Читать книгу The King’s Mistress - Darcey Bonnette - Страница 11

Chapter 5

Anne

She is surrounded by adoring courtiers. The ladies flutter about in their bright dresses like so many butterflies, squawking like chicks in a pen. Her apartments are grand and alive with music and poetry. So much is going on that I do not know where to look.

And then my eyes behold her.

She is not beautiful, not to those who define such as light and golden. She is breathtaking. Dark, with skin like a gypsy, her obsidian eyes are luminous and lively, her lush black hair long and glossy, worn parted down the middle and flowing down her back beneath her stunning French hood. She wears a dress of fine green velvet with the most resplendent sleeves I’ve ever seen. Resting at the base of her swanlike throat is a pendant of an intricate B for Boleyn.

She is tilting back her stunning head now, laughing at something one of her many male courtiers said when we walked in. She turns white at the sight of my father, her laughter catching in her throat.

“I decided to bring your cousin Mary back with me,” he says. “She will serve you.” He glances about the room and shakes his head. “I will have speech with you later.”

With that he quits the room and I am alone, with no instruction. I have no idea when I will see him again, where I am to sleep, who is to look after me. I draw in a deep breath. I must press onward. I am a Howard.

I urge myself toward my cousin and curtsy. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, Mistress Anne,” I say.

Anne laughs. She reaches out a hand and seizes my chin. Her touch is not as gentle as the queen’s.

“You have a big nose like your father,” she says in a slightly French-accented voice.

At once tears fill my eyes. This is the last thing I expect to hear. On instinct my hand flies up to cover the offensive appendage, though all my life I have been unaware of its effect. It is all I can do to keep from sobbing out loud. I blink. I must think. I must win her favor.

I lower my hand and smile. “Were it only like yours, my lady,” I say. “Perhaps you can show me how to make the best of this unfortunate circumstance?”

Anne ponders me a moment, then bursts into laughter. There is something about it, an edge that makes it less joy-filled than nervous. Immoderate.

“You shall sleep with the other maidens,” she says, putting to rest one of my anxieties. “You’ll find yourself in good company. Our cousin Madge Shelton is with us, and here is my sister, Mary Carey.”

She gestures to a curvaceous blonde who reminds me of my Bess. I smile at her. I remember that Bess told me she had once been the king’s mistress. Through servants’ gossip I heard that her two children are his bastards. She is very beautiful; soft and round to her sister’s willowy delicacy. It is easy, however, to see how one could be attracted to both of them.

Mary Carey approaches me and takes my hand. “We’ll take good care of you here,” she assures me, and my stomach settles a bit upon hearing the soothing sincerity of her tone.

“But we must figure out a way to differentiate between all the Marys,” Anne comments. “Is it the only name in England?” She rises, flinging her grand hair over her shoulder. “My sister shall be big Mary and you shall be little Mary.”

“What about Princess Mary?” I ask.

Anne’s face darkens and I curse myself for mentioning the princess’s name. I have so much to learn about this court and I just cannot take it in fast enough!

Anne bats her eyes and adopts a playful expression. “Ugly Mary.” The room erupts into titters of girlish laughter and I stifle the guilt that churns in my gut as I imagine Princess Mary, rumored to be plain and studious, alone and unloved in her own father’s court.

But I am sworn to the Howards. I am sworn to the preserving of Anne’s happiness. It is not for me to fret over the princess.

Yet late that night, after I am settled into bed with my cousin Madge, I find myself mumbling a prayer for her.

No one should ever be without a friend in the world.

It does not take long to realize that there exist two courts here. One small faction remains faithful to Queen Catherine and the other—the younger, more flighty set—flocks to my lady Anne, the star ascendant. I am caught up in all the excitement. There is nothing but merriment when around Anne. We recite poetry and sing, her favorite musician, Mark Smeaton, accompanying us on his lute, playing with slim deft fingers. We playact together, rehearsing masques we will perform for the king.

The king! What a dazzling figure! He is so big and charming one cannot help but be rendered speechless in his majestic presence. One afternoon while we are readying ourselves for a picnic in the gardens, he struts into Anne’s apartments with the confidence and beauty of a peacock, decked out in his finest velvet and ermine.

As he enters I am brushing my lady’s hair, as she prefers my hand to her sister’s when they are in disagreement, which is often.

“And how now, Brownie?” he asks her.

She laughs at the endearment and shoos me away. I manage to put the brush down but am too awed by His Grace to move, so stand transfixed.

“Who’s this little beauty?” he asks, directing his gaze at me.

“Surely Your Grace met my cousin Mary, Uncle Thomas’s daughter.” Anne’s voice is flat.

“No, we would remember encountering such a fair child,” he says, stroking his tawny beard.

While it is true I have seen the king from afar at meals and entertainments since coming to court, and even bear some vague childhood memories of him, I have never been formally introduced.

He reaches out and places a bejeweled hand on my head. “Bless you, little one,” he says. “How do you find our court?”

“It is the most splendid place in all the world, Sire,” I say, breathless.

He laughs, a robust sound as mighty as he is. “You see? From the mouths of babes! May you always find happiness here, young Mary.”

I am delighted by the encounter. He is so strong and cheerful I allow myself to imagine being held against his doublet, snuggled up safe and warm in my sovereign’s arms. I wonder if his relationship with Princess Mary is affectionate.

His relationship with Anne certainly is. Now he is kissing her hand, turning it palm up to devour her little wrist. She pulls back. It is her bad hand, the one with the nub of a sixth finger on it, a very subtle deformity she hides well.

It withdraws into her voluminous sleeve. She distracts him from the gesture by fluttering her thick dark lashes at him. “And to what do we owe the honor of this impromptu visit, Your Majesty?”

“We would like to present you with a gift,” he says, his crisp blue eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to the mass of courtiers eavesdropping. “Ladies and gentlemen, why don’t you prepare for the gardens? We will join you shortly.”

We have no choice but to do as we are told.

Madge Shelton is now my best friend at court. She is not altogether attractive, but is spirited and full of a vibrancy that creates an aura of beauty that deceives the untrained eye. She and I stand in our maidens’ chamber gossiping over His Majesty’s “gift.”

“No diamonds or rubies for Anne,” Madge says, laughing. “But Wolsey’s own Hampton Court!”

I bow my head a moment. “I can’t help but feel sorry for the Cardinal …”

“Shhh!” Madge puts her finger to my lips. “Don’t say such things. We aren’t permitted opinions. He failed in granting an annulment and proving the invalidity of the king’s marriage, so suffered the price—confiscated lands and a confiscated title. He’s the archbishop of York now, remember?”

“But he was so close with the king,” I continue in genuine puzzlement. “It’s frightening to think one he loved like a brother can be thrown down so fast. And so far.”

“This is strange to you?” Madge’s tone is incredulous. She is a true Howard, I think. There is a hardness in her voice that echoes of my father. “Haven’t you observed how he treats his once-beloved wife? How many tales have we grown up listening to, of the king’s love-madness for Queen Catherine—that once, before his affairs and neglect ruined her, she was the loveliest princess in Christendom? Still he manages to throw her aside. Strange, Mary?”

“Now we are ruled by two queens,” I am compelled to say. I tremble at the thought, not because I am afraid but because it is so odd.

“Not for long,” says Madge. “Not now that Mistress Anne is granted Hampton Court!”

We burst into another fit of giggling, all pondering dissipated. It is all such a game to us, two girls barely out of the nursery, still naïve enough to enjoy the intrigues of the court.

“Will we all move, then?” I ask.

“I imagine the Anne faction will relocate to the palace. It sounds as though His Majesty plans on making it the new London residence,” says the all-knowing Madge.

“How terribly exciting!” I breathe.

“Oh, Mary, you’re such a little girl,” Madge scoffs, but there is no malice behind it and I respond with a smirk. “Do you think old Wolsey left all his red fabric behind?” she adds.

“Why?” I ask.

“To swathe the halls of Hampton Court, of course!”

I laugh in approval, remembering the very rotund Cardinal Wolsey.

Still, the laughter is a little forced. I do believe even cynical Madge seems to pity King Henry’s poor discarded adviser, and it takes away from the excitement of our move.

A little.

I am tired. I am so caught up in this faerie world that I do not sleep at night. I toss and turn, anticipating what wonders will await me the next day. What games will we play? What songs will we sing?

We await our move to Hampton Court. We gossip in voices that ring out like the tinkling of little chimes. We drink wine. Anne thinks it’s funny to see my face get flushed.

We all congregate at supper and I can’t keep my eyes open. My father sits far out of my reach with the other members of the council. As Mother predicted I do not see her, but I catch glimpses of the duke at court. We do not speak, not until he lays a hand on my shoulder in the hall on the way back from an evening’s entertainments, pulling me aside.

I am thrilled to be acknowledged. “How now, Father?” I ask with a cheery smile. It is Anne’s smile. I practice it whenever I’m alone.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face. You look like a harlot,” says Norfolk. He grips my shoulder and guides me down the hall toward his apartments.

He takes me to his privy chamber and sits behind his austere mahogany desk, folding his hands before him and regarding me, one eye squinting, as though I am a diamond he is examining for flaws. “How is Anne?” he asks after a long pause.

“I think she is well, sir,” I say.

“Has she slept with the king?”

I am shocked at the question. My face burns and I bow my head.

“Don’t play innocent. I know how maidens talk.” He has not raised his handsome voice; it is thin and impatient but not loud.

I still cannot look at him. “She does not speak of that,” I say.

“Don’t you listen, fool?” he demands, slamming his hand on the desk. “Do you think you’re here for your own entertainment? Do you realize your task in this? You are to be my ears, Mary. I depend on you to report to me all that is said and done in those chambers.”

“What am I to do if she does … if she is …” I cannot say it. I don’t even know what it really means.

“Nothing,” he says. “It is not your place to advise her, not that she’d take it from the likes of you as it is. You are my ears, Mary, that is all. I will expect a nightly report from this day hence. It seems she is weakening under his pressure. No doubt with Hampton Court now dangling before her, she feels secure in her position and thinks she’d have nothing to lose by giving in. Fools, all of them.” The fist on the desk clenches and my eyes are drawn to it. A melding of perfection and anger. “She is difficult to manage,” he says now, more to himself. “It would have made life easier if he’d have settled for that dolt of a sister of hers; she’s already proven her capacity for childbearing.” He shakes his head, then returns his black eyes, eyes that are much like our Anne’s, to me. “It is vital that Anne understands the king’s fickle nature; that he tires of his playthings once he has them.”

I do not know how to respond to this monologue so remain silent, wondering if he will dismiss me.

“Do you understand, Mary?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. I nod. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

“Go on, now. It’s late,” he says. “To bed with you.”

I turn to leave, but he raps his hand on the desk. I turn.

Without raising his head he says, “News from Sir Edward Stanley.” My brother-in-law? What news could there be of him? Was my sister with child? My heart leaps at the thought of being an aunt. “Seems your sister Catherine passed from the plague.”

I am dizzy. My head tingles. Catherine … my fair sister, Catherine, newly married. She was going to have a happy life; a quiet country life with many children. She was so gentle and sweet … Catherine. How could he tell me like this? How could he just sit there and mention my sister’s death with the same dismissive tone he’d describe a failed crop or broken axle?

I approach the desk, trying to remind myself that he is a soldier. It is not in a soldier’s nature to show emotion; they see death all the time. Should they cry, I imagine their tears would never stop.

Rounding the desk I inch closer to where he sits. He has not raised his head. He is looking through some documents. Letters from Stanley? From behind I wrap my arms about his shoulders in a feeble embrace, leaning my head against his cheek. He stiffens, every muscle growing taught beneath my touch. I drop my arms and bow my head, tears burning my eyes.

“Will we go to her interment?” I ask hopefully.

“Of course not,” he answers, his tone gruff. “It’s foolhardy to go where the plague has been.”

For a moment I just stand before him, helpless. There’s so much I want to say but cannot articulate. “Should we say a prayer for her?” I ask at last, my voice small.

He sets the document on the desk, facing me at last. “Prayers never brought any of my other children back. I don’t expect it will work for her. Off with you now.”

I turn once more.

“Mary.” His voice is low.

I do not face him this time. I do not want him to see the tears paving cool trails down my cheeks.

“Your hair is your finest feature,” he says, reaching out to finger a tress of my thick, honey-blond mane, which falls unbound to my waist in keeping with the fashion of unmarried maids. “See that you brush it every night,” he instructs. “A hundred strokes.”

“Yes, my lord,” I answer as I quit the room.

In the maidens’ chamber my tears cannot be hidden. I walk in with my face covered. I do not want to see the other girls. I want to be alone; I want to think about Catherine, about her sweet, lilting voice, her delicate features, her patient smile. She was everyone’s perfect lady, far more suited to court life than I could ever be. Perhaps it is better this way; court life seems every bit as deadly as plague, and uglier, too. Catherine was too pure for it. She was elegant, charming, composed. She was to be a country wife ...oh, how I cried when she left. How I longed to accompany her. Waiting on her would have been far more gratifying than service to any queen.

Swirling unbidden through my mind is a memory, far more like a dream to me now. My head is tilted up toward her. She crowns me with a garland of flowers. I close my eyes. I can almost feel the flowers about my head. I take in their sweetness, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the love of my sister Catherine. The queens of Kenninghall, Bess had called us. How ill-fated is our reign.

At once Anne’s voice hisses into my reverie. “Where were you, little Mary? Reporting my behavior to your father, little spy that you are! Do not think I don’t know what you’re about, little innocent!”

I cry harder, great gulping sobs as I throw myself on the bed I share with Madge, burying my face in my pillows.

“Little Mary …?” Anne’s voice bears a gentler note. “Mary, what is it?” The mattress sinks down with her weight as she leans over me and touches my shoulder.

“My sister,” I sob. “My dear sister Catherine … she’s dead of the plague.”

At once Anne is moved to tears, gathering me in her thin arms with a fierceness that almost frightens me. She rocks back and forth with a franticness that is not soothing, but I applaud her efforts just the same.

“Damn bloody plague,” she seethes. “Why is it all so unfair? Why do we have so little control?”

It is a question that I realize has very little to do with the loss of my sister, but it doesn’t matter. I allow Anne and the other girls to soothe my tears and offer their sympathies. I soak up their embraces, wondering why it is only during tragedies that people are driven to physical demonstrations of love.

That night Madge tries to distract me from my grief by telling me stories of King Arthur.

All I can think of is my father as he imparts the news of Catherine’s death.

He did not even look up.

* * *

Because my mother has not condescended to talk to me since my arrival at court, I write her a little note and send it by messenger to her chambers.

My dearest Mother,

I am so aggrieved by my sister’s passing that the joy of court life has been sucked out of me. Filling my mind are memories of us as children, writing poems and singing songs, picking out the names of our future children. Life was simple then. Why does it all change?

All my sympathies are with you, Mother. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose a child. I pray for you every night and hope you are finding comfort in the Lord.

Your loving daughter,

Mary

Daughter,

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. We have no control over our fate. We can only press on. We are Howards.

Bless you,

Mother

Dearest little Mary,

My heart breaks for you. I know how close you and Catherine were, growing up. How well do I remember all of your childhood antics! You were such beautiful sisters. She was fair and good and sweet. I pray for her soul and for you as you grieve. Remember, my dear little love, that God is merciful and kind. His ways are mysterious and beyond our understanding. Now Catherine celebrates with the angels and knows no suffering. Her good soul is put to much better use than it could have ever been down here. May she watch over all of us.

I hope you are well and that you are making many friends at court. I hope to see you soon and that all is well between us.

With much love,

Your Bess

In the maidens’ chamber, I clutch Bess’s letter to my breast. I have read it over and over and it is stained with my tears. Bess knew us best. She loves us best. But thinking of Bess only makes me sadder, so I tuck the letter in my little silver keepsake casket along with the one from my mother, a letter I have read only once.

Mary Carey tells me she lost her husband to the sweating sickness. Many other girls come forward and confide of their losses, how one parent or sibling perished to the plague and other terrible things.

I feel less alone but the sadness remains. There is so much unresolved. If I had only been allowed to see her interred, perhaps there would be more closure. It would seem real. As it is, it’s still as though she is off in the country, married to Lord Derby.

Norfolk never mentions her name again. He does not say much of anything during my nightly reports, which consist of nothing since Anne is careful with her words. I tell him she knows why I am there.

“Of course she does—she’s not a complete idiot,” he says. “May you serve as a reminder.” He pauses. “She spends quite a bit of time with her brother George, does she not?”

I nod, smiling at the thought of her handsome brother, who is the picture perfect courtier. “He’s very fine,” I tell him.

“See to it that they aren’t alone too often,” Norfolk instructs.

“They’re not alone,” I say in confusion. “Mary Carey’s with them most of the time.”

“The court is talking,” he tells me, but I have that feeling I often get when he’s speaking; that the words are never directed at me. “Jane Parker’s jealousy is … twisted.” He refers to George Boleyn’s wife, an anxious sort of woman who seems just the sort to be “twisted,” always lurking about in doorways, or hovering just beyond a circle of friends in the hopes of attaining some juicy piece of gossip. Mary Carey warned me of her before, saying that her mind was poisoned with all manner of perverted ideas. Despite my curiosity I never pressed her for particulars. There was more than enough perversion at court without becoming preoccupied with hers.

“How?” I ask, overcome with curiosity.

“None of your concern,” Norfolk snaps. “Just see to it the three Boleyns are accompanied as often as possible.”

“But what if they don’t want me along?”

“You go with them anyway,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Children are annoying creatures, immune to subtlety.” He leans forward and meets my eyes. “In other words, Mary: be yourself.”

I am struck as dumb as he thinks I am. At once every condescending word and derisive jibe he ever directed toward me is brought to mind, constricting my heart as though it were clutched in his perfect fist. Tears burn my eyes, but it would humiliate me further to let them fall in front of him. I must hide them from him, as I always do. I draw in a breath. This talk of siblings brings Catherine to mind, and an image of my brother Henry soon follows.

“Are we to see Henry soon, Father?”

“Henry who?”

I can’t fault him for this. Everyone is named Henry.

“Howard—Surrey, of course!” I say with a giggle, wondering if there is anything under God’s sun I can do to make this man smile.

“Oh, him.” He rifles through more documents. “Your brother’s at Windsor Palace keeping company with Henry Fitzroy, King Henry’s boy.” His eyes grow distant. “Fitzroy … His mother was a clever one. To think of all little Bessie Blount became … mistress of a monarch, the mother of the king’s son, a son showered with grand titles.” He offers a slight laugh. “But not quite grand enough. No, Bessie Blount went as far as she could go with what she had. But our Anne shall go even farther. No bastard children for her …”

I am only half listening. In truth I could not care less about King Henry’s boy or fair Bessie Blount at this point. My heart surges with hope as I anticipate a visit with my beloved brother.

“Can we go to him?” I ask. “Please?”

He pauses. My heart races. Surely this means he is considering. “I’m sure he’ll be at the next court function. Off with you now. Remember what I told you.”

“Yes, my lord,” I say in disgruntled tones as I quit the room. My heart aches for something familiar. I long for my brother’s laugh— he could make light of anything with his jokes and easy nature. I long for my sister, forever lost to me. She, with her perfect grasp on a world I do not seem to belong to, would know how to advise me. In her I could confide of my awkwardness, my fear, and my desire to be the lady she was with such effortlessness.

I long for the mother I never had, a woman so lost in her own pain that it has ruined her for any of her children.

I long for Bess, for her reassurance, her ample bosom to snuggle in, her simple, uncomplicated company.

When I return to the maidens’ chamber I remove her letter from the little casket.

I read it again and again and again.

As Norfolk predicted, I do see my brother at a court function; a joust. How to describe tournaments! The shining knights, the beautiful ladies, some with tokens for their bonnie lads about to take the field. Anne gives the king her handkerchief.

Queen Catherine clutches hers in her lap, twisting it with nervous fingers.

“Will you give your scarf to anyone, little Mary?” Anne asks with a wink of her obsidian eye.

“Perish the thought!” says her brother George, always cheerful. “She’s far too young and sweet to be sullied by love!”

“Why, does love sully us?” Anne asks with the coquettish grin that I practice so hard to achieve. “I think I have fared quite well!”

Ripples of laughter surround me and I allow myself a giggle. It is the first time I have felt any semblance of mirth since hearing of my Catherine’s death.

“Well, love has sullied me,” says George with an affectionate glance at his sister. “Your father picked me quite a bride, young Mary,” he tells me. Then to the rest of the assemblage he adds, “Wouldn’t everyone agree that my Jane is in possession of many charms?”

The ladies burst into laughter. Indeed, we could barely escape the sour-faced maid with her wicked tongue and, from what I’ve heard, vicious mind. In a way I feel sorry for her. It is as though she is always on the outside, circling Anne’s exclusive set, her eyes filled with a strange contemptuous longing.

George’s comment causes more laughter and he tips back his dark head to join in before riding off to enter the lists.

I scan the jousters, excitement bubbling in my chest. I see a familiar head bobbing among the crowd, its owner’s expression faraway. Dreamy. It is a sweet face. I leap up from my seat and run toward the yard.

“Henry Howard!” I cry out, waving my arms. “Henry, Lord Surrey!”

He turns his head, jarred from his reverie, and begins to run toward me. “Look at this!” He takes my hands and covers them with kisses. “Mary, dearest little girl.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Henry …” There is so much I want to say. About this weird place, about Catherine, about Norfolk. I cannot articulate it, though, so stand before him, smiling.

“What’s this?” Henry asks, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“No tears, Mary. We Howards are at the top of the world right now!”

“Are you competing today, Henry?” I ask.

“No, not me,” he tells me, his long face drawn up into a smile. He is a younger version of Norfolk, his nose straight and Roman, his hooded eyes drooping slightly at the sides. Only he laughs. “Harry and I are just here to observe today, though he is itching to compete.”

It is only at this moment that I realize my brother isn’t alone. Beside him stands a boy about my age, with bright strawberry blond hair and energetic blue eyes. His complexion is rosy, his gentle smile is ready; he is also the picture of his father, King Henry VIII.

I curtsy. “Hello, my lord duke.”

“Such formality for your old playmate?” he asks with a giggle that betrays his youth.

It is true I have hazy memories of playing at Windsor Palace with my brother and young Harry; since my father was the boy’s governor we were often in his company. But to me this seems like ages ago and the memories, like most from the dreamy days of childhood, are but distant echoes of a faerie song; one is not quite sure if it was ever real.

I blush. “Only showing the proper deference for the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Knight of the Garter,” I say, but my voice bears the slightest edge of teasing.

He reaches out a hand to tap my upper arm. “Plain Harry to you,” he says. “We should show her the puppies.”

“Puppies?” I squeal.

“You like puppies?” Harry asks. “They’re in the stables—oh, they’re mongrels, not proper hunting dogs at all, but they’re— they’re, well, they’re rather cute.” He seems embarrassed to say the word cute, as though it is not masculine to perceive things thus.

“Oh, yes, do bring me to them!” I cry, and the three of us take to the stables. I do not think of the other girls I have left behind in the stands. I am with my brother at last. I am with people who do not seem so complicated.

We reach the stables where are housed some of the finest horses in England, each brushed till its coat gleams. In the corner of an empty stall is a bitch with her five pups. She is adorable. Her pups are little balls of gray, blue merle, caramel, and white fur; their ears cannot decide if they will be floppy or pointed, so compromise at somewhere in between.

I kneel in the hay, not caring about the state of my dress. Both Henrys kneel beside me.

“Do you think she’ll let us pet them?”

“I should say,” says Harry with the authoritative tone of an expert. “Do you think so, Surrey?”

My brother nods and I reach out a tentative hand, first to the mother, whose elongated snout I stroke while cooing soft endearments about her ability to breed. Once I am certain she is comfortable with me I reach out to pet one of her pups; the fur is silky soft under my hand and I purr with pleasure. I gather the little creature against my breast.

“It’s so dear,” I say, kissing its downy head. “Oh, if holding a pup is this wonderful imagine how grand it will be to hold my own babies!” I breathe before I can help myself.

Neither boy says anything; I imagine they don’t fantasize about holding babies very often.

“Do you want to keep it, Mary?” Harry asks.

I glow at the prospect. “Do you think it’s ready? I couldn’t bear the thought of separating it from its mother too early.”

“It’s fine,” reassures my brother, whom I decide to refer to as Surrey as well, just to differentiate him from all the other Henrys running about court.

I meet the gaze of the mother, as though seeking a glint of permission in the great brown orbs. I wonder what it is like to have a child taken away. Nobles give their children up for fostering most of the time and do not see their children but for a handful of times a year. Some don’t see their children for years at a time.

If I take this pup, its mother will never see it again.

Something about the thought brings a lump to my throat. I blink back tears.

“Mary …” My brother rubs my shoulder. “Don’t you want the nice pup Harry’s offered?”

I nod. “Oh, yes, to be sure. But to separate it from the mother …”

“Mary’s so sensitive!” Surrey laughs. “You have a poet’s heart— like me.” He wraps his arm about my shoulders and kisses my cheek.

“Do you want it or not?” Harry asks, but his tone is good-natured. “I have a mind to withdraw the offer—you know it will fare much better with you than out here.”

This is true enough. I pat the mother’s head in a gesture of gratitude, then rise with the pup in my arms. “Thank you, Harry.”

He offers a courtly bow and I return a curtsy. We erupt into laughter at our sport as we return to the tiltyard to watch the jousting.

As I reach the stands to show the girls my new pup I see Anne watching me, a grin of amusement lifting the corner of her pretty mouth.

It is a perfect day; the sun shines off the armor of the knights and I am blinded at times as they ride past. We are treated to a superb show of sportsmanship and my throat is raw from screaming for the various champions.

King Henry takes the day, of course. Madge Shelton whispers to me that everyone lets him win else the consequences are dire. I giggle before I can help myself. He is a spoiled child! Yet I suppose he did not choose to be. He is a king and kings were first princes, spoiled and petted just for the sake of being born to the right folk.

He wouldn’t even have become king had his sickly brother Arthur not passed on. In fact, he would not have married Catherine of Aragon, Arthur’s own widow, at enormous inconvenience to a great many people, including the Church he rails against now, had it not been for that fact.

Yes, King Henry is very accustomed to getting what he wants. So accustomed that he does not even know there is another way to live. That is why he raises friends up only to cast them down at a whim, because no one has curbed him thus far. He will keep pushing and testing his limits and still he will not be curbed.

I wonder if his son, so close to being a prince himself, will take after him. I squeeze the puppy to my chest. I hope not.

That night as I report to Norfolk I am ecstatic. It has been a wonderful day, a day etched in memory and emblazoned in my heart. It is a day of innocence and perfection that will sustain me through the days that follow.

I am playing a prank on Norfolk tonight. The day and company of my brother have put me in a mischievous mood. I dress in my nightgown and wrap, concealing the puppy within as I bounce into his chambers.

“Wasn’t it a wonderful day, Father?” I ask, beaming as I clutch my wrap tight about the warm, wriggling pup.

He says nothing. He looks down at the eternal display of papers scattered across his desk.

I tell him the things I imagine he wants to hear, verbatim conversations that have no consequence or relevance that I can see, but are the best I can come up with.

“I think Anne is smart, Father,” I venture.

At this he looks up. “As smart as a woman can be, I suppose,” he says. “But she is greedy and headstrong. That same temper that so charms His Majesty now could someday prove her ruin.”

I shudder at the words. I do not like to hear anything bad said against my mistress, for I consider Anne more my mistress than Queen Catherine for all my interactions with the latter. I decide now is the perfect time to unleash my little joke. Norfolk seems in as good a humor as possible for him, so it may as well be now.

I clutch my wrap around me and double over. “Oh, Father, I have the worst stomach pains. Perhaps something disagreed with me today!”

“Go to bed,” he says in his taciturn manner.

At once I open my wrap and out springs my new puppy. He runs around the room to investigate everything.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Harry Fitzroy gave him to me so I call him Fitz, after him.”

“Sounds like a seizure,” says Norfolk as he watches the dog relieve himself on the leg of his desk. After a slight pause he asks, “Are you a complete idiot?”

I gather the pup in my arms, chastising it in gentle tones. I do not respond to Norfolk’s query, as I am not quite sure. I may be a complete idiot. I did think it would be funny to see a dog jump out of my robes, but Anne has told me countless times that my sense of humor is rather quaint. God knows Will Somers, the king’s fool, could make me laugh till I begged him to cease in his antics for the pangs in my sides, and his sense of humor is none too sophisticated.

“I’m sorry, Father,” I say as I right myself. I bow my head.

“Clean it up,” he orders.

“Do you have some rags …?”

“Use your wrap, foolish girl,” he says. “You want a dog, you deal with its unpleasantness with the accoutrements at your present dispensation.”

I am horrified at this. Not only because I have to sacrifice my favorite red velvet wrap from Mary Carey, but because I will have to walk through the halls of the palace in nothing but my night-clothes, and though I am still considered a child, I feel too old to prance about thus.

After a moment of staring at my father without effect, I remove my wrap and wipe up the offensive reminder of my puppy’s less attractive habits. I call for a ewer filled with rose water to make certain the scent does not remain behind. The servant who brings it casts a strange look at my father and I am both angered and embarrassed. I do not want anyone looking down at him for my foolishness, nor do I want anyone seeing me stooped to this level of humility.

“You’ll have to varnish the leg if any is stripped off,” Norfolk says.

I nod, praying this isn’t the case. I right myself, shivering. His rooms are cold.

“So you were with your brother today,” Norfolk says in a lighter voice, as though nothing had happened. “Did he tell you he is betrothed?”

“Betrothed?” I am aghast. Henry married? “To who?”

“Anne had hoped to the Princess Mary, but that is not to be,” he continues with a slight scowl. “Which is for the best. We do not want to be accused of placing ourselves too close to the throne. As it is …” He cuts himself short. There is no doubt he is thinking of Anne. “It is Lady Frances de Vere, the Earl of Oxford’s daughter. They will not marry for quite some time, but the suit is a good one.”

“Yes,” I say for lack of anything else. I cannot imagine Henry married. This means I am not far behind. A thrill of excitement surges through me. “I wish it were me,” I blurt.

“Getting married? Whatever for?” Norfolk’s tone leaves its monotony to become incredulous. “Marriage is a tedious thing.”

“Maybe not for everyone,” I tell him, stroking my pup’s silky ear. “I heard that the king’s own sister has married for love before.”

“And has been repaid by nothing but misery for it,” Norfolk says. “One doesn’t marry for love, Mary. One marries for advantage. There are only two kinds of people in this world: the advantaged and the disadvantaged. Everything you do, every choice you make, is to ensure that you remain in the former group. Getting caught up in love and lust and such nonsense are distractions the advantaged cannot afford if they want to retain their position.”

“But King Henry loves Anne,” I say in a small voice.

Norfolk is silent a long moment. “Go to bed, Mary.” I turn and trudge out, carrying my soiled wrap balled up under one arm and my puppy wriggling under the other. “And don’t bring that creature in here again,” he adds.

I keep my head down as I walk through the halls, hoping not to run into anyone I know. All I want to do is snuggle under the covers with my new puppy, who is worthy of being called more than a creature. I want to think about love and marriage and my brother Surrey.

I want to believe that love can exist, even for the advantaged.

Time does not pass at court as it would in what I now refer to as “the outside world.” Out there, time ebbs and flows like the tides—it surges, it slows. Here it is always surging, forging ahead, constant. If you slow your pace you are drowned. I am caught up, carried along by the current of the other ladies, of Anne, of my father.

We go on progress to visit the many great castles and palaces in the realm. We go on hunts. We have masques, and King Henry leaps out at us in disguise. Norfolk instructs Anne that she is under no circumstances to ever admit that she knows it is Henry—he loves believing he is fooling everyone. I laugh, but I think it is a little ridiculous. How could a grown man, and one as distinctive in manner and height as he, ever believe he can be shrouded in anonymity? I decide that he needs to believe it the way I need to believe in the faerie folk and love matches: anything to take you away.

Poor old Cardinal Wolsey, whose obesity and pomposity had been the source of much amusement, dies that November. He keeled over on the road on his progress to London for his execution for treason, so I felt a little better. I am certain he would rather have died on the road than by the axe. I can only imagine how many times it would have taken to strike through that thick neck. I cringe at the thought.

Anne cheers when she hears the news. “Rid of the old fool at last!” she cries.

At my obvious puzzlement regarding her joy over what I consider tragic and pathetic, Madge Shelton, ever the informer, pulls me aside.

“He was one of the parties responsible for breaking her betrothal to Lord Henry Percy,” she explains.

“She was betrothed?” I ask, incredulous. Betrothal was as good as marriage; many took to the pleasures of the bed as soon as their troth was pledged.

Madge nods, eager to be the deliverer of this gossip. “How could you not know? Your father helped dispel the match with the zeal he’d exert in putting down a Scottish rebellion!” She shrugs then. “But I forget how young you are. You were at Kenninghall when all that happened.” She casts a sidelong look at our tempestuous cousin. “But our Anne never forgot Wolsey’s part in it all, and some think it was her more than anyone who pushed the king to have Wolsey executed. I think King Henry was just as content to have him left where he was.”

My heart sinks to hear such news of my pretty cousin. I am too young to understand what heartbreak does to a person, how it em-bitters and twists them. I can only think with sympathy of poor fat Wolsey, dying on a muddy road.

“It’s a good thing he passed,” Anne herself chimes in from where she sits at the window seat of her grand apartments. She had been tuning her lute, but we should have known she didn’t care a fig whether it was in tune; she was too attuned to our conversation. “That man was after the pope’s tiara and nothing more. He would have tried to hold us back as long as he lived.”

I shudder at the venom in her tone.

“And as far as Henry Percy is concerned, I’d prefer if you did not mention his name again!” she cries. “Let him rot in misery up in Northumberland with his pasty-faced wife.” She tosses back her head and laughs, that chilling, immoderate laughter that causes me to avert my head as though I am witnessing someone’s private insanity. She glares at Madge and me with wild eyes. “I am assured he is miserable,” she says, breathless. “Which serves him well. He was weak and God curse weak men!”

That curse must not be entirely sincere, I think to myself. She must prefer her current Henry to be weak, else she wouldn’t have been able to manipulate him into authorizing the execution of Wolsey. Wisely, I do not give voice to this theory.

Time, that raging river, keeps surging. Thomas More, another close friend of the king and a man quite unyielding in his convictions, becomes lord chancellor. My gut immediately lurches with fear for the quiet man; friends this close to the king do not seem to fare well.

In 1531 Parliament makes King Henry supreme head of the Church of England; now we are an island in more ways than geography. We are like a separate entity. We are accused of Lutheranism, but that is not the king’s intent. He wishes to uphold Catholic ideology: he just does not want to acknowledge papal authority. He truly believes it is his divine right to rule over Church and state. I wonder if this is so. All my life I have been told that the king’s authority is second to God, but there is something about His Majesty … something that does not seem altogether godlike to me. I dare think that neither he nor the pope is fit to assume such a heady role. But I never say so; the consequences of such opinions are grave.

That year two people are banished from court. The first is my mother, a figure I saw so rarely she may as well have not been there to begin with. Her crime was offending Anne by playing go-between for Queen Catherine and her ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, hiding messages in baskets of oranges. The king, displeased that Mother caused such a ruckus, sends her home to Kenninghall.

She does not say good-bye to me. Though I did not see but glimpses of her at most, the thought of being left completely alone, with none but my father as the guiding force in my life, is a daunting one. And Mother’s crime … could it really have deserved expulsion from the life she so loved? Now what would become of her? She is as devoted to Queen Catherine as I am to Anne. To be deprived of the one person she believes in more than anything would be the worst kind of punishment—and Mother knows enough of that simply by being wed to Norfolk.

I find to my surprise that I will miss her. Or, at least, the idea of her.

The second person to be banished is Queen Catherine herself. In July she is exiled to the North. The Anne faction celebrates and the palace is aswarm with youth and vigor.

“No more do we have to see her haunting the halls with her rosary and hair shirt!” Anne says in triumph. We are assembled in Norfolk’s privy chamber. Gathered about are Mary Carey, George Boleyn, and their parents, my uncle Thomas, and aunt Elizabeth.

“We are so close!” Anne cries out. “Almost five years I’ve been waiting …”

“Do you listen, Anne?” Norfolk hisses from across the table. “The pope has granted nothing—we are but a tiny step toward getting what we want. Dowager Princess Catherine has a great deal of support in the North; she could still win. As far as the king is concerned—”He folds his hands and cocks his head, eyeing Anne as carefully as he eyes me during my nightly reports. I am grateful that I am not the only one to be examined so critically. “He could have an attack of his infamous ‘conscience’ and take her back in less than a fortnight. Which means it is vital that you stay the course.” He tilts a brow.

Anne scowls at him and folds her arms across her chest. “You think you know what’s best—”

In a movement so swift it is almost over before it begins Norfolk is on his feet, slamming his fist on the table with a resounding thump. “I don’t think. I know. And if you know what’s good for you, you will listen.” His voice is never raised, not even a note. Perhaps it would be less frightening if it were not so controlled. It would make him more real.

He sits back down and eyes Mary Carey. “You’re still instructing her on how best to keep him … intrigued?”

A smile plays on George’s mouth. Apparently he has been privy to these discussions and perhaps shared some knowledge of his own.

“Yes, of course,” says the much more agreeable Mary. A slight flush colors her cheeks and Norfolk waves a hand.

“Don’t play the modest spring maiden to me,” he says. “We all know well what you are.”

Mary Carey bows her head. I want to reach out to her but do not dare. I remain silent, taking everything in with a racing heart. I am ashamed of my fear and bow my own head.

“Never forget the people’s reaction to you, Anne,” Norfolk continues. “‘We want no Nan Bullen.’ ” He lets the words of the rioting peasants fill her ears. She covers them and squeezes her eyes shut.

“We were on the barge,” she whispers, reliving her ordeal. “The poxy fishwives called it out from shore …” She shakes her head as though trying to banish the disturbing images. “And they mobbed me.” Tears gather at the corners of her black eyes. She blinks. George wraps a protective arm about her shoulders, drawing her close. The movement creates a pang of longing for my own brother.

“You have to try to endear yourself to them, Anne,” Norfolk says. “You have to make them love you and long for you as their queen. The king may weaken under the rejection of his subjects— he may decide you’re not worth all this bother with the pope and Catherine of Aragon’s supporters. Supporters like Charles of Spain.”

“He wants an heir,” Anne says, her voice taut with determination. “I can give him what he most desires. No one will deter him.”

“Everyone can deter him,” Norfolk argues. “Who do you think you are? You’re the lady of the moment. Even should this succeed you will only be useful to him till he gets his heir. And then? Then it is a mistress.”

“Not with me,” Anne says with a proud but joyless smile. “He’d never dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he? He dared with Catherine,” says the duke.

“He didn’t love Catherine.”

“He loved her dearly.” My father’s voice bears an edge of danger in it, and I find my fingernails are digging into my palms, sharp as a cat’s claws.

“Anne, you are always dispensable, remember that. If you don’t believe it, take a look at your own sister.” He indicates poor Mary Carey with a careless nod.

Anne draws in a breath. “It doesn’t matter,” she says with a shrug of one shoulder. I know it is a false sentiment. Anne is all about Anne; even I can perceive that. She will not take kindly to rivals. “I will be queen, won’t I?”

“If you play this right,” Norfolk says. “Which means you listen to me. Do you understand, girl?”

Anne draws her expression into one of serene dignity, offering him the slightest of nods. I call this her “queen’s face.” I practice this one when I’m alone, along with her smiles and looks of surprise and coquettish anger. To me she is the quintessence of charm and cultivation.

We are dismissed and prepare to go to supper, but Anne remains a moment, standing in front of my father with her small shoulders squared, a hint of a smile on her face.

“You are an old son of a bitch, Thomas Howard,” she says.

I am awed by the words. I expect my father to strike her for her insolence but instead, after the briefest of pauses, he says with a small smile of his own, “As are you, Anne.” He pats her elbow as he guides her from the room. “Take it as a compliment.”

Anne’s laughter peals forth as she quits the room.

I don’t know why, but I am jealous. Certainly not at the exchange of insults. Perhaps it is of the familiarity, the fact that they can vex each other and still retain some strange favor with one another. Of course Anne is very useful to my father …

I sigh, chastising myself for these uncharitable thoughts as I, too, quit the room, trying to chase away the feeling that I really am not useful at all.

I have mixed feelings. I begin to suspect that I am not on the right side. I think of the queen not as the princess dowager, as we are told to refer to Catherine of Aragon now, but as the queen— the sad, gentle queen who greeted me at Westminster when I first arrived. Now she is alone in her northern castle, suffering as it seems her fate to do. She is denied almost everything and retains the smallest of courts; a handful of loyal maids whose devotion I applaud. She is further punished for her stubbornness by being kept separated from her daughter, who is also in exile until she agrees to sign a document acknowledging the invalidity of her mother and father’s marriage and thus naming herself a bastard.

I am expected to make merry at the expense of such misery. I am not to express even the smallest amount of sympathy for the dethroned monarch or her poor rejected daughter. I am to celebrate the victory of the Howards.

Our victory seems so precarious. What is viewed as triumph one day can be looked upon as tragedy the next; everyone’s fate depends on the fluctuating moods of the increasingly cantankerous king.

“And what would you do if you were Queen Catherine?” asks Madge Shelton one night as we draw the covers over us. My dog, Fitz, sleeps between us; he is spoiled and content, innocent of treachery or plotting.

I do not answer right away. The queen has no friends here, and it would do me no good to offer sympathy of any kind. I measure my words with care. “I would grant the king his divorce; say what needs to be said even if it isn’t true, just to have peace.”

“Do you think it’s true? Do you think Catherine and Prince Arthur consummated their marriage?” she asks with a wicked gleam in her eye.

I shrug and turn my back to her. “Only she knows. I think it’s silly, really. Jesus says if your spouse dies you are free to marry again, which means it was divinely permissible for her to marry King Henry—”

“The Church goes by the Old Testament, clinging to the claim that a man cannot marry his brother’s widow,” Madge reminds me.

“They should go by what Jesus says, not some nameless scribe from Leviticus.” I am surprised at my passion regarding the matter. But I feel the queen has been wronged, so terribly wronged … I must watch my words.

“Don’t say that too loud,” Madge says in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ll put you in the Tower for being too sympathetic to the qu—I mean, the princess dowager.”

I shiver and she rubs my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Mary.” She laughs. “You’re Norfolk’s girl; your interests are attuned to Anne. No one could accuse you of papist sympathies.” She pauses, then returns to the original topic. “I’d love to know if it were true, though—about the consummation, I mean. Wouldn’t you?”

“Not really,” I say, not only because it seems a sacrilege to think such about the noble Queen Catherine, but because I already know the answer. No one who behaved with as much conviction as Queen Catherine could be clinging to a lie. She is the most pious, devout woman I know, as well as the most honorable, which means it is exactly as she insists. The marriage to Arthur was not consummated; her marriage to the king is valid.

I sigh. “It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t,” I say. “Because the king will get what he wants in the end.”

“He always does,” Madge agrees with a yawn as she drifts off to sleep, leaving me to ponder these great things in a mind that, to me, feels very small.

I have become interested in writing verse. Though I do not find myself to be of any unique talent, I am compelled to scribble my little observations and feelings to give them vent. There is a solace in it, an escape. Even bliss, when the words flow right and inspiration surges through my limbs like the aftereffects of mulled wine. I even set some to music, as I am quite accomplished on the virginals and lute, but I dare not say a word about it. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hear me sing, anyway.

The only person I cannot wait to discuss my newfound passion with is my brother Surrey, who once told me I had a “poet’s heart.” Like him. I would be glad to be like Surrey.

This is a poetic circle, and the ladies and gentlemen often share their compositions. I do not share mine, however. I keep them to myself, in my little locked casket with the few letters and other treasures it is my privilege to hold dear.

Often I write about God, His love, His mercy and kindness— traits I feel are not exalted enough. Everyone knows about His wrath and judgment, but not many sing the praises of His gentler virtues. Anne has talked a lot in secret about the New Learning, aspects of church reform that I find myself agreeing with. Anne believes everyone should be allowed to read the English Bible that William Tyndale translated in 1525. I admit I would love to study the Bible myself, lowly girl that I may be. I would love to read the Psalms and get lost in the poetry of those so inspired by the Spirit that they commended their hearts to timeless verse.

But these are thoughts kept to myself, and when I am not writing about the Divine I write about Anne: her temper, her wit, her beauty. When I feel frivolous I pick out one handsome gentleman or another to spark my muse, careful not to assign them with a name in case my poems are ever discovered.

To keep everyone amused during these tense times while the King’s Great Matter persists (his Great Matter being Anne), the other courtiers make a show of their poetry, and it is not long before Anne catches on to the fact that I am concealing my own.

Unfortunately it is in front of the king himself that she chooses to point this out. Everyone is engaged in gambling in her apartments; there’s a sort of laziness about it. People are drinking and conversing idly; in a corner a young musician is playing his lute and singing in a soft, sweet voice.

As I am, for the most part, invisible at court, I do not think anyone will call attention to me, curled up in a corner near the fire writing my verse, least of all Anne herself.

“What is little Mary Howard doing over there? Has she taken in too much wine?” she asks, her tone light and musical. “Come here, little Mary, and bring whatever it is you’re writing with you.”

I clutch my verse to my chest, my cheeks blazing as I approach the table. I sink into a deep curtsy before the king. “Your Majesty,” I whisper, ever awed by the man.

He laughs. “She’s a dear lass,” he says. “Do tell us what you were doing all by yourself.”

“Oh, she’s always by herself,” Anne informs him. “Except for Madge and her little pup, our Mary is as silent as a mouse.”

I stand before them, my legs shaking so hard that my knees are knocking together. I am grateful they are concealed by my voluminous blue skirt.

“Won’t you read us what you were writing?” she asks. “Or is it a love letter?”

I cannot discern if Anne is being kind or if she is trying to humiliate me. Now and then when in a temper, she derives a strange pleasure from the humiliation of others. I am spared this fate most of the time because of my “mouselike” virtues, but now and then her black eyes fall upon me with a wicked glint and she sees fit to wrangle me into an oral beating that brings me to my knees. Most of the time it is over my clumsiness; if I drop something or trip over my gown (or worse, hers), it unleashes a tangent so full of venom and curses the likes of which would make sailors blush, that I do nothing but murmur a terrified apology. I am at a loss in verbal warfare, much to hers and Norfolk’s advantage. And yet with Anne, whose tempers are as changeable as the weather, her vinegar can be transformed to honey in the space of seconds. I can only hope for her honeyed words now.

“Yes, little one, do read to us,” says the king, and since this is as good as a command, there is nothing I can do. I must obey.

I try not to stutter or stammer, remembering who my father is and how he would be most displeased to hear if I dishonored myself before the king.

I concentrate on the parchment before me, never once meeting the eyes of my cousin or sovereign.

“Love she hath not served me so well, God’s pleasure doth see me alone. Though all my efforts have I strained, He is here yet ever gone.”

I look up. It is a stupid poem and I am embarrassed. It is written for poor Queen Catherine, though I dare not admit that. I suppose it is for every lady who fancies herself alone; my mother, Princess Mary (I should say Lady Mary), even my own Bess Holland.

Perhaps even me.

Yet when at last I meet Anne’s eyes they are lit with tears.

“So young to have a head filled with such tragedy,” observes the king, but his voice is tender as he beckons me near with a hand. “You have a gift for verse, little Mary Howard.”

“You are most kind, Your Majesty,” I say in genuine gratitude, offering another curtsy.

Anne’s manner changes abruptly. Again her eyes shine with that dangerous light. “She is a charming girl,” she says with a dismissive wave of her slender hand. “It is getting rather late, isn’t it, Mary? You should go bid your father good night.”

Again, I dip into a curtsy. My legs hurt and I am grateful to be dismissed. Gambling bores me, to be truthful, and I am quite cautious with what money I am allowed, so do not wish to squander it foolishly.

As I quit the room the young musician who had been strumming his lute approaches me. He is a short man, but well made; lean of muscle, with fine musician’s hands. He bows, and upon righting himself I am struck by his eyes. They are the most unusual strain of gray-violet, like an unquiet sea beneath the ensuing purple dawn. Never have I seen such eyes. His dark hair curls about his strong shoulders and his smile reveals straight white teeth.

“I hope I’m not being too forward, Mistress Howard, but I must tell you that I was moved by your poem,” he says in a low voice boasting a Cornish accent.

My cheeks burn. I am certain he sees them reddening. I bow my head. He must be at least fifteen. I cannot believe he deigns to talk to such as me!

“Thank you, sir,” I say, shuffling a little awkwardly from foot to foot.

“You are as humble as you appeared!” he cries then, slapping his thigh with his fine hand as though he had just won a bet. “I thought to meet you just to find that out. Most ladies of the court, you know … well, humility doesn’t run high in noble blood.”

“True enough,” I admit with a little laugh before realizing I should be defending my set—a group, it is clear, to which he does not belong.

“Do you write songs as well?” he asks.

“Oh, yes!” I cry with enthusiasm, forgetting I vowed to keep it to myself. “But I couldn’t play them for anyone. They’re so silly and childish—”

“Oh, then I wouldn’t want to hear them,” he says, cocking his brow.

I screw up my face in disappointment, my heart sinking at once.

“Did you expect me to beg your favor, that my ears might be treated to something you, the composer, find unsuitable?” he asks with a warm chuckle. “Always be proud of your work, Mistress Howard. Everything in this life is an illusion; everything can be taken away. Except our talent, our intrinsic gifts from God.” He shrugs. “Given, there are times we compose things that are less than worthy. What do we do with those? Scrap them. And start over. That’s the best part. You can always start over.”

I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.

I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”

“I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”

It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.

“My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a … fascinating place.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is that.”

“Well,” he says, doffing his feathered cap, “the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions—only the best ones, of course.”

“I shall make certain of it!” I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.

I leave Anne’s apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king’s great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle mockery. I whisper his name to myself over and over. Cedric. Cedric. Cedric Dane … Never have I felt this way. I know what occurs between a man and a maid, and that I am expected to make a marriage soon. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that there was talk about my betrothal to Lord Bulbeck, son of the Earl of Oxford, but whether that will ever come to fruition I have no idea. Marriage—my marriage at least—is the farthest thing from my mind. But romance … This court, not to mention my own father, are all shining examples that you do not need to have marriage to have romance. My heart leaps at the naughty thought, sinking just as quickly as I realize where, almost against my will, I am now headed.

My father’s liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.

He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.

“It’s been a lovely night, Father,” I tell him. “I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good.”

“Who are you to tell me what is good for me?” he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. “How goes it with Anne?”

“She is well,” I say, though I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.

“I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very … affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”

“Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.

“I … read to the king and Anne,” I say against the nausea in my throat. “A poem of mine … They liked it.” Why this sudden weakness? I bring a hand to my forehead. I want to tear off my hood, but do not have the strength. A vision of Cedric swirls before me. I can’t wait to get back to the maidens’ chamber to tell Madge about him; then rethink it, as most likely she would gossip about it to Anne, who would mock me in turn.

Thoughts of my cousins and the musician are chased from my mind as I struggle to keep my balance. I want to cry out but cannot. I try to focus on my father, who is coming toward me. His mouth is moving, but I cannot hear …

Then there is nothing.