Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

Their
dour faces made them too conspicuous not
to
.

“And
you see cousin George Boleyn, Sir Francis Bryan, and Sir Francis Weston nearest
the Chair of Estate.”

A
simple enough division: Anne’s friends by her side, her enemies as far away as
humanly possible. The same thing happened in the nursery.

“And
do you see the people in between?”

“The
people in between?”

Those
folk neither attached to a wall nor hovering near Anne’s chair, but milling in
the great middle part of the chamber were the majority. I picked out the Duke
of Suffolk by his height and thick, shaggy chestnut beard, and Master Cromwell,
the King’s diminutive, but broad shouldered secretary, among them.

“Master
Cromwell is in between.”

Madge
poked my arm. “Clever girl.”

“But,
I thought he was Anne’s friend? He helped her to marry the King.”

“He
helped the King.”

I
glanced again at Master Cromwell’s unremarkable face. His father was a
blacksmith. Cromwell looked more like his apprentice than the King’s man. But
Mother said he held as much power as the old Cardinal Wolsey once had. There
was nothing done for the business of England that Cromwell did not have a
finger in.

He helped the King. He is the King’s
servant first—not Anne’s.

“Some
of the Queen’s ladies stand in the middle. What am I to assume of them?”

“The
same thing you assume of Cromwell.”

“That
Anne should not trust him?”

Madge
glowered. “Anne cannot trust anyone, no matter how close they stand about her.”

“Not
even George?”

Madge
glanced at her brother-in-law. “He goes as she goes. That is the way of it with
twins.”

I
started. Madge snorted. “Your mother warned you against speaking of it?
Typical. That family secret is out. We are enlightened folk here at court.”

Thanks
to Anne. The new doctrine she espoused, and the King supported, completely
overthrew the old traditions, and most vital for me, the belief in
superstition. As the veneration of purported saintly relics were proven to be
frauds, it was only a matter of time before the belief in witches followed. But
being at court, I did not have to wait for the new thinking to reach Norfolk.
If it ever did.

“Who
is the elder?” I had never dared ask before. Semmonet was too sensitive to
speak of it.

“Anne.
By a minute.
He could not bear her absence longer.”

The
same dark smile she’d shown when recounting Anne’s arrival at court played on
her lips. She was remembering something. I waited for her to share it, but a
trumpet blast dispersed the moment.

Two
solid thumps shook the floor. Heads swung toward the Privy Chamber doors. They
opened and two older gentlemen emerged. My Uncle Wiltshire, Anne’s father, and
the Duke of Norfolk, her uncle, strode into the chamber like kings themselves.
Both wore black, but Norfolk’s costume was accented with gold while my uncle
wore silver. It well matched his hair.

My
mother and uncle had the same eyes. My eyes, I realized.
And
Anne’s.
Black, and bottomless, and our best feature.
Now, they roved the chamber alighting on some faces, passing over most.

Lord
Norfolk’s eagle beak nose cast the rest of his lean face in shadow. Only his
hard, dark, deep-set eyes gleamed through the gloom. I could not believe he’d
fathered Mariah.

His
face held no beauty, no warmth. Every feature fit awkwardly with the next, as
if his massive nose had demanded so much flesh to fashion, there’d been little
left to complete the rest of his countenance.

Pity
flickered for Bess Holland. The Duke deserved a mistress who looked like
Thomasine, not the angelic Bess.

The
Lord Chamberlain appeared at the Privy Chamber door and struck his long, white
staff of office against the floor.

“The
Queen comes!” he shouted.

The
crowd fell like the tide as Anne swept by them to her chair of estate. Above
her head, the canopy bearing the royal arms swayed as she sat.

The
Chamberlain’s staff of office rocked the floor again and we rolled to our feet.

My
eyes shied at touching her. They brushed those around her, but refused to
settle on the lady herself. What did I fear? I would not turn to salt or stone.

“She
did wear the purple.” Madge chuckled. “Old Exeter looks green.”

I
glanced their way. The gray-haired Marquess and his stout wife looked ready to
vomit.

“They
never believed they would see it,” Madge sighed. “Poor Katherine. She never
wore it so well.”

It
was true. I knew it because I had seen the old Queen—Dowager
Princess—dine at Greenwich when I was eight. I never forgot the day
because she was wearing dark purple, and I overheard cousin George say that she
looked like an overripe Burgundy grape. I thought him cruel, but accurate.

Anne
could never be confused for a grape. She was all sharp, yet delicate angles and
planes. My fingers rushed to my cheeks. When my baby fat finally dissolved
would the same soaring cheekbones be revealed?

“She
glows,” I murmured.

Madge
shifted against the doorframe. “Carrying the English Saviour will do that for
you.”

Anne’s
gold trimmed gabled hood hid her fabled hair. Mother said it fell to her knees.

“The
Earl of Oxford!” The Chamberlain’s voice boomed. A silver-haired,
straight-backed man knelt before Anne’s chair. Others began to queue behind
him.

Anne,
smiling, held out her hand to the Earl. He kissed her rings.

“How
does your son, my lord?”

I
swallowed a gasp. She sounded like Semmonet—completely French!
But not like Semmonet as well.
Anne’s supple tone was full
of dark, alluring notes. It summoned the ear, as a whisper will do, demanding
perfect attention to be heard.

Semmonet
claimed it was Anne’s voice had won the King—speaking, singing, laughing,
shrewing—her every tone had captivated him.

I
marked the faces around her. All of them were rapt—especially cousin
George.

“He
is very well, madam, but anxious to return home and pay his respects to his new
Queen.”

Anne
tilted her head. “And leave the delights of the French Court?
C’est
impossible, monsieur. I cannot compete with the
marvels of Paris.”

The
Earl chuckled. “I assure Your Grace, it is so. His last letter beseeched my
permission to take ship from Calais by May Day.”

Anne
grinned. “He sounds in earnest, my lord. I shall consider it.”

Madge
snorted. “While the fox is away…”

Anne
presented her hand, ending the interview. The Earl kissed it and backed away to
be swallowed up by the crowd once more.

Madge
shook her head. “T’was the wrong day to go hunting.”

“What
was that about?”

Madge
never took her eyes from Anne. “It was a lesson. What Anne wants, Anne will
have.”

The
floor trembled again as the Chamberlain announced Sir Nicholas Carew.

Madge
quit picking at her sleeve. Her restive eyes fastened on the slim figure bowing
to the Queen. I saw nothing improper in the cant of his head, but I had no
doubt something in his manner would be set to irritate Anne.

Sir
Nicholas Carew was one of Anne’s worst enemies. They had not begun so. Mother
said that Carew’s initial support for the King in his Great Matter had been
sincere. But as the years wore on and Anne’s star rose higher than the sun, his
scruples had shifted away from the King’s desire. He and the Exeters were known
to praise Spanish Katherine and curse Anne outside the King’s hearing.

I
leaned close to Madge. “Why does he hate her so much?”

Her
elbow caught my ribs. “Be quiet. I must hear this.”

So
must everyone, I thought. The chamber seemed to be holding its breath.

Anne’s
fulsome laugh easily rippled through the hush. “I hear you owe a Master
Stikeleather in Southwark ten silver marks, Sir Nicholas.”

Madge
hissed.

Lady
Rochford and the Countess of Worcester, standing at Anne’s elbows, both
smirked. Someone near the chair laughed. Cousin George maintained a look of
polite interest, but his brown eyes sparked.

Carew
raised his head and joined the Queen’s laughter.

“
  
Your Grace, it is untrue,” he said.
“I owe Master Stikeleather twenty silver marks.”

I
liked his voice if not his words. Thin men often had thin voices, but his was
deep as the King’s without the dangerous rumble.

Anne’s
eyes glittered cold as the Thames at midnight. “Twenty, you say? It sounds that
you were certain of the outcome.”

Sir
Nicholas spread his arms. “Not at all madam, but Master Stikeleather offered me
such favorable odds, I could not resist.”

Anne’s
smile simmered. “Wasted monies then. I hope none of it was a gift from the
King.”

Sir
Nicholas chuckled. “None, Your Grace. Though in truth some came from a lost
game of Pope Julius.”

Anne’s
frigid smile crashed on Carew’s head. “The King has never lost that game, sir.”

Cousin
George pulled a purse from his belt and tossed it at Carew’s feet. “For your
next wager, Sir Nicholas: a prince for England come autumn.”

Madge
sucked in a breath. “Do not answer him.”

Why
is she urging Carew to be quiet?

Sir
Nicholas turned toward George. “And what odds will you give me?”

Sir
Francis Bryan broke from George’s side and grabbed the purse. He thrust it into
Carew’s hands. “I will give you odds the prince has his mother’s glorious dark
hair.”

Sir
Francis Weston jumped in. “I will give you odds he has her magnificent eyes.”

George
laughed. “You will need to borrow from that Master Stikeleather if you take our
wagers, Carew.”

Sir
Nicholas chuckled. “I cry mercy, gentlemen. I am a betting man, true, but I
would be a fool to wager against God’s will.”

Anne’s
throaty laughter broke over him. “No
fool are
you,
sir. Not twice.”

She
flung out her hand; long slender fingers alight with rubies, emeralds, and
diamonds. Carew never hesitated. He placed a brief kiss on the back of her hand
and backed away, tail tucked between his legs. The crowd scrambled out of his
way, desperate to avoid contact. Sir Nicholas turned toward the gallery, toward
Madge and I.

My God, he looks like a ferret.

His
wide, narrow mouth looked
ill-made
for a smile. He
wore the short, pointed beard of a Spaniard. A public declaration of where he
stood on the divorce. His sparse ginger colored hair struggled to hide a
pointed head. Taken together, he might have appeared ridiculous, but was saved
by his cold, vulpine eyes. The color of dull pewter, they looked right through
me as he approached us.

An
evil
ferret.

Carew
nodded at Madge as he strode past and the heat left the air. Madge ignored him.
I curtsied. Mother’s stricture to offend no one compelled me.

“Very
good,” Madge said. “That is a man no woman should ever insult.”

Her
dark smile was back, but her eyes were not reviewing the past.

“Anne
manages it,” I quipped.

Madge’s
eyes fixed on me. “She regrets it.”

I
stared back at Madge, curiosity overwhelming my fear. “How did she insult him?”

Her
eyes lifted from me and I had the disordered sensation of following her
attention back in time. “She made him believe something that was untrue.”

“About
what?”

Madge
bared her teeth. “His chances.”

Anne made Sir Nicholas believe she loved
him?

Sympathy
stirred for his ferret face. I understood that deception.

“Then
how does he keep his place at court?”

Madge
started picking at her sleeve again. “He’s been the King’s closest friend since
before Anne was in the cradle.”

I
frowned. “I thought the King’s best friend was the Duke of Suffolk?”

Madge
snorted. “The King has no friends just old habits.”

Holy Mother—I cannot believe--

Madge’s
fingers quit abusing her sleeve, fastened on my wrist. “You will forget I said
that.”

“I—I
will. I have.”

I
tore my wrist away.

Madge’s
fingernails grabbed it again. “My words are for your ears alone. If they find
their way elsewhere I will know it, and you will know how well I repay
betrayal.”