Tarnish (16 page)

I feel a surge of victory. Take a step closer to him. Look away. Counting the beats in my head—the music of flirtation.

“Then stay,” Wyatt growls. “You waste my time with your courtly drivel.”

He turns on his heel and leaves without another word. And I finally allow my gaze to follow him.

I watch the tension of Wyatt’s shoulders, the quickness of his step. The easy stride and lackadaisical effortlessness are missing, replaced by a ferocity I’ve never seen before.

When he’s gone, he leaves a hollow space behind.

And I’m alone with Henry Percy.

22

H
ENRY
P
ERCY.
S
OON TO BE
E
ARL OF
N
ORTHUMBERLAND.
Warden of the east marches, charged with defending the Scottish Borders against the Duke of Albany and the barbari-ans of the north. Doomed to become a battle-scarred army rat like his father. Like the Earl of Surrey, my uncle.

The trouble is, Percy doesn’t look cut out for all that. He looks like a musician. Like a cleric. His features are stark and shadowed in the candlelight, his face so full of feeling, his hands large and strong, but smooth, as if they’ve never held anything more solid than a quill in his lifetime.

“How do you like court, Mistress Boleyn?”

He presses his lips together. Not the thin lips of a cleric. Full lips. Soft. I return my eyes to his.

“At the moment, it’s frightfully boring.”

He looks shocked.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m supposed to be using my feminine wiles.

“With the king away,” I amend.

Neither does that sound right. As if I look to the king for all my entertainment. Which I can’t. But he is the king. Divine. Divinely anointed.

Our conversation stutters to a halt. Stillborn.

“I mean, everyone seems at a loss. Without the usual entertainments. Seeking escape.”

I look over Percy’s shoulder to the doorway through which Wyatt just exited, trying not to think about where he went.

“Thomas Wyatt is not the most faithful of men.” Percy looks as cross as I feel.

“I think he and his wife loathe each other. And from what I hear, she isn’t necessarily a paragon of virtue.”

“It doesn’t give him the right to . . .” Percy blushes. And I realize what his original statement meant.

“You think he should be faithful to me?” My heart clenches.

“I heard . . .” Percy cannot finish that thought. “And he kissed you.”

I wipe the spot again.

“After a fashion.” I shake my head. “Thomas Wyatt is not my lover.”

“Oh.”

So much meaning in one small sound.

“He claims we’ve known each other since I was two and we played in the fountains naked,” I add, and immediately want to bite my tongue off. Because Percy blushes so hard his fingertips turn red.

“I mean we’re like . . .” We are
not
like brother and sister. Not like George and me. “There is nothing between us.” Something about the words sends a shard of ice through me.

“You’re engaged to James Butler,” he says with strained casualness.

“I am not! Who told you that?”

“All the court.”

“Well, all the court is wrong.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t believe everything I hear at court.” He throws my own words back to me.

“Certainly stories have a way of being told.” I lace my words with a lightness I don’t entirely feel. “Or worse, believed.”

He nods, and we lapse into silence.

“For instance,” I say to break it, “I hear you’ve been engaged to the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter since infancy.”

“Mary Talbot is a sour-faced harpy. Full of nothing but complaints and demons. Like her father and her brother and the whole of the English north.”

“My Lord Percy,” I say, touching his arm lightly with my fingertips. “I do believe that is the most unkind thing I have ever heard you say.”

He has the grace to blush again.

“But you haven’t denied my statement.” I pretend to pout, feeling ridiculous. Pouting isn’t my style. More like the duchess’s.

“It is my father’s choice, not mine. And I have not agreed.”

“Fathers,” I say knowingly. “Family pride. Alliances.”

“You understand,” he says, his face brightening. I’m starting to like the look of him when he smiles. The boy takes over, negating the angry young man.

“My father doesn’t care that I have no wish to marry James Butler.”

“James isn’t so bad. He just doesn’t know how to interact with people.”

“Doesn’t bode well for a marriage, does it?”

The seriousness returns.

“Has it been solemnized?” He presses his lips together. “Signed? Your betrothal?”

He looks away suddenly, as if the question was more than he intended to ask.

“Not yet.” I plan my pause carefully. “But my father returns from Spain soon. And I think he’ll apply himself to the business of alliances when he does.”

“I should like more control of my life,” Percy says, and I see his fists clenching at his sides. “To do as I see fit.”

“You already did tonight,” I say, and grasp his hand in mine. He shudders at my touch. Or trembles.

“Tonight?”

“Wyatt and my brother can be quite adamant. And yet you didn’t go with them. Why not?”

I can’t look away from his eyes.

“Because I’d rather be here with you.”

Christ. At least he’s direct.

“Well, you know, sir, you won’t get the same from me as you would get from the companions my brother would search out for you in London.”

He reacts with such shock and horror, one would think I’d handed him a serpent.

“I-I would never ask,” he stutters.

He leaves me with an opportunity. One that I can’t pass up.

“I hope someday you will.”

His eyes widen. The black centers expand to encompass the whole of the iris. I turn before the surprise leaves his face and lead him back to the queen’s apartments. Safety in numbers. I have to move quickly and keep raising the stakes. But I have to play carefully.

Because if I do—if I win—I could be somebody, somewhere. Instead of nobody, noplace.

Greenwich Palace

1523

23

N
OW THAT WAR HAS BEEN DECIDED UPON BY
P
ARLIAMENT, THE
entire court is out for blood. Mercifully, taxes and armies must be raised, so the inevitable still seems far away. The men must seek satiety at Greenwich, with its expansive deer park and its state-of-the-art tiltyard.

The king rides out every day, leaving before dawn and returning hours later. Wyatt rides with him. The men discuss the hunt far into the night. So singular of purpose. So exclusive.

But then a more general entertainment is planned—with a picnic—and I find myself invited. Not Mary. Me. I’m sure I have Wyatt to thank, though he hasn’t spoken to me since that night at Bridewell. And Jane is coming, too.

I rise early that morning and dress in green and brown, my skirts the same color as the forest floor. I include a cap copied from one of the duchess’s, but set it farther back from my face. She may be a bitch, but she does have style.

Jane ties my sleeves on securely and I help her tighten the stays of her rust-colored bodice. She can’t stop fidgeting, knowing that George will accompany us.

“You should find another occupation for your hands,” I tell her. “Or you will tear your fingers ragged.”

She nods mutely. She looks as if she is about to be sick.

We make our way to the yards, creeping through the still-sleeping rooms. The palace has been aired and sweetened, fresh rushes laid down and tapestries shaken out. All is muted and shadowed, the subdued domain of the queen.

By contrast, the stable courtyard of the palace is a blaze of color, flickering with laughter and rocking with energy. I stand for a moment, just inside the gate, and take it all in. Courtiers slapping backs and placing bets. Everyone eager to be seen, to be heard. They are drunk on the exhilaration of it, or perhaps merely still drunk from the night before.

My brother, Wyatt, and Norris crowd a corner with the other young men, their chests puffed out like that of the rooster watching them from the wall above. They are falling all over each other with laughter.

“Come.” I reach for Jane’s hand. “Let us join them. They look as if they could use some maidenly influence.”

Jane doesn’t move.

“Watch,” she says. “I think they’ve had enough maidenly influence.”

Norris is holding up a hand in front of him as if it were a looking glass, shaping his eyebrows and examining the pores of his skin. Then he sticks out his lower lip in a quick pout. George whispers something inaudible, and they fall apart again, slapping Norris on the back and cheering.

“Did he just pretend to be the Duchess of Suffolk?” I ask.

Jane nods. “They already did Mistress Carew and Lady Kildare.”

I push a breath through my nostrils. “Children.”

I move to march over to then, when George steps forward. He widens his eyes to unseeing roundness, puts a hand up to his mouth, and sets to gnawing at it as if it’s a leg of mutton.

Jane sucks in her breath. I turn back to her as the men laugh again. Her face is stricken.

“Jane.”

She shakes her head rapidly, as if to dislodge the sight, and points a shaking finger.

“Look.”

Wyatt is smoothing his hair as if tucking it into the band of a French hood. Then he elongates his neck and taps Norris playfully on the shoulder. Quickly wipes his hands on his breeches. George guffaws, and my brittle self-image snaps. Wyatt’s eyes rise to meet mine and reveal an instant of panicked remorse that is swiftly replaced with a stare of belligerent defiance.