Brazen (23 page)

I
REGRET
MY
PRINCIPLES
IMMEDIATELY
.

Fitz moves to St. James’s Palace, and I can’t go out into the streets of London alone. The appeal of dressing up like a boy is enormous—the freedom of movement, of access, of legitimacy. But it’s the stuff of fiction. No one would ever believe such a disguise.

Lent always seems long and arduous, with its added restrictions and dietary dictates. This year it passes quickly because the meeting with King James is scheduled for after Easter.

I take to walking along the garden wall at King Street, wishing some magic would bring it down so I could run out into London. Unsupervised. Unsuspected. I gaze up at the windows of the gate. The king’s private study is up there. I wonder what he’s planning. What he’s signing. With whom he’s making alliances.

It’s just beginning to drizzle one day in April when Margaret catches up with me.

“May I walk with you?” she asks.

“I was just about to go in. Before I get wet.”

Margaret stops. Waits a beat. “I’d like to speak with you. Privately.”

Margaret always sounds serious, but today she seems even more so.

“I suppose I’m not made of sugar paste. I won’t melt.”

She takes my arm and turns me away from the windows of the king’s gate. We nearly walk the length of the garden before she speaks again.

“I need your help.”

“You’re my friend, Margaret. You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Would you?” she asks. “Even if it meant breaking the rules?”

“What are you planning, Margaret?”

“You have always been the good girl, Mary. You do as the queen asks. As your father asks.”

“Not always because I
want
to.” I haven’t done what my father asked. But I can’t tell Margaret that.

“You are also the most loyal and trustworthy person I’ve met at court. I know that you didn’t tell the queen about Madge. She already knew. She would have heard it from somewhere else.”

She speaks quickly. As if she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

“And I know how hard it is for you and Fitz,” she continues. “Not to be together. So I know you’ll understand.”

I stop. “Understand what?”

“I need to go into London.” Margaret presses me forward and glances again at the king’s gate. “We may be watched. And I don’t want anyone to suspect.”

“Suspect that we are about to climb the garden wall and run giggling into the City?”

“I have a barge waiting.”

She turns me toward the queen’s lodgings and the river gallery.

“You’ve planned in advance.”

“I’ve had to.”

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her head and neck are straight and she gazes ahead as if nothing were troubling her. The perfect picture of royalty. The duchess my mother thinks I’ll never be.

But her fingers dance nervously on my sleeves, plucking at the fabric and rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

“Can you tell me where you’re going?”

“To a wedding.”

“Whose? I haven’t heard of any. And why would you have to sneak out to do it? Surely the king would give his permission.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Margaret quickens her pace. “Because it’s mine.”

Margaret isn’t allowed to marry without the king’s knowledge and express permission. She is of royal blood, and that blood can be worth more than gold. The king will be positively apoplectic with rage when he finds out.

I almost stop right there. Margaret feels me hesitate and lets go of my sleeve, her face draining of color. The king would pay handsomely for being able to stop this marriage before it happens.

For an instant, I think of telling him. Using it as a bargaining chip to keep Fitz in England. To let us live together.
See how responsible I can be? How can you repay my trust?

My trust would not be worth having.

I pull Margaret’s hand back around my arm, pat it once, and keep walking.

“It would be an honor.”

For once Margaret’s perfect poise droops.

“Thank you.”

We cross through the queen’s gallery and into the river gallery. It’s quiet, the sound of the rain on the water thrumming. Keeping the court inside its lodgings.

“May I ask who the groom is?” I grin at her. “Or is that going to be a surprise?”

“I think it will be no surprise when I tell you it is your uncle Thomas.”

I think of how eager Margaret was to meet him. How they sat so quietly together in the boat when Fitz took us to see the dawn. How they have not been caught half-naked in each other’s rooms or writing poems in prayer books.

“You’ve been planning this for quite a while.”

“I’ve known I loved him since you introduced us.”

I’m quiet for a moment, as we walk the shadowy depths of the gallery. She’s known since the day they met.

“Is that how you can tell?” I ask. “That your love is real?”

Margaret stops.

“I don’t think it matters when you know,” she says. “Just that you do. And when you do know, you hold on to it. You don’t break it for anyone.”

Margaret leads me to the far end of the gallery where the light from the water barely penetrates the gloom. She leans over what looks like a bundle of rags and shakes out a long, roughly woven cloak and hands it to me.

“Keep the hood up until we’re out of sight.”

She slips into another cloak, and I wonder how she will get us to the privy stair where the barges land, but she turns the other way and takes us into the palace kitchens.

We cross through a dirty courtyard and into a room that can only be the bakery, rich with the scent of bread and the heat of the ovens. Only two men look up when we pass them by, and I hope they cannot recognize us. A door at the far end leads onto a narrow dock, where a little boat is waiting, shrouded in drizzle. The man at the oars doesn’t even look at us, just silently pulls out into the current as soon as we sit down.

Margaret has been planning this for a while.

She pays the waterman handsomely when he moors at an unremarkable dock on the far western edge of the city. I can’t even see London Bridge.

She leads the way down a muddy street, avoiding the shallow gutters full of effluent.

“How did you find this place?” I ask.

“Thomas did. It’s out of the way, and the priest was willing to marry us discreetly during Lent.”

I think of the proverb
Marry in Lent, live to repent
and pray that Margaret knows what she’s doing.

When I see Thomas in front of the little stone church—when I see the utter joy on his face and the tenderness with which he takes her hand—I realize that Margaret knows exactly what she’s doing. She is marrying the man she loves. I am a little bit jealous because I did it the other way around, marrying the man I was meant to fall in love with.

As I listen to them murmur through the hushed, hurried vows, I realize we are all lucky. Their quick, longing kiss is as binding as the blessing conferred upon them by the priest. This bond is unbreakable. Margaret and Thomas are united. Just as Fitz and I are.

Just like my parents, who cannot escape no matter how badly Father wishes it.

Just like the king and queen.

After the ceremony is concluded, Margaret and I hurry back to the waiting barge. As the ferryman pushes us away from shore, Margaret speaks into the gathering gloom of the river. “You don’t regret coming with me, do you?”

We have broken the rules. Gone against the king’s wishes—against the express dictates of the court. I am an accomplice. If anyone finds out, I will be as culpable as she.

And Fitz and I will never be together.

I reach out for her hand, long and thin and cold. There is no wedding ring on it to commemorate the day.

“Not at all,” I tell her.

“You’re very brave,” she says. “It takes a lot of courage to risk my uncle’s wrath.”

“I think it would take even more courage to say no to love when it looks you in the face.”

“You’re right.” Margaret watches the river ahead of us, where the lights of Whitehall flicker on the water. “We have to believe that love is more important.”

T
HE
COURT
GETS
BACK
TO
THE
BUSINESS
OF
BEING
NORMAL
. A
T
least, it appears normal on the surface. It’s like looking at the world through glass—sight is impaired by waves and distortions and the other senses so utterly stifled that every experience is suspect.

Margaret manages to seem more ordinary than ever. She is quiet, reserved, charming, and the very picture of grace. No one suspects her, and yet I can’t seem to go anywhere without being watched.

As the weather clears, I take more time outside. Spending more time with Fitz’s “words.” Fitz is still in London, though I hear he will be in Greenwich for the meeting of the Order of the Garter. So I may have a chance to see him before the journey north.

I hope.

I go to the orchard, which smells of cut grass and blossoms. I watch the birds that come to light on the apple trees and hop to the ground, flicking their tails. Wrens. Plain, brown, and ordinary. But their song tastes of freedom.

I close my eyes to listen more carefully. It’s nothing like the thin whistle of the kingfisher. This sound is like spring. Clear and green and carrying a promise.

“Your Grace.”

The voice startles me so much I almost fall over. A thick, strong hand clamps on to my arm, the fingers laced with scars. I look up into the face.

Thomas Cromwell. It’s strange to see him here. He is always with the king or in London on business. He never associates with the queen’s ladies. The last time I was this close to him was the day he argued with my father.

The day he called me
princess.

“Master Secretary.”

“I apologize for surprising you, Your Grace.” His voice is gravelly. Like he’s swallowed sand. His heavy forehead and conspicuous nose give him an air of menace; the pits and scars are what make him look like a murderer.

But his grip on my arm is gentle. More like he wants to keep me steady than prevent me from running away.

“I’m afraid I was lost in my own thoughts,” I say, and he drops his hand.

“I’d like to ask you some questions.”

What kind of questions?
I think. He watches me carefully. I wonder what he knows. Some say he knows everything. Does he know how close I came with Fitz?

“I will answer you as best I can,” I tell him.

“You have been at court for a long time.” His eyes remind me of my father’s.

“Not as long as some.”

He smiles. It’s hard to tell—just a thinning of the lips, and a little curve to the mouth. The smile is not one of humor, but one of recognition.

“You may speak freely with me, Your Grace.”

His voice, like the scrape of sugar at the bottom of the bowl, invites confidences. He looks dangerous, but he sounds . . . friendly.

However, I can’t trust anyone with my secrets.

“None of us can speak freely, Master Secretary. Society shuns those who reveal too many of their emotions. The church condemns those who utter heresy. It is treason to speak against the king or queen.”

He nods gravely.

“Of course. But things are changing.”

They are. Some things already have. Cromwell is known for being a staunch Reformist and has already advocated the dissolution of the monasteries, though he clashed with the queen over where the monastic riches should go. She argued the money should go to charity. Cromwell is using it to fill the king’s coffers.

“I must do my duty,” I say, “and follow the rules that have been laid down for me.”

Let him assume I’m pious. And obedient. Let him believe that I would never sleep with Fitz without permission. That I would never speak out against anyone. That I wouldn’t allow anyone else to break the rules, either.

“And no one in the court has ever gone against the rules?” he asks, looking casually out at the trees. Watching the wrens.

My own sense of peace vanishes. Because recently a significant rule was broken by a prominent member of the court.

Does he know about Margaret?

“I’m sure there are those who do.” I try to keep my voice neutral.

“Have you ever seen them?” The concern that lowers his brow now shades his eyes.

It’s Margaret. He wants to know about Margaret. About her marriage. I lay my hands against my skirts to stop them from shaking.

“Have you ever seen anyone in the queen’s household behaving inappropriately?” When he tips his head again, the illusion of those dark sockets is gone and his eyes spark with curiosity. “Perhaps forming a relationship she shouldn’t?”

I want to trust him. I recognize in him the hard edge of my father combined with the grave concern for my well-being. But I couldn’t even tell Father about what Margaret has done.

The word
fear
carries the iron tang of blood.

“A flirtation, perhaps,” Cromwell pursues.

“Everyone flirts,” I manage to reply.

Now the light in his eyes is brighter. As if I’ve just given him a gift he’s always wanted. He smiles. Almost fatherly.

“Everyone?” he says. “Even you, Your Grace?”

A torrent of questions and self-recriminations go through my mind. He’s joined forces with Father to get me to conceive a royal grandson. He’s working with the king to make sure Fitz and I follow the rules. To find reasons to annul our marriage so Fitz can marry a proper princess.

“Even the queen.” The words taste empty in my mouth—like biting into a hollow puff of pastry.

He looks at me closely. “Are you well, Your Grace?” Again, he puts his hand on my elbow as if to steady me. And it does. Just like when Father would stand with me against my mother’s harangues.

“I am.” I attempt a smile. Father always said not to show Mother weakness.

“You’ll tell me if you see anything . . . inappropriate? Or if flirtation goes too far?”

“Of course,” I lie. Does he know it’s a lie?

“Thank you, Your Grace.” When he lets go of my arm, I falter. But he doesn’t see because he has already turned to walk away.

I lean back against the orchard wall, the blossoms of the espaliered trees fluttering around me like the wings of ghosts. Cromwell has taken all my strength. All my mettle. Like my mother does.

I close my eyes, the sunlight glowing red through the lids, and struggle through the tangle in my mind. Was he asking about me? Or Margaret? Either of our actions could earn the king’s disfavor. Margaret’s marriage could have repercussions for all of us.

If only I could see Fitz. If only I could talk with him. If only he could rescue me from this entire mess. Spirit me away to Scotland, where we’d live amongst the savages in the Highlands, eating haggis and wearing animal skins, like in all the stories told to frighten children. Though the Scots sound less frightening than Thomas Cromwell, who somehow makes me feel safe and sabotaged all at once.

I can’t talk to Margaret about it in the public rooms. I’m afraid I would give something away. Or frighten her enough that she would.

I return to my room and find my book. The only thing I can think to write is a snippet of a poem by Thomas Wyatt.

Take heed betime lest ye be spied. . . .

I don’t even finish. I close the book before the ink has dried and search for Margaret in the queen’s rooms. The queen is in one of her states of frenzied euphoria. She instructs Smeaton to play and blows him a kiss, then she laughs and insists that Henry Norris dance with her.

I drop the book into Margaret’s lap and take a turn around the room so as not to appear too obviously eager to leave. All eyes are on the queen, who has now moved on to Francis Weston.

As I head to the door, Madge takes my arm.

“Get me out of here,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at where the queen is laughing. “I don’t think I can stand it anymore.”

“You should dance with Henry Norris,” I suggest, knowing that Margaret doesn’t want even Madge to know about her wedding.

“The queen’s castoffs?” Madge practically pulls me out the door. “No, thank you.”

I have no choice but to walk with her all the way to my room, where she promptly puts herself in the middle of my bed, pulling my embroidery basket into her lap. I send my maid out and sit on the stool by the fire. Even on a sunny April day, my room is as cold as a crypt.

“So what are you secretly communicating with Margaret Douglas about?” she asks with studied indifference, and starts separating my embroidery silks, grouping them by color.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you give her the book.” There’s a knock on the door. Madge doesn’t even look up. “See? There she is now.”

My maid steps in, followed by Margaret, who is careful not to show surprise. I think I see censure in her eyes.

I dismiss my maid and wait a moment to make sure she’s out of earshot. When I tell Madge and Margaret about Cromwell, I endeavor to express fear only for my own marriage.

“Oh, yes, he asked me questions, too,” Madge says, studying her arrangement of colors on my counterpane. Light to dark, red to violet, like a rainbow.

“You?” Margaret asks, and we exchange a look over the top of Madge’s head.

“Yes. Questions about inappropriate behavior and what I’d seen happening amongst the queen’s ladies.”

“What did you say?” Margaret asks.

Madge shrugs. “Pretty much what the duchess here did.” She winds red silk around her finger. “Everyone flirts. Especially the queen. Even with my betrothed.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything,” I assure her.

“That’s what I said. I was trying to illustrate my point. It’s like a dance around the maypole. The queen flirts with Norris. Norris flirts with me. I flirt with Weston. Weston flirts with you. You flirt with Fitz. Fitz flirts with me. It’s all just fun.”

“Fitz flirted with you?”

“I told you I have a thing for Henrys.” Madge winks, and that fiery itch rises again in my chest. Madge narrows her eyes. “I’m teasing you, Duchess. Fitz has never once looked at me sideways. That boy only has eyes for you.” She glances up. “Kind of like Margaret here, who doesn’t flirt with anybody.”

“You told him that?” Margaret’s question is a breath of relief.

“Of course! He was delighted with me. I answered everything he asked until he was as tangled up as the maypole itself.” She looks at each of us in turn. “I do know how to take care of myself, you know. And I do know how to take care of my friends.”

Madge’s face hardens a little and she tosses her head stiffly. “Especially when they tell me the truth.”

Margaret and I exchange another glance and Madge pushes me, almost off the bed. I stand up quickly, scattering multi-colored threads.

“You think I can’t be trusted?” Madge stands, too, and we’re nose to nose. “You think I’ll tell everyone you’ve gone off to fuck your own husband, even though you’re not supposed to? Give me some credit, Duchess.”

“I didn’t . . . It wasn’t . . .”

“Spare me the details and the apologies,” Madge says, gathering up the silks that stayed on the bed and throwing them—tangled—into my basket.

I look at Margaret, whose mouth is a straight line. She gives a single shake of her head.

It’s not my secret to tell.

I can do nothing but watch helplessly as Madge turns back to me, the confidence replaced by doubt.

“I didn’t say a word, Duchess, no matter how much I suspect. I deflected every one of Cromwell’s questions. And I didn’t accept his bribes.”

“He tried to bribe you?” Margaret asks, and she’s gone, if possible, even more pale.

He’s serious about catching them. About prosecuting them. If he can build a case before he tells the king, there will be no denying their guilt.

“If he’s asking questions, he doesn’t know anything yet,” I say to calm her.

“That man knows
something
,” Margaret says. “Or he wouldn’t be asking questions.”

Madge takes a step back, the palm of one hand diagonally across her mouth.

“It was you,” she says through it, looking at Margaret. “He’s not trying to catch the Duchess in someone else’s bed, he’s trying to catch
you
.” She drops her hand. “Margaret. What have you done?”

“The less you know, the safer you are,” Margaret says.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Madge says, her eyes hard. “You don’t get to protect me, Margaret. You don’t get to be noble and principled—the better friend. We are all in this together. We always have been.”

Margaret licks her lips and tugs at the hem of her sleeve. She is less at ease than I have ever seen her.

“I’m married,” she says finally, and her posture straightens again; her hands drop to her sides. “I married Thomas Howard.”

A smile dawns on Madge’s face. “You devil,” she says, and then leaps at Margaret full force, seizing her in a bone-cracking hug. “Congratulations,” she whispers, and spins her once before letting her go.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“What do you take me for, a simpleton?” Madge scoffs, tossing her head. “Besides, Cromwell is finished with me. Or, more accurately—I’m finished with him.”

Margaret laughs and Madge hugs us both, but I can’t help but wonder at the dichotomy of Cromwell’s personality. How either side of it could lure the unsuspecting into a trap.