A Love Most Dangerous (17 page)

His eyes flashed even brighter.

'I hear what you are saying, Alice Petherton,' he
said. His voice was tight now, no longer honey but a heated rasp.

I counted in my head, five, ten, fifteen, twenty and
still I did not back down.

Then I held my head as if contrite. 'But you are
right, my lord,' I said in murmur. 'I am not a whore but I am, in truth,
whoring myself.'

I risked a quick glance at his face. He had won, or so
he thought, and his face softened. His eyes grew calm and the hectic green
faded from them.

'I am whoring myself,' I continued. 'But I do so for
my King. And as for what my father might think, I cannot say. My father died
when I was a child and I have lived my life without the firm hand of a man to
guide me.'

I held his eyes in mine and this time it was I who did
not blink.

His eyes grew even larger and I saw his tongue run
swiftly over the tips of his teeth. His breath seemed to race a little.

'Do you feel the want of a firm hand to guide you?' he
asked. His voice was like honey once again but thick as that which oozes from a
honeycomb.

'A hand like His Majesty's?' I asked.

'Very close to His Majesty's,' he answered.

'Perhaps.' I gave him the tiniest of smiles. 'Though I
would not wish to cause displeasure to the King.'

He drummed his fingers on the table.

'Sensible child,' he said at last, his voice now cool
and distant.

He leaned back in his chair, poured a second cup of
wine, passed it to me. I sipped at it, realising I was as parched as if I had
engaged in furious combat with him.

He plucked up a little knife now, the sort one uses to
break open a red wax seal. He turned it over and over in his hands like a
conjurer attempting to fool the eye of his audience. Yet I felt that it was not
me that he was trying to fool, not me at all. Perhaps he was pondering how to
fool the King. Or perhaps he was, without realising it, intent on fooling
himself.

He let the little knife drop and leaned forward.

'Tell me, Alice Petherton, what do you want from King
Henry?'

'I do not want anything. Just to serve him.'

'Poppycock. What do you really want? Do you want to
replace Jane Seymour? Do you want to be the next Queen of England?'

I shuddered involuntarily. 'I can think of nothing
worse,' I answered.

'How so?'

I shook my head, realising I had blundered into a
corner. Or been forced into one.

My mind raced, wondering how to answer, wondering what
form of words might best please this man of little mercy.

'I do not wish to die,' I said quietly.

He leaned back in his chair, astonished my my words.

'You do not wish to die?' he asked.

'No, my Lord.'

He picked up the knife and held it to his lips.

'And you think that this is what happens to the women
who become Queen of England?'

'Show me one who is alive that I might enquire it of
of her.'

His mouth worked but no words came. Then he shook his
head and a staccato laughter shot from his mouth. He beat his hand upon the
desk, once, twice.

'That is very good, Alice Petherton, that is very
droll.' He bit his bottom lip and pushed the tight hat back off his head. 'I
cannot recall when I was last so amused.'

He stood up, stepped round the table and stood in
front of me.

I rose swiftly, all a flurry, fearing that he would
strike me or summon guards to haul me away to some forgotten cell.

But instead he took my hand and kissed it.

'I like you, Alice Petherton,' he said. 'I like you
very much. We shall become firm friends, you and I. And the King will be the
better served for it.'

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Wives and Mistresses

7 January 1538

The King lounged back against the chair and belched.
His hand reached out for a chicken and tore it in two. He took half to his
mouth and began to chew on it with a look of half-absorbed content.

'You know something, Alice?' he said as he consumed
the last of the fowl.

'What, Your Grace?'

He sighed and stared at the window. 'I've just
realised, this very moment, that I spent the most part of my lusty youth with a
woman old enough to be my aunt.'

I blinked at him.

'Catherine. My first wife. When I could have sported
with pretty young things, made love to the flower of maidenhood, I stayed
steadfast and loyal to an ageing woman. And a barren woman at that.'

'She gave birth to your daughter, Mary,' I ventured.

'Speak not of Mary,' he said, his voice suddenly
harsh.

He saw me stiffen and reached out to pat me.

'Pardon my stern voice,' he said. 'Any mention of that
girl moves me to righteous wrath.'

I bit my lip. This was the first time that I had seen
any hint of the King's bad temper. It was a little show, I came to realise this
much later, but it was enough to shake my nerves.

I stole a look towards him. His face was set and hard
and a red flush streaked both his cheeks. But then he took a deep breath and he
smiled on me.

'Enough of such things,' he said. 'We are put on God's
good earth to enjoy ourselves, not to vex our minds with sad musings and what
might have beens.'

'You're so right, Your Grace.'

He nodded. He was always right. Always. I wondered
that he did not get sick of being always right.

He picked up a leg of lamb and bit into it. I felt a
little hot in the stomach at the way he devoured the flesh so savagely. It
seemed clear to me that he had not put away sad musings, far from it. Proof of
this came within moments of him throwing the bone on his plate.

'She's as much a pain as her mother was,' he cried.
'Mary, the bastard. More of a pain in fact. At least her mother was obedient.
Mary is wilful and getting more so by the day. It's her Spanish blood. It's hot
and sour. Like fruit gone rancid in the heat of the sun.'

Which sun was that, I wondered. The King thought of
himself as the sun. Was it he who turned young Mary so shrivelled and rank? And
what of his other daughter, Elizabeth?

'I expect you're wondering what I think of the other
bastard?' he asked.

I swallowed hard. How did he know? Should I deny any
such thought? I made a swift decision.

'You read my mind, Your Grace. You know my very
thoughts.'

'That is because I have your heart in thrall, my
dear,' he said.

He hummed a little to himself. 'I prefer Elizabeth to her sister, if truth were told. She has my red hair and my hot heart. A
little minx she'll grow to be.'

A smile played on his lips. 'In fact she's a little
minx already and she's not five years of age.'

'And what of your son, Your Majesty? What of Edward?'

The King beamed. 'He will be a great King, a worthy
successor to me. He will stride the globe like a colossus. The Kingdom will
flourish in his hands. And in the hands of his children. My grand-children. My
legacy.'

I found the King examining a piece of embroidery with
great care. He was totally absorbed in it, as if by staring at it he might find
out some vital truth. They say that soothsayers of old would stare into the
entrails of slaughtered animals to read a man's fate. I wondered whose fate the
King might ever seek to read. His own perhaps. His son's?

He looked up and saw me watching him.

'It's a pretty piece is it not?'

It was not a question. I had already learnt that the
King's questions were not questions but statements it were best to agree with.

'It's very pretty, Your Grace.'

He handed it to me. It was indeed, very fine, although
I would not have called it pretty.

'Very pretty indeed,' I repeated. 'And most expertly
done.'

He took it back and examined it once again. 'The Queen
embroidered it. The late Queen. Queen Jane. She was an expert needlewoman.'

Very expert with the needle, I thought to myself. Even
more expert with the knife. I watched him as he turned the embroidery in his
hand. I do believe he really doted upon the milksop. It's unbelievable but I do
believe it. I would do well to remember this. People have such different
opinions about the same person. Sometimes it almost seems they must be talking
about someone else, not the person you know at all.

But then again, my opinion can change. I used to like
Jane Seymour myself once. Not now. Not now at all.

I watched the King moon over the fabric she had left
behind. A chill thought came unbidden to me. Would he be so gentle of the shirt
I had made if I were dead in my grave? I shivered and dispelled the thought
from my mind.

Still the King turned the piece over and over in his
hand, examining it minutely. Perhaps he was not, after all admiring it. Perhaps
he was looking for a flaw. He wouldn't find one. Jane Seymour was far too good
a needlewoman to leave a flaw. Not that she could do much else. I know for a
fact that she found reading difficult. And writing was a sore trial for her
brain.

I smiled to myself. Here was a way in which I would
supplant Jane Seymour. The way to this King's heart was through his mind.

He picked up a second piece of embroidery and handed
it to me.

'What think you of this piece?' he said.

I examined the embroidery and looked up puzzled.

'It is not as good as the first, Your Grace.'

He seemed to withdraw into himself. He looked a little
chagrined, a little hurt.

'It is my piece,' he said. 'I embroidered it.'

'You embroidered it?' I failed to keep the
astonishment from my voice.

'What of it?' he said, snatching the fabric back from
me. 'Jane taught me how to embroider. We used to sit and work at our pieces
together.'

I sighed inwardly. Perhaps I have a longer hill to
climb before I leave behind her shadow.

Nicholas Frost knocked gently on the door to the Privy
Chamber and slid inside.

'The Lord Privy Seal awaits,' he said.

The King flung down his book.

'Send him in. Clear this away before you do.' He
pointed to the table littered with the remnants of his meal. He folded up the
embroidery himself and placed the pieces in a chest.

I rose and curtsied. 'I take my leave of you,' I said.

'What do you mean?' He gave me a truculent look. 'I
didn't tell you to go.'

'But I assumed, my lord, with the Lord Privy Seal
desiring audience with you.'

'Thomas Cromwell is like my shadow,' he said. 'You
can't leave me every time you see my shadow so why would you leave when you see
him.' He laughed suddenly at his own jest and the door opened.

'Hey, Thomas,' he said. 'I've just told Alice that you're my shadow. How do you like that?'

'A perfect analogy, Your Grace,' he said within a
heartbeat. 'For if I am the shadow then you are the sun which gives me
substance.'

The King clapped his hands at that. Once.

'Now that is how to flatter, Alice,' he said. 'Say something pleasing to me. But make it the truth and make it witty. That is how
to flatter.'

'You flatter me in saying so,' Cromwell said.

'That is not so good, Thomas,' said the King.

'Indeed it is not, Your Grace. I stand corrected. My
wit, alas, is less good on cold days.'

'When the sun does not shine, perchance,' I ventured.

Both men turned to me in some surprise.

Then Cromwell laughed. 'I do believe the girl has
learnt the lesson on flattery consummately well,' he said.

'Consummately,' said the King. 'Here, Thomas, do you
know Alice Petherton?'

Cromwell bowed his head towards me. 'I have had the
honour to speak with her, Your Grace.'

The King glanced swiftly at his first minister and for
the briefest instance I caught a flash of suspicion in his eyes. Then he hid it
and indicated that Cromwell should sit.

Cromwell settled himself in the upright chair next to
the writing desk and unloaded a pile of papers upon it.

'You don't mind if Alice stays, do you?' the King
asked.

'As Your Grace desires,' he answered. 'There are no
great state secrets to discuss today.'

'Then what do we have?' the King asked. He picked up a
document and tapped it on his palm. 'I do not wish to be wearied by trifles
today.'

Cromwell did not raise his head but began to order the
papers on the desk. 'The King well knows that it is I who concern myself with
trifles on his behalf. I bring only the things that he must make judgement on.'