The Boleyn Bride (5 page)

As the procession wended past on its way to St. Paul’s Cathedral, to celebrate a special mass of thanksgiving for Princess Catherine’s safe arrival, the crowd about me began to disperse with much talk of alehouses. It was then that I realized my predicament.

How was I to make my way back to Baynard’s Castle for the banquet that was to follow the mass? I hadn’t spared a thought for that. A proper conveyance—a coach, barge, litter, or horse—had
always
been provided for me. I had never had to ask or arrange such things myself. I took it for granted that it would always be there when I wanted or had need of it, and it always had been.

Where was Matilda when I needed her? I stamped my foot and wished my maid would miraculously materialize standing right beside me so I could slap her. I would be sure to tell my father that she had abandoned me, deserted me when I needed her most, and left his young and beautiful only daughter entirely unchaperoned, all alone on a public thoroughfare where I had, only by some miracle, escaped being ravished at the hands of some crude and uncouth stranger. I might have been raped by a rat catcher or one of those foul ruffians who collected manure from the city streets! He’d have her lashed for this! I was sure of it. And I would be right there, standing beside him, smiling up at him adoringly with my hand on his velvet sleeve, listening to the annoying music of her screams as her back was being flayed open. My father always took care of me; “naught but the best for my Bess,” he always said, even though I detested being called by any diminutive of my Christian name.

Fuming and frustrated by my sudden, and unexpected, helplessness, I spun around, anxiously searching the street, hoping to spy some passing conveyance that I might hail or some familiar face I might prevail upon for some chivalrous assistance. It was then that I noticed
him
. A rather rotund—or
fat
as a cruder, more plainspoken, and less refined individual might have said—young man, tall, dark-eyed and -haired, and with a light growth of beard adorning his big, round as a pie face, slumped casually against a wall in his humble rusty black doublet and hose, both well-worn and oft-mended. He was like a great big baby—so soft, lovely, pink, white, and fat—yet at the same time unmistakably, undeniably a man, but I still wanted to hold and play with him. He looked
delicious,
and my hot blood gave a mighty sizzle. I suddenly wished with all my heart that I had a bouquet of sweet and spicy pinks so I might invite him to play a rather naughty game peasant girls played in which they secreted the blossoms in their clothes and invited the young men they favored to search and find them, then trade them all for kisses.

A stray lock of unruly dark hair fell like an upside-down question mark over his brow as his intense, warm brown eyes pierced me like Cupid’s arrow. It was the most peculiar sensation! His eyes seemed to strip me bare, layer by layer, down past my flesh and bones straight to my naked soul, making me feel even more naked than naked; I hated and loved it at the same time. In one hand, he held what appeared to be a small, light scrap of pale wood, whilst the other clutched a stick of charcoal. He was drawing me.

Though I was rather flattered, I thrust my chin high, gathered up my skirts, and, regal as a queen, made my way across the street to stand before him.

“Let me see that!” I imperiously thrust out my hand.

When he stood up full straight, he towered high above me, but I wasn’t afraid.

“How dare you draw me without my permission?” I demanded. “I did not give you leave to sketch me! Do you know who I am?”

With a lift of his brows and a slight little smile that suggested he found this absurd, he turned the drawing around so that I might see, keeping, I noted, a possessive hold upon it rather than relinquishing it to me.

The brows I labored with my silver tweezers to keep plucked into fine, thin, graceful, perfect black arches shot up in surprise.

It was only my face!
The way his gaze had made me feel, so hot and penetrating, like I imagined a phallus would be, I had expected to see my whole form, perhaps even unclothed in some lewd pose. But it was only my face as perfect as I saw it in my mirror each day. He had captured every line, every nuance, flawlessly. He had actually done justice to my beauty!

“It is rather good,” I coolly admitted without abandoning my haughty stance.

I fumbled for my little velvet purse, but he shook his head and hid the sketch behind his back, silently adamant that he would not part with it.

“Now don’t be absurd!” I cried. “What artist does not want to sell his work?”

He shook his head again. “I need it . . . for my work.”

He spoke softly, in a shy voice with just a whisper of a French accent.

“For your work?” I repeated, my brows arching high in disbelief. “And what pray tell is that? You are obviously not the average artisan since you shun payment for your humble scribblings.”

“I am a doll maker,” he said, turning and pointing proudly to the modest wooden shingle that hung above a door set like a jewel into the wall he had been leaning against.
Remi Jouet, Doll & Toy Maker,
it read, carved in elegant Italianate letters painted with weather-faded gilt.

“This is
your
shop?” I asked incredulously. It had never occurred to me that such a young man of clearly modest means might be the proprietor of his own shop, an apprentice boy, yes; indeed I had taken it for granted that that was what he was, but not a craftsman in his own right.

“Would my lady care to see inside?” he asked with a certain shy pride imbuing his voice that at the same time betrayed a fear of rebuff.

He was clearly not a man accustomed to conversing with ladies as beautiful as I, so I took pity on him. I nodded, and without waiting for him to open the door, grandly swept inside with a pleasing swish of sapphire velvet.

The large front room was a fine, orderly place, well lit and clean, and not too cluttered, the tables and shelves all neatly arranged, like a well-ordered jewel box, so each toy could be seen and admired in its own right instead of in a careless, tangled heap that must first be sorted and straightened out like the beaded necklaces I often threw at Matilda, screaming for her to unknot them so I could wear whichever one I pleased; though more often than not, I would end by capriciously flinging them right back into the box, to become tangled again, and slamming the lid. It never really bothered me if such rough handling broke them. My father would always buy me more; I had only to ask him.

There were toys for both humble and highborn children, boys and girls. There were gaudy rag poppets, floppy-limbed with embroidered eyes and smiles, and mops of bright yellow or red yarn hair; stump dolls carved out of a single block of solid wood, hard and unmoving, but good enough for a poor little girl to cherish and love; and more expensive, ornate models with wax, painted plaster, molded clay, or carved alabaster faces, dainty white hands and feet, with bodies of stuffed linen or leather, some even with jointed wooden limbs, with full heads of beautifully curled or braided human hair, and garments of silk, satin, damask, brocade, sarcenet, and velvet so fine that, had they been life-sized, would have been fit for the court. Some even had jewels; the more humble had a string of colorful clay beads, polished pebbles, or a wolf’s tooth on a leather cord to ward off illness—“a nice touch for a sickly child,” Remi shyly explained—and the more elaborate, and expensive, had glass or even carnelian, jet, or coral beads. Some even had pearls artfully woven through their hair and around their throats or stitched onto their dresses, and gold or silver pendants, crucifixes, or brooches studded with real gemstone brilliants. Perched on the highest shelf safely behind the counter I even saw one with high-piled golden curls, held up by pearl- and diamond-tipped pins, resplendent in a court gown of black velvet replete with a long train sewn all over with tiny twinkling diamonds.

There were lady dolls and baby dolls, the princesses every little girl dreams of being. And, for the boys, soldiers and knights replete with full metal armor and weaponry, some mounted on horses; gentlemen in hunting leathers accompanied by hounds or with hawks on their arms; and that beloved rogue Robin Hood armed with his bow and head to toe in Lincoln green, from the simple stump dolls to elaborate wooden jointed figures. Some of these even came equipped with strings so that the lucky boys who owned them might enact their own jousts or battles. There was something for everyone and every purse; Remi, I would later learn, insisted upon it.

On a table before the front window, there was an array of edible dolls, gingerbread figures adorned with edible gilt, sugared dough that when picked up gave a tantalizing rattle to reveal that there was a prize hidden inside, and bread dolls made in the likeness of various saints, the kind mothers liked to give their children in the hope that by eating them they would be blessed with the same virtues as that particular saint.

There was even a small table artfully draped with silver-embroidered rose-colored silk arrayed with a variety of pincushion dolls and exquisite tiny dolls—I hesitate to call them rag dolls as that usually suggests a homemade plaything made of scraps, simple and cheap, and these were crafted only of the finest materials, and they also had slender wire skeletons secreted inside to stiffen them—that decorated beautiful needle cases, sewing baskets, and trinket boxes.

Standing tentatively beside me, Remi silently picked up a red apple–shaped velvet pincushion atop which stood an exquisite little lady gowned in pearl-studded, gold-blossomed, flesh-colored brocade, her long, sleek black hair braided with gold and crowned with a coronet of exquisite tiny seed pearl flowers. There was a knowing, sensual look in her dark eyes as she held out a tiny ruby red–enameled apple in her outstretched hand while a serpent woven of gilt threads and emerald glass beads twined around her, embracing her limbs through her skirt. I saw the hesitation, the uncertainty and fear of rebuke or refusal in his dark eyes, but the battle he was fighting within himself passed quickly, and he conquered his fear and pressed the pretty bauble into my hands.

“I . . . I would like you to have this,” he said haltingly as a blush set his cheeks aflame.

I let my haughtiness fall away from me, like a gown of silk pooling around my feet, and simply said, “Thank you,” and held the beautiful trifle tenderly clasped against my breast, and, to give him time to recover himself, I continued browsing his shop.

Besides the dolls, there were rattles, tops, sets of toy soldiers, a wooden Noah’s Ark filled with carved and brightly painted pairs of animals, similar sets of barnyard beasts, board games like Fox and Geese, hobby horses, gaily painted shields, wooden swords, and sets of ninepins. Some made plain for poorer children, and others with great detail and embellishment fashioned from more costly materials for his wealthier patrons.

I paused beside the shelf that contained the finest dolls, mounted higher than the rest, beyond the reach of most eager little hands and meager purses.

“Shall you make a doll of me, I wonder?” I said as my fingers idly caressed a skirt of vermilion silk with a pattern of golden poppies worn by a little lady with a mass of golden curls crowned by a wreath of red silk poppies.

“The most beautiful doll I have ever made,” Remi promised, his eyes shining with sincerity and ardor. “With her face, hands, and feet carved of the purest white alabaster, and hair like the finest ebony silk. I will dress her in deep blue velvet trimmed with golden lovers’ knots just like you are wearing today so you will always remember.”

I took a step toward him, just as he stepped toward me. His strong fingers closed around my delicate wrist. My pulses pounded, and my heart leapt inside my breast like an eager, nervous frog. I
relished
the knowledge that he could have snapped it if he had wanted to, but I knew he didn’t. This shy, gentle, soft-spoken, and soft-bodied man who made dolls would
never
wantonly destroy any object of great beauty. I would always be safe with him! Then I was in his arms, and he was kissing me with such a
furious
hunger I didn’t know whether he was angry at himself for desiring me or at me, a beautiful, proud, highborn, well-bred young lady who should have known better, for submitting to a common artisan’s ardor.

But there was no time for questions. As we broke apart, staring at each other, speechless, in blushing and bewildered silence, the door opened and there stood that breathless and gawping idiot Matilda sobbing out an apology for losing me in the crowd.

“It’s about time!” I snapped. “I’ve been waiting for you for what seems like hours! I merely stepped inside this shop as I did not think it meet that I, a duke’s daughter, linger in the street like a common trollop looking for trade! My father would never approve, and he will be sure to flay the hide off you if I decide to tell him that you left me to fend for myself alone in the merciless streets of London. I might have been molested by a fishmonger or groped by a grocer! Or abducted and sold into a brothel to spend the rest of my days satisfying the base lusts of low men, or even had my purse snatched!”

As Matilda continued to weep and blubber words I did not even bother trying to decipher, I turned to the doll maker and graciously gave him my hand.

“Make me a doll, Master Jouet,” I said. “When it is finished, and you are
certain
that it is worthy of me, send it to me, and—this time I insist—I will pay you, and well.” I spoke these words, husky and soft, with a bold gaze and sensually parted lips that I hoped would convey that I meant to give him so much more than cold hard coins.

Without waiting for his answer, I thrust my chin up high and turned, letting the train of my gown slap Matilda’s ankles like a velvet whip, and headed for the door.

“But how will I find you again?” Remi called after me. “I don’t even know your name!”