Brazen (6 page)

I stand on my toes, lift my face to his, and kiss him. When his mouth opens in surprise, I tug at his lower lip and feel his exhalation like a caress. I feel a rush of rightness and take one step closer, press my body to his. I twitch the doublet from his arm, wrap mine around his neck.

And realize that his hands remain at his sides. That his body has gone stiff. That he’s not kissing me back.

I drop to my heels, my hands on his shoulders, and rest my forehead on his chest for just a second. I can hear his heart beating.

And I can hear my mother screaming at me.
Wanton. Shameless.

Whore.

Fitz doesn’t move.

I close my eyes and bite my lip, my shoulders tightening. I can’t look at him.

His chest rises against my forehead. “Don’t.”

My entire body burns. I step back, crossing my arms high on my chest and turning away to hide the blotchiness.

I can’t believe I just did that.

I can’t believe I thought it would work.

I. Am. So. Stupid.

“Oh, God,” I stutter.

“Don’t.”

I feel him take a step. His right hand lands on my left shoulder, turning me toward him again. But my humiliation and anger and insecurity conspire to make me feel small and trapped and infuriatingly vulnerable.

I swing round, quick as a wet cat, my right hand upraised. Fitz catches it with his left, and I can do nothing but stand there, our eyes locked. I try to block out the thought that overwhelms all the others:
I’m just like her.
Just like my mother. Faster with words and blows than with forgiveness.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. Father always hit back. Mother was quick with her hands, but Father was a warrior. A soldier. He could sense an attack coming a mile away. I’d see the two of them, snarling and wrapped in combat like dogs bred to tear out each other’s throats.

But Fitz lets go and smooths the veil of my hood away from my face. His touch is gentle.

This is even worse.

“Sorry,” I whisper hoarsely. I can hardly get the words out around the cluster of fear and shame in my throat. “I thought . . .” God. I can’t tell him what I thought.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says.

But he doesn’t follow me when I run.

T
HE
WORD
K
I
S
S
TASTES
LIKE
SMOKE
—
SULT
RY
AND
INTANGIBLE
. More air than substance.

I can’t erase the flavor of it from my lips. Or the scent of him. Every time I see him—through the crowds in the great hall, or from a window of the queen’s rooms, I think of that misdirected kiss and how much I wanted to hurt him when he didn’t respond.

My parents cannot be in the same room without hurting each other.

I don’t want that kind of marriage.

So I gather together the only two people at court I consider friends.

Madge is still wary of Margaret, whose apparent aloofness and reserve don’t invite easy confidence. But I can’t bear to tell my story twice, and I want both of their opinions.

I don’t tell them everything. I don’t tell them I tried to slap him. I can own up to being wanton. I can’t admit to being like my mother.

“Well
,
your
actions are perfectly understandable,” Madge says, and lies back on my bed, staring up at the canopy. “After all, he really is quite enticing. He’s young, he’s handsome, he’s powerful, he’s connected. And I can just imagine what that body looks like under all those clothes.” She slides a grin in my direction. “Or how much fun it would be to get them off him.”

“What about Hal?” I ask, biting off the words between rigid lips.

“I didn’t say
I
would pursue Fitz,” she says. “Just that it wouldn’t be a hardship to do so.” She rolls onto her stomach, looking over to the fireplace where Margaret sits, straight-backed and, so far, silent. “Don’t you agree, Margaret?”

It’s almost a challenge.

Margaret flicks her gaze from me to Madge and back again. “It is against the king’s wishes,” she says.

Madge rolls her eyes and I turn away.

“At this point, I think it’s against Fitz’s, as well.” I busy myself at my little writing desk in order to hide my face. But the book Fitz gave me lies there accusingly.

For your words.

“No man can resist a girl throwing herself at him,” Madge says soothingly. “It’s physically impossible.”

I turn to her. “Have you not heard a word I said?”

“Maybe you surprised him. How long did you give him to respond?”

“Isn’t he supposed to respond right away?”

Madge pauses. “Perhaps.” She looks at me sadly and then sighs. “Maybe he’s just slow.”

I laugh. “Oh, that makes me feel better.”

“A dullard of a husband is easier to manipulate.”

“I don’t want to manipulate him, Madge! I just want . . .”

“What
do
you want, Duchess? When you already have so much?” Madge’s tone is bitter, and I can’t respond.

Margaret does it for me.

“Love.”

“Yes.” I want to hug her. “That’s exactly it.”

Even Madge softens.

“What you really need to do,” Margaret explains, “is not to make him fall in love with you, but to find out if you are in love with him.”

“How do I do that?”

“Kiss him again,” Madge says.

“Get to know him,” Margaret replies at the same time.

“Both of those are highly unlikely as he’s required to attend Parliament, and after Easter he’s going back to his own estates.”

“Or to Ireland,” Margaret murmurs.

“Ireland?”

“Haven’t you heard? The Duke of Richmond is set to lead the invading army and suppress the insurrection.”

“Fitz?” Go to war? Fight in battles? I lived in Ireland when my father was lord lieutenant. I was two and ill almost the entire time. My mother still complains about Ireland. As if my father invented it himself just to make her miserable.

“It’s said they might even make him king,” Margaret adds.

Madge and I both gasp.

“Of Ireland.” Margaret winks.

We’re silent for a fragment of second before Madge starts to laugh and the corners of Margaret’s mouth lift.

“You were right, Duchess,” Madge says with a grin. “I do like her.”

A little bit of tension releases from my shoulders. I have friends. I can’t get my husband to kiss me. I barely have a marriage. But I’ve got these two girls.

“So how do you know?” I ask. “If you’re in love?”

“You just know.” Madge throws herself onto the stool by the fire and picks up a mug of small ale. As if that’s enough of an answer.

“But
how
?” I ask.

I study each of them in turn, but Margaret looks as expectant of an answer as I feel. I think Madge is the only one amongst us who has ever been in love. I’m not even sure she has, despite having committed the physical act of it.

“Well”—Madge cocks her head to one side—“what are you looking for?”

We hesitate.

“In a man.” Madge leans forward. “What’s important to you?”

She gets up, thrusts her mug into my hands, and searches my desk. She pulls out a quill and some ink, and spies Fitz’s book.

“Perfect,” she says with a grin. “Let’s make a list. Of the things that are necessary for love, and the things that would prevent it.”

I exchange a glance with Margaret, who shrugs.

“Well?” Madge says, and turns to me. “What would your ideal husband absolutely have to have?”

“We’d never argue,” I say quickly.

“I think that’s asking a bit too much, Duchess.”

“Then I’d have to like his family,” I say, thinking of how Mother has always hated the Howards. Their pretensions and opinions and rules. And how Father has always considered her family traitors.

Madge tilts her head and looks at me quizzically. “What about the man himself?” she says. “What is the one most important thing about forever? You know, ‘till death us depart.’”

“Poetry.”

Madge hesitates and then laughs, turning back to the desk to write it down. “Fine.”

“Fine features,” Margaret says.

“So he has to be handsome.” Madge hunches a little to form the letters.

“Maybe not classically,” Margaret amends. “But he’d have to be appealing.” She looks at both of us. “To me.”

“It’s true that one woman’s meat is another woman’s cheese.” Madge grins wickedly. “Mary?”

“Other . . . physical attractions?”

“You’re blotching again, Duchess,” Madge points out cheerfully, and turns back to the book. “A nice ass? Broad shoulders? A big pizzle?”

“A healthy body.” I close my eyes against the rush of images her words have produced.

“Excellent.” Madge giggles.

“Ambition.” Margaret’s extraordinary contribution stops us all. Again she shrugs.

“I don’t want a man who’s content to do nothing,” she says. “Who accepts his lot. Who has no goals and no power.”

“Power is good.” Madge nods and keeps scribbling, before adding, “A good kisser.”

I hold my breath and the room goes silent. Madge’s face is full of apology, but she tosses her head. “It’s true, though. I can’t fall in love with someone who kisses like a donkey with a drooling problem.”

“Or who doesn’t kiss back,” Margaret says with an emphatic nod.

“A good dancer.” Madge begins writing again.

“A pleasant voice.”

“An interest in politics.”

“He’s got to be charming.”

“With a good sense of humor.”

“Quick-witted.”

We gush ideas, and Madge scrambles to write them all down, holding up a hand to stem the tide.

“He has to like me,” I say when she looks up.

“Of course he will like you,” Madge says, and squeezes my hand, but she writes it down anyway. “Now, what must he never be?”

“Ugly.”

“Smelly.”

“Narcissistic.”

“Vain.”

“Married.”

Madge drops the last word, and it ricochets in the silence that follows.

“I know I can’t be with Hal forever,” she says without looking up or pausing in her writing. “He has to make a Howard heir.”

“I’m sorry, Madge,” I whisper.

“I can live with being nothing but a dalliance.” Madge shrugs, then crosses out the word
married
. “As a matter of fact, maybe I don’t want forever.”

She returns to her list and reads it silently.

“One more thing,” she says, and writes it carefully and precisely at the bottom of the page, speaking all the while. “And this one is absolutely essential.” She makes a final flourish with the pen before looking up to share it with us. “He must get along with my friends.”

D
ESPITE
MY
NEWF
OUND
OBJECTIVE
, I’
M
V
ERY
GLAD
WHEN
THE
queen invites me to leave London and accompany her to Hatfield to visit her daughter. I’m happy to get away from the tangling, all-consuming thoughts of
him
.

When we arrive at the palace, the queen doesn’t even give her ushers time to announce her. Her eyes are bright as she strides toward the house and the front doors open wide, revealing the dark maw of the entrance, in which stands Madge’s mother. Lady Shelton is Anne Boleyn’s aunt, responsible for the royal nursery.

The queen swoops to the top of the stairs and catches up the bundle of blue damask and gold embroidery that Lady Shelton carries. Her daughter, Elizabeth.

I follow silently as Lady Shelton shows us the entire palace. The queen carries Princess Elizabeth everywhere. Talking into her ear, holding her close, kissing her forehead and hands. I feel a bit guilty that I am here and not Madge. But her mother is distant. Removed. And I wonder if perhaps Madge wouldn’t have wanted to come—even if she had been invited. Lady Shelton has the appearance of someone who is afraid that ghosts may come and haunt her.

The baby is beautiful. She has her father’s red hair and her mother’s dark eyes. And a serenity that comes—I imagine—from being loved.

A dark, misshapen demon rises slowly in my heart. I am jealous of Elizabeth. Of the joy in Queen Anne’s face. The demon twists and seeks out other easy prey. It reminds me that I am not lovable. That my mother despises me and my husband won’t even respond to a kiss.

I suppress the coiling envy as we inspect the beds and rooms, the cleanliness and the linens. The queen herself unpacks a small trunk she brought, full of new things she’s had made for Elizabeth. Jackets embroidered with gold braid. Counterpanes of damask and velvet, to swaddle her cooing daughter in luxury.

When Elizabeth falls asleep in Queen Anne’s arms, Lady Shelton puts the baby in a cradle beneath a canopy of the cloth of estate, and another woman sits down to rock it.

The queen invites me to walk in the formal gardens, and we step from the oak-beamed great hall into bright spring sunlight that does little to soften the bite of the north wind.

“How do you enjoy life as one of my companions rather than one of my maids?” the queen asks, walking just slightly ahead of me toward the aggressively structured hedges of the knot garden.

“It’s very different, Your Majesty.”

“How so?”

I have never been a good liar, but with the queen, I feel I need to be as truthful as possible. “I have more leisure time. More freedom. Yet my own rules and thoughts and foibles keep me prisoner.”

The queen laughs. “Yes, I think I understand.”

She was a maid-in-waiting once. I think she does understand.

“And what do you do with your leisure time?”

Again, the truth just spews from me. “I play with words.” It was the last thing I intended to say. And it sounds so stupid.

The queen catches the expression on my face and smiles, but doesn’t laugh.

“You write poetry?”

“I suppose I should say I would
like
to write poetry.” The queen watches me. Waiting for an explanation. I love poetry, I just don’t have the confidence to write it. Or anything. Which is why Fitz’s book lay blank for so long, until Madge finally picked it up.

“I love words,” I tell the queen. “My brother and I used to have . . . contests. Word wars.” Hal must have told Fitz.
For your words
. I don’t want to think about Fitz, so I stumble on, saying anything that comes to mind. “Hal is the poet in the family. And I . . . admire Sir Thomas Wyatt.”

“Well,” she says quietly, “there is much to admire.”

We pass beneath a tall hedge and the shadow of it falls across her face, making her cheekbones more prominent and the darkness of her eyes fathomless.

“He is very handsome,” I say lamely. Before Madge’s affair with him, I’d harbored a secret crush on Thomas Wyatt. I sometimes still find myself hoping his blue eyes will land on me. Or better yet, that he might write a poem for me and only I would know it.

“His poetry,” I continued. “It seems to mean something. Or several somethings. More than it’s actually saying.”

I can’t get my thoughts straight.

“I wish I could do that,” I say finally. “I wish I could do more than just . . . tell the truth flat out. I wish I could tell the truth . . .”

We walk back into the sunlight and a gust of wind threatens to bowl me over.

“And have it seem like nothing but poetry?” the queen asks, steadying me by my elbow.

“Yes!” I cry. “That’s exactly it.”

“I feel that way with music,” she says dreamily. “Like somehow, I could say what I think and see and feel, and no one would really understand but me. It would be like pulling the wool over the eyes of the entire world, while telling them the ultimate truth.”

We remain silent all the way back to the house. She, lost in music; I, lost in words.

But just before we enter, the queen turns to me.

“Have you seen—” She stops. Takes a deep breath. “The king’s other daughter?”

Lady Mary. No longer a princess. The king ruled that he and Katherine of Aragon were never married, and that Mary is no longer legitimate. She is the king’s daughter, but no more in line to the throne than Fitz. Perhaps, in fact, less so. Because she is a girl.

Mary lives at Hatfield as a kind of servant to her baby half sister. Who
is
a princess.

This is the ghost that Lady Shelton has been afraid of. Because Mary and Queen Anne have not made any attempts to hide their animosity toward each other.

I shake my head. “No, Your Majesty.”

“How old are you, Cousin?”

I’m surprised by the question. “Almost fifteen.”

“The king’s daughter is not much older than you are. What would
you
want from a stepmother? From a person who took your mother’s place?”

I think of Bess Holland—the woman who replaced my mother in my father’s affections. Or filled them, as the case may be, because I doubt my father ever felt affection for his wife. Bess is good and kind and well-intentioned. If a little dim. She tends to float through life. She is courteous to me, but does nothing to make me feel wanted. Or loved.

I think of Mary.

If I am jealous of Elizabeth, of Queen Anne, how must Mary Tudor feel?

“I should like someone to intercede for me,” I tell the queen. “Someone to tell my father that I’m worthy of his attention.”

“Of his love.” The queen nods. She understands.

“I shall do this then,” the queen whispers fiercely. “I shall offer to speak to the king. On her behalf. He will be furious. He thinks he should be allowed to treat his children any way he wishes.”

“Some parents need a little help,” I admit bleakly.

Again she nods. “That they do.”

She squares her shoulders. “All right, Cousin. Will you do me this? Will you seek out the king’s daughter and offer . . .” She pauses. “No, not a place at court. But if she honors me here as queen, I can plead for at least a return to his good graces.”

This is not an order from my queen. Nor even a request. She is honestly asking me if I will do this. And I don’t wish to. The Lady Mary is like a hornet—small and quick to sting.

But I look into the queen’s eyes and nod anyway. She wants to make things right. If I can help in some small way, I will be doing them all a service.

As the queen is shown rooms in which she can dine and rest the night, I search all of Hatfield. No one will tell me where Lady Mary is. I wonder if this is because of my mother. The oranges she sent to Katherine of Aragon were reported to contain treasonous hidden messages. Perhaps Elizabeth’s household thinks I’m a spy. Inciting a revolt.

I don’t know Lady Mary well. I’ve only met her once. I think of Fitz, her half brother. How he is always on his way to the tiltyard or the tennis courts. How he rides out with his father early in the morning, returning on winded horses and waves of bonhomie.

The demon twists again. I am jealous of Fitz, too. Of his easiness with his father. I will never fit into that world.

I wonder if Lady Mary feels that way. She doesn’t seem to be the sort to spend her day at archery or hawking. She always seemed a little sickly. A little too pious for physical pursuits.

I’ve heard that her mother wore hair shirts at the end of her reign. Both Katherine and Mary are staunch believers in the Roman religion.

I slip into the chapel as silently as I can. It’s smaller than the chapels at Greenwich or Hampton Court, but larger than the one at Kenninghall. The walls have been washed white, though the ceiling is still crisscrossed with stars and gilded battens. The saints have been removed, but the altar remains—glowing with gold in the candlelight.

A figure in purple kneels before it. She is small and round—a velvet dumpling. Tinier, even, than the queen. When she stands and turns at the sound of my footsteps, I see that she probably only reaches my shoulder in height. But the energy that emanates from her is equal to that of her father. Frightening.

I kneel and bow my head.

“You married my brother,” she says. Her voice is low—almost as low as a man’s—and hoarse. It rumbles from deep below her rib cage.

I nod. “Yes . . .” I don’t know how to address her. She is not a princess. She is not a duchess. But she is the daughter of my king. “Yes, Your Grace,” I finish lamely.

“I hope you deserve him,” she says. Her tone indicates she doesn’t think I do. Deserve him.

Her skin is pale, and looks limp against her face. She may be only three years older than I am, but she appears to be much more. She has the same high-arched eyebrows as Fitz, the same vibrant hair. But Lady Mary has deep, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I would believe the rumors that she is being slowly poisoned.

She stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that I grow uncomfortable. I get the feeling that Lady Mary has more to say. So I wait, helplessly, hoping she gets it over with quickly.

“Have you consummated it yet? Your marriage?”

I am shocked rigid by her bluntness and can’t reply.

“Oh, no, of course you haven’t. You’re not allowed.” Her words drip with mock sympathy.

I shake my head, but she hadn’t intended for me to respond. She intended for me to listen.

“You’re nothing but a pawn, Mary Howard. A simple, expendable female piece in a man’s game. You were married to a king’s son to placate your father for a short while. But you will be replaced when something better comes along.”

“That’s not true.” I can’t believe I have the strength to dispute her.

“No?” She whips the word like a lash. “If the rumors are valid and Henry FitzRoy is made king of Ireland, he will be able to do much better than
you
. Perhaps a French princess. Or the daughter of my cousin the Holy Roman emperor. He could do much better than a
Howard
.”

She says my family name as one would the word
whore
. In her mouth, they almost sound the same.

“My mother never consummated her marriage to the king’s brother, Arthur,” she continues. “It wasn’t a real marriage. Therefore it never really happened.” She pauses and lifts her chin. “They are still married. My parents. No matter what Anne Boleyn says.”

I regret taking up Queen Anne’s cause. I regret seeking Lady Mary out. I regret getting involved with this family at all.

“The king can change your life in an instant,” she says coolly. “Just as he changed mine. Taking away my birthright and giving it to a mewling infant
bastard
.” The word tastes like saltpeter. I wonder what she thinks of Fitz.

I wonder if she’s right. If my status can be changed in an instant. If suddenly it will be declared that I’m not married at all. If I will go back to being nothing but Mary Howard. I feel the anger and humiliation simmering in my veins and I grip my hands into fists, hiding them behind my back.

But she hasn’t finished yet.

“How would you feel,
Duchess
, to be shunned by your father? Ripped from your beloved mother, never allowed to see her again?”

“I would be overjoyed,” I retort.

“Then you are a worse child than I thought. How ungrateful.” She practically spits the words.

She reminds me overmuch of my mother, her words echoing those I try to keep from my mind. My limbs are desperate to attack. Or to retreat. To escape her vituperation. But I have a promise to fulfill.

“We all have two parents,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And often it is difficult to keep both of them happy.”

She stops. Frozen.

“I obeyed my father’s wishes,” I continue. “As the rules of court and the rules of God dictate.”

“The rules of God say to honor thy father
and
thy mother,” Lady Mary corrects. But she is hesitant.

I nod. Pretend to agree. Pretend that a person can actually honor both parents when they are as at odds as mine are. As hers are. Like me, she must choose one or the other.