Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (19 page)

Palace
of Whitehall, London

June
2nd 1533

“Lord
John pestered poor Frances all night.” Bess dropped a morsel of cake in her
mouth before continuing. “She told me at Mass that he cannot wait to see you
again.”

I
shoved a larger piece in my own mouth so I could not answer her right away.
Lady Frances had no love for me. She would not have made it up.

Lord
John de Vere wanted to see me. The Earl of Oxford’s heir wanted to see me
again. No matter how it was put my mind could not seize it.

Why did he save me?

His
hands fitted themselves around my waist again, lifted me,
tossed
me toward the massive beamed ceiling as though I were a handful of rose petals.
And as I flew all thought of Tom Clere and Lord Surrey scattered.

When
the
volta
had finished, he kissed my hand. His thick brown hair, lustrous as a marten’s
coat, had brushed my skin. It was soft as my own. As he straightened, I
glimpsed two remarkable things: a teardrop pearl much like Mariah’s dangled
from his left ear; and, a thin, jagged scar, white from age at the corner of
his left eye. It puckered as he smiled, tugging his upper eyelid down, skewing
his expression. His lips read happy, his eye sad. It pulled my heart in two
directions, leaving me completely beguiled. He had said no word of farewell just
departed like a silent, benevolent shade.

Mother,
Madge, Cousin Mary Carey had all moved my way, but it was Mrs. Marshall who
caught me first. She’d grabbed my tingling hand and pulled me into the very
alcove I’d chosen for my hidey-hole just minutes ago.

“You’re
red as blood pudding,” she’d hissed. “What did he say to you?”

I
did not know if she meant Surrey or no.

“N-naught—he
simply wished to dance.”

Marshall
scowled. “There is nothing “simply” done by Lord John de Vere.”

John
de Vere. De Vere. Lord Oxford’s son and heir. The one who’d begged to return to
England in time for Anne’s
coronation.

Marshall’s
tongue slid across her top teeth. “He is back from France for good, you know.
The King has made him a groom in the Privy Chamber. Everywhere the King goes,
so goes Lord John.”

The
King visited the Queen every day—for hours.

I
shook my head, dismissing her obvious implication.

“It
was just a dance, Mrs. Marshall. Naught more.”

Madge
snorted. “Already willing to keep his secrets. That face still wields its
power.”

His secrets?

After
the service he’d done me…yes, I would willingly keep them from Marshall,
perhaps from God Himself.

“I’ll
have my eye on you, Mistress Shelton.
Far more firmly than
before.
Remember it.”

Marshall
had rushed away, probably to harass her usual target Joan Dyngley, and I took a
long, shuddering breath.

I
wove through the crowd, eyes on the floor so that none of my kin could hook me
with a look, and escaped to my lodgings. I’d wriggled out of my gown and
climbed into the empty bed. I fell asleep sometime after the bells sounded
midnight and never heard Joan and Bess return. My dreams held me fast as Lord
John’s sure hands.

I
awoke this morning feeling lighter than I had since I’d come to court. Brother
Tom had predicted all would be well. And it was! Tom Clere was gone. Surrey
returned to France tomorrow. And I might see Lord John de Vere today.

If I do, I will thank him for his
kindness. No—I will reward him.

I
cringed at my foolishness.

What could I offer Lord Oxford’s heir?

“The
Queen is leaving for the tiltyard.” Lady Rochford’s announcement launched
Anne’s Presence Chamber into heady chaos. Ladies formed up in order of
precedence. The few men about removed themselves to the walls, out of our way.

The
Privy Chamber doors opened, pouring out Anne and her intimates after her hour
rest and refreshment. She had changed from the crimson gown she’d worn to
morning Mass into black silk over an ivory kirtle. Her golden B choker flashed
from the hollow of her throat. Three creamy teardrop pearls dangled from the B.
I gaped at her matching gable hood. With the black lappets pinned up it
appeared an enormous black beehive hung from the back of her head.

Bess
lifted her shoulder. “I know. ‘
Tis ugly as sin.
But it
is traditional for an English queen.”

My
mother’s voice sounded in my ears. “She must be scrupulously traditional in
everything she does now.”

But
how traditional was it for one of the King’s musicians to attend her Privy
Chamber?

Mark
Smeaton trailed the Queen’s entourage, but with such a little distance between
him and the last, unwary onlookers could not be sure he was not one of their
number
.

He
caught my eye on him and winked as he’d most like seen Wyatt do. I turned my
head.

“Mark
Smeaton is too well-favored.” I nudged Bess who dug into the cake again.

Bess
shrugged. “He is well-favored in face, form, and the King’s good graces. And
most important his music soothes Anne. So yes, his cup does well runneth over.”

My
ears fastened on Anne’s name. “Anne needs soothing?”

Bess
nodded, lowered her voice. “The babe is making it hard for her to rest. Mrs.
Horsman says he kicks and turns at all hours.”

“A
strong babe.” I peered at Anne’s belly. “It must be a boy.”

Bess
popped another crumb between her lips. “No doubt. You should have another bite.
The jousts may go on past supper.”

I
took her advice and ate another large morsel just as the yeomen opened the
Presence Chamber doors. Unlike Greenwich, the Presence Chamber at Whitehall
Palace opened directly onto the Watching Chamber. Yeomen, halberds held
length-wise, kept back the
press of commoners come
to
gawk at their new Queen.

Laughter,
jokes, singing escorted the Queen’s parade to the tournament gallery. Lady Joan
Percy did a twirl on Sir Francis Weston’s hand. He saw me and waved with his
free hand.

“I
hope she’s not his next target,” I said to Bess.

She
shook her head and her white-gold hair swayed behind her. “Sir Francis knows
better. The Percys are hot-blooded and easily insulted. Just like the Boleyns.”

“Or
the high and mighty Howards,” I said under my breath.

Trumpets
announced the Queen’s arrival in the gallery above the tournament grounds. For
a fleeting instant, I let myself imagine that they heralded me.

It’s like a cat wearing a bell. Everyone
always knows where you are.

And
everyone bows. Faces disappeared as hoods fell forward and caps were doffed.
Anne acknowledged their obeisance with a little smile and took her chair. Her
father and mother sat to her right. Lady Lee and Lady Rochford settled behind
her.

Bess
nodded to me. “I will see you at supper.” She went to sit with Mary Carey who
was surrounded by her Howard kin—Lord Surrey conspicuous among them. He
kept his eyes on the field even as Cousin Mary, seated beside him, waved at me.
I waved back once then looked for Lord John. But his dark head was not among
those seated on the Queen’s side of the gallery.

I
spotted Joan Percy among the other Maidens seated four rows behind the Queen.
We had entirely mended our quarrel from Coronation day, after I gave her my
only pair of leather gloves. If I did not find a way to curb my tongue, I would
be without a friend and half my wardrobe by midsummer. I waved at her to save
me a seat.

“Mistress
Shelton.”

For
an instant, I thought it was my mother calling me. No one else’s voice carried
such authority. But Mother did not sound French.

I
looked toward the Queen. She crooked her forefinger at me.

I
skirted the feet of the high and mighty sitting in the Queen’s row, including
Uncle Wiltshire and Aunt Elizabeth. Aunt Elizabeth coughed as I knelt at Anne’s
feet.

“Run
and fetch our new foot stool from
Our
privy chamber.”

I
would miss the opening contest—Cousin George against Sir Francis Bryan. I
had wanted to see how well the one-eyed Bryan could joust.

But
this was only the second errand the Queen had ever tasked me. And it came a day
after Surrey’s abuse. He was here to see she favored me enough to do her an
errand. And she might favor me more in the future.
Enough to
protect me, perhaps.

She’d
saved one of her maidens from ruin years ago for possessing a banned book.
She’d given money to succor unwed mothers in a parish near Greenwich. Surely
she could put down Surrey’s threat.

“At
once, Your Grace.”

I
backed
away,
counting four measured steps then turned
on my heel and ran back inside the palace.

I
burst past the Yeomen guarding the door to the Presence Chamber. Their eyes
followed me, but nothing else of them moved. Three of Anne’s chamberers hovered
over the remnants of the cake. They froze at my entrance.

“I’m
here for the Queen’s new stool,” I said, and they relaxed.

“It’s
the green French thing by her chair,” Joan Dyngley told me.

I
could have told her it was a gift from King François himself, but I didn’t
think she particularly cared.

I
went to the Privy Chamber door and found it locked. I turned the handle again
to prove it was so.

“Why
is this door locked?” I asked the chamberers. They all frowned.

“The
Countess of Worcester is within,” said Joan Dyngley. “You should knock.”

My
chest fell. That lady had no use for me save as a target for her barbs. My
connection to Lady Rochford had forever planted me in the enemy camp. I had no
doubt she mocked me to the Queen. How much of the laughter that daily escaped
under the Privy Chamber door had to do with me I did not wish to know.

But,
today I was on the Queen’s errand. The Countess of Worcester could go hang.

I
rapped my knuckles against the thick oak door three times. I was about to
again, when I heard the bolt slide.

Lady
Worcester’s pale face appeared at the crack in the door.

“Why
aren’t you with the Queen?” she snarled, setting me back on my heels.

I
glanced back at the Lady Chamberers who continued picking at the cake while
listening to every word.

“The
Queen wants her French stool, if you please.”

I
smiled, hoping to soothe over whatever new pique I’d raised with her.

Lady
Worcester’s belligerent sigh told me I’d failed.

“Wait
a moment.” She shut the door in my face and shot the bolt home again.

What is going on in there?

I
put my ear to the door. I heard Lady Worcester’s muffled cursing. Something
heavy hit the floor then came a hiss of laughter. The bolt whined as someone
drew it. I jumped back just before the door opened and she thrust the stool at
me.

“Don’t
stand there, take the thing. It’s heavy.”

She
did not lie. I bobbled the stool, nearly dropping it.

“Ninny!” Lady Worcester hissed. She
righted the thing in my arms. “You’ll run like the Devil’s after you. The Queen
hates to be kept waiting.”

“If the Queen
says aught about my tardiness, I’ll tell her the cause,” I snipped.

Lady
Worcester’s azure eyes fixed on me. Then she struck my temple, knocking my hood
sideways.

“You’ll
keep quiet, Mary Shelton. The Queen does not need you running to her telling
tales of nothing. Take yourself back to her and blame your own missteps for leading
you the wrong way.” She pulled her skirt back, slammed the door and threw the
bolt home with vicious force.

Shock
rooted me to the floor. No one other than kin and tutors had ever struck me. No
one.

I
slowly turned around. The chamberers all wore the same thoughtful look.

Joan
Dyngley beckoned me over. She gently put my hood aright.

Her
kindness coaxed my throat open. “She has a man in there!”

Joan
Dyngley flashed a calculating smile. “How much would you like to know who he
is?”

_______________

I
returned to the gallery, panting from running the entire way. My arm muscles
burned, exhausted by the stool’s weight. But I carefully set it down and
arranged it under the Queen’s slender feet.

Anne
rewarded me with a tiny, dark grin.

“Had
you thought we meant our stool at Greenwich, Mistress Shelton?”

Uncle
Wiltshire hid a smile behind his hand. Aunt Elizabeth glowered.

“Forgive
me, Your Grace. I got turned around there and back. I don’t yet know
Whitehall’s ways.”