Queenbreaker: Perseverance (The Queenbreaker Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

My
mouth fell open the same moment as the Privy Chamber door. Seymour’s taunt
vanished beneath a tide of music, laughter, and a singular vibrant voice.

“It
is the Duke of Richmond for you, Mary Howard!”

“Ah,
here is our before Mass entertainment,” Seymour whispered. “We should take a
seat for this.”

I
let her draw me a few steps aside, to the sewing circle behind us. We took the
two closest empty stools. She snatched a shapeless piece of makework from the
pile at the heart of the circle and threw it in my lap.

Five
ladies spilled out of the door, trailing the music and laughter of the Privy
Chamber behind them.

Seymour
leaned close until our shoulders touched. “The tallest is the Lady Margaret
Douglas—the Queen calls her Margot. On her left, the lady with the pearl
earrings,
is the Lady Mary Howard.”

Earrings!
On the Lady Mary Howard! They were a male Italian fashion. Mother called them
vulgar. I’d never seen a man wearing them let alone a woman. Let alone the
daughter of the Duke of Norfolk. I scrutinized the dainty teardrop pearls,
swaying as she walked. They looked very fine to me.

“The
one at Lady Mary’s elbow,” Seymour went on, “is her sister-in-law, the Countess
of Surrey.”

Lady
Frances de Vere. She’d wed the Duke of Norfolk’s heir last year. My parents had
attended her wedding. I knew she must be near sixteen like Gabrielle, but she
looked younger than Emma with her child-round face—except for her eyes,
which gleamed with an ancient shrewdness I misliked. She too wore earrings,
little golden dewdrops.

I
rubbed my left earlobe, imagining their weight.

“And
who shall it be for you?” The woman on Lady Margaret’s right challenged. “Shall
you uphold the family tradition and marry a commoner?”

“That
is Eliza, Countess of Worcester,” Seymour said.

She
didn’t look like a whore.

But
what would a court whore look like? Not like the slatterns prowling the
riverside in Southwark. Otherwise, they too would dress in gray and crimson
damask, and wear a pearl choker like the Countess of Worcester.

The
ladies halted two steps away from the sewing circle. Every other conversation
in the crowded chamber stopped. The Queen’s musicians slowed their work to
listen.

Lady
Margaret—Margot’s russet hair gleamed beneath her silver worked French
hood. She dropped the train of her crimson gown at my feet, crossed her arms.

“You
mean to say marry for love, do you not my lady Worcester? For what is common
about our Queen Anne?”

The
Countess tilted her head. A wisp of ash blonde hair escaped from under the
black veil of her hood. “Naught, I grant you. But I will not be diverted. Tell
us whom you love.”

Margot’s
elegant sigh moved me to sigh with her.

“Who
is there for me to love?” she said, face forlorn. “There is only one hen the
cocks crow for.”

“For
shame!” cried the tall girl trailing them, her face flushed piglet pink.

Seymour
sighed. “Lady Mary Wyatt is too good for this world.”

I
knew the name and reputation. Madge called her “the last duenna” for her
prudishness. She looked the part. She wore her French hood high, showing just
an inch of the part in her light brown hair. The collar of her blackwork shirt
came to her chin. Her sleeves fell almost to her fingernails. Madge told me to
avoid her company, if I preferred to receive instruction on morality only at
Mass. It was beyond all irony that her brother was Sir Thomas Wyatt—the
scandal of Kent.

Margot
turned toward Mary Wyatt and executed a wondrous curtsey. Mary Howard laughed;
Lady Frances clapped her hands.

“Do
not encourage her wayward tongue, Mariah,” Mary Wyatt implored.

Margot
scowled. “Oh, run away and tell on me, Mary Wyatt, you are spoiling our fun.”

Mistress
Wyatt straightened her back. “Then I will leave you to your fun, my lady,” she
got out and bolted before we could see her tears.

“Thank
the Holy Virgin,” Margot said. “Her namesake has finally left.”

“Hush,
Margot,” hissed Mary Howard.

I
ducked my head as Margot turned on her, and so turned my way. But they were as
oblivious to their audience as real players on the stage.

“Well,
‘tis true,” Margot insisted. “And I pity her. She’ll go straight to some old
man’s bed without a clue.”

“Unlike
yourself?” The Countess served her jibe with a radiant smile.

“For
shame, Lady Worcester,” Margot retorted. “I am a proper maid and will marry
where my lord uncle the King bids me. I will be the most blameless, chaste,
obedient wife in England—when the time comes. But for now…” Her smile
engulfed me and every other young, daring heart in the chamber. “For now, I
shall tarry.”

Lady
Frances giggled.

“Yes,
yes, Margot, but whom shall you tarry for?” the Countess pressed.

Margot’s
narrow face expanded with joy. “Why, for your husband, of course.”

Laughter
exploded around the room. Someone applauded.

“Point
to Margot,” Seymour murmured.

The
Countess’s oval face shriveled like a dog turd on a hot road. Her jaw worked
and I thought she might respond, but she surprised me by turning on her heel
and breezing out of the Presence Chamber. Honor Lisle and her two companions
followed her. Then Seymour dashed after them leaving me without a
fare-thee-well.

What do I do now?

“You
were not serious, Margot.” Lady Frances’ whisper caught my ear.

Disdain
contorted Margot’s lively face. “Don’t be a ninny, Frances. Why would I want
the Countess’s leavings?”

“Is
she terribly insulted?” I blurted, and shrank as all three looked at me.

“Oh,”
Margot muttered. “The littlest Boleyn.”

My
heart leapt. Lady Margaret Douglas knew who I was! Had they spoken of me in the
Privy Chamber?

“I
am a Shelton, by birth. My Lady,” I appended a moment too late.

Margot’s
chancy eyes rolled upwards. “Oh, no, by your manners you are a thorough
Boleyn.”

“My
cousin George speaks well,” Mary Howard put in.

“That’s
because he’s almost French,” Margot sniffed. “What is your name, ma petite
Boullayne?”

Mary
Howard gave me a tiny smile. I took it for encouragment.

“Mary—Mary,
my lady Margaret—Shelton that is.” I prayed the earth would swallow me
whole. How could I stumble over my own name?

Mary
Howard touched Margot’s arm.

“Oh,
leave off Mariah,” Margot chided. “I have had my fun. I am pleased to know you
Mary-Mary Shelton. You may not call me Margaret.”

I
shot Mary Howard a bleak look of appeal. She shrugged at my discomfort, as if
to say ‘this is how it is’. Lady Margaret snapped her fingers inches from my
face.

“I
am called Margot, because the Queen already has a Margaret of whom she is most
fond—Lady Margaret Lee. Mary Howard here is Mariah, as the Virgin Mary
Wyatt came first to Anne’s service, and because the Lady is not fond of her own
sister Mary Carey.”

“She
calls her Lady Carey even in private,” said Lady Frances.

“What
will she call me?” I dared to ask them.

Margot
shrugged a shoulder. “Who can say? She may not call you anything.”

“Cousin
Mary would do,” offered Mariah. I looked at her round face, high forehead,
dimpled
cheeks. Mary Howard is beautiful, I decided.
Too beautiful.

“I
suppose cousin Anne likes you very much,” I said before I could stop myself.

Margot
snorted. “She likes keeping her Uncle Norfolk happy.”

Mariah
pinched her shoulder. Margot squeaked.

“Speak
of the Devil and the Devil may come,” Mariah hissed.

“Your
father is the Devil?” I asked.

Margot
and Mariah both stared at my baffled face, then burst out laughing in high
frantic peals that to my ear sounded strained. Lady Frances chewed her lower
lip and laughed not.

“Just
where in Norfolk were you raised?” Margot asked, both hands wiping tears.

“Shelton
Hall,” I said, and let my tongue have its way again when her narrowed eyes said
she’d never heard of it. “We are not bumpkins. We know all about the Duke of
Norfolk.”

“You
know nothing, Mary Shelton, and should be grateful for it,” Mariah’s flat voice
crushed my pique. I studied her a moment. She was more beautiful than
Gabrielle. The angles of her face were
finer,
her
sea-blue eyes wider, her chestnut hair held a touch more gloss. She was well
educated, and well connected by blood and marriage to every important family in
England. Her father was the second highest noble in the kingdom. She possessed
every advantage my family craved. Jealousy carved a deep foothold in my
stomach.

I
envied Margot even more. She was born to royalty. She might marry a king. She
did not need beauty nor education, but she had so much of the latter she should
not miss the former. She had a strong face made for strong expressions, but
luminous, outspoken hazel eyes even Mary Howard might envy. They were born with
all the advantages. Their lives held no risk.

“Come
along Mariah,” Margot drawled, sounding bored. “Leave Mistress Shelton to her
sewing.” Her long tapered fingers reached out and brushed the untouched
make-work Jane Seymour had thrown at me. “She is in need of the practice.”

I
sank onto my stool as the three of them glided away, proud and poised as swans.

All
of my advantages, my music, poetry, dancing, and needlework were yoked to the
cart of my one and only living purpose: a good marriage. And where once they
might have counted for very little against those of Mary Howard and Margot,
cousin Anne had turned the standard on its head.

Could
I marry a king? Not our Henry, of course, but why not the King of Scots? I now
knew his half-sister. I must consult Madge. Would I find Scotland agreeable?
Would I mind living so far away from my kin? Was King James handsome as I was
told King Henry had been in his youth?

A
crown. I wanted one too. Is it a sickness of the Boleyn female, I wondered?
What if I hated Scotland? Could I remain at the English court as Queen of
Scotland? I would hold the same status as cousin Anne. Would she hate me for
it? I might.

“Mary
Shelton!”

I
jumped.

“Are
you addled?”

Madge
towered overhead, casting me in her dark shadow.

“The
Queen has gone to hear Mass.
Why
do you dawdle?”

I
leaned around her. Sure enough the Presence Chamber was almost empty. Even the
musicians had gone.

“They
forgot me,” I marveled.

Madge’s
knuckles rapped the top of my French hood. “You forgot yourself, mistress.
There is only one lady, court and King wait upon.” Her eyes raked me. “I warned
your mother. You are not suited to Court life. You should have been raised here
from a child like Lady Margaret Douglas and the Lady Mary Howard—they
understand what is expected of them.”

Mayhap
it was the abrupt end to my musings, mayhap the cold partridge Madge had shared
out to break our fast—I hate cold bird—had undone me, but I felt my
temper ripping free of my mother’s carefully stitched restraints.

“They
are fortunate then in their breeding. Had I been born a Douglas or Howard, I
should be what they are now. As it is, I am only a Shelton out of a Boleyn.”

Madge’s
eyes thinned in the same chill way my mother’s did whenever I grew pert.

What should I do? What would Margot do?

Heart
missing every second beat, I raised my chin just enough to look down my nose at
her flinty face.

Madge
snorted. “Aye, I see the Boleyn in you. I doubt I am the only one. Now take
yourself to Mass.”

Greenwich
Palace, Greenwich

April
1533

Mrs.
Marshall, Mother of the Maids, culled me from the crowd streaming out of the
Chapel Royal after Mass. She looked exactly as Madge had described: pinched
face, silver-gray hair, sharp, cat-green eyes that could probably see through
the dark. Her whippet thin frame sliced through the gaggle of junior ladies
straight for me.

“Follow,”
she said.

Caught
mid-curtsey, I fell a full three steps behind her. She never turned around and
the distance between us grew. How would I ever explain losing her?

I
hiked my skirt and ran. I caught her up at the top of a stairwell that took us
to the second floor.

“You
will share lodgings with Lady Joan Percy and Mistress Elizabeth Holland.”

Lady
Joan Percy must be a member of the Percy family who were the Earls of
Northumberland. Elizabeth Holland or Bess (as the whole world knew her) was the
Duke of Norfolk’s mistress. What would Mother say of my lodging with a whore?

My
foot tangled on my skirt, sending me bumping against the wall.

Mrs.
Marshall didn’t slow. “Keep up Mistress Shelton. I have a dozen other things to
attend to this morning.”

I
clutched my little Book of Prayer in both hands.

Jane Seymour is a witch. And so is Mrs.
Marshall.

Mother
had warned me. Mrs. Marshall had only received her place to please her cousin
Lady Bridget Wingfield. Lady Bridget, one of Anne’s oldest friends, had served
with her in France when Mary Tudor was Queen. There were other ladies proposed
for the post—all better bred, better looking, better deserving, but Lady
Wingfield’s friendship had prevailed.

“Here
is your chamber.”

Mrs.
Marshall tossed open the door. Two narrow windows illumed a room smaller than
my chamber at Shelton House. The whitewash was gray at the top of the walls and
ceilings. The bed too was no wider than the one I shared with Emma.

I hope to God Joan and Bess do not kick.

An
oak coffer sat at the end of the bed, and a tall clothespress stood in the
corner. A fair sized wall mirror hung above a dainty dressing table littered
with tangled ribbons, ivory combs, delicate little glass pots, and a broken
enameled girdle.

“That
girl.” Mrs. Marshall snatched the girdle off the table. “She can be trusted to
ruin every pretty thing her aunt sends her. Don’t let Joan Percy borrow
anything you value.” Marshall held the severed link in front of my face. “You
see how she treats her own things.”

“Yes,
Mrs. Marshall.”

Marshall
gave me a short nod that said she’d wait and see if I was smart enough to heed
her.

“Your
maidservant…”

“Janet,”
I supplied.

“Janet.
She will be in quarters with her fellows upstairs. Lady Joan and Mistress Elizabeth
sometimes take turns having their maids sleep here, and share their service in
the morning. They may ask if you’d like to do the same.”

I
nodded while knowing I would not. The space around the bed was tight. I could
not subject Janet to being stepped on in the middle of the night by sleepy
girls in need of the pisspot.

“The
Queen provides your victuals. Supper is served in the Great Hall between two
and four o’clock each day. You know about your yearly stipend. The Queen also
provides pin money each month. You are allowed one lap dog, but no monkeys.”

“Why
not?”

Marshall
stopped short in her inspection of the room to frown at me.

“Because
Spanish Katherine loves the pests.”

“Oh.”

Marshall’s
lips hardened. “Did you bring a monkey with you from London?”

My
hands flew up, somehow intending to hold off her rising irritation. The Book of
Prayer collided with the floor.

“My
God, there are two of you.” Marshall shook her head. “There’s a clasp to attach
it to your girdle, Mistress Shelton. If you ruin that book the Queen will know
of it.”

I
bent to pick it up. Marshall brushed by me before I’d straightened.

“Find
your way back to the Presence Chamber. There is make-work always waiting to be
done, so keep your hands well employed. The Queen notes idleness.”

You mean you notice it and tell her.

“Questions?”

My
mind lost all color. It went white as Jane Seymour’s forehead. A thousand
questions had boiled in my brain from London to this tiny, disenchanting room.
When do I meet the Queen? When do I meet the King? Will I wear livery or my own
court dress? How many times do we go to Mass? Where do I sit at table?

I
shook my addled head. “No, Mrs. Marshall.”

Marshall,
like Madge, left me without a look as she sailed out the door.

I
sank onto the modest bed. The mattress gave with a well-worn sigh.

How
many other girls have used it before me? How many had spilt tears on it?

“Do
not weep, Mary.” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “You’ll puff
up and everyone will know.”

My
afternoon replayed itself behind my closed eyes. Jane Seymour’s alabaster face
scorned me. Madge and Jane Rochford’s backs turned on me. Mrs. Marshall’s
impatient glare assaulted me.

“You
are not a child. Emma would be drowning in snot by now.”

I
was at court while Gabrielle and Emma languished in Shelton, biting their nails
raw from envy. I looked at my own nails. Janet had buffed them last night. They
had a soft, delectable glow.

Make-work.
The Queen’s
make-work.
Idle hands.

I
bolted from the little
chamber,
pulling the door shut
so hard the wall shook.

Slow down!

But
I couldn’t. Fear had me in its awesome toils. If I didn’t put a needle in my
hand before supper, it would be sugared plums or pie.

Damn Gabrielle. Damn Emma.
A glutton, and a crybaby.
I’m made of better stuff. Aren’t
I?

I must be.