Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (49 page)

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

Sunday,
September 14
^th
1533

I
dove out the door before Cousin Mary could stop me. Madge’s bitter laugh chased
me down the hall. I pounded down the stairs and found Janet crouched at the
bottom, face white and dry as salt.

“Where
is the King?”

“At
Mass, mistress,” she whispered.

“Where—which
chapel?”

“Friars,”
she said.

I
hiked my skirts and ran down the stairs. Janet’s small feet pounded behind me.

“Mistress
!—
what’s happened?”

Everything,
Janet.
And now this.

Bloody
John de Vere had forsworn himself.

But
why?
Why in God’s name? Why does he hate me
so much he’d do this?

I
ran so fast, Janet fell behind.

The
ankle I’d turned last night throbbed. I kept on racing across the Inner
Courtyard to the privy gallery leading to the chapel. My hair flew behind me, a
dark pennant soon to feel the shears at Syon. I ran faster.

I
sped around the final corner and slammed to a stop inches from a wall of
bodies.

The
crowd’s backs formed a seamless wall. Massed together they seemed more than the
population of Greenwich. But they were strangely hushed.

“Make
way!” I shouted. “The King comes.”

Habit
moved them. I dove through the narrow opening they gave before they noticed
that the King was not behind me.

I
wormed between two men in the Queen’s livery and reached the commotion.

The
torn collar of John’s blackwork shirt dangled across one shoulder. A red stain,
wide and round as a pomegranate covered his scarred eye and half his cheekbone.

Purple
bunting hung from Clere’s half-shut eyes. His head leaned back at a painful
angle so he could see. There’d been nothing for him to wear at Shelton House.
His leathers, still damp in places, creaked at each sudden movement.

“Stop!”
I shouted and lunged for Clere’s sleeve. An arm hooked my waist, lifting me for
an instant off my feet.

“Their
blood’s up,” Wyatt’s beard pricked my ear. “You’ll only be hurt.” He set me
down beside him, but kept a hand on my shoulder.

John’s
bloody knuckles struck Clere’s jaw. The crowd moaned as Clere staggered, but he
recovered his footing, raised his fists and swung at John. John dodged,
receiving only a graze to his temple. But his feint left his face vulnerable to
Clere’s other hand.

Everyone
groaned at the sickening squish of soft bone breaking. John’s nose erupted
spilling blood and snot down the chest of his blackwork shirt.

I
wriggled against Wyatt’s arm. Weston and Sir Richard Page across the circle
from me darted from their spots to intervene.

“Weston,
Page,” Fitzroy barked. “Leave off! You too Wyatt.”

Wyatt’s
beard twitched. “The King will not approve this, Your Grace.”

Fitzroy,
eyes aglow, ignored him. “A sovereign on Clere!” he shouted.

Instantly
the crowd took it up. I heard the Countess’s hateful voice put a crown on de
Vere.

Clere
swung again. John ducked and came up, landing a blow under his chin. Clere
staggered worse than before, legs shaking.

“Stay
up, Clere!” Fitzroy yelled.

Somehow
Clere again kept his feet. Sweat matted his dark hair against his forehead. He
raked it back with his forearm. John took the opening and rushed him. Clere
threw his arms up as John took him in the stomach. They toppled to the floor
and rolled, landing weak punches to each other’s backs until John kneed Clere’s
groin and escaped. Clere rolled away from a kick, swayed to his feet.

John
smiled. “Cry mercy, Clere, and I’ll spare your looks.”

Clere
roared and made a weak left-handed swing. John leaned back easily avoiding it,
and ran straight into Clere’s right fist, flying from the other direction.
John’s head rocked. His eyelids fluttered, fists falling open.

“You
have him!” Fitzroy shouted.

Clere
bit his bottom lip. He pulled back his right hand, aimed and hit John’s left
temple. John’s neck fell limp. His eyes rolled shut and he tumbled in a loose
heap at Clere’s unsteady feet.

“Kill
the bastard!” Fitzroy screamed.

Surrey
pushed his way past Fitzroy, grabbed Clere’s arm, spoke something in his ear.

Trumpets
blared. The heavy tramp of feet followed.

“The
King comes!”

Fitzroy’s
jubilant face suddenly looked like he was knee deep in the garderobe. Wyatt’s
arm disappeared. I took one step toward Clere and froze.

“By
God’s blood, what is the noise?” The King’s bellow drove everyone to
their
knees. The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, my Uncle
Wiltshire, cousin George, and Master Cromwell appeared behind the King. Six
yeomen with halberds at the ready, stood behind them. Cousin George’s shocked
eyes found mine.

The
King’s scarlet gaze took in everything then settled on John, sprawled on the
floor.

“Is
that de Vere?” he bellowed. “Get him on his feet.”

Cromwell
signaled a yeoman who grabbed John’s arms and pulled him upright. He swayed,
and the yeoman put an arm under him.

“Brawling,
my lord? With—“ the King’s forehead puckered. “Who is this with the
blackened eyes?”

“Master
Thomas Clere,” Cromwell said. “Lord Surrey’s man.”

“Christ
in Heaven!” the King roared in Surrey’s direction. “What’s the cause?”

Surrey,
to his credit, did not flinch. Instead, his weasel eyes picked mine from the
crowd. He shot me a withering smile then said, “I believe the dispute involves
a maiden of the Queen’s household, Your Grace.”

“Fools!”
the King roared. “You disturb the peace of my court for a girl?”

Cousin
George’s eyes slipped away. No help would come from him.

The
king slapped his book of prayer against his thigh.

“By
God. On a Sunday! Christ in Heaven
help
you.” He
pointed his thumb, massive with rings at Clere. “You, boy, have an hour to quit
Greenwich—No! By God—to quit England!
 

“You,
sir,” the King pointed at John, “get you back to France and stay there til
Domesday calls you home!”

Cromwell
snapped his fingers and the yeomen surrounded John and Clere. The crowd
scrambled out of their way.

“And
the girl?” Norfolk barked for everyone’s hearing. “She must have done somewhat
to provoke the thing.”

My
skin crawled as the King’s scarlet face swung my way.

“She
is the Queen’s servant,” the King growled. “That is for her to say.”

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

Sunday,
September 14
^th
1533

Anne
prowled the perimeter of her bedchamber like the Tower lion his cage. Her
skirts whipped the air every time she turned.

The
Privy Chamber beyond sat empty. Aunt Elizabeth had counseled the need for
complete discretion so the Privy Chamber was cleared and only the Queen’s kin
retreated behind her bedchamber door to ken the depth of my disgrace.

I
knelt a safe distance before Anne’s chair. Urian, dozing beneath it, cocked an
eye at me.

Lady
Rochford stood in the Countess’s usual place beside Anne’s chair. Cousin Mary
Carey and Madge stood beside the bed, hands folded before them, eyes downcast.
Aunt Elizabeth, ensconced in the window seat with a heavy deer pelt across her
knees, stared at me as I took a breath and committed to my lie.

“I
never lay with any man, Your Grace. On my honor, I swear it.”

Anne’s
sable eyes scorned me. “That is the question, mistress, whether you have any.”

I
winced and swallowed a throat full of bile. Anne’s hostility must not undo me.
Crying might be seen as admission.

“Madam,
I swear before God I have done nothing wrong.” I glanced at Madge and Cousin
Mary. “Whilst true that I entered into an honest betrothal with Lord
John—“

“—Which
you consummated!” Anne snapped.

“No,
madam.”

Anne
slapped the back of her chair. “
Pathetique!
Ce que vous pensiez
?”

What was I thinking?

What
would she do if I spoke the truth?

I thought like you once did--that I could
have the boy I loved and be a countess too.

“I
was not thinking, madam. I loved Lord John.” The words curdled my tongue.

Anne’s
venomous face contorted. She rounded on her sister.

“You
taught her to whore. Admit it!”

Cousin
Mary opened her mouth, but Anne cut her off with a slash of her hand.

“I
don’t want to hear your denials. Mon Dieu, am I queen of a bawdy house?”

“Madam,
I will swear any oath—every oath to God that I am chaste.”

Anne
flew from behind her chair, arm raised. She struck the back of my head,
knocking my headpiece clear of its pins. My ears rang.

“There
are no oaths God will hear from you. Not today.”

Anne’s
skirts retreated. She fell onto her chair. Urian whined. Anne snapped her
fingers and he quit.

“Your
Grace, I—“

“Enough!”
Anne shouted. “I cannot hear another lie, my head is full to bursting.” She
threw a hand at me. “I invite you to court and see my reward? You are your
mother’s daughter, no doubt. She sent you to harm me. Well, she may have you
back. You will return to your parents on the afternoon tide. They have already
been sent word of the trouble so do not think to spin the tale to spare you
their anger. Get out.”

Cousin
Mary ran to open the door. I trod her heel, murmured an apology, and barely
escaped the same as she almost shut the door on the edge of my skirt.

I
slipped out of the Privy Chamber door, knowing everyone had been awaiting my
appearance. I stepped into the middle of the morning revels. A
volta
played, wild
and dissolute. Mark Smeaton, handsome and richly dressed, strolled the chamber.
His violin enticed everyone to dance. For the first time since I’d come to
court, he did not seek my attention. His eyes passed over me as if I were not
there.

No
gentleman tried to catch my eye, though they all watched me.

Weston
peered at me as he partnered a pretty Howard girl. Cousin George glanced my way
every time he turned Bess. Bess stared at George as if nothing else existed.

I
stepped away from the door and began my long, tortuous retreat from the
Presence Chamber. The carrion birds circled me as I went, whispering their last
barbs, but none flew so low as Honor Lisle. She stood at the great bay window
as she’d done the first day I saw her, wearing the same black damask dress and
hood. The Countess and Jane Seymour chatted with her until she saw me and
delivered the same charming smile as before. The smile that had wished me
drowned in the Thames.

And
now I wished it too.

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

Monday,
September 15th 1533

I
walked out of Greenwich recalling every footstep of six months before that had
led me inside another world—a golden cauldron of spite, ambition,
excitement, cruelty, beauty, and love.

No,
not so. Not love. Not for me. But still…I would never have another time like
it. Already, my first days at court began to recede like a dream back to the
netherworld from which it arose. I shut my eyes willing the memories to hold
fast. I needed them where I was going.

I
clutched Joan Percy’s handkerchief balled in my fist. She’d pressed it into my
hands before I left our chamber for the last time.

“Do
not show them you are afraid,” she whispered. Her straight narrow shoulders
urged mine to climb down from my ears.

“Thank
you,” I whispered back.

Joan’s
timorous smile undid her confident pose, but I smiled anyway and let her think
me fooled.

“Lord
Surrey sent Master Clere to join his uncle’s household in Edinburgh,” she said.
“He will be safe there. I think.”

I
made a dull nod. No one was ever safe in Scotland, especially not an exile.
What a fool. Taking Fitzroy’s part had ruined him.

“He
ruined John de Vere’s looks right well.” Joan’s eyes lit, recalling the scene
then darkened. “No boy will ever love me so much as Tom Clere loves you.”

 
“Love?” I snorted. “’Twasn’t love Joan,
it was pride. Howard pride and naught to do with me.”

Joan
shook her head. “No. I was there. He called Lord John a—a whoreson for
slandering your good name and demanded an apology. Lord John laughed in his
face. And that’s when Clere hit him.”

Joan
slid her hand into mine.

“So,
you see, it is love. My uncle Northumberland said you could always tell a man
was in love by the trouble he took for his lady.” New tears slicked her wide,
guileless eyes. “Orpheus went to Hades for Eurydice,” her voice hitched. “Tom
Clere’s gone to Scotland for you.”

Tom Clere loves me still?

I
slipped, crossing the threshold from palace to wharf. Master Stafford caught my
arm before I hit the flagstones.

“Careful,
mistress,” he warned. “Treacherous footing here.”

I
looked up into his honest, weather-creased face. “By God, I know it.”