Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

Westminster
Hall, Westminster, London

June
1st 1533

“He’ll
roast like a suckling pig in there,” Bess Holland said between her fingers. I
could not help looking up from my plate; it was the first diverting thing
someone had said since we’d sat to dine.

Lord
Surrey sat in his father’s place at the first table below the Queen’s canopied
dais, amidst the Howard-Boleyn cadre. He shared a plate with Aunt Elizabeth as
Uncle Wiltshire shared one with Lady Frances.

He
did not look like a monster or the master of such. No, he appeared a perfect
angel in his white suit and silver hat. As Surrey’s servant and gently born,
Clere would be allowed the hall, but I’d caught no sight of his ragged head
here nor at the Abbey. I wanted to believe that shame compelled his absence,
but I knew it was not so. He’d lived too long amongst the high and mighty
Howards to regret his cruelty.

I pray God he ate some bad meat and lies
in a puddle of his own filth somewhere.

I
watched Surrey bring a dripping slice of roasted swan to his lips and wished
him the same.

I
ate nothing. My stomach’s disordered rumbling arose from fear not hunger. I
sipped watered wine every time one of the burghers raised a toast to our new
Queen. I wanted my wits sharp, my tongue primed should I need to defend
myself or scream
.

But
Bess’s voice and the ringing clatter of hooves coaxed my eyes away from Surrey,
and toward the arched entrance of the hall.

The
Duke of Suffolk, wearing full, ceremonial armour, rode in mounted on a
snow-white mare. Joan Percy giggled. Seymour dabbed the corner of her mouth, hiding
her own smirk.

I
pitied Cousin Mary Carey if she must share a bed with him to be a Duchess.

The
Duke was nine years older than the King, and looked it. He was still in fine
form being an avid hunter and the King’s favorite tennis opponent. But his black
eyes were long jaded. And he had no polished speech. He was born a commoner and
only his childhood friendship with the King had raised him. Just like Anne.

Why his wife hates Anne for the same
thing I cannot fathom.

The
Duke had made himself the King’s brother-in-law when he secretly wed the
widowed Mary Tudor while she still mourned her dead husband, King Louis Capet,
in France. When the King learned of it he’d sworn never to let the couple set
foot in England again. Only Cardinal Wolsey’s intervention had saved them from
oblivion. But it had cost them. The King had demanded a huge ransom for his
forgiveness and the Suffolks were still in debt these 18 years later.

The
Duke was Master of Ceremonies for the Queen’s Coronation. This performance was
one of his many duties. He carried a tray heaped with delicacies for the Queen.
Which ancient worthy had decided a knight on horseback was appropriate
servitor, I had no idea.

Just
as Suffolk leaned forward, offering the tray to Anne, his horse squealed. One
gilt hoof shot backward, catching a server in the thigh. The man went down too
fast to cry out. Cousin George and the Queen’s Chamberlain leapt from behind
their table. George threw his coat over the horse’s head while the Chamberlain
went for the reins. Together they pulled the animal toward the doorway. My
temples pounded, stunned by my proximity to the near disaster. Anne though,
appeared oblivious, smiling, laughing at something Lady Worcester whispered in
her ear.

“My
God, what if it’d struck the Queen?” Joan cried.

Bess
Holland pulled Joan’s earlobe. Joan yelped. “Then we would not dine today,
lambkin.”

George
passed our table on his way back to Anne. Bess waved him over.

“How
does my lord Suffolk, Lord Rochford?”

George
made her a dashing bow and came up smiling. “As well as ever, mistress. Though
his horse has gone for stew.”

Joan
Percy gasped. Mary Wyatt shushed her.

“Did
you learn the cause for its distemper?” Bess asked.

George
spread his hands. “Alas, mistress, a mare is as wayward a spirit as woman.”

Bess
grinned. “Do you speak of one woman, sir?”

George’s
smile shifted to a coy grin. “Not in this company, Mistress Holland.” His eyes
touched each of us in turn—even Jane Seymour—before returning to
Bess. “How could I choose but one rose from the vine?”

He
winked at me, bowed again, and returned to his seat.

Bess
sighed as we watched him go. “No one plays Pass-the Time half as well.”

“He
should,” said Seymour. “He was schooled by the Queen.”

Bess
leaned right around me and threw her seeds at Jane’s half-finished plate.

“Take
the pits for your sour tongue, Seymour.”

Seymour’s
right hand twitched around the knife she held.

Mary
Wyatt shot to her feet. “Jane, would you walk with me to the privy?” she asked.

Seymour
folded her napkin across her plate then rose and went out with her. Joan Percy
turned on Bess.

“What
did Mistress Seymour mean by that?”

Bess
sucked her teeth. “Oh, she’s just in love with him. And not a chance in heaven
or hell of catching him.”

Joan
Percy frowned. “Poor Jane.”

Bess
tugged Joan’s earlobe again. “Save your pity, lambkin. She’s found solace in
other arms on more than one occasion.”

The
wine went sideways in my throat. I choked, “Jane Seymour has lovers?”

Bess
regarded me over the lip of her own goblet. “Pay me no mind. I am in my cups.”

“No,
she’s not,”
Joan
mouthed over Bess’s shoulder.

“Name
them,” I prodded.

Bess
threw a date in my lap. “That morsel will cost more than you and yours possess,
little Shelton.” She threw a crust of bread after the date. “No right-minded
gentleman would want it known he’d willingly tupped dog-face Seymour.”

“But
where did you hear it?” I pressed.

Bess
peeled an under ripe grape between her sharp fingernails. “I did not hear it. I
read it.”

“Where?”
Joan Percy cried, catching my fervency.

Bess
beckoned us closer. “In the Richmond book. The one circulating among Mary
Howard’s circle.”

Joan
and I exchanged baffled looks. Bess sighed. “Infants. It is a court fashion
Anne brought from France. Someone, usually a lady, circulates a book amongst
her friends wherein they leave a poem. It is passed around until it reaches the
owner and she judges the work.” Bess tossed the naked grape in her mouth. “But
Mary Howard’s book is different.”

“How
so?” I asked.

“It
couches gossip in poetry with such skill everyone is left wondering who is
being described. It is the most delicious pastime.”

Joan
giggled as Bess licked her lips in exaggerated ecstasy.

“Can
we see the book?” I said.

Bess
smacked her purple lips. “Are you part of Mary Howard’s circle?”

I
squirmed under Bess’s mocking look. “Not yet.”

Bess
smirked. “Then you do not see it. It is passed amongst the circle and only they
know what it looks like.”

“Well,
who else is in the circle?” Joan asked.

Bess
plucked another grape from her platter. “That is the best part. No one knows
for certain. Oh, it is fair to assume Margot, Lord and Lady Surrey, but the
rest…it could be anyone.”

Joan’s
eyes went round as the gilt plate she ate from. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,”
Bess affirmed. “Why do you think the book is so daring? The gossip in those
pages may come from the highest hands or those that serve them. And if any
should guess the author of a piece that concerns the King or Queen...”

Bess
smiled and the grape popped like a ripe tick. “They are done for.”

Westminster
Hall, London

June
1st 1533

“Margot
and Mary will be dancing.” Madge put Mother’s message in my ear as we watched
Anne depart the hall. She returned to her chambers where she would rest, change
her gown, and have a private moment with the King. She took only her favorites
and necessary household officers with her, so we were at liberty until she
returned.

Madge
slipped away before I could claim a headache and retreat to my own lodgings in
the palace. Mother and Father would stay as long as Uncle Wiltshire kept the
hall, and he would not leave ‘til the Queen officially retired. I prayed God
the babe forced her to bed before midnight.

I
followed the music to its source in the Great Hall. Mark Smeaton, conspicuous
among the King’s musicians for the gold trimming his scarlet coat, saw me and
waved his bow mid-note. I raised my hand to him then instantly forgot him.

I
peered through the throng, alert for sign of Clere. The hall surged with the
music, voices,
cries
of a thousand folk. Their gaiety
fueled by a heady mix of unbridled relief and sweet wine. England had a true
Queen. The King would have a son and legitimate heir come September. The
turmoil of the past six years would be forgotten, and forgiven on that day.
Even the Exeters must bow to it though their pained looks said otherwise.

I
saw my Uncle look their way and they threw on the same polished smiles they’d
worn at Easter. The moment he looked away the smiles disappeared.

My
chest pinched. I would only have their skill for dissembling if I stayed at
court twenty years. As it was, I must navigate the crowd and fail to find an
opening to reach Margot and Mariah without my parents gleaning I meant it so.

In
this they aided me. They dominated the dancing as they’d done at the Tower.
Though this time, with Wyatt and Sir Richard Page for partners, they made a
better show.

I
inched away from the dancing, eyeing a nearby empty alcove full of shadows.

“Mistress
Shelton.”

Lady
Frances Howard waved her hand beckoning me. I could not pretend mistaking her
summons. Not when her husband, Lord Surrey, stood
beside
her waving at me too. They made a mismatched pairing for they resembled each
other more closely than Surrey did his sister Mariah. Their strongest feature,
the shrewd glint in their blue eyes, promised me nothing good.

I
licked my lips, and made my way to them.

“Lady
Frances.” I executed a quick curtsey and turned to offer the same to her
husband.

“So,
here is Mary Shelton.”

Lord
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey had wicked eyes.

I knew he would.

My
smile rotted from the inside out. I fell into a severe curtsey more fitting for
a king to hide it.

“I
am honored to meet you, my lord Surrey.”

If
Lord Surrey disapproved my gaffe, he did not show it. He gave me his hand and
raised me.

“My
sister speaks well of you, Mistress Shelton.”

Lady
Frances’s blank face disavowed Mariah had said any such thing.

I
said the only thing I properly could. “I am very honored by Lady Mary’s regard,
my lord.”

Surrey
snorted. “You should not be. My sister is a terrible judge of character. I am
the prime example of her ineptitude. She regards me as the finest gentleman in
England. I try to disabuse her, but being a Howard she is too stubborn to be
moved from her opinion.”

My God, he spoke true.

Mischief
gleamed in Surrey’s wide-set, blue-grey eyes.

Lady
Frances sighed.

Lord
Surrey smiled at her. “My wife knows the truth of me too, but being a proper
lady she keeps her knowledge to herself. Do you not, good wife?”

Lady
Frances looked bored. “Of course, husband.”

Surrey
turned his back on her.

“And
how long have you dwelt among the high and mighty, mistress?”

“Two
months, my lord.”

Surrey’s
mouth made a ridiculous O. “Only two you say? But you must have come prepared
for court life. You must have had some practice in the games we play amongst
ourselves.”

Surrey’s
innuendo netted me like a dumb river carp. Malice—or was it only
disdain—shaded his eyes. They taunted me to make some foolish answer he
could swat like the noisome whining of a fly.

I
pinched my wrist. “This is my first experience of court life, my lord.”

“Your
first you say.” His eyes sparked. “I find that hard to believe.”

Something
in his tone, his
look,
evoked the Tom Clere of last
night. The fury I’d struggled all day to restrain, took my tongue.

“I
am no liar, my lord,” I snapped.

Surrey
laughed. “Easily offended.” He glanced at his wife. “She sounds like a Boleyn.”

“I
am, my lord. A Boleyn by way of a Shelton, and with better manners than a
Howard it seems.”

My
parents, behind me, had a paramount view of the shock overtaking Surrey’s pale
face. Horror instantly smothered the rage that had spoken.

My God, I’m going back to Norfolk.

Lady
Frances’s eyes bulged. She grabbed her husband’s sleeve. “How dare you?
Apologize or Mrs. Marshall will hear of it.”

My
mind threw up a dozen words of contrition, but before they could be used my
heart stamped a single word across my face. Never.

Lord
Surrey read me like Scripture. “I require none. Mistress Shelton speaks her
mind. She takes her cue from the Queen. Wise policy.”

Frances
transferred her glare to her husband. “You praise her and chastise me for the
same?”

Surrey
ignored her. He removed his wife’s hand and took a step nearer me. “Mistress
Shelton and I are going to dance.” Before I could decline, he’d grasped my arm
and pulled me into the throng. I glimpsed my mother’s startled face before the
other dancers swarmed us.

Surrey
gave me no room for escape. His hands found an excuse to linger on me,
preventing my slipping away.

“You
are not what I expected, Mistress Shelton.”

I
took a long breath to steady my voice. “How so, my lord?”

Surrey
grinned. “You are not beautiful.”

He
turned me again and his fingers brushed my waist.

“But
you are bold. That I did expect from your breeding.”

The
music turned us again and I saw Uncle Wiltshire had joined my parents to watch
me.

“Clere
made you an offer last night. How much do you want?” I tore my hand out of his
and entered the next movement a step early. He caught me up in an instant.

“Master
Clere offered me insult, my lord.”

“Surely
not?” Surrey feigned surprise. “Surely he spoke well and to the point?”

“He
did, sir. He is to marry Lady Grace Lisle come Christmastide.”

Surrey
beamed. “Indeed he is. ‘
Tis a coup.
Clere will be
related to the King by marriage.”

“And
the King shall be related to a nobody. Such an honor,” I spat.

Surrey
pinched my ribs. “Do not follow Anne’s course too close, mistress. A reckless
tongue is unbecoming to a Queen, and far less to a maiden.”

The
dance parted us for a half dozen steps. I took every one to slow my heart as it
raced toward collapse.

Surrey
clasped my hand as the dance brought us back together. My skin crawled.

“Why
do you speak for him, my lord?” I demanded.

“Clere
has left court on my business. We return to France two days hence. As his
patron, I am prepared to treat with you on his behalf.”

Clere
was gone. Relief clashed with a traitorous burst of grief. My heart struggled
to find a safe path between their combat. If it did not, I knew it would
stop—it must. It hurt too much to continue beating.

“So
tell me what would satisfy you?” Surrey purred at my ear. “Jewels, coin, a
greater position in Anne’s household?”

I
looked into Surrey’s eyes. He was Anne’s cousin, Norfolk’s heir. It was
possible he could promise such a thing. But that canny light in his eyes worked
against him. Even if I wanted a promotion—I would not have it from him.
Not from the one who had tempted Clere away from me.

I
raised my chin as I’d done to Madge and a dozen others since I’d come to court.
“There is nothing you can offer that will make it right.”

Surrey
snorted. “What a Boleyn you are.” His fingers dug into the small of my back. “I
won’t go higher. Clere weds the Lady Grace, and you will say nothing against
it. Ever.”

“Tom
Clere can wed the Devil for all I care.”

The
dance called Surrey to step behind me; he leaned in and his breath climbed the
back of my neck.

“I
approve your sentiment, mistress, but I’ve read your letters. That much passion
betokens a changeable heart.
Revived with
a glimpse of grace, old sorrows to let fall.
 
The hidden trains I know, and secret
snare of love; how soon a look will print a thought that never may remove.
Tell me that would not be you, if Clere ever looked on you again.”
  

The
musicians played an unexpected flourish and Surrey took the chance to spin me
around. We were eye to eye with my family watching us.

“Not
my heart,” I pronounced each word with the gravity of an oath. “I would sooner
have it cut from my body.”

Surrey
put his lips to my ear. “Remember that, mistress. I have a servant with a neat
hand for butchery.”

Another
volta
started. Surrey tossed a quick, insouciant smile, as if he’d not just
threatened my life, and abandoned me. He stalked through the crowd as it surged
by him to the middle of the hall.

I
stood in their midst, frozen, as they began to dance.

“Get
a partner, Mary Shelton!” Mary Wyatt called as her own swung her up and tossed
her toward the ceiling.

Her
shout broke my paralysis. I gathered my skirts, but not high enough. At my
first step I caught my foot, and pitched toward the floor.

A
warm, familiar hand grabbed my elbow, saving me from a final humiliation.

Clere!

I
whirled fast as a waterspout, my skirt and hair colliding with a dancer behind
me. Amazement stopped my tongue midway through the act of forming the wrong name.

“We
are not formally made acquainted, Mistress Shelton,” he said, his dark brown
eyes entreating. “But, if you are amenable, I feel we may proceed as though we
are, since you’ve danced with my brother-in-law.”

My
mind lagged, fractured by a thousand conflicting thoughts and feelings to
unravel it in time to say yea or nay.

“P-proceed
to what?” I asked.

His
carefree laugh unnerved me. He sounded like my brother Tom.

“Why
to dance, mistress. We are in the middle of the floor, are we not?”

The
volta
roared
in full force. Men flinging women in the air surrounded us. The crowd shouted
and clapped urging them on.

“Dance
with me,” he murmured, “and your family will forget the scene Surrey has left
you to explain.”

I
stared at him. He tugged my wrist. My foot took a step before I spoke an
answer. His hands slid around my waist.

“You’re
like a bird,” he whispered against my ear. “You are made for this.”

Then
he grasped me and threw me into the air higher than any other woman in the
hall.