Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (37 page)

Windsor
Castle, Windsor

August
1533

It
required two days, but a local woman, a laundress, procured the stuff from the
cunning women up the road for a silver penny, and a second for her silence. The
little clay jar bespoke witchcraft or fraud.

“Do
I use all of it?” I asked the woman before she returned to the bowels of
Windsor.

Her
sunken cheeks plumped like a bellows. “If you want a murder,” she cracked. She
eyed me head to toe. “A little thing like you, two drops. No more.”

I
returned to Mariah’s lodgings. She had already dismissed the servants, including
Janet. A pallet had been laid at the foot of the bed.

“Three
drops,” Mariah countermanded the laundress’s instruction.

I
searched her moon pale face for some clue as to its true potency. A subtle
tremor of her lower lip betrayed a wisp of urgency.

“I
will pray for God’s guidance, my lady,” I said.

“He’ll
guide you straight to Suffolk’s bed,” she informed me.

Mariah
insisted I sleep on the pallet. She did not want her mattress soiled. I lay
awake the remaining hours of night half-expecting her to smother me instead of
waiting on the potion.

Mother of Mercy! If I die, may Mariah rot
in
hell.

The
first dose did not take. I woke with a dull pain in my bowel and naught more. I
took the second dose the next night, hid the vial again, lay down and waited. I
fell asleep waiting.

I
dreamt of crisp white swans plying the banks of the Thames about the water
stairs at Shelton House. My parents came into the garden with bows. My brother
Ralph held a sling of all things. Gabrielle and Emma carried a net between them.
I watched them from Mother’s window, creep upon the lovely things. I banged
both fists against the glass shouting at the swans to fly. Only Ralph looked
up. He hawked and spat in my direction.

I
woke, shaking beneath a damp coverlet.

I
had the ridiculous thought that Ralph’s spittle had hit me then the contents of
my stomach hurtled up my throat.

I
retched and retched again. The second course left me too breathless and weak to
sit up. I collapsed on the pallet and thought I heard clapping.

I
cracked my stinging eyelids. Bare toes wriggled inches from my face.

“Well
done,” Mariah whispered. “They might think you ready for the winding sheet.”

The
toes disappeared. Soft footfalls sounded then were gone. My eyelids shut.

“Holy
Mother,” I sobbed. “She’s killed me.”

_____________

Damp
coldness touched my forehead. My eyelids fluttered. Cousin Mary Carey’s blue
eyes peered at me, dark and pinched with worry.

“Mary.
Did you eat spoilt meat?”

“It’s
the
sweat
,” a voice declared from
somewhere on the other side of the chamber.

Cousin
Mary raised her eyes at the speaker. “It’s not the
sweat
, Madge. For pity’s sake you’ll have the whole castle in an
uproar. Where is Doctor Butts?”

“He’s
coming,” Madge said. “Though after this Anne won’t have him near her.”

Cousin
Mary sighed. “Of course not. Help me carry her to the bed.”

“Leave
her where she is!” Madge’s voice cracked over our heads. “You cannot pollute
Mariah’s bed.”

Cousin
Mary pressed a freshened cloth to my forehead. “Do you think you could take
some ale?” she asked me.

I
whimpered, which she took for assent. The ale stung my cracked lips, but I got
two sips down before collapsing back on the pallet. I did not think I could
rise again.

“I’ll
be back soon,” she murmured. I heard her feet pause near the door. She conversed
with Madge a moment then left. Moments later a new voice joined Madge.

“She’ll
have to go.”

Aunt Elizabeth.

“Has
Anne been told?” asked Madge.

“She’s
still abed,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “Mariah did right to wake me first.”

“What
is keeping Doctor Butts?” Madge muttered.

“I
sent him back to bed,” Aunt Elizabeth murmured. “He is here for Anne, not the
least of her servants.”

Madge
sucked in a hasty mouthful of air. “But—but what if it is the
sweat
?”

Aunt
Elizabeth snorted. “I’ve nursed a household through two sweats. This is bad
meat, nothing else.”

Madge
tapped her foot. Aunt Elizabeth sighed. “But for safety’s sake she will be
removed from Windsor to recover.”

“Shelton
House is closed,” Madge said. “Lady Anne is not due for another fortnight.”

“I
know it,” Aunt Elizabeth snapped. “Which makes it perfect. I will take her
myself and send a servant to mind her. Go and order a skiff. No one must know
why she’s gone. Suffolk must have no cause to reject her.”

Madge’s
foot paused. “Will he truly have her?”

Aunt
Elizabeth coughed. “Yes. Anne will have it announced after the birth of the
prince. Suffolk’s debts are forgiven, and we have a Duchess in the family.”

“A
Shelton duchess,” Madge muttered.

“Created
by a Howard queen,” Aunt Elizabeth’s haughty voice stabbed my ringing ears.
“Curb your envy, Mrs. Shelton, and your tongue. Neither serves our cause. And
if you do not serve it, you do not keep your place. I will remind--”

Aunt
Elizabeth’s reminder was lost forever as feet pounded up the hallway to the
door.

“What
in God’s name is the trouble?” Aunt Elizabeth snapped.

“Y-your
pardon, madam,” Cousin Mary gasped. “Lady Mary Howard is ill too.”

Shelton
House, London

August
1533

Mariah’s
illness provided cover for my own. Aunt Elizabeth ordered our removal, leaving
Madge to say that I had been taken as well, since I had been exposed to
whatever Mariah had contracted.

A
barge was borrowed from the Queen instead of calling a public wherry. Aunt
Elizabeth permitted me to be laid down beside Mariah within the cabin. She sat
in Anne’s chair. Cousin Mary settled between us and acted as our nurse. She
dabbed my face and neck with tepid water the entire journey to London.

Before
we’d even left the water stairs, my illness began to lift. I mimicked my fading
symptoms, moaning, pretending to retch and producing only dry heaves then
feigning sleep. Cousin Mary steeped my forehead in cool clothes til the skin
puckered. Her gentle touch stirred my memories of Mrs. Clyde’s nursing. For the
very first time, I was grateful she would not be awaiting me at Shelton House.
She would see through my ruse in an instant and God knew what Aunt Elizabeth
would do to me.

How did Mariah discover where I hid the
stuff?

For
that was what she must have done. And taken more than I, for her symptoms were
still heavy. Her head lolled as the barge raced with the tide toward London.
She had not opened her eyes since her groom had laid her down beside me. The
fur-lined cloak tucked under her chin was flecked with vomit.

Why in God’s name did she do it?

To get away from court?
But why?
What
was there for her in London?

Aunt
Elizabeth, on hearing Cousin Mary’s news, had sent her flying off to Doctor
Butts. Apparently, the Doctor’s services might be spared for a Howard. Doctor
Butts had wanted to bleed her, but Aunt Elizabeth declared time short and only
asked if she was safe to travel. Doctor Butts said the only thing he could, so
Mariah’s things too were packed up and taken to the barge with my chests.

“I
will see Mariah to her father’s house,” Aunt Elizabeth told Cousin Mary. “You
will go to Shelton House. If it is the sweat you know what to do?”

“I
remember, madam. I nursed my husband.”

“And
lost him,” Aunt Elizabeth grumbled then coughed. “That was a blow. If it looks
likely to take the girl, save yourself. Quit the house and go to Hever.”

“Yes,
madam.”

I’d
always known that Aunt Elizabeth held no affection for me. But hearing it so
baldly confirmed still rankled.

The
river’s movement erased all sense of time. I dozed as their voices fell silent
and only woke when the noise of river traffic stirred me.

We
landed at the Duke’s house first. Three porters in Howard livery sprang into
the barge and gently lifted Mariah out. I sucked in a quiet breath of wholesome
air after the vile taint of vomit went with her. Aunt Elizabeth waited til they
were climbing the water stairs before she rose from Anne’s chair.

“When
she is recovered, do we return to Windsor?” Cousin Mary asked.

The
edge of Aunt Elizabeth’s cloak brushed my foot. “No. Wait for the court’s
return to Greenwich. I will write Lady Shelton and have her here as soon as
possible. When she arrives you may go to your father’s house.”

Cousin
Mary’s lips fluttered, seeming ready to protest then stopped. “Yes, madam,” she
said. “Please send my greetings to the Queen and my lord Wiltshire.”

Aunt
Elizabeth waved them into the Thames with the back of her hand. “They do not
want them.”

Shelton
House, London

August
1533

“I
think I am ready for an outing,” I declared to start our third morning at
Shelton House. Aunt Elizabeth had ordered some of her servants to attend us, as
Mother had not yet arrived.

For
now, Cousin Mary was mistress of the household and she relished the role. The
servants seemed to like her. She knew their names and used them, never beat
anyone or chastised a mistake—not that a servant trained in the Wiltshire
household would make one—and rewarded good service with a smile, praise,
but never coin.

“Where
would we go?” she asked as she finished braiding my hair.

“I
thought the Tower.”

She
caught my eyes in the mirror. I kept mine bland, noncommittal, as she studied
me for the falseness behind them.

John’s
note lay balled inside a fold of my skirt. It had almost fallen out of my Book
of Prayer at morning Mass when the preacher bade us turn to Ecclesiastes.

My
slender shiver caught Cousin Mary’s eye. She put the back of her hand to my
cheek and sighed, relieved to find it cool.

Tower Hill. Noon.

Tears
danced round my sight of the Host.

How
had he escaped the King’s riding court? How had he gotten the note to me? Had
he heard I was to marry Suffolk at Michaelmas?

I
squirmed as my laces pressed my lowest rib. Cousin Mary had a tighter hand than
Janet.

What will we do?

I’d
finally spoken my heart to him. Had Northumberland’s arrival and threat of
exposure changed his? If so, why should he court disaster with this meeting? He
would not risk it simply to tell me farewell. And I had not sickened myself to
do so. I meant to see him, to be with him.
To finish our
kiss.

How do I bring Cousin Mary around?

“I
would love to see my brother,” I told her.

She
beamed. “I thought so.”

“And
what will you do?” I asked to cover my relief.

Cousin
Mary tilted her head. “Oh, I might view the King’s Menagerie—bring back
new stories for my children.”

Catherine
and little Henry Carey. I’d met Catherine at Cousin George’s wedding. Henry had
been in his cradle back in Rochford.

“When
were you last with them?” I asked to keep her from searching my face again.

“Before
Easter—Catherine had a little fever, but it lingered so the steward wrote
me to come.” She selected a black velvet ribbon from the dressing table to tie
off my braid.

“And
do you miss them?” It was the question I could never ask my own parents.

Her
smile held bright in the mirror, but her fingers slowed. “Court is no place for
children,” she spoke it like catechism. I’d been hearing those words since the
cradle. It told me nothing of how she or my parents felt.

“They
are well kept at Hever,” she said.

Well kept? Like flower beds or aged
cheese?

“I’ve
only visited Hever once,” I said. “I’ve not met with Grandmother Boleyn since I
was a babe.”

Cousin
Mary’s practiced fingers smoothed the tiny wayward hairs at my temples.

“She
is much the same,” she murmured.

Since
I had no real memories of her, I could not judge that a good thing or bad.

“Do
your children keep her company?”

The
corner of her mouth pulled sideways.

“She
does not keep theirs. She is not fond of children, except her own.”

Except
her own?
What are her grandchildren if not her
own?

“There,
coz. You look fine as French lace. Lets be off.”

_____________

A
porter summoned a wherry to our water stairs. The Tower was not so far away and
with the tide we arrived at Tower Wharf by noon.

A
yeoman porter helped Cousin Mary out then myself. He doffed his cap to her.

“Mrs.
Carey,” he said.

She
gave him a tiny nod and we walked toward the gate. The remaining bunting and
pennants from Anne’s coronation had been taken down, returning the
stone walls
to their stark, formidable appearance.

“Do
you know where to find your brother?” Cousin Mary asked as we turned toward the
Coldwater Gate.

“I
will ask a Yeoman.”

“Commend
me to him,” she said as we parted at the gate.

I
paused at the stairs leading up to the Green long enough for Cousin Mary to disappear,
then
rushed for the west gate and up to Tower Hill.

______________

John
looked over his shoulder. Enowes stalked us, nondescript as the rest of the
Londoners in this part of the city. We’d left Tower Hill and merged with the
crowd though our cloth declared us apart from them.

“My
father has ordered me back to the King’s riding court.”

I
frowned. “But why? The court is soon to return to Greenwich.”

“I
think it was the Queen’s command. She wants one of us under her eye ‘til you
are safely wed to Suffolk.”

“I
will never marry Suffolk,” I said.

“Of
course not,” he agreed. “You will marry me.”

I
lost a step. John grabbed my elbow, steered me away from a pack of leering
apprentices and down a narrow alley. I heard a whistle that made John slow, but
he did not stop.

“Your
father will disinherit you,” I said.

John
grimaced. “Most likely.”

“The
King will dismiss you.”

“Most
probably.”

“Everyone
will call you a fool.”

“Most
assuredly,” he said and flashed his reckless, heart-stopping smile.

“You
would lose all you have, to gain me?” I did not try to keep the doubt from my
voice. “I am the third daughter of a Norfolk knight. I have no dowry, no great
friends at court. I am not beautiful, nor accomplished—“

John
pulled us away from traffic, tucked us against the gray tinged wall of a public
alehouse. A shadow entered his face.

“Mistress
Mary Shelton, you cannot reason me out of my attachment. I love you. I want you
for my wife.” The shadow deepened. “If you fear the consequences, I understand,
but I beg you to consider the alternative…a life apart.” His forehead creased.
A lock of hair fell across his eyes. “I have witnessed too many loving hearts
turned to stone by such a loss. Yes, wealth and status were gained, but it was
always the very worst bargain. My parents hated each other. My foster
parents—the Norfolks—hated each other. I was there the day Lord
Norfolk beat the Duchess. Her screams rattled the windows. I will not have
another man lay the blame for his unhappiness upon you. And I will not be the
man who beats little Dorothy Neville for not being you.”

John’s
fingertips traced the trembling curve of my cheek. A faint, rueful smile moved
his lips. “Please summon some kindness for Lady Dorothy. Be my wife.”

My
heart plunged. Did it seek safety in the earth?
Too late.
He’d spoken the words I’d angled for then prayed for from almost the first day
we’d met.

Be my wife.

Be
the next Countess of Oxford. Be Lord John’s bride. Be the success no one ever
believed you could be.

“I-I
cannot say yea or nay, my lord,” I murmured even as my heart roared it was not
so.

You want this! Tell him so.

But
something held me fast, anchoring me to caution as everything within me tossed
and twisted. Did I fear the wanting? Did I fear the success?

John’s
fingers slid from my cheek under my
chin,
raised it.
“I will marry no other, but you. Refuse me and I will have no heirs.” A bleak
smile flashed. “As my father said, I will be another Northumberland.”

The
earl’s waxy, drink-bloated face consumed my mind’s eye. It sickened me worse
than the witch’s brew.

How
could I bear to see John at court, smile to his face, give him my hand to kiss
as Anne did Northumberland and remember his youth, his love, his passion, all
dissipated, withered, destroyed for land and titles.

Did
my love aim for this? He would be left with nothing. Norfolk would shun him,
Cousin Mary might be our friend, but she had no influence with the Queen. My
own family would abandon me.
All of them.
Except for
Tom.

How can I save him? And marry him too?

The
torrent swirling within me subsided as the only answer came.

Anne.

Anne
was the only one who could prevent John’s destruction. And when she bore the
prince, the King would grant her anything. Lord Oxford’s displeasure would be
swept aside.
If Anne willed it.

She must have it somewhere in her heart
to pity us.

She’d
shown none that first day at Windsor. But after she birthed her son…surely that
would soften her. Surely having everything in the world would make her
magnanimous to the less fortunate. She was already generous to the poor, the
diseased. She was a righteous, Christian queen. Surely God would move her to
succor us.

God,
I do not believe you would have brought me John de Vere if you meant me to be a
Duchess.

I
do not believe you would have made him perfect for me in every degree if you
did not mean for him to be mine.

And
I do not believe you would have moved Tom Clere to betray me, if you meant me
to love anyone but John.

A
slender spark floated up from my belly to my heart then my throat.

God made Anne Queen of England. He can
make me Countess of Oxford.

“My
lord,” I said. “Lady Dorothy Neville will have nothing but kindness from me.”

____________

“You
cannot marry the Earl of Oxford’s son,” Tom hissed. “You cannot get away with
it.”

The
chapel was empty, but Tom’s horrified voice might carry out the open doors.
John and Enowes would return soon. I’d asked for a private moment to share my
news with Tom.

I
grabbed the green sleeve of his coat, pulled him away from the door back toward
the font.

“It
is a betrothal,” I began. “Nothing more.”

Tom
fixed me a stony look. “There’s the lie.”

“Please,
Tom. You must help me,” I said. “There’s none else I trust more in this world
than you.”

“And
there’s the flattery,” he muttered. “Will you offer me coin next?”

I
stopped myself from slapping his shoulder. “Stop it. You are all the kin I have
who will stand by me.”

Tom
scowled. “You need a host of angels led by St. Peter himself.”

“I
am marrying him.”

He
shook his head, eyes roving the ceiling as though he could pluck a winning
argument from the air.

“Anne
wants to make you a Duchess!” His voice shot to heaven. “A Duchess by God. The
first and probably last this family will ever see. Tell me he’s worth more than
that.”

“He
is,” I said.

“Make
me believe it,” he snapped. “Because I don’t. This is all over Tom Clere. He
broke your heart and the first handsome face to pick up the pieces has you
ready to throw your life away.”

I
slapped his face. The sound must offend God, but I didn’t care. I slapped him
again. I raised my hand to do a third, and he grabbed my wrist.

Our
eyes clawed and clashed, Shelton blue against Boleyn black. I stifled the pain
as his fingertips crushed the soft flesh between my wrist bones. They dug
deeper pressing veins to bone til the whole appendage must pop off my arm.

“You’re
a mad girl, Mary Shelton,” he hissed then slowly released his hold. “Just like
our cousin Anne.”

He
dropped my arm. My other hand twitched, wanting to rub away his abuse, but I
kept it still. If I showed any weakness, he might scuttle the whole thing.

“No,”
he said, shaking his head. “I revise myself. You are worse than Anne. You’re a
Shelton, not a hard-nosed, bloody Boleyn. Sheltons don’t use their family this
way.”

“Don’t
they?” I snapped. “Mayhap not the boys, but the girls, yes, by God they do. And
if it soothes your conscience, brother, I am about to be a de Vere and a
Shelton no more.”

Tom’s
lips rushed to deliver some biting counter to that, but he stopped himself. A
sharp slyness entered his eyes. “Oh, you’re still a Shelton, my girl.
A Shelton countess.
Just as Anne’s a
Boleyn.
You can’t abandon us.”

“Then
do not abandon me,” I said.

Tom
rocked on his heels a moment. “I won’t.”

The
anger between us snuffed out like a candlewick drowned in its own wax. Tom’s
face backed away from its scowl. He jerked his head at the doorway. “I pray you
can say the same of himself out there.”