Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (45 page)

The
Tower of London, London

Saturday,
September 13th 1533

I
found Enowes leaning against a wall, spying the doings in the King’s Watching
Chamber.

“Tell
your master to be at Shelton House by midnight if he would find what he
desires.”

Enowes
acknowledged me with a sardonic twist of his thin lips and went to find his
master.

Lady
Frances eluded me for almost an hour, but I tracked her to the archery butts
where Weston and Wyatt contended for the prize.

“Mistress
Shelton!” Weston called, waving me over. “A bull’s eye wins a kiss.”

I
smiled, shook my head. “That would get you Lord Surrey’s horns, sir. He has
called for his wife to join him at the card table.”

The
gentlemen chuckled as Frances left their company.

She
opened her mouth to decry my lie, but I forestalled her. “Tell Mariah to be
there by midnight or she’ll find the door barred.” I turned on my heel and went
to find the last piece of my plan at Greenwich.

I
pulled Joan away from idling with Bess and Mary Wyatt in the sewing circle. The
pile of shirts had not shifted since yesterday. I drew her into the gallery and
pressed the note in her hand.

“Cromwell?”
Joan’s face went white as lambswool. “Oh, Mary. I do not think I can do it.”

She
trembled from head to toe.

I
pulled her behind one of the doors. “Stop shaking, Joan. People will think you’ve
caught something,” I hissed. “It’s just a note. He won’t bite you taking it
from your hand.”

“H-he
might,” Joan wailed. “Cromwell is fierce.”

I
swallowed a scream; I could not dispute that truth, but her cowardice must not
thwart me. What in God’s name would move her?

“Joan,”
I began. “You are the only one I can trust. You are my only friend at court. If
you won’t do this for me…I am lost.”

Joan’s
eyes lit at the word friend. Something in me lit too, but I smothered it. I had
no time for sentiment.

“Cromwell
leaves for Westminster tonight,” I said in a rush. “So you must put this in his
hand at dusk. Understand?”

Joan
nodded, bright-eyed as an eager hound. “Yes, Mary. Deliver it at dusk. What if
he’s at table…with the King?”

“Mind
your manners, and give it to him. The King won’t be offended.”

Joan
nodded as if she only half-believed it.

“But,
why do you not give it to him yourself?”

“My
parents have summoned me,” I lied. “I’m off to London right now.”

Joan’s
mouth made an extravagant O. “Are they very wroth over what happened with Lord
John and Lord Fitzroy?”

I
sighed. “I am going to find out.”

___________

A
chill breeze followed me through the Coldwater Gate and up the stairs past the
royal lodgings. My feet slowed.

I
re-played the moment Anne emerged from her apartments, robed in cloth of gold,
black hair unbound, for her journey to Westminster. Mother’s voice inserted
itself over the scene.

Anne
knows how to manage herself. Anne leaves nothing undone. Anne made her own
opportunities and took them. You see where she is…

If I would be like Anne, I must do like
Anne.

A
company of Yeomen drilled on Tower Green. I spotted my brother watching them
from the chapel’s shadow. He saw me and frowned. I tilted me head toward the
chapel and he slipped away. I entered the chapel for the first time since my
wedding day. Fresh, crimson roses from Mrs. Stonor’s vines decorated the altar.
Their cloying sweetness closed my nose as they’d done on that day too. I should
have taken it for the sign it was.

Tom
looked a shambles. Stubble darkened his cheeks. His puffy, red-rimmed eyes held
no gladness at my coming.

“I
cannot help you, Mary,” he said without preamble or greeting.

My
heart slid to the flagstones.

“You
do not even know why I have come,” I said.

Tom’s
abused eyes staggered away from mine. “I cannot help you,” he repeated.

Sweet Jesu…he’s frightened.

Fear
was for lesser creatures, like our brother Ralph. Not Thomas Shelton. Not the
boy who’d called our mother “tyrant” to her face and suffered the whipping in
silence.

Seeing
it infesting my brother’s eyes, I almost turned aside from what I meant to do.
But the roses, dissolute and deceiving, revived my anger, steeled my
commitment.

Perseverantia
omnia vincit.

“Who
spoke to you? Who? Was it de Vere?” I grabbed his arm as he turned away. “Tell
me!”

“For
the love of God,” he hissed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. I won’t speak of it
and neither will you.”

“I
am going to the Queen,” I said.

Tom’s
mouth dropped then his hands closed around my shoulders. He pushed me against
the wall beside the font. “No, you are not. You will say nothing to anyone. You
take it to your grave. And me to mine.”

“But
if you come with me to the Queen she will believe us—it will be—“

Tom
shook me. The back of my head scraped the stonework. “No one will believe you.
It suits no one to believe you. Do you understand? This is worse than Clere.
This is the Earl of Oxford’s son. This is Norfolk, and Shrewsbury, and Fitzroy,
and the King, in the end. There was no betrothal. No betrothal.” Panic rolled off
him like the sweat itself.

“Who
came to you?” I demanded. “What did they say?”

Tom’s
hands fell. He groaned, clutched his unruly hair. “This is not Pass-the-Time,
Mary. These are treacherous things—dangerous. I mean to stay away from
them.” He withdrew a step. “If you go to the Queen…you go alone.”

My
mouth worked, but made no sound.

Not my brother. Not my brother too.

My
heartbeat faded to nothingness; the drums, the sounds of men drilling, the
ravens croaking all disappeared.

Like me.

Without
Tom’s help, my cause was lost. Why didn’t he understand that?

Tom
covered his face with both hands. “Sweet Jesu,” he cried. His hands came away
wet with tears. “I love you sister, but…I think, if you pursue this I shall be
a sister less come Christmastide.”

“Only
if you abandon me,” I hissed.

“Mary,
I—“

I
clutched his sleeve. “I’ve never made a claim on you. Never shamed you. I’ve
always taken your part as you’ve taken mine. I would not ask this of you if I
had another choice—another way to save myself.”

Tom
laughed.

“Save
yourself?” Tom’s brow furrowed deep as the wheat fields in Norfolk. “You’re
throwing yourself to the Lion.”

“Stand
by me.” Tears squeezed my voice to a scrap of sound. “Please, Tom. Please.
Stand by me in this and I will never ask a thing of you again. God be my
witness.”

Tom
scrubbed his face with both hands. “You won’t hear me. You won’t do the wise
thing.”

“The
wise thing?” I hissed. “And what is that? Let another man scrape me away like
shit from his shoe, and wait for better times?”

“Yes!”
His hands reached toward me, pleading. “By God, yes. You’re young, you have
years ahead of you to make this right.”

“I
don’t have years!” I put my face in his. “I have days maybe. Our parents mean
to bury me in Norfolk beside that bloated carcass Sir Roger Wodehouse. I won’t
go! I won’t marry that old man, and see Emma or God cursed Gabrielle have my
place and win themselves a great marriage. I will not end where I began!”

My
chest heaved, replenishing my lungs for another assault.

Tom
covered his face again, sank to a crouch on his heels.

“You
cannot win through, Mary,” he murmured. “The obstacles are too many, and too
great.”

I
fell beside him, grasped his forearm with both hands. “That’s what everyone
said of Anne.”

Tom’s
head fell back against the wall. He chuckled. “Anne. It all comes back to our
Mistress Anne Boleyn.
‘Tis Semmonet’s fault.
Filling
your heads with tales of wonder. Anne is not blessed by the Gods, she’s
fashioned from clay like the rest of us.”

“Maybe
she was, but she’s drunk the ambrosia from the King’s cup, and shares his
immortality. God meant her to be Queen, and gave her the means to accomplish
it. Her wit, her charm—“

“Her
ambition,” Tom spat.

“Her
friends, her family,” I countered.

Tom
moaned, dropped his hands. Crazed scarlet lines fractured the whites of his
eyes. For an instant he looked like
Father
seated in
the dining hall, coaxing the dregs from his tankard, master and miscreant all
at once.

“We
will both lose our places,” Tom’s murmur almost passed my ear, but he spoke
again, recalling me. “You will lose more than that.

A
tremor ran up my spine. “We will win them,” I said. “I will be a Countess, and
you will come to court as you should have done months ago.”

Tom
snorted, slapped his thighs, stood too fast and swayed. I put my hand against
his chest, steadied him. He clasped it with both hands.

“You
are a mad girl,” he said. “Clere’s a fool.”

I
forced a smile. Clere’s foolishness lay at Surrey’s feet and ultimately
Mariah’s. I would not be sorry when Cromwell’s net took him up with the rest.
And whatever their punishment, he would share it.

“You
must come to court tomorrow. Meet me at morning Mass. The Chapel Royal.”

Tom
moaned. “What is today?”

Impatience
shot through me. Hopefully the cold air on the river would revive his wits
before he saw the Queen.

“’Tis
Saturday.”

Tom
shook his head, swayed again. “Well, I suppose ‘tis fitting we should end on
the Lord’s
day
.”

Shelton
House, London

Saturday,
September 13
^th
1533

Rubies
decorated mother’s French hood. Gold rings rode every finger and thumb. Father
too reflected our new status. His velvet doublet was slashed exposing a
sapphire blue silk shirt. This had become their everyday wear since the Suffolk
match was bruited.

I
wore one of Anne’s made over gowns.
Scarlet damask over a
black kirtle.
My hood was stitched with silver thread and seed pearls. I
knew I looked a success by the way my father’s eyes widened when I entered the
room.

“You
look very well, daughter.” He kissed my forehead then passed me to Mother. She
stroked my silken shoulder. I felt her fingers counting the weave, judging the
cost.

“You
look very well.” She kissed my lips and bade me stand while they settled into
their accustomed chairs.

“How
does the Queen this morning?” Mother asked.

“Well,
madam. She is planning a masque for after her Churching.”

She
inclined her head. “So I have heard.”

Father
leaned forward. “We have heard much more than that, Mary. How is Lord John de
Vere?”

I
fixed my brittle court smile on my face.

“I
know not, Father. Lord John does not confide his doings to me.”

Father
frowned. “No, I reckon he does not. You set your sights too high.”

I
made a wry smile. “Like cousin Anne?”

“Mind
your tongue, mistress,” Father snapped. “Anne is your better.”

I
ducked my head. “Your pardon, sir.”

Father’s
glare softened. “Ambition must be led by good sense, Mary. I know you have that
in plenty.”

My
stomach sank to the bottom of the Thames.

Mother’s
fingers stroked the top of the table. “We were disappointed that the Suffolk
match was lost.”

I
winced though her low, even tone held no rebuke.

“If
Anne had birthed a boy as she promised,” Father muttered into his tankard.

Mother
sighed, but ignored him. “And now Lord John’s interest has cooled,” she said.

Cooled?
It had never existed.

Mother’s
fingers slowed. “As it happens, your father and I have been considering another
match for you.”

Fire
blasted the back of my throat. I swallowed a groan.

“He
is an older gentleman, but kind—“

I
had done everything they had commanded. Everything. My reward, as always, was
to be passed over. I had demonstrated what a Shelton daughter might accomplish
among the high and mighty, and they were pleased with what I had brought them.
But they wanted more. They wanted that grand marriage. They wanted their daughter
wed to an earl. And they thought my face had not been enough to catch him. And
I could not tell them yet that the game had been a cheat.

Mother’s
fingers resumed their movement. I stared and remembered them stroking my hair
the day I was chosen for court.

She is our daughter and the best we have
to play.
For now.

Was
I still the best? Only if I kept them from making any arrangement with Sir
Roger that could compromise my marriage to John when it came out. Lord Oxford
would not hesitate to use Wodehouse against me.

I
let my desperation show.

“I
will make another match, madam,” I declared. “A better than Lord John. I have
many admirers.”

Mother
frowned. “Who beyond Weston and Wyatt?”

Names
tumbled through and out of my flailing mind as none held any real weight.

Mother
tapped the table. “None of your “admirers” is free to wed.”

“I
will win others. Give me til Christmastide.”

Mother
glanced at Father and I took my chance. I fell at her feet.

“I
swear it. Anne thought me worthy of a Duke. Lord John proved fickle, but still
I caught his eye. I will catch another.”

Father
snorted. “That fish slipped your net, daughter. We need a new net.”

“Not
Gabrielle,” I blurted.

“Gabrielle
has been given a place in Princess Elizabeth’s new household,” Mother informed
me.

My
mask slipped. Mother’s look hardened. “Do not gloat, Mary. Gabrielle may end
with the best of it. Elizabeth will grow up with her. That will be a bond you
do not share with Anne.”

My
joy wavered then surged anew. Gabrielle had taken second place and Mother’s
valid observation could not undo it.

“I
am happy to hear of her advancement.”

Father
cleared his throat. “We can tell.”

Mother
waved her hand. “Enough. Stand up.” She waited for me to rise. “Sir Roger
Wodehouse is a fine match.”

“He
is an old man,” I murmured.

Father
frowned. “He’s my age. Am I old?”

I
made no answer. Mother’s lips twitched.

“I
will write to the Queen,” Mother said brisk again. “And you may expect a
message from Sir Roger.” She ran her finger around the lip of her goblet.
“Sometime after Michaelmas.”

The
fire cracked. Sparks flew and were instantly drawn up the chimney.

“Gabrielle
is upstairs. Go and greet her. We are closing the house tonight whilst we visit
Hatfield with your Uncle Wiltshire.”

“Hatfield?”

“Your
uncle has proposed it for Elizabeth’s new household, Eltham is too large. He
goes to inspect it, judge its suitability,” Father said. “He wanted our
company.”

Hatfield.
Mariah must have known all about it. She’d probably wriggled the idea into her
father’s brain and he’d spat it out at precisely the right moment in my uncle’s
ear.

Mother’s
dark eyes cautioned me. “Be kind, Mary. She is your elder sister and by rights
should have married first.”

Then let her have old Roger!

I
backed out of the chamber, head bowed so they could not see my smile.

I
went upstairs. My old bedroom door was open. I heard humming.

She’s in a fine mood. I am happy to ruin
it.

“Sister!”
I cried while her back was turned.

Gabrielle
jumped. I rushed in and wrapped my arms around her.

“I’ve
just heard your news. I am so excited for you.”

Gabrielle
wormed out of my grasp. “For yourself only, I am sure. But don’t count me out,
Mary. We’ve heard what you’ve been doing with Lord John de Vere.”

I
rolled my shoulder. “Pass-the-Time is not a crime at Anne’s court.”

Gabrielle
laughed. “You don’t know the game, little sister. You shamed yourself with Tom
Clere, so I have no doubt you did the same with Oxford’s heir, and that is why
he abandoned you.”

“I
did nothing with Tom Clere.” I put my face in hers, eye to eye, as Lady
Rochford liked to do. “If you say otherwise, I will tell them that you dallied
with the gardener’s boy in Norfolk.”

Gabrielle
glared. “Don’t threaten me, Mary. We can tear each other down and watch Emma
climb over us both. In that, which of us has the most to lose?”

 
“And where is Emma?” I asked, dodging the
question. “The house is peaceful as Sunday Mass.”

Gabrielle
smirked at my seeming capitulation. “Aunt Elizabeth summoned her to Wiltshire
House yesterday.”

My
heart stopped. Aunt Elizabeth? She’d never summoned any of us to attend her.

“Whyfor?”

“To
inspect her, of course,” Gabrielle snapped. “Before she takes her into her
household.”

Which is a steppingstone to Anne’s.

Sweat
broke down my spine. Emma would come to court with Aunt Elizabeth. Right into
the Privy Chamber without suffering the competition to be noticed by her
betters, the taunts of the Countess, and Mrs. Marshall’s hard eye.

Emma
is to be handed everything I have scraped for.

“It
should have been you,” I said.

Gabrielle’s
skin flared crimson. “It should have been me many times before,” she snarled.
“You’ve botched things with Lady Mary Howard and therefore Lady Margaret
Douglas. Lost the Suffolk match, and any hope of one with Lord John de
Vere—“

“You
know naught of it,” I drawled.

“I
know I would have done better!”

“If
better is being named a whore then that is so.”

Gabrielle’s
eyes bulged like spring sausages. I raised my hands, knowing what must come
next.

“God
damn you, Mary Shelton,” she hissed. “You are the most vile-tongued harpy in the
world. You go to court even though I’m the eldest and you’re ugly as sin, which
only proves you’re a witch.”

Every
color in the room bled away. “You’re a jealous goggle-eyed strumpet,” I said.
“Too fat and lazy to fight for your rights as eldest. I went to court because I
fought to go. And I will stay there for the rest of my life, because I will
always fight to be there. And if that makes me a witch, God be praised, I
rejoice at the name.”

I
set my hands on my hips as Mother did when she delivered a righteous rebuke.

Gabrielle’s
laughter completely undid my pose. “You will not stay at court. Mary Howard has
set her father against you. He had you evicted from her lodgings the moment he
was back at court.”

I
put my finger under her nose, taunting her to strike me. “Norfolk is not the
Queen. Mary Howard’s lodgings are not the Privy Chamber. I have the Queen’s
favor.” I let my head fall to one side. “She has never heard of you.”

I
shoved her on my way to the door, savoring the flavor of my last words. But Gabrielle
soured them
by her own
. “And maybe you should wish the
same.”