Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

Wyatt
gave me his right hand and turned me twice around.

“There,”
he said. “Now I am the first to partner Mary Shelton.”

Awe
made me shy from him. I slipped my hand out of his, and looked at my feet.

First
Sir Francis Weston, now this. Two of the leading lights at court had chosen me
for their attentions, and while Sir Francis’s had been predicted by Madge, I’d
never been warned against Master Wyatt’s. I hadn’t needed it.

Master
Wyatt’s life was such an open scandal no sensible young lady would let herself
be caught by his poetic charms.

He’d
fled his wife nine years ago for her adultery. He refused to support her
financially, and did not want reconciliation. So Mrs. Wyatt lived openly with
her lover, and Master Wyatt wore a cuckold’s horns with candid insouciance. He
called his wife a whore in public and laughed in her brother—Lord
Cobham’s face when he complained of it.

And
then there had been his dalliance with Anne.

Whoso list to hunt; I know where is a
hind…

Had
they truly been lovers? Or was he just another of the pack pursuing Anne that
momentous summer seven years ago. Mother had believed the former. She’d
recanted once the King’s pursuit won Anne a promise of marriage. But I knew she
still believed Wyatt’s poems were the proof.

Mayhap she confused his talent for
passion.

An easy mistake.
He looked the part of ardent lover. He
overtopped every man at court except the King. I felt his strength through my
fingers. And his rejection of his wayward wife had been his strongest feat.
He’d told the world he wanted an honest love.

If he wants such, he must be a man who
gives such.

If
he had a lover, no one knew her name. After Anne, no woman had been firmly
linked to him.

Master
Wyatt chuckled. “Retreating already, Mistress Shelton?”

Don’t look at him. He’ll draw you out and
who knows where it will end?

Wyatt
tapped the top of my hood, which only reached his shoulder.

“I
think Mistress Shelton’s modesty might inhibit her performance.”

“Nay,
Master Wyatt,” I said, raising my chin. “I am prepared to act the part as you
require.”

Wyatt’s
eyes gleamed. Violet-blue, I decided on the spot, was almost as pretty as
sapphire blue.

Wyatt
went to a near table, and picked up a leather bound book marked with the
twining initials H and M. It was a beautiful volume covered in butter soft
leather embossed in a gold capstan design.

“You
are playing Bounty, Mistress Shelton.”

He
opened the book to the script and handed it to me.

“Thank
you Master Wyatt.”

I
settled on an empty cushion out of the way as the other players were shown
their places.

My
hand trembled as I turned a page. The first pages contained the words of the
play. It was not long.
A quick allegory comparing Anne to
Queen Esther of the Bible.
My part was small, the rhyming couplets so
well crafted they attached themselves to my tongue on my first silent reading.

Why can’t this be mine?

I
flipped through the remaining pages and the next three empty ones and almost
stopped. Fresh ink stained the corner of the next page. It was a fingerprint. I
turned the edge of the page with my fingernail. The words were new. The ink had
barely been sanded. It bled at haphazard angles between lines, almost obscuring
the letters in places.

Suffering in sorrow in hope to attain,
        
Desiring
in fear, and dare not complain,
        
True
of belief in whom is all my trust,
        
Do
thou apply to ease me of my pain,
        
Else
thus to serve and suffer still I must.

My
eyes swung from the page to Wyatt, standing among his players, ordering their
steps. Did he court someone?

Hope is my hold, yet in
despair to speak

I drive from time to time,
and
doth
not keep

How long to live thus after
love’s lust,

In study still of that I
dare not break

Wherefore
to serve and suffer still I must.

To serve and suffer.
I understood that. I had done it for
five bitter months in Norfolk.

Never to cease nor yet like
to attain

As long as I in fear dare
not complain,

True of belief hath alsways
been my trust

And till she knoweth the
cause of all my pain,

Content to serve and suffer
still I must.

Ah.
The lady did not know his feelings. Who could she be?

I
peeked over the top of the book weighing all of the present options.

It
could not be the Countess, I decided. Wyatt had better taste.

Not
Jane Seymour.
Too bland.

Cousin
Mary Carey?

My
belly tingled. It seemed unlikely, but it felt possible. Mary had been a widow
so long with no new marriage whispered of. She was an expert flirt. Her
reputation could not be damaged by a liaison with Wyatt. So why did he
hesitate?

It
must be another. Someone he dared not approach.

The
only forbidden lady was the Queen. But that would make his words no more than
Pass-the-Time.

I
reminded myself of my mother’s misstep in reading too much in Wyatt’s words and
firmly shut the book.

“Finished?”

Wyatt’s
soft approach caught me unawares. For such a large man, he moved like Jane
Seymour.

I
returned the book to Wyatt’s hand. “I am, sir. The play is very good.”

“And the
poetry?”

Blood
rushed my face. He must have eyes in the back of his head.

“I
cannot say,” I lied.

Wyatt’s
smile widened. “No? I had hoped for a young lady’s opinion of it.”

My
eyes skipped away from his. “I think the Lady Mary Howard would be a better
judge, sir.”

Wyatt
drew closer. “It was not written for her.”

I
could not look at him. “Then, I would say it is too beautiful for anyone else.”

Wyatt
chuckled. “That is for the poet to judge, mistress.” He lifted my unresisting
hand to his lips. They were not soft like Weston’s. They were firm. They did
not plant the kiss against my skin, they buried it deep beneath where it rooted
and began tunneling up my arm.

“Do
not lose yourself in the part, Mistress Shelton.”

“The
part?”

His
twinkling eyes laughed at me. I snatched my hand back.

“Surely
not, Master Wyatt,” I said. “I know it is only a game.”

“Will
she be worthy of the play, Master Wyatt?” Mariah’s bored voice startled me.
Master Wyatt, unfazed by her sudden reappearance, turned his enticing smile on
her.

“As
you are worthy, lady?”

Mariah’s
eyes flickered. “Howards are born players.”

“So
are Boleyns,” Wyatt said. “As you well know.”

Mariah
rolled her shoulder. “I cannot argue that, but how much of a Boleyn can she
be?”

Wyatt
examined me with such intensity my ears burned then said, “As much as fate and
fortune allow.”

“Or
the Queen,” Mariah drawled.

Wyatt
grinned. “That is what I said.”

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

May
Day 1533

I
turned to Psalms and the note fell out of my Book of Prayer into my lap. It was
a tiny slip torn from a larger piece and folded only once.

Let me bear your favor in
the tourney.

-FW

My
heart tripped against my breastbone. Sir Francis Weston wanted to carry my
favor in the tournament. I elbowed Joan and handed her the note. Joan’s mouth
went round.

“Will
you let him?” she whispered.

“Of
course.”

“What
about Wyatt?”

“If
he’s made a knight by noontime, I shall consider him.”

Joan’s
giggle reached Marshall’s sharp ears. She sent us a look that promised grief.
We made ourselves attentive through the rest of the service.

“I’ll
meet you in the gallery,” I told Joan as Mass ended. I ran back to our chamber
to collect my best handkerchief. I opened the door and caught Janet
straightening from the bottom of the clothespress.

“What
are you doing?”

Janet
held up a pair of shoes. “The sole is come loose, Mistress Mary.”

“Never
mind it,” I said, going for my chest. “You need to get to the tourney field.
Sir Francis Weston is bearing my favor in the contest.”

I
found my very best handkerchief—creamy French silk with my initials
picked out with real silver thread—folded with a bit of lavender. I shook
it out. “Is it too late to press it?”

Janet
fingered the worst crease. “Yes, mistress. But surely Sir Francis will not
mind.”

I
smiled. “He will not. He only asked for it during Mass.” I plucked the note I’d
tucked in my sleeve. “I don’t know how, but it was in my Book of Prayer.”

Janet
reached for it. “Shall I burn it, mistress?”

I
grabbed it away from her fingers. “Of course not!”

Burn
his first written words to me? Was she mad?

I
slid the note back inside my left sleeve. I could not tuck it away in the
hidey-hole inside my chest. Not in front of my servant.

“Hurry
Janet, or you’ll miss it!”

_____________

Joan
had saved my seat just a row behind and to the far right of the Queen. The way
was clear to reach the railing when the moment came. I smoothed my handkerchief
across my knees then tied a loop. I knotted it twice so it could not be lost on
the field.

A
raucous cheer went up as Weston entered the lists. He galloped his frothing
gray gelding the length of the field. Only the King looked finer. The sun
flashed like quicksilver against his ornate French armor. Scarlet ribbons
trailed from the top of his helm. He sharply turned his horse back toward the
gallery. He came closer and his vivid blue eyes gleamed through the tiny
aperture of his visor as he scanned the gallery.

“Now,”
Joan urged. I stood and stepped down toward the railing. The breeze lifted my
favor. Weston pulled his horse to a stop below the Queen and saluted her.

Well, he must do—she is Queen of
the May.

A
crown of violets and early white roses bound Anne’s dark hair. Thin white
ribbons slithered through her loose hair. Anne rose and that’s when I saw the
blackwork handkerchief in her hand. Sir Francis lowered his lance, and the
Queen tied her favor around it. Lady Rochford led the applause.

The
back of my skirt went tight.

“Sit,
Mary!” Joan pulled harder. I fell onto our shared cushion far too late to
prevent the flurry of mocking jeers that descended.

I
shoved my token so far up my sleeve the stitches popped.

Anne
resumed her seat as Weston rode away. The Countess was instantly at her ear.
The Queen giggled, turned her head in my direction, but it was the Countess who
met my eyes.

“Why
does she hate me so?”

Joan
squeezed my hand. “Because you were Lady Rochford’s choice.”

I
flung her hand off. “I know that much. But I’ve been here a whole fortnight.
When does she find someone else to torment?”

Joan
made no answer.

Dear Lord, now I’ve upset Joan.

Joan,
my nightly buffer against Bess Holland’s icy feet.

“Forgive
me, Lady Joan. I am out of sorts.”

Joan
wiggled away from me. “For good cause. Sir Francis let you humiliate yourself.”

If
it had come from anyone else, I would not have doubted the jibe, but it was
Lady Joan Percy who hadn’t the stomach to break a flea if it was biting her.

“I
am sorry,” I murmured, slid my handkerchief from my sleeve and pressed it into
her hands. “You do not deserve the sharp edge of my tongue.”

Joan’s
shy smile emerged. “Well, you cannot give it to those who do. The Countess
would love to see you gone.”

“Just
to win a point over Lady Rochford?”

Joan
nodded. “Of course, because—“

Trumpets
smothered what she said next. Sir Francis and his opponent held their horses at
either end of the course, poised to start their match. But I’d lost all
interest in the outcome.

“Because
what?” I shouted in Joan’s ear. She shook her head unable to hear.

I
forced myself to watch Sir Francis battle Sir Richard Page. He claimed the
victory, as I’d known he would.

It should have been done for me.

Anne
tossed part of her garland onto the tourney field. One of Weston’s grooms
snatched it up for his master.

God be my witness, next time, it shall
be.