Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (21 page)

The
Queen waved Lord John to his feet. He turned around and made Mariah the
courtliest bow I’d yet seen. His hair fell around his face then settled in a
ragged line across his forehead as he straightened. My fingers twitched,
yearning to brush it away.

“Take
it, my lord!” a gentleman shouted. “Before Fitzroy comes home!”

Half
of Anne’s ladies laughed, but all of the gentlemen did, except for cousin
George and Wyatt. They watched the Queen. Anne, hiding a little smile behind
her hand, watched Lord John.

Sticky
fingers of heat climbed my back. I knew how this would go. He would kiss
Mariah. The girdle would go to her. What was there for me? Nothing, but to be
passed over, just like at home.

Lord
John dropped his cap at Anne’s feet. Urian, crouched beneath her chair, snapped
at it.

Mariah’s
chin rose as Lord John bowed to her. Then he turned his back on her, crossed
the two steps between us, put his hand under my chin, raised it quick and
decisive as an archer sighting his target, and set his lips against mine.

The
onlookers roared like a volley fired on Anne’s arrival at the Tower as the kiss
went on and on.

Finally,
Lord John broke it. We stared at each other; I breathless, and he calm as the
wind today.

“Now,
I’m off to Oxford,” he said, and walked away.

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

June
6th 1533

“The
King has ordered Mark Smeaton from court!” Joan Percy’s squeal broke the ennui
of another dull afternoon at needlework. I dropped my needlework and cast my
eyes at the ceiling.

God
was good.

Since
the court’s return to Greenwich, I had suffered a thousand mocking whispers
among the other ladies after my near kiss with him. Strange, how they chose to
forget my ultimate kiss with Lord John. The one that had left me too addled to
accept the Queen’s
girdle
as I ought. Mariah took it
and gave it to Lady Frances. I could not wholly resent it. In a way, her
brother had won it for her.

His
kiss lingered. Still. It had spread through my body wider than Weston’s kisses,
deeper than Wyatt’s and attached itself to my elemental self. It would live
there my entire life, and I would judge every other kiss I received by it. My
heart wriggled at the thought, because, in truth, I was not sure I wanted
anyone else to kiss me. But Lord John was gone—as he’d said, to Oxford,
and no one—not even Bess could say when he would return.

Mary
Wyatt caught Joan’s arm as she ran toward the Privy Chamber doors. “How did it
come about?”

Joan
hesitated. Already Bess Holland and Lady Anne Zouche were inching toward the
door. Only fear that Joan might hold some crucial detail made them linger from
running to the Queen with such tremendous news.

“I-I
think
the Queen should be told first.”

Two dozen
women swarmed her, crying for details.

The
Countess stared at me. “Was it over Lord Rochford’s wager?” she asked.

Joan
shook her head.

“It
must be!” Mrs. Coffyn said. “Sir Richard Page swore to see Smeaton gone by
midsummer for his effrontery.”

“Aye,
Joan,” Bess drawled. “You must have got the tale wrong, poor lambkin.”

“I
did not," Joan cried. “Some villain in Greenwich town set upon poor Mark,
and blackened his eye and tore his lip so badly the King fears his face will
put a fright in the Queen."

Joan’s
face crumpled in horror as Bess dove for the door. Lady Zouche, a step too
slow, had to concede her the place. Bess pounded until Mrs. Horsman opened it a
crack to rebuke her. Bess pushed her way inside.

The
chamber erupted with speculation. Joan retreated to the stool beside me in the
now empty sewing circle.

So,
Smeaton,
had been beaten like the dog he was. I hoped
the damage proved temporary, and did not affect his playing or voice. But I
could not help the niggling worm of satisfaction warming my belly til I looked
at Joan’s sorry face.

Tears
slicked her eyes. Before I could stop her, she pressed her cream-colored silk
foresleeve against them.

“Never
fear,” I sighed. “There will be other chances.”

Joan’s
shoulders shook. “Not for me. I only heard it first because I had to chase
Urian past the stables and saw the grooms watching Smeaton depart.”

“I
wish I’d been there to cheer on his horse,” I muttered then glanced around the
chamber. “So where is the beast?”

Joan
went white as clotted cream. “Holy Mother of God, I never caught him.”

__________________

Joan
and I parted after our third course through the stable yard. None of the grooms
had seen Urian.

Why
in God’s name had Mrs. Dyngley set Joan to walk him? She could barely handle a
comb.

I
sent Joan east toward the jousting field and took myself in a new direction.
Most like, the hound had scented some animal in the park and given chase. We’d
see him tomorrow unless God was good and the heat chased him to the river.

I
plucked the handkerchief from my sleeve, dabbed the back of my neck. I needed
shade.

I
shielded my eyes and looked up at the massive, treed hill that rose behind the
palace. Duke Humphrey’s tower crowned the hilltop. I had never visited it. It
was a favorite place of assignation. Going there went far beyond the bounds of
Pass-the-Time.

If
Urian had gone to the woods it was out of my hands. Joan must tell Lady Lee and
take the consequences.

I
went back through the Privy Garden, keeping to the shadows cast by the high
hedges and trees. No one was about. The King had gone hunting that morning,
drawing most of the gentlemen. So the ladies kept indoors sewing shirts and
gossiping whilst Anne entertained her favorites within her Privy Chamber.
Listless, I called Urian once, twice. Only birdsong answered me.

“The
Devil take him,” I muttered.

I
retraced my steps back toward the Friars’ chapel. Urian was a hellhound for
certain. If he tried to cross the threshold, I had no doubt he would burst into
flames.

I
found an outer door open and stepped inside. I almost sighed as cool air struck
my face. My sight darkened for an instant as sunlight disappeared.

Where is everyone?

The
friars were missing, and the choir that seemed to be at practice most hours was
absent too. I tiptoed inside just in case someone might be at prayer.

A
woman’s vixenish laugh stopped me.

“Hush,”
a man said. The woman laughed again.

“You
do not want me to,” she murmured. “If I close my mouth, I cannot do this.”

The
man moaned.

Holy Mother of God.

Who
would dare tup in church?

My
stomach squirmed as Weston’s name leapt to mind. No—even he had more
restraint, more sense,
more
decency than to do this.

My
body quivered, throwing off the day’s heat. This was scandal. And it was all
mine to bring to the Queen. It could not be shared out with Joan. I required
every scrap of credit to trade for the Queen’s favor.

And
then Lord Surrey could go hang.

The
Chapel was still except for the man and woman’s soft voices.

A
giggle came from my left. Murmuring followed it. They were in the little alcove
behind the choir. If I cut across the nave I could approach them unseen. I
hiked my skirt to avoid it rustling against the flagstones and jostled my
girdle. Something snapped. My little Book of Prayer struck the stone floor loud
as a thunderclap. I dove behind a chair. The man hissed.

“Not
now!”

I
heard scrambling, a curse then feet running my way. I bent my head under my arm
to spy them, but they passed out the door I’d entered, straight into the sun. I
glimpsed the flying edge of the woman’s yellow train then they were gone.

I
picked myself up and found their trysting place. Nothing was disturbed. The
only thing out of place was the commingled smell of sandalwood, roses, sweat
and something I could not name. It had a spiciness that burned the tender skin
inside my nose.

“Jesu,”
I muttered. “It smells like Lucifer’s clothespress.”

I
caught a sneeze against my sleeve.

Dear Lord, it’s noxious!

I
hurried outside and filled my lungs with clean air.

“Mary!
Mary!” Joan Percy waved at me from behind a short hedgerow. Her hood stood
almost at a right angle to her forehead. A dirty smudge darkened her left
cheek.

“Have
you found Urian?”

Another
sneeze seized me.

Joan
plucked a lace handkerchief from her sleeve. I snatched it, checked for dirt
then used it.

“Yes,
Joan. As you can see.”

Joan’s
hopeful look crashed. “The Queen will send me back to Northumberland.”

“For
a lost hound?” I pinched my nose against the next sneeze.

“You
do not understand. Urian is precious to her. He was a gift from Sir William
Brereton. He’s been her friend since the King first took up with her.”

“So’ve
many others,” I sighed. “It will be well.”

“No,
no. Sir William’s friendship is… different.”

Crimson
crept into Joan’s ashen cheeks. My sneezing stopped. My nose tingled with the
fresh scent scandal.

“How
do you mean…different?”

Joan
wavered. I put my face in hers. “Tell me.”

“He
once courted her.
Before the King.
Before my uncle…”

I
poked her thin chest. “The rest.”

Joan
ducked her head unable to meet my eye. “She favors him because—because he
killed a man for her.”

“Who?”

“William
Pennington. He called Anne a whore and Brereton ran him through.”

“He
killed Pennington?”

I
knew the name. Everyone did. A year ago he had been the Duke of Suffolk’s man.
He died dueling inside Westminster Abbey against retainers of my uncle
Wiltshire.

“Southwell’s
brother took the credit or blame depending on your point of view—no one
speaks about Brereton’s part in it.”

“Where
did you hear this?”

“From
Jane Seymour.”

I
snorted loud as a dray horse. “You’ve been duped, Joan. Seymour gulled you.”

Joan
shook her head, tears starting. “No—no ‘tis truth. Seymour’s gossip is
never wrong.”

I
rolled my eyes. “Well, how does she come by it? Divine communication?”

Joan
bit her lower lip. “I don’t know, but she knows things Mary. She finds out. She
knows more than Lady Rochford sometimes.”

I
shook my head. “Only Master Cromwell knows more than Lady Rochford.”

Joan
nodded. “That may be true, but Seymour might know more than he.”

I
was tired. Urian was still lost. I’d missed a chance to bring Anne something
that might thoroughly win me her favor, and I was arguing Jane Seymour’s
superior ear for gossip with little Joan Percy whilst melting ‘neath the midday
sun.

“Enough,
Joan!” I walked away, heading back toward the palace. “Seymour’s sly as a feral
cat. She knows how to dupe little innocents from up north.”

“Wait!
Mary! What about Urian?”

I
didn’t stop. “Go ask Seymour!”

________________

I
fell onto my empty stool in the sewing circle, relieved to be out of the sun. I
took up the piece of make-work I’d discarded what seemed hours ago and caught
Seymour and Marshall then Bess glancing at me. Their eyes darted above my head
as someone approached behind me. I turned and Sir Francis Weston knelt beside
me. Master Wyatt came behind him.

“If
you had wanted to see the gardens, we could have made it a picnic,” Weston
said.

Seymour
covered her mouth and tittered. Bess kicked her foot.

“Urian
got away, Sir Francis.” I made a sunny smile, hoping all the watchers would
take it for sincere.

“Foolish
hound,” Wyatt drawled. “I would never fly from your company.”

“Nor
I,” said Weston.

Instead
of the usual excitement, the start of Pass-the-Time sparked nothing. I smiled at
them, willing something properly flirtatious to come, but my tongue wagged
empty. I cursed Urian to the seventh circle of hell. Chasing him had left me
too tired to play.

“Nor
I,” a fresh voice declared.

My
heart stumbled. It could not be… I peered around Wyatt.

Lord
John de Vere slipped between
Seymour’s
and Bess’s
stools into the center of the sewing circle. He’d put off his Scots attire and
looked a proper Englishman in a black coat studded with seed pearls, black
hose, and a stark white shirt.

He
needs a blackwork collar, I thought.

He
knelt on the pile of make-work at my feet, and offered up a half-opened scarlet
rose.

Mrs.
Marshall tapped her foot. “Those are the Queen’s shirts, Lord John.”

Lord
John ignored her. So did I. His shining brown eyes bound me. They held my dark
reflection and nothing else. A slow burning started behind my ears.

“I
was in the garden, saw this flower, and thought it could not be the same shade
as your lips.” He brushed the rose across my chin then smiled. “And see? It is not
the same. It is not so beautiful.”

 
   
Bess
dropped her make-work and applauded. Mrs. Marshall shushed her. The noise drew
the attention of the rest of the chamber. The Countess, Mrs. Coffyn, and a
dozen others drifted over to watch.

“And
what of her eyes, Lord John?” Bess urged, a wicked gleaming in her own.

Lord
John scrutinized me. He shook his head. “They are night and earth mixed
together. I would need both to hand to judge properly.”

Weston’s
lip curled, blue eyes darkening. “Your time abroad was not wasted, my lord.
You’ve come back with some French polish.”