Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (17 page)

“No
one ever need know I thought you worthy to be my wife.”

A
hollow ringing started in my ears that slowly expanded through my entire body.

“I
don’t understand,” I said through numb lips.

“Stop
it,” he snarled. “Stop playacting—I am not one of your fawning
fools—not anymore. I know what you are, and I am done with you.”

My
field of vision shrank to just his pale, stony face. My heart swung like a
church bell tolling the death of a king.

“Done
with me?”

I
grabbed his sleeve and held on as he tried to shake me off.

 
   
“But
why—why in God’s name?” I cried.

“I
am to marry another. An heiress. Come Christmastide.”

His
face flickered then everything went black. My eyes were more than wide open,
but I saw nothing.

Heiress.
Marry. Christmastide. Marry. For one blessed moment my mind hid itself in
senslessness. The words meant nothing. But then he finally shook free of my
hands, and their reality exploded across my mind like New Year’s fireworks
above the city.

Tom Clere is to marry an heiress at
Christmastide.

Something
snapped at the back of my head and the darkness cracked. Torchlight stung my
eyes. I looked at Tom’s face, but no longer knew it. The one it had belonged
to, the one I had loved, no longer looked out at me from frost-limned
green-blue eyes. Blunt hatred crouched in the black depths of his irises, ready
to spring and tear me to pieces.

“I
wish you had drowned!” I screamed and slapped his shoulder.

“For
pity’s sake lower your voice,” he hissed.

“No!
I will scream for all of London to hear.”

My
voice hammered like cannonade. It struck him, the White Tower, the chapel, and
flew for the moon.

“I
will scream so your whores hear me in France!”

He
grabbed my shoulders, fingertips stabbing to the bone.

“Be
quiet!”

“No!”
I raged. “I will scream to wake the dead!”

“I
am rather more concerned with your disturbance of the living, Mistress

Shelton.”
The smooth voice slid between us from the darkness.

Clere
threw me away. I stumbled on the edge of my skirt, but just caught myself from
falling as Master Thomas Cromwell materialized from the dark. His unrelieved
black coat and cap made his squat jowly head appear suspended in the air.

“We
could hear you from the leeward side of the White Tower,” said Cromwell.

My
eyes darted, fishing the darkness and caught the movement of a coat being
adjusted.

“Forgive
us, Master Cromwell.” Clere doffed his cap and bowed. “’Twas a silly argument.”

Cromwell’s
world-weary smile called him a liar. “As you say, Master Clere.” Cromwell’s
tight eyes turned on me. “Are you well, Mistress Shelton?”

I
tried to clear my throat, but Cromwell’s eerie arrival had struck it dry.

“Very
well, Master Cromwell,” I croaked like a Tower raven.

Cromwell
frowned. “Mistress Shelton needs refreshment. Will you see to her, my lord?”

Gravel
crunched as the Earl of Northumberland emerged from the dark. His waxy skin
rebuffed the torchlight. He looked like frost on the windowpane, weakly
transparent. Lavender smudges curled beneath his bloodshot eyes. He opened his
mouth and the fetid scent of soured apples mixed with cured meat stunned my
nose.

“With
pleasure, Master Cromwell,” he said.

He
put his hand under my elbow and neatly turned me back toward the White Tower. I
did not look back at Clere, but my nape blistered, feeling his eyes on me.

The
Earl squeezed my elbow. “You’ve put Cromwell’s eye on you, and it is heavy.”

My
stomach fluttered. “I-I did nothing wrong, my lord.”

The
Earl sighed, releasing another blast of ripe vapor. “You showed yourself
willing to follow a man in the dark and scream at another for all the world to
hear.”

My
heart clambered up my throat, seeking a place to hide.

How
did he know? Had he been watching me? Why would the Earl of Northumberland
watch me?

“I-I
only meant to take the air, my lord,” I warmed my voice, trying to hide the
lie. “And Tom Clere was nothing.”

The
Earl halted on the threshold of the White Tower’s door. “Prove it. Avoid him.”

“I
mean to, my lord. On my honor.”

The
Earl nodded, released my elbow. “Most wise. You cannot afford to offend Lord
Surrey.”

I
frowned before I could stop it. “How would I do that? I have never even met
Lord Surrey.”

His
eyes closed a moment as though he gathered himself then said, “Lord Surrey has
won Master Clere a great match. He is to marry Grace Lisle, the King’s own
cousin, come Christmastide.”

Tower
of London, London

May
31st 1533

I
returned to the hall and found an empty stool under the stairs free of
revelers. I turned my face to the wall and scraped away the tears I’d not felt
on the Green.
 

Tom Clere jilted me.

For
an heiress.
The King’s cousin.
Grace Lisle…Grace Lisle.

“Holy
Mother,” I murmured as recognition washed over me. “Janet’s last mistress.”

I
suddenly longed for Emma. She had the ready mind for imagining intrigue. How
could it be coincidence? God would not send me her servant, and give her my
betrothed.

Mayhap
Clere had had no choice? Maybe the Earl had the story wrong? Maybe I’d only
imagined the scene on the Green?

“Christ
on the Cross! I did not imagine his cruelty!”

His
hateful words, baleful eyes overflowing with contempt, empty of any kindness,
of love.

Fresh
tears matted my lashes. I scrubbed my sleeve at them as though they were a
stain to be got out.

“How is it the prettiest Norfolk girl in
the room wears the saddest face?”

Startled,
I raised my hands to hide my face then saw it was my brother Tom standing over
me clad in the green and white livery of the King.
 

“Brother!”

Tom
dropped his smile as he knelt beside me. “What’s happened?”

I
looked about us for anyone who might wish to eavesdrop. Tom frowned at my
concern.

“They’re
all swarming about Anne.” He flashed a smile. “Thick as wasps on shit.”

Still,
I felt too exposed and pulled him beside me onto the stool.

“Clere
is here,” I put in his ear.

He
clasped my hand. “Tell me all,” he said. I did. I wrung myself dry of every
unbelievable word, and as I did the shock began to ebb. Anger bled into its
place, slowly at first, but the longer I spoke the faster it came.

Tom
shook his head, eyes glazed, stunned. “I’m sorry, Mary. I thought Clere was
honorable…”

“He’s
honest as Lucifer,” I cried. “He has no intention of keeping his word before
God either.”

Tom
rubbed the parallel lines between his brows. “Listen, I know it is raw, but you
cannot dwell on it.”

“What?”
I did not trust my ears. “That is your advice?”

He
squeezed my hand to stifle my rising pique. “If Clere keeps quiet, you keep
quiet, and there’s no harm done.”

“No
harm?” I snarled. “We made promises before God. God knows. How can we say
otherwise?”

Something
sharp stung my eyes, closing them.

“No
tears, Mary. Mother can smell them.”

“I
know. I know.” I hurled them back by recalling Gabrielle’s and Emma’s desolate
faces
the day they left for Norfolk.

I will never wear that face. Not over Tom
Clere.

“If
this is Lord Surrey’s doing then your cause is lost.” Tom’s bluntness stunned
me. “Even if our parents believe you and take your part, they cannot force
Clere to honor his word.”

“They
can if Anne takes my part,” I hissed.

“She
won’t.” Tom’s certainty stopped my next argument. “Not if Surrey’s made the
match. Why would she offend her Howard kin for her Boleyn? If our parents try
and fail, you are ruined. Your best course is to keep quiet and forget him.”

My
heart stumbled against my ribs, cut off at the knee by my brother’s cold,
prosaic judgment. It sounded too much like Mother.

“Believe
me, sister,” he went on, “you will outlive this. One day the name Tom Clere
will mean nothing to you.”
  

Disbelief
scoured my tongue. “One day? Someday, you mean. What do I do until then? My
heart feels like to stop...”

“I
know,” he soothed.

“You
don’t know!” I cuffed his arm. “It was not one of your summer flirtations. I
love—loved him.”

“I
can see that,” he said in the voice he used to gentle fractious animals. “You
do not cry for the little things, like Gabrielle, nor the attention, like
Emma.”

Coming
out ahead of Gabrielle and Emma in his esteem, softened me a little.

“You
loved him, and you may go on loving him a while yet,” he murmured.

“Never!
I hate him more than I ever loved him.”

Tom’s
shoulder bumped mine. “So you should, but do not act on it. Stay the course,
Mary. You’ve made such an impression in so short a time. I hear stories of your
success.”

I
rolled my damp
eyes,
dismissing his flattery and the
untimely stab of pleasure it gave me. “Weston’s and Wyatt’s flirtations? That
is the total of my success thus far.”

Tom
nodded. “That is the measure of success at court for a girl.”

“No,
it’s not. Marriage is the only prize.”

“Just
so. And tears will not win it.”

I
let him dry the last of them with the edge of his new coat. “Uncle Wiltshire
got me a post at the Tower,” he said.

“He
could not get you one at court?”

Tom
grinned. “I must rely on you, sister.” He bumped my shoulder again. “Come now.
You have a chance Gabrielle and Emma would murder for.”

“They’re
where they belong,” I muttered. “Gabrielle’s gluttony would shame us, and
Emma’s too spoiled to bend her neck for Mrs. Marshall.”

Tom
chuckled. “And they whine like whipped dogs.”

I
attempted a smile. Tom kissed my forehead. “There’s the girl I know and best
love. You can do this Mary—for the family and for yourself. Forget Clere
and all will be well.”

The
Tower to Westminster Abbey, London

June
1st 1533

My
task for the Coronation procession was simple. Ride in the chariot almost to
the Palace of Westminster then walk part of the processional route behind
Anne’s litter. And smile. Any sign of ill temper or discomfort would be spotted
by Mrs. Marshall for certain and reported to Madge. Madge would inform Mother,
and I would receive a reprimand sure to pull the truth out of me. And then I
would be packed off for Norfolk.

I
paced the Queen’s Presence Chamber, waiting with the rest of the Maidens for
Marshall’s order to head down to the Green where the Coronation Procession was
being ordered. Joan Percy slipped from the crowd and skipped to my side. Her
bright face brought the vomit right to the back of my teeth.

“Have
you heard the news? Lord Surrey’s friend Clere is to marry the King’s cousin.”

“I’ve
heard.” I chewed the words, mangled them so that Joan squinted in confusion.
She opened her mouth sure to repeat the gossip and I attacked.

“Thomas
Clere is a Norfolk nobody. Do you Northumberland folk have naught better to do
than gossip about nobodies?”

Joan’s
hands came up trying to ward me off.
 
“What did I say?”

I
fled the chamber, plunged down the cramped spiraling stairwell and outside
pursued by the unholy litany playing in my head.

Tom Clere is betrothed.

Tom Clere is to be married.

Tom Clere is taking a wife.

Her name is Grace Plantagenet—not
Mary Shelton.

Grace?
How could parents give a babe a name they did not know she would grow into? I
hoped she had a short neck, and it crinked every time she peered up at Clere’s
weasel face.

 
I stepped outside into a breathtaking
day. The sky, deepest sea blue, shone cloudless. God himself must wish a clear
view of the proceedings.

I
kept myself apart from the other folk being arranged in their places for the
procession into London, til Marshall appeared. She ordered me into one of the
six open-air chariots bearing Anne’s ladies to Westminster Palace with Mary
Wyatt, Bess, and Joan. Joan wiggled herself between Bess and Mary Wyatt to
avoid me.

“Joan,
I—“

“Here.”
Marshall shoved a small woven basket of rose petals in my hands. She gave the
same to the others.

“If
you run out before Whitehall, wave to the crowd.”

Trumpets
blared, the chariot lurched forward and I lost my moment to apologize.

The
procession exited the Tower gate and moved onto the streets of London. I barely
recognized them. Silver bunting, gold cloth and tissue draped every building
front in Cheapside, no matter how humble. Garlands and vines swayed overhead
suspended at each cross street. Fresh straw covered the streets, giving us a
path of gold.

Bess
and Mary Wyatt made a game of tossing petals at the folk who cheered the
loudest.
 

I
misered my petals so I would not have to acknowledge the Londoners. They waved
their caps, hurrahed, called blessings on the Queen with what sounded like
honest enthusiasm.

I
bumped Bess’s elbow. “They sound truly pleased,” I shouted in her ear.

Bess
winked. “There are fountains of wine set at the major crossroads. No one shouts
like this for free.”

When
we arrived at the point from where we would walk, my basket was still half
full. I turned it over in the street where the chariot behind us crushed them.

Bess
and I were paired. She had the better of it though. The horses she followed had
all relieved themselves back at their barn. I dodged as many steaming piles as
I could, but still had to scrape the soles of my slippers against the edge of a
riding block before entering the palace.

“You
looked like a Morris dancer!” Joan Percy squealed in front of everyone.

I
wanted to slap the laughter off her face.

“Go
hang,” I snapped and instantly felt Marshall’s eye on me.

“Mistress
Shelton,” she snipped. “Remember where you are.”

How
could I possibly forget?

I
was in hell.

________________

A
carpet of sapphire blue began at the dais of Westminster Hall. It proceeded out
the door, across the grounds straight inside Westminster Abbey. It continued
down the grand aisle culminating at the Chair of St. Edward standing on a
velvet-padded stage. The Abbey’s air hummed with organ music. Sunlight struck
the stained glass windows, painting the air vibrant shades of yellow, scarlet,
and blue. I craved a pavestone to throw and shatter them. My mind confessed it
the most wondrous place I had ever seen, but my heart felt nothing of it.

I
peered behind us. Anne stood amongst a maelstrom of attendants adjusting the
ermine trimmed train of her purple velvet surcoat and robe, her sleeves, the
golden coif and circlet on her head, completely at her ease.

I
loathed people crowding me. But Anne’s impassive face was indifferent. She was
the Queen bee at the center of our hive. Even the King was just another drone
for her service.

“I
want to be like Anne.” I wanted to be able to appear like nothing ever bothered
me. I wanted to laugh and insult my enemies to their faces, knowing they could
not touch me. I wanted it so badly my body shook.

Trumpets
erupted all around us. The building trembled. It was time. I pulled my little
Book of Prayer into my hands by its chain. The weight settled me. I would play
my part and cry after Mass.

I
glanced back at Anne poised on the cusp of her God-given destiny and took her
success as a promise for my own.

Dear God, let me make a match that will
terrify Tom Clere out of England.