Brazen (13 page)

I
WILL
.

Tonight. Tonight I will do something that will change me. I will prove that I am living and not waiting. I stand on one side of the room. Madge is on the other. We haven’t spoken. I can hardly look at her. Margaret won’t speak to either of us. She’s holding true on her pledge not to take sides.

It gets dark so early in December. The queen’s chambers flicker with candles, but the darkness outside is a vacuum, just waiting to suck us up into the void.

As always, there are men in this presence chamber. Mark Smeaton has spent what seems like hours tuning his lute. The noise is beginning to make me want to throttle him. The queen’s brother, George, sits next to her, at her feet. They look like two children from a fairy story. Lost.

She puts her hand on his shoulder and he takes it in his. Kisses it. And then leans his cheek against it on her skirts. Absently, she strokes his hair.

She won’t look at Madge, either.

I don’t know how I’m going to manage this. Do I tell her? Dare I keep it to myself? And how can I prove to Madge that I know how to live, too? That I can take control of my own life—that I’m not just waiting?

The usher at the door announces the arrival of the king, who strides into the room so quickly that the candles flicker.

“Music!” he shouts, and for an instant, we all stand still.

He glances about.

“Have you all gone deaf?” he asks jovially. “Have you been turned to stone? What am I, the son of Medusa?” He laughs, and several of the courtiers laugh with him.

“Music!” he shouts again, and this time his tone brooks no refusal.

Mark Smeaton strums his lute and then begins a complicated trill, his fingers moving so swiftly they seem to blur.

“For dancing, you bloody cockscomb,” the king growls, and Smeaton looks up, aghast. He hesitates for a fraction of an instant. Then he starts a
volta
, and the king grins.

“Mistress Shelton,” he says, and Madge joins him in the center of the room. As if the entire scene were as choreographed as the dance itself. His hands touch her waist, her hip, her hand, lingering longer than they should. Her eyes never leave his.

The silence from the rest of the room is deafening.

He should have danced with the queen first. Or at the very least, Margaret. Precedence is power. He’s just turned it all upside down.

The queen stands, and everyone freezes except the king and Madge. And Smeaton. He is too lost in the music.

Lucky man.

“Master Wyatt.” The queen doesn’t raise her voice, but the entire room hears her. I think, perhaps, the king hesitates in his dance. Not enough to stumble. But enough to interrupt the smooth rhythm of their footsteps.

It is the look in Thomas Wyatt’s eyes that makes me hesitate. They are usually full of humor. Occasionally scorn. They are eyes that never take anything seriously, least of all women.

Right now, they are full of pain.

Quickly he rubs both hands over his face and reaches them out to her, his single dimple appearing.

“A pleasure, Your Majesty,” he murmurs.

When they move together, it is beautiful. Rhythm and grace. It reminds me of Fitz. What did he say? We’re equal. In clumsiness.

“Your Grace.”

I don’t realize I’m staring at the floor until I focus on the two brown leather shoes in front of me and look up into the earnest face of Francis Weston. He is handsome, if a bit sharp-featured, with his blond hair curling beneath his cap, his neatly trimmed mustache, and as yet unfinished beard.

“Forgive my presumption,” he stutters. “But it would be an honor to dance with you.”

I want to say no. I can hear the misery beating from the queen’s breaking heart. The king has come to her rooms to humiliate her. And I want no part of it. That’s not love. That is nothing but spite.

When I look up to refuse, Francis Weston is watching Madge, swept up in the arms of the king.

“I can see I’m not your first choice,” I say bitterly, but he hardly seems to notice.

“Why should he be so lucky?” he blurts, and blushes so severely it’s a wonder he isn’t reduced to a pile of ash.

“To be married to the queen,” he rushes to add.

“You’re married, Master Weston,” I remind him. And he shrugs.

“My wife is not here, Your Grace,” he says, and bows. “And neither is your husband. So it would be my great honor to escort you in the dance.”

He’s barely six years older than I am and yet he has already learned the lying and pretext necessary for success at court. He is no longer blushing, but smiling a charming, affable smile. One not meant for me, but for all the others in the room.

How can I refuse him?

Because Fitz isn’t here—he’s gone to London on some errand, something for his father. Because I want to show solidarity with the queen. Because Weston likes Madge and I’m feeling spiteful myself.

Weston can dance. He knows he does it well. He never has to check his footing, or the others around him, but gazes directly into my eyes the entire time. His eyes are a penetrating blue. Not stormy, like Fitz’s. Not vivid like Thomas Wyatt’s. But like an arrow well aimed.

“You dance well, Your Grace,” he says as the music slows to the final bars.

“You flatter well, Master Weston.”

He grins at me, his narrow face illuminated as if from within. He’s handsome. Charming. Ambitious. He has a pleasant voice and is a good dancer.

He’s on our list of kissable men.

If I kissed him, would he kiss me back?

Neither of us has anything invested in the other. He cares for Madge and is married to someone else. I’m married to Fitz and don’t know how I feel about anyone. It’s a perfect situation.

“Come with me,” I say. I leave the room without looking to see if Weston is following me.

The gallery is crowded and I have to weave in between people, holding my breath. Ignoring them when they bow or call me Your Grace.

When I get to the courtyard, I’m sweating. I can feel a wisp of hair sticking to my face. But I can’t stop now. Can’t think about what people are seeing. Can’t imagine what Weston is thinking. I have to do this thing. I have to be and act and not care.

I have to stop questioning and start living.

Start
feeling.

I step into a disused room and breathe in relief to find it empty. When Weston hesitates in the doorway, I pull him in and shut the door behind him.

No one can refuse a kiss, right?

Fitz could.

I hesitate. There is a look of perplexity on Weston’s face. Coupled with a knowing. A subtle arrogance.

I stand on the toes of my slippers and close my eyes, start to lose my balance, and reach out to stop myself from falling. My hand grips velvet and gold braid, and I almost lose my nerve.

When his mouth clamps down on mine, my first reaction is surprise. I didn’t expect him to meet me halfway. I expected him to be like Fitz. Stunned. Immobile.

But Weston puts an arm around me and pulls me closer. His narrow mustache chafes my upper lip when he opens his mouth hungrily, and his tongue dives deep, flicking relentlessly against mine.

I try to enjoy it. The length of his body. The taste of pepper and mint on his tongue. He was obviously expecting to kiss someone tonight. A voice at the back of my mind observes that it probably wasn’t me.

His right arm releases its grip on me and I think I can come up for a breath, but he bites my lower lip and his left hand slides between us to cup my breast and his thumb strokes the skin exposed by the cut of my bodice.

No.

I’m not enjoying this at all.

I push against him, fingernails digging into the nap of his velvet doublet. As I pull my head back, his lips follow mine until I turn my head away.

“I can’t,” I gasp. It sounds like passion, but I think it has more to do with the fact that I was holding my breath.

His thumb attempts one more stroke.

“No one will ever know,” he whispers.

I push again, and his hand breaks contact with my breast.

“I will,” I tell him.

I do.

Weston steps back and pulls down on his doublet to straighten it. I try not to notice when he adjusts his codpiece. He stands still for a moment, his only movement a flexion of his fingers. He looks confused. Unsure of what happens next.

Oh, God.
Kissing someone who is not my husband. It makes me no better than the king.

“I’m sorry,” I add.

“Don’t be,” he says. A hint of his arrogance returns. “I’m not.”

He grins at me and winks. He’s young. Attractive. Passionate. A good dancer.

And I feel nothing for him.

“Not sorry you kissed me?” I ask, cocking my head to the side. “Or not sorry we stopped?”

The grin disappears until he realizes I’m teasing him, and then he laughs.

“Neither one,” he says with a quick bow. “Because I always enjoy a good kiss, Your Grace. And because I hope I always know when to stop.”

S
HAME
TASTES
LIKE
ASHES
,
AND
G
U
I
L
T
LIKE
SOURED
ALE
,
AND
both hang heavy on my tongue.

The gaudiness of the Christmas celebrations makes me impatient. The bowing and scraping of the court, the jostling of position as people choose, discard, and interchange their friends and enemies. I’m barely keeping my mind together, every thought eroded by self-reproach and impending panic.

The crowds are suffocating. Fitz returned from London the day before the celebrations commenced, along with seemingly every other person of noble birth or aspiration in the country. He does not come to find me. Doesn’t speak to me. The anticipation makes me edgy.

The court works itself into a frenzy over the gifts to be given on January first. The queen usurps all of the silversmiths and even Master Holbein to create her surprise gift for the king—a magnificent silver-gilt table fountain that recirculates rose water for guests to rinse their hands. It is beautiful and elegant and breathtakingly expensive, and the king kisses her lightly on the lips in front of us all when he receives it.

I don’t see Madge’s reaction.

The thrifty and the clever unearth last year’s gifts for regifting. Silver salts and little gilt coffers, acres of plate and oceans of jewels. Like Midas, everything the king touches turns to gold, and piles around him in a great, glimmering mirage.

I sew. Because the more I sew, the less I see.

I don’t see Madge fashioning a velvet collar embroidered in gold and I don’t see it on the king on January second. I don’t see Fitz thanking the queen for the silver-gilt jar she gives him. I don’t see him send it on to his half sister, Lady Mary. I don’t see my brother return to court for the festivities.

Without his wife.

And then it is Twelfth Night. The night when nothing is as it seems.

The great hall is swathed in holly and blood-red velvet. Attendants stoke the fires with fir boughs to scent the air and fill the queen’s silver fountain with wine rather than rose water, each courtier filling his cup as often as he likes.

The king and queen sit together on a dais, holding hands on the table. They are served on bended knee by the highest nobles of the land, including my father, who is decked in gold and green, his narrow, pointed beard giving the impression of Saturn himself.

Food floods out of the kitchens. It is a wonder they can produce it all. The centerpiece is a swan—all befeathered in gold leaf and holly—stuffed with a goose, which is in turn stuffed with a duck, a quail, and a swallow. There are boar and venison, fish and more fowl, all washed down by quantities of wine not even the fountain can provide.

I sit near the queen, and Margaret sits next to me. Ladies of precedence together.

I can easily watch my husband on the other side of the king. When I do, I cannot eat. The bean cake is passed around, and I just pick at it. The spices and dried fruit remind me of the bridecake at my wedding. And I have no desire to find the hidden bean and be ruler of the feast. I don’t want that kind of responsibility.

“What’s bothering you?” Margaret asks. She’s so calm all the time. Responsible. She doesn’t take sides. Never does anything without considering it first.

I want to tell her everything. That I want to apologize to Madge, but don’t know how. I want to tell Margaret about Weston, but I’m afraid of what she will think. Because she would never do such a thing. So I find the simplest, most innocuous way to explain my anxiety.

“Fitz hasn’t come to find me yet.”

Saying it out loud makes the fact crawl uncomfortably through my stomach. Why
hasn’t
he come to see me? Does he already know about Weston?

“Have you gone to find him?”

Margaret smiles when I snap my gaze to hers. She tilts her head to one side and raises her eyebrows questioningly.

“No,” I say slowly. “But I live here. And he’s visiting. And . . . and he’s the man.” Boy. Boy-man.

“You have far too many rules in your mind, Duchess.”

I startle at Margaret using Madge’s nickname for me. Did she just pick it up naturally? Or is she trying to tell me to act like one?

“We live at court,” I say. “There are social rules for everything.” I take a bite of the bean cake. Spice and orange. But no bean. I will not be queen.

“And there are rules that are made to be broken.”

“But breaking the rules hurts people,” I say, thinking of Madge. If only she had been able to stay away from the king. Breaking those rules hurt the queen. It hurt our friendship. It hurt me.

I think about my own indiscretion. How Fitz said he takes his vows seriously, and yet I haven’t. He lives up to his father’s expectations. Though I suppose I live up to my mother’s—I haven’t amounted to much yet.

“Every action has consequences,” Margaret says. “It’s up to you to decide whether or not it’s worth it.”

“How do you know when it will be?”

For a moment, Margaret stares at her hands, folded together, resting on the edge of the table.

“I think . . .” She looks up at me, her eyes searching my face. For once, she doesn’t seem complacent. Or reserved. She looks agitated. Concerned. Impassioned. “Don’t hate me, Mary, but I think Madge was right. You know it’s worth it when you stop questioning. When you just . . . know.”

I look away from her and pinch the soft, inner part of my lower lip between my teeth. Far across the room, Hal is standing in front of Madge, the fingers of his right hand resting at the base of her goblet.

She picks it up and drinks from it, eyes on him. And shrugs. Hal turns away.

“I don’t mean to offend you.” Margaret puts a hand on mine, her long, narrow fingers ringless except for a single enameled thistle. Her tie to Scotland.

“I’m not offended,” I manage to reply. “I just don’t know that I’ll ever stop questioning.” It always kept me one step ahead of my mother. By evaluating every angle of a situation before taking action, I avoided her wrath. Though sometimes, my deliberation was the very thing that brought out her cruelty at its worst. I run a crumb of cake along the table with my finger.

“You will,” Margaret says. She glances once about the room. Leans in closer. “I have.”

Her eyes are full of light and mischief. She sits up straight as ever, but not with stiffness. No, she’s more alert. As if every nerve is tuned and ready to sing. And I know—without asking—that she’s in love with Thomas Howard.

A shout goes up from the far end of the table. Thomas Seymour is the bean king. The lord of misrule. He stands, already a little unsteady, but his voice is loud and clear.

“How now,” Margaret whispers to me. “What mischief will this man cause?”

My father stands behind the king at the dais, looking thoroughly put out. His place has been supplanted, for the evening, by this honey-haired junior courtier who plays at matchmaking. Thomas Seymour takes far too much joy in dragging men from their seats and encouraging them to dance with partners specifically chosen from among the queen’s maids.

“Your Majesty,” he says, approaching the king. “May I?”

The king smiles indulgently and nods.

“I should like to introduce you to my sister, Jane.”

Beside me, Margaret laughs through her nose.

“If he thinks he’s going to elevate his family through that connection, he’s going to be severely disappointed,” she says, as the king allows himself to be led down the table.

Jane Seymour is blonde and round-faced and has not a trace of the guile that both of her brothers exude from their pores. I don’t think she’s ever said more than two words to me. Or to anyone.

Seymour places Jane’s hand in the king’s with a flourish and a bow, and she rises without once looking the king in the eye.

“And the king’s son,” Seymour cries, clearly relishing his role.

I look up, startled, to see Fitz’s expression mirror my own, but he allows himself to be led around the room. A parade of two. Seymour pauses behind Madge’s chair; she can’t take her eyes off of Fitz, one corner of her mouth raised. I feel the bean cake rising in my throat. But Seymour walks on and stops behind Margaret’s chair. She sits stiffly again, and will not look at him at all.

“It’s a night for breaking rules, little lovebirds,” Seymour says, his body just a little too close to mine. He takes my hand and Fitz’s and ceremoniously joins them together. It reminds me of our wedding. Except I realize as I turn and look up into Fitz’s face that I no longer fear the prison of this marriage.

Seymour turns to Margaret and offers his hand to her.

“Or perhaps for making new ones,” he says.