Gilt (21 page)

“Oh? What are they telling you?” But I knew. I just wasn’t sure I agreed with them entirely.

“That you want to be kissed.”

I pressed my lips into a line, and he laughed.

“I see your mouth doesn’t agree.”

I lowered my eyes. They said too much. Just as Cat had told me.

He drew his finger beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him again, and put his mouth on mine. I had expected the kiss to be like William’s, soft and bright, like a smile made for
two. But Edmund’s kiss tasted of smoke and felt like a mad rush, like shooting the waters of the Thames beneath London Bridge. Thrilling and dangerous. Part of me wanted to run. A small part.

He pulled away, his lips just inches from mine, a devilish smile playing on them.

“Now I see your mouth and your eyes want the same thing.”

“And what is that?” My attempt at playful flirtation wavered at the expression on his face. He looked intently into my eyes for half a breath, then focused covetously on my lips.

“More.”

I couldn’t disagree. His kiss made me giddy, disoriented, out of control. I moved to close the gap between our mouths. His smile widened.

The sound of footsteps stopped me just before the point of contact, and we stood motionless, Edmund’s breath cooling my lips.

“Forgive us!” Alice’s voice echoed down the gallery and then she strolled into my field of vision. Followed by William Gibbon. “We appear to have waylaid a private
tête à tête
.”

William said nothing, just stared straight ahead. Edmund stepped back and pulled at the bottom of his doublet. The action caught my eye and when I looked up at him, he grinned. He thought I was looking at his codpiece. I frowned at him, which only made him grin more broadly. Until he saw me glance at William again. Then his eyes narrowed.

“Or perhaps it was a
bouche à bouche
.” Alice continued. She
grabbed William’s arm proprietarily. “Please don’t let us disturb you.” She wore the dress Cat had given her, the russet bodice making her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow. And at that moment, I was more jealous of Alice Restwold than I had ever been of Catherine Howard. The state of my stained and frayed gown suddenly sat heavy upon me.

“It is no disturbance,” I said, unable to look at William at all. “I must return to the queen’s apartments.”

I hurried off, uncaring if they had heard my mumbled words or even noticed my consternation. Let William have Alice if he so chose. If he wanted a girl like her, he was more stupid than I had thought. Alice liked nothing better than a tight ass and association with the duke. All she wanted was to lord her knowledge and conquest over everyone else. Let her. I pushed past them, my eyes on the floor, hoping to hide my face, ravaged by stifled tears and embarrassment. I heard Alice titter again, and their footsteps as they ambled in the opposite direction.

I looked back.

Edmund stood where I had left him, watching. He smiled, turned on his heel, and walked away. As if he had been waiting for me to look.

As if he had known I would.

N
EWS CAME OF UNREST IN THE NORTH
. O
NCE AGAIN
. Y
EARS BEFORE
, during the time of Queen Jane, some of the northern bishops and lords had committed treason by instigating the Pilgrimage of Grace. It was a backlash against the king’s religious policies when he made himself the head of the church, breaking with the Pope in Rome and dissolving the monasteries.

The pilgrimage accomplished nothing, except the mass execution of the rebels. And a general, nagging distrust.

So now, the king decided to put an end to all of it. To make his presence—
his
Grace—known to everyone. He, and the entire court, would travel north. To York, the city of his grandfather, Edward IV. A great progress. Proof of power.

The court flew into a whirlwind of activity. The progress would begin in summer, and it seemed the king planned to move most of the palace as well as courtiers, guards, bearers, archers, and horsemen. Armor, arms, pikes, and cannon. It was like an invasion, albeit one dressed up as ceremony.

Cat ordered dozens of new clothes, all to be packed away and carried hundreds of miles so she could be beautiful and resplendent every day of the journey. Gowns made of cloth of
silver that shone like a pond in the summer sun. Bodices of crimson velvet trimmed with gold. Silk sleeves every color of the rainbow. The king called for the same, his doublets and caps fashioned from cloth of gold. We packed their furs, jewels, hoods, trims, and bindings—everything that made the king and queen things of beauty.

Their wardrobes would awe the ignorant common people of the country we passed through. How could the uneducated peasants not believe that the king and queen were God’s very representatives on earth?

An army of servants packed the king’s most beautiful tapestries, stripping the walls of Hampton Court, Greenwich, Whitehall, and Westminster. All manner of gold and silver utensils, plates, jugs, and accoutrements were carefully laid in cedar boxes to be used throughout the journey.

Saddles, litters, and carts were requisitioned, decorated, or made from scratch to transport all the people and materials the court would be carrying. The king commandeered five thousand horses, carts carried two hundred tents to house us all, and we were to be accompanied by a thousand armed soldiers to keep us safe.

But the more days I lived, the less safe I felt.

In May, the duchess came grinning with a note from Lord Poxy, claiming what was rightfully his.

I took it to Cat immediately.

She read it carefully, one word at a time, and handed it back to me.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I suppose it’s your duty to marry him.”

“But . . .” I scrambled to contradict her. “But what about the progress? What about you?”

“You mean, what about Edmund, don’t you?”

“No,” I countered. Though it was true I preferred him to Lord Poxy.

“You’ve kissed him, right?” she asked. “Anything else?”

“No, Cat.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think I love him.”

“I’ve told you before that love doesn’t matter.”

“Cat,” I said. “I am not going to have sex with that man.” Maybe.

“And defy a direct order from your queen?”

“I don’t want to get pregnant.”

“There are ways to meddle with a man and not get pregnant,” Cat replied. “You
need
Edmund Standebanke’s attention.”

“Why?”

“Because he travels with a pack.”

“Like a dog,” I said, unable to shake myself of the image she had conjured weeks before—the men of the court sniffing about like animals.

“Exactly. It’s easier to conceal something in a pack. It’s difficult to keep secrets when you run rogue.”

I got a sinking feeling. I thought of the pack in which Edmund Standebanke ran. I thought of the bellwether of
that group—the alpha male whom all the rest followed.
Culpepper.

“Conceal what?” I asked.

“Never you mind,” she said, then added, “Help me out of my bodice and sleeves. I’m ready for bed.”

“I think you should be careful,” I whispered.

“Oh, you do, do you?” she asked. “You, who have never felt the pleasure of a man, think I should be careful? I’m not surprised.”

I bristled at her condemnation of me. But I couldn’t let her get away with it. I couldn’t let her destroy herself.

“Cat,” I began. “It’s dangerous—”

“Oh, God’s blood, Kitty, I’m only flirting. Everybody does it. Queens and kings and courtiers. It’s
expected.
”

“Then you don’t need me to cover for you.”

“Why, in the French court, apparently, they have open affairs all the time!” It was as if I hadn’t even spoken.

“The
men
do, Cat,” I said. “Not the queen.”

“Shut up, Kitty,” she said. “Just shut up about it. I hate being queen. All the stupid responsibilities. I’m having a little fun for once. And because I’m queen no one can do a thing about it.”

“But Cat,” I pleaded.

“Listen,” she turned to me. “It comes down to this. You can marry Lord Poxy. Go off and live on the Poxy estate and have twelve Poxy children. Or you can stay at court. Entertain Standebanke. And maybe have a little fun. You choose. And I will ensure your choice comes to fruition.”

“It’s hardly a choice, Cat.”

“Good,” she smiled. “Then I’ll make it for you. I know which one you really want. We don’t have room in the entourage for one more. And I need my dearest friend to come with me. Lord Poxy will just have to wait to get his hands on you.”

T
HE KING ELIMINATED POTENTIAL TROUBLEMAKERS BEFORE OUR DEPARTURE
. Prisoners long held in the Tower. Anyone who carried a drop of non-Tudor royal blood posed a threat, as a standard around which rebels could rally.

Margaret Pole, the Countess of Salisbury, was charged with treason. She was daughter to Richard III’s brother, sixty-seven years old and frail. She refused to plead guilty or lay her head on the block. It took the inept executioner ten or more strokes of the ax to dispatch her.

On that sorry note, it began to rain. The roads quickly clogged with mud and became impassable and we were forced to remain immobile in Greenwich, looking dejectedly northward, for three entire weeks.

There was no flirting. No lover’s meetings. No men. Just dreary boredom.

The Duke of Norfolk took his trusted servants and braved the rain and muck, securing great houses and deer parks for the king’s use. Rumor was he would meet back up with the court in Lincoln. I watched Alice for signs of distress, but she
dared not show them to me. I didn’t know how, but the pain of William’s absence was greater than that of his presence. Even though he’d chosen Alice over me.

We listlessly played music or repeated old gossip or embroidered tapestries or tried on each other’s clothes, leaving kirtles and sleeves and bodices strewn about the chambers, too lethargic to pick them up again.

“Why don’t we just call it a day?” Joan moaned, staring out the window at the waterlogged hills and swollen Thames.

“We can’t call it a day, it’s been a month,” I said.

“The king has to go,” Alice said importantly. “He has to get to York.”

“But why?” Joan said. “I’m so sick of the rain and the mud already and we haven’t even left yet!”

“And your comfort is so important to the king,” I snapped.

“It’s not just me!” Joan said. “Everyone’s complaining.”

“You’re just complaining the loudest.”

“No,” Joan said, sticking out her tongue. “You are.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you’re complaining about me complaining!”

We stared at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter.

“Oh, really,” Alice sniffed. “It wasn’t that funny.”

But the laughter bubbled up unbidden. Joan and I clung to each other and giggled helplessly, our hair coming unbound and our faces red and splotchy.

“There’s really nothing to laugh about,” Alice said.

I considered the rain, the prospect of the long uncomfortable, muddy journey ahead of us, and the executions that had so recently taken place. Alice’s perfidy.

“No,” I concluded, “I suppose you’re right.”

“At least it’s stopped raining,” Joan said to the window.

“For now,” I grumbled.

“What sour faces my maids have!” Cat swept into the room, the hem of her rose-petal pink skirts skimming the floor. We all sank into curtseys and she laughed.

“Why so glum?” she asked.

“The rain.”

“The mud.”

“The boredom.”

“Need we say more?” I asked.

“Well, I have thought of something we can do to alleviate the last item,” Cat said, hugging herself and bouncing on her toes.

“What is it?” we asked in unison and she giggled.

“Hide-and-seek.”

We stared at her in silence.

“We can play in the castle galleries,” she said. “There must be loads of secret hiding places in the vacated rooms and courtyards.”

Hide-and-seek wasn’t my favorite game. My discomfort in enclosed spaces gave me an animalistic fear of being found. As
a child, I would hold my breath for so long I saw spots before my eyes. And when I wasn’t near fainting, I was bored out of my mind.