. At the possibility of being thrown from court. At the thought of what needs to happen in order to be impregnated.

“They wouldn’t . . .” I hesitate, fear filling my throat. “The queen wouldn’t let that happen.”

She treats me almost as an equal.

“It looks like she would,” Madge says.

“I’m a duchess. The queen’s sister hasn’t even been at court these nine months.”

Madge frowns. “Your mother is a duchess, too, Mary. And she’s not here.”

“My mother refused to serve in Anne Boleyn’s court,” I admit painfully.

“Your mother wasn’t given the option,” Margaret says.

“You mean she wasn’t invited?” I ask.

When my mother refused to carry Anne’s mantle at her investiture as Marquess of Pembroke, I took her place. Mother cursed at me. It never occurred to me that was her last opportunity to serve the queen.

Margaret shakes her head. “All it takes is one offense. Look at Jane Boleyn: her husband is here, an intimate of the queen. But she has not returned. We could be asked to leave at any moment. For any kind of indiscretion.”

“For sleeping with my husband?” I ask. “For flirting?”

“The queen flirts all the time,” Madge says.

“There’s a distinction between talking and doing,” Margaret says. “And when you make the doing obvious, as Mary Boleyn has, there will be consequences to face.”

“The queen told me once that the Boleyns always stick together,” I say. Like me and Hal. Always taking Father’s side.

“It wasn’t the queen who broke that bond,” Margaret says. “It was her sister.”

“How so?”

“If she really honored the Boleyns above all, she would have let the queen arrange her marriage. Or she would have kept it a secret.”

“She said she would rather have love than be a queen,” Madge says.

Margaret’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “That’s like a slap in the face. She’s saying there’s no love in the queen’s relationship. That despite her status and her jewels, Anne Boleyn is no better than the rest of us. Married for ambition and family alliances.”

“But the king loves her.”

Margaret looks at me disparagingly. “For now.”

I turn away and busy myself with pouring us each a mug of small ale. “Do you think she really loves him?” I ask.

“The queen?” Madge says.

“Her sister.”

“She must,” Margaret says. “She knew what she was risking when she married him.”

“I wonder if it’s worth it,” I muse.

“It’s going against the king’s direct wishes,” Margaret says, and I get the feeling she’s aiming her words at me specifically.

“And what about you, Margaret?” I ask. “What if you were to fall in love with my uncle Thomas?”

Margaret stands so close to me, I can see the pores in her skin and the flecks of black and gold in her eyes.

“If you’re going to make a choice between love and survival, you have to be absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing.”

“And are you?” I ask. “Doing the right thing?”

A flicker of doubt crosses her face, but it’s quickly closed down by her familiar reserve. Then she breaks into a smile.

“At the moment, it’s more talking than doing.”

Madge throws herself onto my bed and rolls back and forth. “This would be a nice place for more doing than talking.”

Margaret and I exchange a look and run across the room and leap onto the bed to join her. Madge sits up with a start and we throw her back down again, Margaret pinning her arms so I can tickle her.

Madge squirms and kicks and gasps for breath.

“Talk or do, Madge?” I ask. “Talk or do?”

Madge gasps again. “Talk!” she wheezes.

Margaret and I let go and collapse onto either side of Madge, all of us looking up into the folds of the canopy.

“So when are the two of you going to
do
something?” Madge asks, sounding not at all as if she’s just been tickled into submission.

“I haven’t even kissed him yet,” I tell the canopy.

“Yes, you have.”

“Fine. He just didn’t kiss me back. So I’m unlikely to be doing anything else.”

“Chaucer says a woman wants sovereignty over her husband and over her love. It’s up to you. You can’t sit around waiting. You’re already married. It’s not like he can change that just because you flirt a little.”

“I suppose,” I say, unsure.

“In fact, most men like it when the woman takes the lead,” Madge continues. “Why do you think they all flock to the queen? The whole idea of this game of courtly love is that
both
sides indulge in it. Shouldn’t it be the same for real love?” She pauses, eyeing me up and down. “Or at least the physical act of it?”

I feel the heat rise in my chest, and she laughs.

“You’re going blotchy again, Duchess.” Then her tone softens. “There’s no harm in being curious.”

“What about the harm in acting on that curiosity, Madge?”

We stare at each other for a good, long moment.

“I suppose it depends on whom you ask.”

I wait.

“Think about it,” she says. “If you ask the priest, he’ll tell you it’s a sin.” She pauses, and then adds, “Unless he’s the one who wants you to commit it.”

“Ew.”

“If you ask the king, he’ll tell you it’s against his rules.”

I wait, one eyebrow raised.

“If you ask most of the men at court, they’ll suggest they take you up on it instead of Fitz. Believe me.”

“I don’t want to ask most of the men at court.”

Madge jumps up and starts rummaging through my desk.

“You wouldn’t ask
most
of the men at court, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t ask
some
of them.” She pulls out the leather-bound book. “Another list!”

Margaret frowns. “Of what?”

“Of the most kissable men at court.”

“Don’t be silly, Madge,” I say. “Anyone could find it.”

“No one’s found it yet, Duchess. I imagine you sleep with your little book.”

I try to imagine kissing someone else. All I can really imagine is what it would have felt like if Fitz had actually kissed me.

Madge opens the book to an empty page. “We won’t title it. Even if someone finds it, it will be nothing but a list of names. So.” She pauses with her pen hovering over the page. “Who’s in?”

“Fitz,” I blurt, at the same time Margaret says, “Thomas Howard.”

Madge snorts and starts scribbling.

“Thomas Seymour,” she says.

I frown. “I don’t like him.”

“I don’t trust him,” Margaret agrees.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not kissable,” Madge says. “Who else?”

“Thomas Wyatt?” Thomas Wyatt, with those amazing eyes and that sensuous mouth.

“Good choice, Duchess.”

“George Boleyn.”

I turn to look at Margaret. “The queen’s brother?”

“What?” She shrugs. “There’s something about those dark eyes of his.”

“Henry Norris,” Madge adds. “At least he’s single.”

“Francis Weston,” I say.

“He flirts outrageously with the queen,” Madge says.

“Maybe that’s why I find him appealing.”

Madge grins. Then her eyes open wide and her smile even wider. She scribbles down one more word, and Margaret and I lean over to see what she’s written.

“The
king
?” I cry. He’s getting fat and bald, and that temper reminds me of my mother. “He’s my father-in-law.”

“He’s my uncle,” Margaret adds. “You have to cross him off, Madge.”

“No.” Madge closes the book. “You two don’t have to think he’s kissable. But remember our other list. Ambition. Power. Good dancer.”

She slides the book back into my desk.

“Now,” Madge continues, “by the end of the week, my friends, I expect that each of us will have kissed
one
of the people on this list.” She grins. “If not more.”

“What about the rules?” I ask, thinking she can’t possibly hold us to this pledge. “What about it being a sin?”

Madge sits very still. When she looks up at me again, she smiles.

“Sometimes, I think it’s a sin,” she says carefully. “And I know it’s against the rules. But with some men, I just can’t help but offer.”

A wave of sadness passes across her face, and though her smile returns, the sadness remains in her eyes.

“Which would you choose?”

“A prince.” Madge takes our hands so we form a circle. “A prince in word and deed,” she proclaims. “For all of us. Because we deserve to be treated like princesses.”

I’m bathed in the warmth of gratitude. My mother always said I deserved a man who treated me like my father treated her. Viciously.

“Let us go forth and conquer.” Madge strides to the door and opens it, standing to one side to let Margaret and me precede her.

It is only when the door closes behind us all that I realize Madge didn’t put Hal on the list.