Brazen (12 page)

I
WATCH
M
ADGE
UNTI
L
SHE
BARKS
AT
ME
TO
LEAVE
HER
ALONE
. I think of asking Margaret to do it for me, but I hardly see her. Perhaps this thing with my uncle is bigger than we expected.

I watch the queen, who seems to grow paler and more frail by the day.

I watch the king. When he leaves the room, I always look for Madge.

I watch the French, who do not seem to have been greatly offended, but it’s difficult to know with the French. Offense comes so easily to them.

I look for Fitz. To see if he is facilitating the king’s affairs—both personal and political. To see if he is telling the queen about Madge. To see if he looks for me. But he has been deputized to entertain our guests—including hosting the Saint Andrew’s Day feast—until they leave. I don’t see him, no matter how hard I look.

The day the French depart, the halls of Greenwich are like the mudflats after a storm. Detritus everywhere. A few scavengers picking at bones. And a strange calm. As I climb the stairs to the queen’s apartments, I pass a few courtiers, and then a huddle of maids. They’re whispering and almost fall in their haste to reach the floor below.

I hear the king’s voice as soon as I enter the presence chamber. They must be in her bedroom, but his enormous chest is like a sounding box, projecting every word through solid oak.

Everyone in the presence chamber looks terrified.

“Madam, I think you do not know to whom you speak.”

“I know exactly to whom I speak. I speak to my husband.” The queen’s voice is higher. Lighter. Angrier.

“You speak to your king, madam. And I would counsel you to shut your eyes and endure as your betters have done before you.”

The presence chamber is in a bubble of silence. No one moves. This is why that gaggle of maids was in such a hurry. This is why the chambers are so empty. Except for the few of us too terrified to flee. All of us staring at our feet or the window or the ceiling, afraid to see our own horror reflected in the faces of others.

“My
betters
?” The sarcasm rips the air. “But I am queen.”

“I should seek to remind you that I raised you in a moment.”

“A king can marry a commoner.” The queen is speaking, but I can taste the bitterness in my own throat.

“And I could humble you in the same amount of time.”

This growl carries an unmistakable warning.

The queen doesn’t seem to hear it. Or she doesn’t care. “There is more than one way around the problem, is that it?”

“And there is always hope.” Ridicule spills and puddles around the words. Ridicule. Disdain. And threat.
Hope
is such a pretty, fruity word, and he has made it taste like smut.

The silence in the presence chamber is like a held breath. Then we all fall to our knees reflexively when the door opens. I do not look up. The thump of heavy boot heels tells me it is the king who strides across the room and out the other door without pausing.

I remain in my curtsy, recovering my breath, aware only of the faint rustling of the others around me. It seems everyone is following the path of the king. Leaving the queen, as he has done.

“Walk with me, Cousin.” The queen has stopped in front of me, the toes of her gold damask slippers just peeking out from under the hem of emerald-green skirts. The threads on one slipper have started to fray.

I stand, and as we leave the room together, I can feel the eyes of the palace watching us. We walk down the spiral stairs and through the courtyard. Instead of heading along the wall and into the orchard, the queen turns the opposite direction, toward the river.

I look at her—a small woman, dressed in the height of fashion. Her black hair swept back into the glittering coronet of her French hood. Her eyes dark. And knowing.

“So, Cousin,” she says quietly. She glances at me, and I see what might be a smile. “How do you fare with young FitzRoy?”

I don’t have the courage to tell her I don’t know.

“We are . . . cordial, Your Majesty.”

She laughs, a similar bark to the one she made the other night with Philippe de Chabot. “Which is more than can be said of many marriages.”

I think of the argument I have just overheard. I think of my parents. Were they ever cordial? They had five children, and I can’t imagine how that was ever achieved, since they can’t stand to be in the same room together.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And your friends?”

Frigid anxiety squeezes my heart.

“What about them, Your Majesty?”

“Have they all fallen in love?”

Her voice sounds casual, but I feel the sharp point of it.

“Lady Margaret is very reserved.”

The queen snorts a little through her nose. “That is an understatement, Mary.”

I relax a little at the use of my given name.

“And what of Madge Shelton?” Again, she sounds too casual. The cold fear sends its tendrils through my lungs as well.

I attempt deflection. “At one time I heard her name linked with Thomas Wyatt’s.”

She turns her head so sharply that the gold edging of her hood catches the rays of the sun, a quick flash and then dullness. She has not turned toward me, but away, looking up the hill. Toward the orchard. When she speaks again, her tone is distant, and almost disinterested.

“And you, at one time, admired him.”

I think of Wyatt’s eyes and the shape of his mouth. I think of the taste of his poetry. Of how he stepped aside for Fitz.

“Madge told me his heart is elsewhere.”

She says nothing, so I speak again, to fill the gap.

“I also think Madge has her sights set on my brother.”

“I wonder if Madge doesn’t have her sights set on everyone.” The bitterness of her laugh is as brittle as the scree of ice on a pond. “She wants something, that one. I just don’t know what.”

I shrug and attempt to adopt her casual tone. “I think perhaps Madge just likes the challenge. The adventure.”

“Well, tell her to stay away from Thomas Wyatt,” the queen says. “That’s more adventure than she ought to bargain for.”

I nod. I think the queen and I are both really talking about someone else.

“What are the rumors in the maids’ chambers, Lady Richmond?” she asks. The formality chills me.

“The court is always full of unfounded rumors, Your Majesty.”

“Yes.” I sense irritation in her now. “But the maids’ chambers more than the rest. Don’t forget, I know of what I speak.”

She doesn’t have to remind me that’s where she started at court. A commoner. The king made that point.

I tell her about the rumor that she wishes to have the king’s daughter poisoned, and she laughs. A genuine laugh.

“Me? A poisoner? Don’t be ridiculous.” She drops back to seriousness so quickly I feel dizzy. “And what of the king? What hear you of him?”

I weigh my answer carefully, thinking of the way he looked at Madge. Of the argument I just heard. I study the queen. Her face is a little drawn. Her eyes are no longer disinterested. Looking into them is a bit like staring directly into the sun.

“I heard that he said he would rather beg alms from door to door than lose you.”

Sadness beats from her like heat.

“He loves you,” I add. Wanting to believe it.

“Is it love?”

“Of course.” I speak with more conviction than I feel. I don’t even know what love is, so how can I say?

“What would you do . . . ?” The queen turns suddenly and begins striding up toward the orchard gate. I have to trot to keep up with her.

“What would you do if you were given the chance to take my place?” she says as we enter the orchard. The setting sun tops the bare branches with fire.

She stops just inside the gate and stares at them.

“I couldn’t . . . ” I say, terrified that somehow my father’s intemperate words have passed through the walls of the palace like air. Like all the gossip that follows the queen. “I wouldn’t. . . .”

“Of course not.” She shrugs. “But some opportunities you have to take when they’re offered.” Her voice trails off until she almost seems to be speaking to herself. “They don’t come again.”

We stand together—me just behind her, out of deference—watching the light fade from the treetops.

“You will tell me,” she says. Her statement is more of a question. The wind that blows between us catches the veil of her hood and it flaps against her cheek until she shakes it away from her face. “If you hear anything. About the king.”

I want to bite my tongue. I don’t want to hurt her. But I can’t be an informant against my friend. Can I?

“Please,” she adds.

So I nod. Because wouldn’t I want to know? If I loved someone as much as she loves the king?

“Jealousy is a brutal and depleting emotion, Mary.” The queen turns to walk back to the castle. “It smacks of ownership and appropriation, and I had hoped I would never feel it. I never thought I would give in to it.”

She pauses, her thoughts far away.

“It’s . . . difficult.” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but want to offer comfort. “When you love someone.”

She refocuses on me. Sharply.

“It’s not love,” she says. “It’s survival.”

M
ARGARET
COMES
UNWILLINGLY
WHEN
I
I
NSIST
WE
FOLLOW
Madge outside the next day. I can’t confront Madge alone. The grass crunches with frost beneath our feet when we turn through the gate and into the orchard.

“What are you doing?” I call.

Madge turns and plants her fists on her hips.

“Trying to find some peace and quiet,” she says bluntly. “I was walking up to Duke Humphrey’s Tower.”

“By yourself?” I blurt. Everyone knows Humphrey’s Tower is where the king meets his mistresses.

Madge laughs. “Wouldn’t that just be the evidence the court needs?”

“So it’s true?” I ask quietly when we reach her.

Madge stops laughing and drops her hands to her sides.

“Gossip is rarely true,” she says. “But I suppose it’s what’s believed that matters.”

“Madge.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away from me and starts up the hill again. “Madge, you can’t do this. He’s the king.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she says. “I just danced with him.”

“He left with you. The queen almost caused an international incident because of it.”

“He wanted to show me the stars.” Madge’s voice breaks, and she stops to look up at the sky. It’s the kind of icy blue that only happens in December. Her chest heaves, but I’m guessing it’s not from the near run up the hill.

“He talked about the stars,” Madge says. “The constellations. He told me the stories of Perseus, right up there in the sky.” She points upward as if she can still see it.

“What about the queen?” I ask, barely willing to break the spell Madge has woven around herself.

“She doesn’t care for astronomy.”

Madge reaches up to pull a tiny withered apple—too small ever to be edible—from the nearest tree. She rolls it between her fingers.

“But do you care for her?”

Madge shrugs. “She’s my mistress. It’s my job to tend to her. But it’s not my job to put her happiness before mine.”

“What about the list?” I ask. “He’s
married
.”

“I crossed that one off, remember?” Madge offers a ghost of her wicked grin. “He can dance. He has a very pleasant voice.”

“It’s a little high-pitched,” I say, thinking of Fitz’s rumble, and how close it was to me.

“He is quick-witted. Intelligent. Charming. Handsome. Has a good body.”

The king is about twice Madge’s size. When he and the queen spar with each other, it’s like a bear and an ermine. “He’s going bald in the back.”
He’s old
.

Madge tosses her head.

“He likes me,” she says. “Which is more than
you
can say about his son.”

The words hurt. Because I’m afraid they’re true. Or might be. Fitz said I’m beautiful and even desirable, but he never tried to kiss me again. I swathe the pain in a tissue of pretended indifference and refuse to reply.

“What about his wife?” Margaret asks. “They liked each other once. Even loved each other. Can that be so easily discarded?”

“What if he wants us both?” Madge asks, her head cocked to one side, her expression pleading. She wants to believe this. Wants to think she’s not hurting anyone.

That she won’t be hurt.

“What if he doesn’t know what he wants?” I mutter.

“We just looked at the stars.” Madge sounds exasperated. “It probably doesn’t mean anything. He flirts with all the girls. Just like the queen flirts with all the handsome men.”

She wants it to mean something. I can see it as plain as the sunlight on her face. My heart threatens to tear itself in two—between loyalty to my friend and duty to my queen.

“Madge,” Margaret says, and looks at me for affirmation. “We just think you should be careful. Because if he’s given an ultimatum . . . whom do you think he’ll choose?”

“Why can’t a woman be an active participant in love?” Madge turns around and sets her shoulders belligerently. As if Margaret is the person she’s trying to convince. “Why can’t she choose? Not be the silent object. Not the languid, beautiful face and soft, beguiling arms. Not the frozen figure waiting for a kiss to bring her to life. But a living, breathing person.”

“Don’t spit at me, Madge Shelton,” Margaret huffs, and draws her skirts around her. “I’m on your side.”

“We’re just saying we don’t want to see you hurt by a man who’s in love with someone else.”

“He doesn’t love her!” Madge shouts, and then more quietly, “Don’t you get that?”

“How do you know?” I ask.

Madge tosses her head. “I don’t see how he can be in love with her and at the same time be sleeping with me.”

We have walked far enough into the orchard for the silence to rain around us like the sunlight through the barren branches.

“No need to be so shocked,” Madge says, but doesn’t move except to stretch her arms down to her sides. “With something like this, it’s . . . inevitable.”

“You mean you were destined to commit adultery?”

Margaret’s tone rests on the edge of sarcasm.

“I mean,” Madge begins, and then swallows, as if against a surge of tears. “I mean that we’re meant to be together. No matter that he’s married.”

“Or twenty years older than you.”

“Or that he’s the king!” Madge cries. “None of that matters, don’t you see?”

“No,” I say quietly, thinking of how I would feel if someone were saying that about Fitz. If someone had already claimed him before I had a chance to discover if love is possible. “I don’t see. All I see is how it hurts the queen. How it undermines the court. How it makes you . . .”

“A whore.” Madge finishes for me. “Why are you ganging up on me? Why are you judging me?”

“I wasn’t judging you.”

“You called me a whore.”

“I didn’t!” I cry, feeling helpless. “I just don’t want anyone else to! Maybe you need to take it slowly.”

“Well, thanks for your concern, Duchess. But I’m not willing to wait around.”

“Stop being so obtuse,” I say. “Sometimes you have to wait.”

“Some of us just aren’t as accepting of waiting as you are, Duchess. Some of us think that we should take things when they’re offered.”

“You’ve never waited for anything in your life,” I say, feeling the anger rise in me. “Or considered anyone else’s feelings. You just go and grab what you want when you want it, regardless of the consequences.”

“When have I ever got what I wanted?” she cries.

“You always get what you want!” Thomas Wyatt, my brother, the
king
.

“You’ve got a duke,” Madge spits, her face red and pinched. “A gorgeous young man and a nice one at that, and you don’t even realize how good you have it. Oh, he’s not
poetic
enough, you don’t see him enough, he won’t kiss you. Always whining about whether or not you’re in love. Maybe you’ll find out what love is when you stop questioning and start
living.
”

The truth in her words makes me tremble, and the years of bitterness behind them hollow me out. I look her directly in the eye.

“So that’s what you’re doing, is it?” I ask. “Living?”

“More than you are.”

“And you say
you
feel judged.”

I almost think I see a flicker of regret on her face before she tosses her head again.

“Mary.” I’d almost forgotten Margaret was there. Forgotten she existed. “Madge,” she pleads. “You’re friends.”

“Are we?” I ask, and turn my wrath on Margaret. It’s easier, almost. “And where do you stand on this, Margaret?”

“I take no sides.”

“Well, you’d better,” I say. “Because once the queen finds out, there will be only one place safe to stand.”

Madge’s face goes white.

“You won’t tell her,” she says. “You can’t.”

“It’s the
king
, Madge!” I don’t admit my promise to the queen.

“And you remember what happened to the last of the queen’s ladies who dared to interfere with his mistress,” Madge says.

Jane Boleyn. Thrown from court.

“I’m married to his son.” My argument has no force behind it. If I’m thrown from court, I’ll have to go live with my mother.

“I don’t think that will matter,” Madge says. “And don’t you know? Until the marriage is consummated, it isn’t a real marriage at all.”

We stare at each other, Margaret still between us.

“Perhaps it’s time you started living your own life, Duchess,” Madge says. “And keeping your fingers out of mine.”