Brazen (21 page)

T
HE
CELEBRATIONS
CONTINUE
THE
NEXT
DAY
. T
HE
KING
AND
queen both wear yellow, and even I question their judgment. The king enters the queen’s rooms carrying little Elizabeth, who giggles uncontrollably when he lifts her up into the air in an impromptu dance. He schedules feasts and games and finally a joust.

He seems almost himself again. Or at least the king I imagined I knew when I first came to court. Happy and in love. A good husband. A good father.

Part of me says I know better than to be completely deceived. That he will treat Elizabeth no better than he’s treated Fitz. She’s a pawn.

My mother sends me a vitriolic diatribe. She claims that Anne Boleyn had Katherine of Aragon poisoned. That she will poison Fitz as well if we’re not careful. She claims the king is now free to marry anyone at any time he likes because he no longer has to justify his abandonment of his first queen. I burn the letter immediately after reading it, wishing I had burned it before.

No one needs to know the extent of Mother’s treason.

By the day of the joust, the queen is feeling ill again. She sends most of her ladies to the tiltyard, claiming she is well enough to entertain herself. Madge goes to watch Henry Norris, who always excels in the lists. I stay behind in the queen’s privy chamber. Dreaming of Fitz.

“You may go if you like, Cousin,” the queen says wearily. She’s sitting in a window seat that overlooks the river. The light washes her face with a green tinge. She looks old. Older. There are hollows below her eyes, and her cheeks have lost all their color. Even her eyes are dull, and there is a crease of worry between her brows.

“Actually, Your Majesty, I have no taste for the sight of men battering each other,” I say, wanting to offer comfort. “I don’t like the sound of the lance when it cracks. I hate the thud of bodies as they hit the ground.”

Though I’d love to be able to sit next to Fitz. Perhaps hold his hand.

The queen nods. “Your point is taken. Though I do enjoy the pageantry. The cryptic emblems sewn cleverly into doublets. The parade of colors matching men to a cause. Or a woman.”

“It’s a bit like poetry,” I muse. “Saying something without really saying it at all. Telling your loyalties, your sympathies to the world, but really just to those who already know.”

“How is your poetry, Mary?”

“Very poor at the moment.” I don’t write. My time with Fitz feels like poetry enough.

The queen sits up uncomfortably and cringes a little, one hand on her belly.

“Never say that, Mary. Never take yourself down. There are plenty of other people in this world who are more than willing to do it for you. Because you’re a woman. Because you are married to someone so close to the king. The only person you can depend on in this life is yourself, Duchess. It would serve you well to remember that.”

I nod, mutely. And then remember myself.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t ‘Your Majesty’ me, Mary. I’m telling you this as your cousin. As your friend. Believe in yourself. In your voice. It’s the only way you’ll survive. If you only do as others say, be who they want you to be, you will lose yourself. And that will be the greatest loss of all.”

I remember the day I heard her argument with the king. How he told her to do as her betters had done before her. Close her eyes. Look the other way. Queen Anne will never do that. Even if it kills her.

“Thank you, Your—” I hesitate. “Cousin.”

The queen smiles, and it transforms her. She looks softer. Steadier. And I suddenly want to confide everything.

“I—” Again I hesitate. “I have learned much being here. About what I want.”
Fitz.
“And how to be myself.”
Without my mother’s influence.
“You set a wonderful example.”

The smile disappears from her face and she lowers her eyes. “You don’t want to be like me, Mary.”

Before I can respond, there is a noise—a clamor—in the presence chamber. Voices. Footsteps. A shout. My father.

“I don’t care if she’s in dishabille, she will see me and she will see me
now
!”

The door flies open with a bang and he marches into the room with his military stride, followed by two ushers and a very uptight-looking yeoman.

“She’s my niece, for the love of God—it’s not like I’ll do her any harm. And she’s my queen! Stand back!”

He continues to shout as he strides across the room. The queen stands to her full height. I hear her pull a breath in through her nose. It makes her a little taller. A little bigger.

Father barely bows before looking her in the eye. Even his military bearing can’t hide the fact that he is quite small for a man. It’s hard to believe that he has fought so many wars, brought down so many men. Until you see his face, with its scars and tyrannous nose. And you believe that this man could be capable of anything.

“Your husband is not dead.”

The queen reaches for my arm and her hand tightens around the bone. Her face remains still, her body upright. She takes a deep breath and surreptitiously brushes the other hand on her skirts.

“He was unhorsed in the joust,” Father continues.

The queen nods. This has happened before. Jousting is not a safe sport. I hear in my mind the sound of the cracking lance. The thud of a body come to earth. Almost as if my words predicted it.

“He didn’t move and could not be awakened.”

The queen’s hand tightens further around my wrist, and my fingers begin to tingle. Still her face betrays nothing.

“But after two hours, he woke and stood.”

“Why was I not told sooner?” The queen’s voice is steady, but she does not release her grip.

“We did not wish to worry you in your . . . condition.”

“You did not think I would want to be by my husband’s side? To pray for him?”

Everything about her is still except for the hand on my arm. It pumps with each question, pressing down, squeezing. I hold my arm as steady as I can, wanting to help create the illusion that she isn’t falling apart.

My father studies her. I know what he sees. Her steadiness. Her lack of tears.

He doesn’t see her fingers whitening on my arm. Or how much deeper the shadows beneath her eyes have gotten.

“He was well cared for,” he says stiffly.

“By whom?” The meaning in her question is apparent. Jane Seymour is out there somewhere.

“By his council.”

Edward Seymour is now part of the council. I picture him praying over the king’s unmoving form. Hoping for the king to live long enough to shower a few more titles on the Seymours.

“With your permission,” Father says, “I will go and check on the king’s progress.”

The queen nods and sinks down to her chair, always gripping my arm. Father bows out the door.

I pat the queen’s hand, gently loosening her fingers.

“Let me go and find out what I can,” I whisper to her. She doesn’t seem to hear me. Her eyes are vacant, her other hand resting on her belly.

I rush through the rooms, which seem pitifully unpeopled. I wonder if they are all at the joust? At the king’s side? Or have they already begun to pay court to the king’s new mistress?

Father may be short, but he’s quick, and I only catch up as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“Father.”

He turns around quick as a snake.

“You’d better hope that she loses that baby.”

I stop short, stung as sharp as if he’d slapped me.

“Come with me. Now.”

My father grabs my elbow and steers me into the courtyard. He doesn’t loosen his hold, and I almost stumble three times as he pushes me past the gaping idlers.

“Shameless, goggle-eyed whore,” he mutters under his breath.

I nearly fall again.

“Stop, Father,” I whisper, desperately afraid that he’ll be sent to the Tower. “You can’t say those things.”

“Can’t I?” he rages. “She’s said worse to me. Standing there completely unmoved, the bitch.”

“Father, stop!”

I wrench away from him and turn to him in the courtyard. I’m near tears and can’t catch my breath.

“I can’t lose you!” I cry. “I can’t . . .” My father is a hard man, but he’s the only thing that could temper the damage done by my mother.

“You’re not going to lose me, you foolish girl.” Father’s anger softens a little.

“You could be imprisoned for those words,” I whisper at him. “Or worse.”

Father’s face hardens.

“I don’t think so. In fact, at this point, I think the king just might agree with me.”

I shake my head, remembering my mother’s letter. I can’t believe my mother and father are in agreement, albeit unknowingly. Father stills me with both hands. They are cold as gravestones.

“Do not fret, my dear,” he says, and suddenly smiles, despite his anger and the king’s fall. “This may be the making of us.” He lets go, but will not let go my gaze. “You will be my triumph—you and that husband of yours. Forget your mistress and remember what I told you before.”

The queen told me if I only do as others say, I will lose myself. I will certainly lose my self-respect if I supplant her for my father’s sake.

“It’s her place to make a king, not mine. It’s her life.”

“It’s
your
life, Mary.” Father steps closer, nearly standing on my toes. “You married into it. It’s your life and it’s your responsibility.”

“Not just mine, Father. There are two people in this marriage. It depends on Fitz, too.”

“Marriage is a contract, not a collaboration. Consummate your marriage before the king decides his only son and possible heir would be better off married to a foreign princess. Bind him to you before you find the contract broken.”

Father says this with such finality that I know I’ve been dismissed. But I’m now too frightened to let it go.

“If it’s a contract, how can it be dispensed with so easily?” I push. “Aren’t contracts binding?”

Father doesn’t answer, so I push harder.

“And what if someone decides Fitz and I are not truly married? That we were never married in the first place? That it hasn’t been consummated? What then, Father? What will you do with me then?”

“If you do as I say, you won’t have to worry about that.” Father pats me on the cheek. Almost a slap. “Make me proud.”

I don’t want to be with Fitz to give my father a royal grandson. I want to be with Fitz. Period. So the words stick in my throat. I cannot say I will make Father proud. Because doing what I want is becoming more important than what he wants of me.

Father takes my silence as acquiescence and walks back out toward the tiltyard, his short little legs snapping together like scissors.

E
VERYONE
WORRIES
AB
OUT
THE
SUCCESSION
. A
BOUT
THE
KING
, and how close he came to death. About the queen and the child she carries. Lines are being drawn in the sand, and everyone is taking sides.

I hear all the whispers. About Jane Seymour. About Fitz. About me.

The day of the funeral the king wears black. For his “dear sister.” Even now, he won’t acknowledge that he lived with her for almost twenty years. All he will admit to is that she was his brother’s wife first.

I try to stay close to the queen. She looks fragile. And despite the fact that she’s carrying his child, the king seems to have turned his back on her. Left her stranded, her eyes searching the wide, flat sea of her empty rooms.

I know who she’s searching for.

“Cousin, would you please go and find my husband for me? I wish to know where he is.”

Neither of us have seen Jane Seymour. We both fear where she might be.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I whisper. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings.

I go, anyway. I slip through the great hall and into the chapel, hoping against hope that the king is in there, praying for the soul of the other woman he betrayed.

He’s not, of course.

I drag my feet. Go as slowly as I can. Wander through empty rooms and crowded ones. Consider going to the stables. To the bowling green, despite the rain. I consider going anywhere but back to the king’s rooms.

I know I’ll end up there, eventually.

When I do, there is laughter coming from the watching chamber. The regular courtiers cluster in knots. Thomas Wyatt and George Boleyn almost seem to stand guard. Henry Norris and Francis Weston eye each other warily. There is gambling and posing and posturing. And laughter.

The king sits at the far end of the room. Jane Seymour is by his side. He laughs at something Thomas Seymour says, grabs Jane by the hand, and pulls her toward him. She stumbles a little. Or wishes to appear to. The king catches her before she falls, but she still slides to his knee.

His knee. His hands are on her waist. She’s sitting in his lap. Laughing. They’re both laughing.

I turn to leave the room, and the queen is there in the doorway. She couldn’t wait for me to find him. To tell her. She had to find out for herself. Her face is bright white, like alabaster. It stands out against her dark hair. Like she’s about to faint.

She doesn’t see me right in front of her as she strides through the room. Straight for him. Straight for her.

With surprising strength, the queen pulls Jane Seymour off the king’s lap and slaps her. The sound drops into the room like an explosion, leaving us all deaf and dumb.

The king breaks the silence with a roar, and courtiers scatter like tenpins, falling all over one another to leave.

Even in his rage, the king is aware of the gossips in the room and pulls the queen from it. She hisses and spits like a wet cat caught in a trap. They go through his privy chamber and into the bedroom beyond, the great oak door slamming with a reverberating bang.

Then the screaming starts.

I can’t be here anymore. I can’t listen to them argue. I can’t listen to the whispered rumors while they do.

“How dare you!”

That is the king’s shout. Not the queen’s. As if he is the injured party. Just like my father when my mother roared about his mistress, Bess Holland. Memories of their fights flash like fireworks. Of my mother scratching him. Screeching. Throwing all of Bess’s clothes out into the muddy courtyard. Barricading herself in her room.

This can’t be what love is. This can’t be what marriage means. Anger and fear and hatred and misery. Jealousy and bile. Infidelity and desperation.

There has to be something else.

There has to be love and touch and being.

There is only one place where I might find it.

I run through the rooms of Greenwich this time. I don’t look at the people around me, drawn to the king’s apartments like the crowds creeping toward an execution.

No one is by the doors of Fitz’s apartments except his gentlemen-ushers. One reaches out a hand to stop me, but snaps back. He knows his place. I open the door and have closed it behind me before I—or the ushers—even realize what I’m doing.

Fitz stands at the window that overlooks the orchard and the tiltyards. His hands are pressed against the glass, his head hanging down. He wasn’t expecting me. Probably thought the opening door was one of his men come to dress him. He wears only his shirt and breeches, the embroidered hem of the shirt just reaching his thighs.

He looks so vulnerable, I almost want to try again. Knock.

“Your Grace?” My trepidation makes me formal.

He turns abruptly at the sound of my voice. The collar of his shirt is open, exposing the skin. His expression of joy refashions quickly to unease.

“What’s wrong?” He doesn’t move, so neither do I.

“Everything is such a mess,” I say. “I don’t want to be here when it all falls apart. I don’t want to see Queen Anne displaced.” I struggle for breath. “They’re fighting.”

“They’ve always fought.”

“But the rumors—”

“Rumors said I would be groomed for king at the age of six. They said I’d be king of Ireland when I was eight. They wanted me married off to French royalty. Or dead. All of it came to nothing, Mary. Rumors are nothing but words. And so are arguments.”

He never saw my parents argue.

I cross the room quickly, before he can move, before I can think. It’s like going back to that first kiss all over again. Now I know how he’ll respond. Now I know he loves me.

I press him back against the window with my body and stand on my toes to reach his mouth. One movement—a step away or a push—would throw me toppling to the floor. I’m completely unbalanced and he is my only anchor.

He wraps his arms around me, lifting me even farther from the floor. I feel weightless. Sheltered. I twine my fingers into his hair, run my left hand down his back. I can feel every muscle through the thin lawn of his shirt. The bones of his spine. The hard, flat plane of his shoulder blade.

I can’t speak. Can’t think. All I can do is want. Want this. His lips on mine, on my throat, on the swell of my breast. I want him to kiss me. Hold me. Touch me. I want it to build a shell around us that nothing else can penetrate.

And a tiny, mutinous part of my mind tells me I want to make my marriage valid. I want to make the bond unbreakable.

I want to do what my father says.

His arms encircle my waist and I arch into him when he traces my collarbone with his tongue.

“Lavender and linen,” he murmurs, and I can feel his voice beneath my fingers and through my chest.

He takes a step—
toward the bed, please let it be toward the bed
—and I do lose my balance. My toes—already barely touching the floor—can’t stay under me, and he isn’t prepared to take all of my weight. It unbalances him and he almost topples. But he doesn’t let me go. Doesn’t even loosen his grip.

My feet aren’t beneath me, but his arms are around me, and he’s laughing.

“I wanted you supine,” he says, “but that would have been a little dramatic.”

“And perhaps a little uncomfortable.” I’m laughing, too.

“Not for me.” Fitz pulls his head back to look me in the eye. “My fall would have been broken by something soft and luscious. Perhaps I should try it.”

He drops me so quickly, I screech before he catches me again, burying his face in my neck, below my hood.

“I’ll never let you go, Mary,” he whispers, and a shiver sizzles all the way down to my toes.

There’s a bang at the door and we barely have time to separate before it flies open, revealing a man in Fitz’s livery as well as one in the king’s.

Shit.

“You must come at once,” the king’s man says. “His Majesty is asking for you.”

“Thank you. Just let me . . .”

Fitz suddenly pales, and my mind finishes the sentence for him.
Just let me get dressed
. We may be married, but standing alone and half naked together is not part of the deal we made with the king.

“Now, Your Grace,” the usher says. He appears to have taken no notice of Fitz’s disarray.

He glances at me, turns back to Fitz, and speaks impassively.

“The queen has miscarried a son.”