Brazen (16 page)

T
HERE
IS
NO
REPLY
. I
CHECK
EVERY
PAGE
WH
EN
I
FIND
THE
BOOK
in my sewing basket. All I discover is a correction that Margaret has made in her usual, detail-oriented way.

—Now he comes! Will Alas, no, no.

In my haste to scribble the last line, I omitted some key words that Margaret squeezes into the space above.

—Now he comes! Will he come? Alas, no no.

Alas, for weeks, neither does Madge. But then, soon after May Day, she flops down into the seat next to me in the queen’s chambers as if nothing has altered at all. As if we still shared a bed. As if the past five months have never happened.

“How would you feel if someone was thrown into prison for speaking against you?” she asks under her breath.

“I guess it would depend on what they said.”

“Well,” she says shortly. “I suppose if they said they were going to kill me, I’d want them locked up. But for calling me goggly-eyed?”

“You forget, Madge. That midwife called her a
whore
. Not just goggly-eyed.”

“You called me that, and I don’t think you should be hanged, drawn, and quartered for it.”

“I did not call you that. The word
whore
tastes like bile and I wouldn’t spew it at anyone. Least of all you. I said that others would.”

Madge is quiet for so long, I wonder if she’s controlling her anger. Wanting to argue. Then I see a tear slide the length of her nose.

“Madge—”

“I know, Duchess. I know you warned me.”

“I just . . .”

“You didn’t want to see me get hurt. You didn’t want to see me hurt Hal. But don’t you see, Duchess? You can’t control everything.”

“I wasn’t trying to control you.”

“You were trying to control the outcome,” Madge says, taking my hand in hers and patting it. “But I—” She stops, two fingers resting lightly on the back of my hand. “He made me feel so alive.”

I want to gush with relief.
Made
. Past tense.

“I think I understand,” I tell her. “I didn’t then. But maybe I’m beginning to.”

Fitz
. His touch makes me feel more alive.

“And you didn’t feel that way about Hal?” I ask finally.

“I love his ass,” Madge says with a brief return to her typical sense of humor. “I loved the way he kissed me. But no. I didn’t love him.” She waits a beat. Shrugs. And looks up at me plaintively. “I don’t even know what love is. Obviously.”

I want to ask her if things are over with the king. I want to ask who ended it. But we’ve just started speaking to each other again.

Madge turns to watch the queen. She is pale and drawn and seems so frail she might blow away. She’s been edgy and snappish, hardly eating and not sleeping well. In the past, she has asked me to sleep in her room, a typical request of her ladies. But recently, all she wants is privacy, and no one attends her.

“She’s pregnant again,” Madge says, her voice as flat as low tide.

“Oh.” I guess that answers my question.

“He says it’s his duty.” She looks back down at her hands. “That he doesn’t enjoy it.”

That answers my question more fully than I care to know. I don’t want to hear this.

I stand. Madge leaps to her feet and grabs both of my hands in hers.

“I think sometimes he can’t even . . . you know. Even be aroused. With her.”

“Madge!” I hiss. “Stop!” I can no longer think of her feelings. All I can think of is escape. The queen’s rooms are near empty since she hasn’t been well, but I feel the very walls pressing in around me.

“I have to tell someone, Mary!” Madge is pleading with me. “I can’t—”

“Lady Richmond!” The queen’s voice cuts across Madge, and we both turn to stone, staring at each other.

It takes more energy to turn and curtsy than it ever has to wake in the cold of my room.

“I would have you come and speak with me.”

I give Madge’s hand a squeeze, and she grips mine for longer than is seemly. It’s like she wants to pull a promise from me. One I can’t give.

I kneel before the queen and she indicates a little stool near her feet. I sit and look up at her. She’s wearing gold and a lapis blue that looks like the sky just escaping the bindings of winter. There are gray smudges beneath her eyes, but otherwise she looks serene. A single ring set with a pearl adorns the hand that rests on her belly.

“Cousin, are you happy here?”

The question shocks me for a moment. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“There is no matter of course with happiness, Mary,” she says tightly. “You either are or you aren’t.”

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“Mostly.”

She has finished my sentence for me. Better than I could myself. I never would have said it out loud.

“I enjoy my work, Your Majesty.”

“But do you enjoy your
life
, Mary? That is what matters, after all.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it, Your Majesty.”

“With your life?” She sounds exasperated. “You’re supposed to use your God-given talents, Cousin. You’re supposed to be the person you are, faithfully and truly, because that’s how you were made.”

I allow the words to settle in my heart, but I don’t know what to do with them. Her eyes seem to look through me. Into me. Searching for answers I can’t provide. So I look back into her eyes and hope she finds me.

“Do you think you’re in love, Mary?” she asks. “Are you happy with your husband?”

“I am not with my husband.”

“Yes.” She says this musingly, as if she’s not really thinking about me at all. “And what of your young friend, Mistress Shelton?”

I force myself not to turn and look at Madge.

“She’s not married, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps it’s time she was.”

“I’m sure she would appreciate your interest, Your Majesty.”

“I’m not so sure,” the queen says bitterly, then pastes on a smile. “Your diplomacy and your equivocation will serve you well in this court, Cousin. But several months ago, I asked you to tell me nothing but the truth. You gave me your promise.”

Now is the time I must choose. I must choose either to betray my friend or betray my promise to the queen. My throat fills with all the possible words. I taste them at the back of my mouth, but I cannot sort one from the other. And I cannot find any that will be sweet.

Finally, I swallow.

“Madge is old enough to marry,” I finally whisper. “And I think she grows tired of waiting.”

The queen nods, her eyes unfocused, lips pressed into a tight line. Her chin tips upward when she takes a deep breath through her nose, and when she releases it, she turns her gaze back to me.

“And Lady Margaret Douglas?”

“She . . .” I can’t keep up with the queen’s thoughts. All I can hear is the howl of betrayal in my own ears. Madge finally came to me. To speak to me. To renew our friendship. And I’ve ruined it.

I can’t tell the queen about Thomas Howard. Margaret could be thrown from court for establishing an attachment on her own. Just like the queen’s sister. Only worse. Because Margaret has royal blood, any relationship formed without the king’s blessing could be considered treason.

“She, too, grows tired of waiting.” The queen speaks for me.

Truly, the queen knows all.

I
’
M
ON
FIRE
BY
THE
TIME
I
BURST
INTO
MY
ROOM
,
STARTLING
MY
maid. I want to shed my own skin. No matter how unwillingly, I’ve betrayed my friends. I’ve betrayed my queen, because I couldn’t stop Madge.

I don’t even know if I should have tried. He made Madge feel alive. Who am I to take that away?

I growl in frustration. My maid bobbles a curtsy, and I scowl at her.

It doesn’t make me feel any better.

She turns back to the fire, pokes it once, and then turns around again. I pretend not to look at her. I pretend I’m alone. I pretend not to notice that she’s staring at me. I must look ghoulish, the frustration and shame etched all over my features.

“Your Grace,” she whispers.

“What is it?” I snap. I’ve scared her. I never yell. I’m always gracious.

I’m sick of being gracious. I want to be like my mother.

“It’s His Grace, Your Grace.”

Just what I need. My father.

“Well?” I wait.

“His man came,” she says. “His Grace is at court.”

“Does he want to see me?” I ask wearily. The ebbing tide of anger has left me exhausted.

“I don’t know, Your Grace. Just that he’s back from Collyweston and London.”

My head snaps up.

“His Grace the Duke of
Richmond
,” I clarify. Not Father at all. Fitz.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

I don’t even thank her or say good-bye.
Stop questioning and start living
. I can’t do either if I’m not with him.

Fitz’s rooms are very near the king’s privy apartments. I cringe at the idea of running into the king. Or Madge. I pass through the hall and up the stairs without seeing anyone.

A man in blue-and-yellow livery stands at the door.

“I wish to see His Grace, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset,” I say in a loud, clear voice. Ridiculous that I have to request permission to see my husband.

“He is not available at present.”

We eye each other warily.

“I was told he is in the palace.”

“He is. But at the moment, he is”—the usher coughs—“indisposed.”

Oh, God. He has another girl in there. Someone he met before. Someone he’s met since. I feel the ugly blotching blush creeping up my breastbone and take a step backward, stammering.

The door swings open, freezing me.

“A basin of warm water, if you please, Lawson.” Fitz stops and stares at me. His doublet is unbuttoned. His hair is wretched and shambly, as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly.

There are haunts and nightmares behind his eyes.

“And a jug of wine,” he finishes.

The usher bows and strides away. Fitz opens the door wider. I walk through and stand near the wall. His bed is unmade. The fire in the corner is barely spitting. He closes the door behind him and walks to the center of the room.

Then he stops, covers his face with his hands, and slowly sinks to his knees.

“Are you all right?” I ask. I don’t know if I should go to him or not. I can’t seem to move.

He doesn’t say a word. His shoulders don’t shake. He doesn’t heave with sobs. But the misery emanating from him is more palpable than the cold.

“Fitz?”

He gasps in a long breath, and my feet move of their own accord. I kneel beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. He nearly knocks me sideways, with the strength with which he buries his face in my chest. It is not at all sexual, and not entirely pleasant.

Tentatively, I stroke his hair.

There’s a knock at the door and he stands with one swift movement, a movement so perfect and graceful it makes me want to cry.

Two ushers enter, taking no notice—making no comment—of my position on the floor. They set up the basin of water near the fire, and place a tray with a jug of wine and two goblets on a little table. Fitz waits until the men leave before he goes and splashes water on his face.

“It was horrible,” he says. He picks up a goblet and drains it quickly. He sets the empty down on the tray and brings the other one to me.

“What was?” I ask.

He sits next to me on the floor, arms around his knees, and stares into the fire.

“I’ve been to London today. To Tyburn.”

“That’s where . . .”

“They executed the Carthusian monks,” he finishes for me. “The king wanted me there. To represent him.”

“Oh.”

“I stood with George Boleyn and Henry Norris. They were both drunk. I wish I had been.”

Fitz’s expression is empty

“The monks were dragged to the square on hurdles, the willow canes snapping beneath their weight. When they stood, their pricks were cut off and burned in front of them.”

I don’t want to hear, but he needs to tell. I take a sip of wine.

“Did you know a man can still speak, after his heart is removed? Did you know the human body can be broken at the joints? Like a duck. Or a boar. And the pieces carted away like so much refuse.”

I shudder and my stomach heaves.

“Did you know,” he whispers, “that anyone could be capable of such barbarism? Such inhumanity?”

“They were traitors.”

“Were they?” He turns on me. “Or did they just die for their beliefs? When did it become treason to disagree?”

I shake my head, because I don’t know.

“He is becoming something I don’t understand.”

“Who?”

“The king.”

“He’s your father.”

“He’s the
king
. That’s all that matters to him. Certainly no one else does.”

It strikes me that Fitz never says
my father
. It’s always
the king
.

“I’m sure it’s difficult. Being the king’s son.”

“No, Mary,” he says, bitterness lacing the edges of his words. “It’s difficult being the king’s
bastard
son. So much is expected of me, and yet I can expect nothing.”

“I didn’t think you did expect anything.”

“That’s what everybody thinks. I can’t expect anything, so I should be grateful for all the little scraps I’m given.”

I sit back and level my gaze at him. For I truly know what it is to be the least person in the household. The one in the corner. The one forgotten.

“I wouldn’t say being the Duke of Richmond and Somerset is a
scrap
, Henry FitzRoy.”

“Now you sound like the king.”

“Have you ever
asked
him for anything?”

Fitz skewers me with his gaze.

“I’ve asked for you. More than once. And he keeps treating me as if I’m a child. A piece of furniture that can be moved and displayed and used, but never needs to be cared for.”

“He does care for you, Fitz. He says he loves you.”

“Like I said, words mean nothing. It’s the truth that counts. Action and truth.”

“Words mean everything.”

I think of my own father. I can’t remember ever having heard him say he loves me. But he took my side in my marriage. Battled my mother, who was disgusted by the very ground I walked on. Paid for my gowns and my slippers and my place at court.

“What about your status?” I ask. “The gifts he gives you. The way he welcomes you every time you come near. My mother can’t stand the sight of me.”

“Gifts can’t take the place of love. What counts is . . . listening. Giving a person what he wants. Don’t you see? I want him to see me. To respect me. To
respond
to me.”

He puts a hand on each of my shoulders and looks directly into my eyes, making sure I understand exactly what he’s saying.

“I want him to let me be
me
. Not a piece of furniture.”

“So how do you do that?” I ask. “How do you make someone see you for who you are?”

Fitz laughs bitterly.

“With the king, I don’t know if that’s even possible. He’s like a horse, blinkered, looking straight ahead, trained not to hear the crash of weapons and the fall of bodies as he charges on toward his own purpose.”

“Madge thinks he’s in love with her,” I blurt.

“More fool she.”

I take a gulp of wine, realizing that I had hoped she was right. I had hoped, for her sake, that she could find love. Or at least that she knew what it looked like.

But not with that. Not with a man who would order such cruelty. Not with a man who would force his own son to watch.

“Fitz,” I say, and reach for his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He turns to me finally, and I see the storm in his eyes, more gray now than blue.

“For what?” he asks. “What do you have to be sorry for? You are the one good thing in my life. That one stroke of dawn in a world that grows darker every day.”

He takes my face in his hands again. This kiss is different. Like we’re drowning in each other. Every one of my senses is tuned to him, overwhelmed by him. His arms are around me and I can feel the caress of velvet and the tickle of gold braid on the skin exposed by my low neckline. I can smell the City on him, but also his own scent—cool and clean like the first breath of wind after a hot day.

I twine the fingers of my left hand in his hair and slide the fingers of my right beneath his open collar. His skin is inexpressibly smooth, like it’s been dusted with gold powder. I want to taste it and angle my mouth away from his, nuzzling his jawline. I feel drunk. Dizzy. Wild.

His skin is glowing where his collarbone meets his throat. I have the sudden, hysterical desire to lick it.

So I do. When my tongue touches him, he moans.

So I do it again. He tastes of salt and musk and linen and sugar.

Fitz buries his face in my neck, sending gooseflesh prickling down my arm. He kisses me right where my throat meets my jaw, and instinctively—unthinkingly—I arch into him, his hand on my lower back sliding even lower.

I want this so badly. Want to lose myself in him. Want to forget the queen and Madge and my mistakes. I want to make him forget the executions and his father.

I want to stop questioning. And start living.

I put a hand behind me on the floor and lower myself backward. Fitz follows, elongating himself beside me, one hand cradling my head, deepening his kisses.

His other hand travels down my body, my skin tingling despite the layers of clothes between it and his fingers.

When he pulls up my skirts, the questions start up again.

What am I doing?

I sit up so quickly, I butt him in the chin and he flinches backward. I reach out to steady myself and knock over my wine, spilling a string of ruby droplets across the floor.

“Ow,” he says from behind a hand. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

I reach for him, but he grabs my hand.

“That, you can be sorry for,” he says, and laughs.

I can’t believe I’ve done it again. Ruined a romantic moment before it even started.

He stops laughing.

“On second thought, don’t be sorry,” he says. “Call it fate telling us to take it slowly. Call it instinct, telling you it’s not the right time.”

It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling. What I’m questioning.

“I can’t lie and say it didn’t hurt.” He rubs his chin. “I won’t ever lie to you, Mary.”

He strokes my hairline with a single finger, and all my awareness follows its path.

“And please, always tell me the truth,” he says. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being the king’s son, it’s that the truth matters to me. It matters more than anything.”

I look at him, at the horror and sadness still behind his eyes. I still want to kiss it away. Make him forget. Feel that heady rush that makes me want to forget myself.

“Will you?” His face is still only inches from mine, his eyes beseeching.

Tell him the truth. “Yes.”

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

The skin at my throat starts to burn, and I know I’m blotching. I promised to tell him the truth.

“I was thinking . . . how you make me feel.”

A slow smile starts in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turn upward.

“And what’s that?”

I swallow. “Lustful.” The flare of heat travels up into my face and down into my fingers.

Fitz chokes on a cough, his eyes wide with surprise.

“I want to love you,” I admit. “I feel
something
for you. Something strong. Something wonderful. I don’t know what love feels like. I know how my body feels.”

“You want to know what love feels like?” Fitz asks, and his voice is now low and sweet, twining darkness and sugar.

I can’t answer out loud, so I just nod.

“It feels like when you’re separated, you can’t think of anyone else.”

I keep my eyes on the space between us. But I think of how Fitz—and seeing him again—remained in the forefront of my mind throughout the entire spring.

“It feels like you’re a child again. And every new day is a discovery.”

He leans forward. I see the jeweled buttons of his doublet, the gold braid at the hem of his jacket. I think of the kingfisher. The sunrise. The taste of his skin.

“It feels warm.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders, and strokes them down to my wrists. The heat that follows his touch feels like it could never be extinguished.