Brazen (20 page)

My heart thrums into my throat.

And I turn.

H
E
’
S
TALLER
. F
ULLER
.

More
than I remember. His shoulders have broadened, his legs lengthened; his face is more angular and there’s a shadow of beard along the jawline. There is no boy left in that body, in that face.

But his hair is still golden-red like the dawn. His eyebrows winged and soaring. His mouth tipped into a smile of expectation. Challenge. Invitation. And those gray-blue eyes watching me with
hopefeardoubtjoylove.

It is as if we are the only two people there. Everything else drains away—the courtyard, the rain, the queen, the gossip, Madge. I think I hear Hal laugh.

I walk forward, my feet not even beginning to beat time with the racing of my heart. Fitz meets me halfway and we stop a foot apart. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye, exposing my throat—all gooseflesh with remembered kisses.

“Your Grace.” I drop my eyes and curtsy.

“Your Grace.”

His voice sounds distant and detached. Nothing like that murmur in my ear the last time we saw each other. When he kissed me.

I can no longer look him in the eye. What if he has outgrown me? Just as his body has grown and mine hasn’t. My forehead is now level with his chin. I see the reddish stubble on the point of it.

And the hint of a smile on his lips.

He coughs, and I am excruciatingly aware that we are in public. The ever-moving court flows around us like we are a rock at the center of a stream, but occasionally, someone gets caught in an eddy and filters past us several times.

Eavesdropping.

Fitz speaks so quietly I’m not sure I hear him. “So formal, Mary?”

His use of my given name makes me melt.

“Just . . . wanting to do what’s expected.” I try not to move my lips. Turn my face to the side so I don’t look at him directly. Because if I do, everyone around us will see how much I want him.

“Expectations aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

“Oh?” I smile, still pretending to study the far wall of the garden. “And what are the alternatives?”

“I am the king’s son but not expected to be like him. I am expected to be a scholar, but I am a better athlete. In the end, it doesn’t matter. My intellect will not change the world, and I will never be king, no matter how badly your father wants it.”

He knows of my father’s desire to have a Howard heir on the throne.
My
son. I finally look up into the face of the man who would help me make that happen, and a deluge of ice flows through me followed by the ignition of a fireball, thinking of what needs to
precede
the arrival of said heir.

“At the end of the day, my accomplishments, my striving to do what everyone else wants, don’t matter,” Fitz continues. “So I might as well just do what
I
want.”

“What if you want to break the rules?”

He no longer blushes like a boy. He looks me right in the eye, one corner of his mouth turned up.

“I suppose it would depend on which rules I’m breaking.”

I take a step closer, the tips of our shoes almost touching, and raise my face to his. I can smell the leather of his riding breeches, still horsey and green from the road; the wet, woolen odor of his cloak; the bright, sunny warmth of his linen shirt.

I can almost taste him.

His gaze moves to my lips, his head bowed.

We are in a public place.

“We shouldn’t be here,” I whisper. But I don’t move.

“I am right where I want to be,” he says. “It doesn’t matter if there is anyone else around. It doesn’t matter if I can touch you or kiss you or”—he coughs—“put my hands in your hair or on your breast or just hold your hand in mine. It doesn’t matter if the space between us is an inch or the length of the room or nonexistent. I belong with you. Wherever you are, I’m complete.”

And at that moment, I don’t care who is watching. I stand on my toes and kiss him lightly on the lips. Just a taste.

F
ITZ
COMES
DOWN
WITH
A
COLD
AN
D
A
FEVER
FROM
HIS
T
IME
ON
the road and spends Christmas Day in bed while I spend it wishing I was with him. He has one of his ushers bring me a little gold box with an enameled kingfisher inlaid on the lid, and though it is my favorite gift by far, it doesn’t make up for his absence. But by the first of January, he is nearly back to normal, if a little pale.

Every time I enter a room, I look for him. One party or banquet whirls into another and we dance poorly and laugh loudly and never again kiss in public, even though I want to. All. The. Time.

Margaret returns to court, and Madge is speaking to me again, and everything is back almost to the way it was before it fell apart, before the king came between us. We are all three friends again. I am buoyed by the knowledge that all is well in the world. I return to my room one day to discover my book beneath my pillow, a quotation from Chaucer on the end page.

Wax fruitful and multiply
.

I return it to Madge with a reminder.

There’s a price offered for virginity
.

The next day, I find a note scrawled in the margin in Margaret’s hand.

Leave virginity to those who have nothing else to offer. Our gifts are too numerous to be wasted.

Two days after Epiphany, we return to Greenwich, and it seems the court is reluctant to stop celebrating. The great hall is festooned with the branches of fir trees and reeks of soot and resin. The trestle tables wobble under the weight of plate and wine. The head table, where the king and queen sit, glitters with Venetian glass. When they drink, it looks as if they lift the eye of God to their lips.

I run my finger along the lip of my own gilt goblet. I sit high at table, just below Margaret, far away from Madge. Fitz sits closer to the king. I watch him play with his food.

The king appears to be regaling him with war stories. Fitz laughs at something the king says, and the light dances on the sleek shock of hair that curtains his forehead. The laugh turns into a cough and he turns to the side; the king slaps him jovially on the back. When Fitz turns around again, his cheeks are red, his eyes still laughing.

He stretches his legs out beneath the table, his entire body appearing loose and unencumbered by doubt or fear or nerves or questions. But I know him now. I know he is not as easy as he looks. I have seen his distrust of his father. Of the
king
.

And I have felt the intensity of his emotions.

The sharpness in his gaze when he meets mine bathes me from head to foot with a warmth that ultimately settles low in my abdomen and makes me wish there weren’t so many people in the room.

The subtleness of his smile is so slow and casual that I hardly know he’s doing it until he nods and lifts his goblet in a mute toast. I raise mine in return.

“Flirting at table?” Margaret murmurs from beside me.

I notice her own eyes twitching quickly to my half uncle Thomas.

“What of it?” I ask, sipping my wine.

“The Countess of Worcester would take you to task,” Margaret says with a grin. Elizabeth Somerset, the Countess of Worcester, has recently become the self-appointed warden of all the maids’ chastity.

“Well, then someone should tell the countess that if the queen flirts, why shouldn’t we?”

We both turn and raise our goblets to Madge, who sticks out her tongue. It is stained red by the claret. Margaret laughs her deep, throaty laugh, sounding so much older and so much more naughty than she actually is.

“I think the countess’s real problem is that she is no longer beautiful enough to attract the eye of any man, much less the king.”

I look at her questioningly.

“It’s said she was once his mistress,” Margaret explains. “Long, long ago, of course.”

I look to where the countess hovers, halfway between the high table and the lowest ones. Her hair has begun to dull, and her skin to grow slack. But what mars her beauty are the pinched lines around her mouth, the narrow channel of displeasure between her eyebrows. It’s possible she was once beautiful—in the traditional, English way, just as Mary Boleyn was. So different from the queen.

So different from Jane Seymour, pale enough to be invisible, though the king can’t take his eyes off her. She sits with her brothers. Edward has been appointed to the Privy Council and has moved into Cromwell’s rooms right next to the king. Thomas Seymour watches Margaret and me with furtive intent. As yet, he has not reaped the benefit of the king’s interest in Jane.

“Making eyes at Thomas Seymour?” Madge plants one hand on each of our shoulders and cackles when we both jump. I didn’t even see her get up from the table. “Remember what I said about practicing with someone experienced? He could give you a ride for your money.”

“Ugh, Madge,” I say under my breath. “He’s a little . . . creepy.”

“He’s deliciously creepy,” Madge says. “That’s why I think he’d be good for you. He could show you the ways of the world, my dear.”

“Ugh,” I say again, and shrug her off.

Madge laughs. “I’ll take that as a no, then. So you don’t mind if I have a shot at him?”

I look over to where Thomas Seymour sits with his back to the wall. He’s watching everyone. Tirelessly.

“Just be careful, Madge,” I say. “That man wants something.”

“Don’t they all?” Madge casts a not-so-subtle glance at the king. Even with the queen at his side—even with her pregnancy—his attention is all on Jane Seymour.

Madge squeezes her way between us on the bench. Our shoulders press against each other, but I don’t mind being crowded against my friends.

“Don’t worry, darling Duchess,” she says, pinching a piece of marzipan from the plate in front of me and licking the sugar off her fingers. “I’m making eyes at someone else tonight.”

Hal sits with Francis Weston. Both of them are looking at Madge.

“I think you’ve got your pick,” I murmur. “Who might you be choosing?”

“Guess.”

I hate guessing games. I always feel so useless at them. Especially when I’m trying to guess one amongst thousands.

“Give me a hint.” I try to play along.

“He’s handsome.”

“Fitz is the only man who comes to mind.” I flick a glance at him and suppress a smile.

Margaret leans in from the other side. “Give us another hint, Madge.”

“He’s a good dancer.”

“Definitely not Fitz, then.” I grin. He’s looking at me with one eyebrow raised. He knows I’m talking about him.

Madge has stiffened and is looking down at her hands, clenched to the edge of the table.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Mary.”

“I know.” I lay a hand over hers, but it doesn’t relax. I suspected her once. But as much as I disagree with some of her choices, I know she’s a better friend than that.

And I trust Fitz.

I lean in close.

“It’s not Thomas Seymour, is it?” I glance back at him. He smiles in a way I’m sure he thinks is seductive. Most women say he’s irresistible.

I’m sure I can resist.

“I wouldn’t say no.” Madge grins. “But no.”

“You haven’t given us much to work with,” Margaret says. “Good dancer and handsome.” She looks around the crowded room. “That could apply to half the men here.”

“Obviously you have lower standards than I do, Margaret,” I tease.

Madge smirks. “His name starts with an
H
.”

A tightness grips me. “Howard?” I ask. Hal has not yet recovered from the last time.

“No, you dolt, his first name starts with an
H
.”

This doesn’t help. “Henry?”

“You could say I have a thing for Henrys,” Madge says. Margaret and I exchange a look and both lean closer, surrounding Madge like a little wall. Then we just stare. She won’t escape until she tells us.

Madge glances from one face to the other, eyes wide.

I say, “Henry . . . ” waiting for her to add the surname.

“Norris.”

I sit back. “Henry Norris?”

“You needn’t sound so surprised. Or so
pleased
.” The sarcasm is unmistakable.

“I’m very happy for you, Madge.”

She turns on me, and her blue eyes glitter darkly. “He’s going to marry me. It’s being arranged.”

“Congratulations.” I put my hand on her wrist, but she stands and shakes me off.

“Don’t bother with your limp felicitations, Duchess.”

“I just think you can do better.”

“Better than what?” Madge’s whisper is fierce, but we are the only two who can hear it. “I’ve had the king.”

I’m almost afraid to touch her. To reach her with words or fingers. She seems so fragile. When she turns to me, her eyes look haunted.

“I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to be acknowledged. I walk through the rooms and galleries of every palace and no one even knows I’m there. Thomas Seymour falls all over himself to get to you, Margaret. Everyone defers to you, Duchess. Hell, everyone defers to Jane fucking Seymour! What’s different about her? What changed?”

I hear the unasked question:
Why didn’t that happen to me?

I can’t utter the answer that comes immediately to mind.
Because Jane Seymour hasn’t slept with him yet.
Jane is so unlike Madge. So unlike the queen. Where Madge and the queen are dark and brash, Jane is meek and blonde and quiet.

“I don’t know.” It’s all I can say.

Jealousy
tastes like salted fish—pungent, slick, and at the point of spoiling. I can almost smell it on her breath.

“We’re both very happy for you,” Margaret says. “Henry Norris is a fine man.”

Madge smiles weakly. “At least he’s not already married.”

The king stands abruptly and the hall roars as we all get to our feet. Then we fall into a ringing silence. A messenger—still covered in filth from the road and hanging his head in exhaustion—stands behind the king.

“God be praised, we are free from all suspicion of war!” the king says, and raises his goblet to the room.

Everyone follows suit. The queen’s expression is blank with relief, but there are tears in her eyes.

Beside me, Margaret watches the king with something akin to loathing in her eyes.

“Katherine—the princess dowager—is dead,” she says. “And he thinks it’s a cause for celebration.”

Katherine of Aragon. The king’s first wife. Or not-wife, as he attests. The Holy Roman emperor is her nephew and has been threatening to defend her claim to queenship by invading.

Now it no longer matters.

“I think it’s peace they’re celebrating, not death,” I say. The queen has steadied herself. She stands up straight, shoulders back, neck elongated. She brushes both palms on her skirts, then places a hand on her husband’s arm. For the first time in months, he lifts her hand to his lips to kiss it.

“Believe what you like,
Duchess
,” Margaret spits. “But he is celebrating the fact that there are no longer two queens in this country.”

I try to maneuver myself over the bench, but Madge is too close, and the entire court seems to be packed into the space behind me. The dissonance of competing voices and laughter threatens to asphyxiate me, and I trip over strands of conversation.

“She died cold and alone. . . .”

“Maybe now we’ll get some Spanish wine again. . . .”

“He’ll be happy for her money. . . .”

“I hope her daughter soon keeps her company—”

I stumble and fall headlong into the last speaker, George Boleyn. He steadies me firmly, a roguish grin on his face.

“I’m so happy, I could kiss you, Your Grace,” he says, “but I must bestow that honor on my sister first.”

He turns and rushes through the rest of the crowd, snatching Queen Anne from the king’s embrace. He kisses her on the mouth, spinning her around.

She throws her head back and laughs.

I turn back to Margaret. “It’s the first time I’ve seen the queen look truly happy in weeks,” I say to her. “And they’re not fighting anymore. Isn’t that worth something?”

I look to the Seymours. The two brothers are frowning.

But Jane has something that could be the start of a smile on her lips.

Margaret shakes her head. “You have built your beliefs on sand, Mary FitzRoy, and the tide will soon wash your feet right out from under you.”