The Court of Boleyn (Tudor Romance Book 1) (4 page)

   ‘Why is it so dark in here, husband?’

   ‘Is it that late?’ Edmund glanced at Tom. ‘I had quite forgot the time.’

   A knot formed in Cecily’s stomach. The two men had a conspiratorial look about them, as if they shared secrets that she would never be privy to. She hated Tom suddenly. ‘Out.’ She barked at him and watched in silent fury as he gave an ironic bow and sauntered from the hall.

   ‘You seem rapt with the servant, husband.’ She said quietly.

   For a long moment Edmund did not speak. He looked down, his foot making patterns out of the scented rushes scattered upon the floor. Eventually he looked up, holding Cecily’s gaze as if daring her to question him. ‘I think you should dress for dinner, wife.’ He looked her up and down as if she had appeared to him in rags. Cecily opened her mouth to speak but the words would not come. She realised she did not even know what those words were anymore.

-

Francis Bowman suppressed a yawn. The kitchen fire at Radley Hall was blazing and his belly was filled with the good country broth and chunk of bread thrust upon him by the cook. He thanked God for guiding him to this house just as the empty countryside had become enveloped in thick darkness. Now, he yearned to retire to some quiet corner and sleep until the morrow when his journey would begin again. If only Tom, the serving man, would cease his endless questions about life at court!

   ‘Is the queen very beautiful?’

   ‘Yes.’

   ‘How many gowns does she have?’

   ‘I hardly know. I am not in her private chamber.’

   ‘Do you think I would be handsome enough for court?’

   Francis looked at the man’s sharp cheekbones and dark, feline eyes. ‘You’d be fit for the queen, indeed.’

   Tom smiled delightedly and clapped his hands. ‘So you will put in a word for me.’

   Francis laughed. He would forget this preening coxcomb long before he reached the next village. ‘Of course I will.’ There was no harm in a white lie.

   Tom held out a hand. ‘Come. I will present you to Sir Edmund. He would love to hear your music, I am sure.’

   Francis followed Tom into the Great Hall. It was ill lit. A finely dressed man and woman stood together in the shadows. Tension crackled between them. They both turned as he and Tom approached. The man swiped a lock of red hair back over his forehead, exhaling with impatience. He was dressed in a slashed blue doublet with golden buttons. A sword hung upon his hip. Francis locked eyes with the woman. For a moment they stared at one another as if transfixed. Her green eyes were tinged with sadness but, God’s wounds, she was beautiful. Francis quickly remembered himself and looked away.

   Tom cleared his throat. ‘My lord, this traveller seeks a bed for the night. He says he has come from the court of her majesty,
Queen Anne Boleyn.’
His voice rose in suppressed excitement and Francis noticed how the lady’s eyes suddenly lit up.

   ‘Yes, I have heard of her.’ The gentleman sounded weary. He looked at Francis. ‘What is that you carry upon your back?’

   ‘A lute, my lord.’ Francis said. ‘I play in the queen’s household.’ An irresistible force drew his eyes back to the lady. Her face was flushed, the mounds of her chest rising and falling as she breathed steadily.

   ‘I would like to hear some music whilst we dine.’ Her voice was so soft and velvety that Francis’s heart ached.

   ‘It would be an honour to serve you, madam.’ He smiled, remembering the game of courtly love.
Flatter her. Make her believe you would die for her honour. Just don’t touch the goods.
‘I only hope my poor talents do not fail me under the gaze of such immeasurable beauty.’

   She let forth a sudden giggle, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘Do you say that to all the ladies?’

   Francis grinned and looked away.

   ‘You may play for us tonight.’ The gentleman’s voice cut through the moment. ‘And if you are any good you can lay your head in the hay barn.’

   Francis sobered quickly. He bowed. ‘I thank you, sir.’

Chapter Six

Cecily and Edmund walked back up the oak staircase to their chambers. ‘How do we know he’s not some vagabond or sturdy beggar come to rob me of what’s mine?’ Edmund said.

   ‘One can only hope.’ Cecily murmured, the image already taking shape in her imagination.
His strong hands encircle my waist and pull me towards him in a loving embrace. His breath is hot upon my cheek. ‘Come with me’, he says …

   ‘What?’ Edmund’s voice was sharp.

   Cecily sighed. ‘One can only hope
not,
husband.’ She pushed at the door to her chamber, glad to get away from him.

   ‘Well, we shall judge his talents at supper.’ Edmund said. ‘Be sure to change out of that vile gown, sweetheart. It makes you look like a tired street jade. Put on the grey one. It has a high neckline.’ He smiled pleasantly at her and strode off down the passage to his own chamber.

   Cecily slammed the door behind her. She tried to control her breathing and calm herself but her chest heaved more quickly by the second. Joan was sewing in the corner. ‘Bring me the grey dress.’ Cecily snapped. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t. I’m not a dog to be ordered about.’ She chewed angrily at her fingernail. For a long time, she had fantasised about leaving Edmund, packing her things and taking flight to a new life. But these had been idle dreams. It was time to start thinking seriously; to begin planning her escape. She eyes the wooden chest in the corner and tried to calculate how many shillings she had saved.

-

At the end of the passage, Edmund paced restlessly in his chamber. He hated himself for his treatment of Cecily. He knew it was wrong. But the stronger part of him hated her even more. She was all that stood between him and the happiness he deserved. He could never bed a woman. Never. The thought was repulsive to him. Women represented nurture and amity, not sex. So why did she insist on trying to seduce him? Was she so wilfully blind she could not see where his desire lay?

   He poured a cup of malmsey and drank it in one go. He hated her. But he could not let her go. His father had squandered the family fortune and left Edmund with a pile of debts so large it threatened to swamp him. He needed Cecily’s money. She must not be seduced by some handsome court servant with a lute and honeyed words.

-

‘Does this colour not suit me well, husband?’ Cecily had changed into a daring crimson gown with a plunging neckline. If Edmund thought her rose coloured gown was ‘vile’ she would be pleased to change. But she refused to make a nun of herself in the hideous grey rag he seemed to prefer. She lifted her glass of red wine and drank deep. The dinner table was laden with dishes; cheese tart, roast pork in gravy, rabbit, and a selection of mouth-watering sweet meats. Cecily knew that her dowry was paying for it all and she was determined to make the most of it. She helped herself to something from each dish.

   Edmund looked sourly at her from across the table. ‘Take care not to become fat, sweetheart. I thought I told you to wear the grey dress this evening?’

   She smiled and picked up a chicken leg. As she knawed at its sweet flesh, a stream of fatty juices ran down her chin. ‘Forgive me, I’m such a pig.’ She wiped her chin upon her sleeve. The lute player sat nearby, strumming sweet melody. He looked at her with those dark eyes, a knowing grin forming upon his lips.

   ‘Look at your lute.’ Edmund snapped.

   ‘Forgive me,’ the musician murmured, arranging his face into something blank, servile and featureless.

   Cecily glared at her husband. He ate nothing but kept his glass filled with wine. His eyes were glazed with drink. ‘The chicken is delicious, Edmund. Will you not try some?’

   ‘Forget the fucking chicken. I asked you a question.’ Edmund waved his glass at her. ‘And you did not answer.’

   ‘What was the question, sweetheart?’

   ‘Where is your grey dress?’

   Cecily glanced at the lute player. His song had become softer, quieter, as if wanting to diffuse the tension. He looked at her from beneath his eyelashes.

   ‘I don’t know.’ She said, giggling nervously. ‘Does it really matter?’

   ‘You have disobeyed me.’ Edmund said, rising from the table. Cecily watched silently as he weaved his way towards the staircase and back to his chamber. ‘Whore.’ He spoke the last word quietly but both Cecily and Francis heard it. She froze in her seat, all pleasure forgotten.

   ‘I am no whore,’ she said softly.

   Francis laid down his lute and sighed. ‘I know it, madam.’

   Cecily could not look at him. Shameful tears welled in her eyes. ‘Why does he slander me thus?’

   Francis shook his head. ‘Sweet madam, I cannot say.’

   Cecily turned now and looked at him. He gazed back with dark, sensual eyes. His close cropped hair framed a lean, handsome face. Cecily noticed that bridge of his nose was slightly askew as if it had been broken in a fight or an accident. She fleetingly wondered what had happened.

   ‘Anyway, what does it matter?’ She reached for her glass. ‘I am leaving this place.’ She glanced at the lute player. He raised an eyebrow and inclined his head, as if urging her to continue. She hesitated, unsure how to voice the dreams which had haunted her imagination these last months. ‘I have not spoken of my plans to any soul.’

   ‘You intrigue me, lady.’

   Cecily sighed and laid down her glass. ‘Swear on your life you will say nothing. Not even to that simpering fool, Tom.’

   ‘I swear.’

   They locked eyes and something within Cecily, some primal instinct, told her to draw closer, to lean in and stay near him. Keenly aware of the blackness of night lapping at their little sphere of candlelight, Cecily felt a shocking sense of intimacy and closeness with this handsome stranger. Their hands were within touching distance and she could smell the musky leather of his jerkin. She felt safe, as if she could speak freely and be understood. Not mocked or spurned.

   ‘Edmund and I do not lie together.’ She said softly. ‘You have seen how he treats me, like some bitch to be kicked at her master’s pleasure.’

   ‘He is unkind,’ Francis agreed. ‘And I am sorry for it, for such a sweet lady should be loved better.’ He placed a hand upon her sleeve and her heart soared at his gentle touch.

   ‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘Which is why I plan to leave here as soon as fortune allows.’

   ‘Where will you go?’

   ‘To court.’ Cecily felt light headed as the words she had carried within her for so long came flooding out in a rush. ‘I will offer my service to her majesty. If she accepts me I will dedicate my life to her and consider myself to be reborn. I mean it, sir. I am dying here.’

   For a long moment they were both silent. The last remaining candle began to flicker violently as it burnt down to its wick. ‘Do you mean this?’ His voice was quiet.

   ‘I do.’ Cecily said simply. She felt unburdened, liberated. ‘My marriage is not valid. My husband has never claimed his marriage bed rights nor given me mine. I feel sure the queen, or some noble lady, would look kindly on me.’

   Francis leaned forward and helped himself to some of Edmund’s wine, pouring some of the dark red liquid into a fresh glass. He drank deeply then set the glass down, fixing his eyes on Cecily. ‘The queen is in need of friends.’

   ‘So I have heard.’ Cecily smiled. ‘Even here in the country we are not ignorant of what happens at court.’

   ‘Yet she is not an easy lady to serve. She can be difficult.’

   ‘Even so, I would like to attend on her.’

   Francis nodded. Anne Boleyn could be terrifying when she was in one of her rages but the power of her personality was irresistible. When she smiled at you it was if the sun had come out. She was loyal, too. She honoured those who served her and looked out for their interests. If the lowliest chambermaid needed help, Anne would be there. But for those who crossed her, the wrath of the Boleyn family would rain down hard. She forgot neither favours nor slights. Francis looked at Cecily. There was something about this woman. Vulnerable, yet determined. He could not tell if she would be a success or a disaster at Anne’s court.

   ‘The snow looks set to stay for a few more days.’ He said. ‘With your husband’s permission I will stay here until it safe to go on my way. The queen will be expecting me.’

   Cecily nodded miserably. ‘As you wish.’

   Francis leaned closer and took her hand. ‘You could come with me.’

Chapter Seven

Greenwich Palace

It was a fine day for a hunt. The snow which had lately covered Greenwich park had melted in the strong spring sunlight and bright yellow daffodil heads waved lazily in the breeze. Anne Boleyn stepped out into the courtyard wearing a fur stole over her red taffeta hunting gown. Her dark hair was concealed beneath a jaunty cap adorned with bright feathers and she wore a smudge of rouge upon her cheeks.