The King’s Mistress
Darcey Bonnette

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers in 2011 as Secrets of the Tudor Court

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers in 2017

Copyright © D.L Bogdan 2011

Darcey Bonnette asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780007434251

Version: 2017-01-11

Dedication

To my grandfather, for giving me a love of storytelling; for my father, for giving me a love of words; and for my mother, for giving me a love of reading

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE - An Entrance

Chapter 1 - Doll’s Eyes

Chapter 2 - Awakening

Chapter 3 - Farewell to Kenninghall

Chapter 4 - London!

Chapter 5 - Anne

Chapter 6 - The King’s Great Matter

Chapter 7 - The Marquess of Pembroke

Chapter 8 - France

Chapter 9 - Anne’s Secret

Chapter 10 - Anna Regina

Chapter 11 - A Royal Birth

Chapter 12 - The Duchess of Richmond

Chapter 13 - Falling Stars

Chapter 14 - My Harry

Chapter 15 - The Fight

Chapter 16 - The German Bride

Chapter 17 - A Rose Named Kitty

Chapter 18 - Thorns

Chapter 19 - A Poet’s Heart

Chapter 20 - A True Howard

Chapter 21 - Long Live the King!

Chapter 22 - The Reigate Years

Chapter 23 - Rainy Days

Chapter 24 - Norfolk and Me

EPILOGUE - Elizabeth Stafford Howard

Acknowledgements

A Reading Group Guide

Discussion Questions

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

An Entrance

Elizabeth Stafford Howard, spring 1519

He is pulling my hair—it is going to be torn from my scalp, I am sure of it. I struggle and fight against him. The pains grip my womb. I cup my rounded belly with one hand and claw my husband’s wrist with the other.

“Let me go!” I cry. “Please! The baby is coming! You’re going to hurt the baby!”

He says nothing but continues to pull me off the bed by my hair. It hurts … oh, it hurts. To my horror I see the glint of his dagger as he removes it from its sheath. He lowers it in one wild gesture, striking my head near where he is pulling my hair. I am unsure of his aims. Is he going to chop my hair off? Is he going to chop me up?

“Stop …” I beg as he continues to drag me about the house in front of cold-eyed servants who do not interfere with his “discipline.”

At long last he drops me on the cold stone floor in front of my bedchamber. The pains are coming closer together. I am writhing in agony. The wound on my head is bleeding. Warm red liquid runs down my face into my eyes.

He walks away.

When his footfalls can no longer be heard a servant comes forward to help me to my bed. It is safe now, I suppose. The midwife, cowering in a corner, inches forward.

“What on God’s earth could you have done to warrant that man’s displeasure?” she asks in her country accent as she wipes clean my face and attends to the dagger wound.

I look at her in despair. “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I never know.”

And this is how my child enters this world. I name her Mary, after the Blessed Virgin. Perhaps so named, God will show her more favor than He has condescended to show me.

Chapter 1

Doll’s Eyes

Mary Howard, 1522

They tell me my father is a great man and I must be his pretty little lady. I must behave myself and stay clean. I wonder what it is to be a great man. I know that he is a favored servant of His Majesty King Henry VIII, and he is a very brave knight. I try to picture him. Is he tall? Is he handsome? I cannot remember. He is not home very much. I cling to my brother Henry’s hand and await my lord, who is to see us and comment on our progress. Our progress on what, I do not know. On being people, I suppose.

My sister, Catherine—she is a bigger girl than me and quite haughty—stands beside Henry. My other brother Thomas is at the end, shuffling from foot to foot. We are a pretty row of little soldiers.

When he appears in the nursery with Mother, another foreign figure to our nursery, he reviews us all. He ruffles Thomas’s blond hair and shakes Henry’s outstretched hand. He compliments my sister on her smart dress.

He regards me a long moment. “Mary,” he says, as though it is a new sound to his ears. “How old are you now?”

“I am three,” I tell him proudly.

He is a great man. I can tell. He is so stately and composed, like a living portrait.

“Three,” he says. “And what do you know at this great age of three?”

I think about this. I am not sure how to answer his query. Do I tell him about my letters and numbers, my colors and shapes? What does he want to know? I tell him what I am most proud of.

“I never have any accidents anymore—not in three whole months. Nurse says I will have a pretty new gown.” I look up at him, beaming.

He grimaces at this. I do not think my answer pleases him. His lips twitch a moment as he stoops down, picking me up and carrying me to the window. “I shall tell you what is most important, what you should know at this great age of three,” he says, bouncing me a bit on his hip. “You are a Howard.” He looks into my face. “You are a Howard. You belong to the greatest family in the land.”

I am held by his gaze; his eyes are black, deep as a starless night. They are eyes that command attention. I am captivated and frightened at once.

I wrap my arms about his neck, pressing my cheek to his, hoping to endear myself to those black orbs that remind me so much of my doll’s eyes in their—what is the word? Lifelessness.

“Remember it,” he says. “Always remember it.”

“I shall,” I whisper in earnest.

Chapter 2

Awakening

1530

My father grips my shoulders and I gaze up at his narrow face, now creased in a rare smile. His exacting eyes crinkle at the corners. My lips lift in shy response. He is kneeling before me, his knee caught on the frothy pink lace of my gown.

“A little small for your age, but you’ll do,” he intones in a voice like sustained thunder. He places a silver circlet inlaid with seed pearls on my head. I reach up to finger the delicate headpiece, in awe. This is my first gift from the Duke of Norfolk. In fact, this is the first time he has sought me out for conversation since I was a wee girl.

He rises and the abrupt movement of his knee parting company with my gown rocks me off balance. I look up. He is a thin man, which gives him the appearance of being tall. His eyes are cold again, his smile converted to a grim line slashed across his face. For a long moment he gazes upon me with eyes that are hard and inscrutable. His hands are locked behind his back. He circles me.

“You examine her like a horse at the fair,” my mother comments.

“And so she is,” he snaps. Mother shrinks back. She bows her head and places a curled hand against her cheek, though he did not strike her. She does this every time he speaks to her, as though soothing the sting of a future blow in advance.

I am too fascinated by my gift to pay attention to their exchange. By now I have removed the little circlet and am ogling the pearls, hoping to capture my parents’ attention once more. Their visits to Kenninghall are too rare. “Is it real?” I ask. At eleven I am already learning to appreciate the measure of good jewels.

“Silly question—of course it’s real!” he cries, patting my shoulder.

I clutch it to my chest and scrunch up my shoulders, smiling.

“Ah, a true Howard girl.” He laughs. “Can’t resist a shiny bauble. Go now, off with you!”

I run down the rush-strewn hallway, anticipating my maid’s expression when she beholds the finery my father bestowed upon me. What will Bess make of the gift? I am stopped short, however, by the sound of raised voices. I slow my feet and turn, straining my ears.

“It’s no place for her,” Mother is saying. “I wish you would re-think it.”

“She is needed at court,” he says. Court? My heart leaps. Dare I hope? “Mary must be in the foreground, not wasting away out here,” he adds.

“She’s much younger than the other girls,” Mother tells him. “I didn’t become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine till I was about thirteen.”

“Are you so daft that you think I would expect her to be a lady-in-waiting—to this queen?” His tone is mocking. It grates on my ears. I creep closer toward their voices. “She will be a member of her cousin’s increasing household.” His voice takes on a softer note. “And she will accompany us whenever we visit young Fitzroy so she can see her brother Henry. She’ll love it.”

Henry! Oh, but I would love it! Mother would be a fool to disallow it! But how can she disallow anything? No one opposes the duke, not even those who want to. He is Norfolk, the premier duke of all England. He is Good King Harry’s foremost military commander, the best soldier and most courageous sailor. He holds a string of impressive titles: lord high admiral, lieutenant of Ireland from 1520 to 1522, and lord high treasurer. How many battles has he, a man I cannot even refer to in my own head as anything but Norfolk, won for our sovereign?

Would he let the words of my little mother thwart his plans when the whole of England trembles in awe at his very name? I should think not! My heart swells with pride that I should be sired by such a man.

I smile, anticipating his next words with glee.

“I’ll be damned if you bring her now, at this time, so she can be influenced by yet another great whore!” Mother cries. I am shocked by this. Not so much by the profanity; my mother is not known for a sweet tongue. It is that she says so to him, this man whom I have been taught to hold in reverent wonder.

I am drawn from my reflections by the sound of a thump and a series of hard pummels against the surface of what I assume to be his chest. There is a bit more scuffling, followed by an abrupt silence. I creep toward the door, hiding in the shadows. I lean against the stone wall, sweating, my heart pounding. The wall is cool, refreshing against my skin, and I press my cheek to it. With care, I peer around the doorway to see that my father has Mother’s wrists pinned above her head and is holding her against the wall.

“Now hear this,” he seethes. “I do not need your permission for anything. She will accompany us where I see fit, and it is most prudent that she be present at court now.”

“ ‘Most prudent,’ ” Mother mocks, craning her neck forward and attempting to bite Norfolk’s long Romanesque nose. He manages to evade the small catlike teeth. “I know what you’re about, Thomas Howard. You’re scheming again. Isn’t it enough to have your precious niece Miss Anne Boleyn dangling under the king’s nose like so much fresh meat—now you’re to bring little Mary? To what purpose? Who is she to be dangled before? There’s none higher than the king.”

Norfolk tightens his grip on her dainty white wrists, using them as leverage to pull her forward then slam her against the wall. I can but imagine the pain my mother feels as her back meets with the stone behind the tapestry. I bite my lip and begin to tremble. This is why her little hand curls against her face when he speaks. If I encounter such a man in my husband, I shall never speak against him, I vow.

Mother goes limp but is held up despite it. Her smile oozes with contempt. “Perhaps it is better if you do take her, dangle her before whom you must, rather than operate like my father and take her away from the man she truly loves, in favor of someone like you.”

“Ah, yes, the Ralph Neville saga again,” Norfolk says in a tone that suggests the tedium of the topic. He lowers her wrists and pins them behind her back, pulling her close to him. He speaks as though reciting lines from a play. “Ralph Neville, your dearest love. And yet what are the Nevilles to the Howards? The blood of kings runs through my veins, treasured wife.” This he says with the utmost sarcasm. “Have you so soon forgotten your predecessor?”

“Have you forgotten that I am the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, not one of your common whores? I bear as much if not more royal blood than your scurvy lot!” Mother cries, but her face still bears that wicked smile. Both are smiling, in fact, and I find this to be a most disturbing discourse. I am unsure as to whether they are enjoying their little banter. “And I haven’t forgotten my ‘predecessor,’ ” she goes on, her tone biting. “I haven’t forgotten that your marriage to Lady Anne Plantagenet was steeped in poverty and that you lived off the pity of relatives. I haven’t forgotten that all that royal blood combined couldn’t sustain any of your offspring past age eleven, and it certainly couldn’t sustain your ‘princess’!”

Norfolk shakes her till her teeth chatter. I hear them click together like dice cast against the floor. “Venomous little bitch!”

Mother does not stop. Her voice is uneven as he jars her. “Royal blood is as red as everyone else’s and spills even easier.”

In one quick movement, Norfolk whirls her around so her back is to him as she kicks and writhes against him. He pulls her to the sedan. I stand stunned. I want to cry but cannot. I just watch, fascinated. As wiry as he is, he has the strength to hold her arms behind her with one hand and maneuver her over his knee. He hikes up her skirts and strikes her across the bottom like a naughty child. My face burns in shame as I listen to the resounding crack of skin striking skin.

What inspires the most fear in me is that Norfolk’s face bears so little expression given the severity of his actions. No anger, no malice. No remorse.

When he finishes he pushes her onto the floor in a crumpled heap. She struggles into a sitting position. Norfolk has turned his back on her and folded his arms across his chest, drawing in a deep breath. Well done, his bearing suggests. I shudder. Mother crawls forward. To my complete amazement she wraps her arms about his leg and rests her head against his thigh. They remain like this a long moment before my father reaches down and pushes back her hood to ruffle her wavy brown hair. Like a dog, I think, my stomach churning in revulsion.

She raises her head to him, smirking. “When shall we tell Lady Mary?”

“I knew you would see it my way, Elizabeth.” Norfolk’s tone is quite pleasant.

I turn around and lean against the wall a moment for support. Tears flood my eyes. The circlet is clammy in my cold hands. It is all right, then, what just happened? Is it some game between them? I take in a few shuddering breaths. I should not be so upset. I have much to look forward to now, it seems. Whatever occurs between my parents is best left to them. This may be how all couples relate. Should this be the case, I shall pray fervently that I am admitted into a convent. But one does not have babies in a convent! I begin to wring my hands in panic.

“My lady?” a gentle voice queries. Hands white as lilies rest upon my shoulders, and I see through a veil of tears the sweet face of my favorite maid. Her wide-set brown eyes are filled with familiar tenderness. “What is it, lamb?”

I attempt to still my trembling lip. “I … I do believe I’m going to court,” I say, not wishing to confide the disturbing scene between my parents to Bess.

Her full, rosy lips curve into a radiant smile. “But that’s wonderful!” she cries, guiding me down the hall into the nursery, where we sit on the settee. She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs my eyes. Her other hand seizes mine and strokes my thumb in an absent fashion.

“It is wonderful,” I agree, but the words are empty. I am nervous. I need to do something. I take the handkerchief. I am far too grown-up to allow her to continue blotting my tears away, and it will occupy my fidgety hands. As I bring it to my face I find the monogram, embroidered in the lovely shade of Tudor green. “T H,” I say. The corner of my mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Now, what lad would have given you this, Bessie Holland?” I reach out and tug one of her white-blond ringlets.

She flushes bright crimson and lowers her eyes. Such a demure creature, I think to myself. She is everything I want to be.

“ ’Tis nothing,” she says, snatching it from me.

“But, Bess, it’s so romantic! You must tell me!” I cry, taking her hands. “Is he very handsome? And kind?” I add. After what I just witnessed it is now vital that he be kind to my gentle Bess.

Bess offers a slow nod. “Yes,” she says at length. “He is kind to me.” She rises and begins to stroll about the nursery, picking up knickknacks and setting them down in a distracted manner. I admire how her voluptuous figure swaggers a bit as she walks. “I shall miss you, my lady.” Her voice is wistful. “Now it will just be little Thomas, and he’ll be sent away soon enough for his education. What fine ladies and gentlemen I have attended these past years! And think—soon you shall be among the finest.”

“I can hardly wait to see what the ladies of the court are wearing,” I muse, perked up by the thought of glittering jewels and cloth of gold.

Bess’s tone grows quiet. “Take care around Anne. I used to attend her before coming here. She is the loveliest of women, but her mind is … unquiet.”

“I don’t remember her. I have not seen her since I was a child.”

Bess laughs and I gather it is because she still considers me a child. I puff out my chest in indignation, imagining the breasts that will soon erupt from the flat landscape of my girlhood. I break into giggles.

“She is much favored by the king.” Bess sits down again. Her eyes are alight with intrigue. “You know that she usurped her sister’s place in that—”

The door bursts open, interrupting her tale, and I am disappointed. I want so much to learn of this world I am about to enter and know I cannot ask anything of my father.

“Mary.” It is Norfolk himself. He offers a smile as he enters. “We will be leaving for court directly. Why don’t you see to the packing of your things? Just a few things, mind you. I shall have new gowns ordered upon our arrival.”

“Can Bess come?” I ask, clinging to her hand.

He bows his head, clearing his throat. “No, not just now.”

I pout a moment before seizing Bess’s hands and kissing her cheeks. I exit but do not run this time. Something keeps me rooted in place outside the door and I wonder if this is my fate, camping outside of doors, listening to things I do not want to hear, for surely what I am hearing now is out of a dream.

Sweet murmurs assault my ears. Yes, assault, because they are not exchanged between those who should utter them. I turn. My father has Bess’s head cupped between his hands. She is smiling up at him with the unadulterated adoration of a love-starved child. He gathers her in his arms, kissing her with the same fierce passion he used in striking my mother. When they part they are breathless. They lean back on the settee and I watch his hand snake down her stomacher.

T. H. Thomas Howard. So the handkerchief she offered me was his. On what occasion had he lent it to her? Had she been crying over her undesirable role as mistress? Had she been demanding that he rid himself of my mother to set her, wicked Bessie Holland, in her place? I picture the whole scene, my cheeks hot with rage. My father wrapping his arms around Bess and consoling her, promising her the world if she’d only be patient a little while longer. He gives her his handkerchief and she clutches it to her ample bosom just to lure his eyes to that ripe spot wherein beats her sinful little heart. Oh, the seducer!

Bile rises in my throat as I quit the mental imagery. A firm hand grips my shoulder. How is it he can move so swiftly and silently, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut against whatever is to come. But when I open them it is into my mother’s face I look.

“So. Now you see,” she says in her low voice. There are no tears in her eyes. She is a strong little woman, her angular jaw set in a line of determination, her challenging gaze stormy blue. She is not like Bess—soft, round Bess—who is made of honey and cream. Mother cannot afford to be honey and cream. She is fighting, always fighting. Now I know what she is fighting for.

“Yes,” I say with profound sadness. “Now I see.”

“You will be careful at this court of Henry, the Eighth of That Name.” I nod at the gravity of this formal order. “You must know that when you are there you will not see His Grace your father very much at all, and I will be busy attending Her Majesty. Be quiet. Watch and learn. Never tattle on anyone else, no matter how tempted you are by the promises of others. Be still. Keep your own counsel. Self-preservation, Mary, is of the utmost importance at this court.”

“Yes, Mother.” My throat contracts with tears. I want her to en-fold me in her arms the way Bess does when I am sad or frightened. But I am angry at Bess and remind myself to admire my mother’s cool sense of control rather than long for the embrace of that vile betrayer.

Mother nods to me. I nod back. We part company.

This is how true ladies conduct their business.

I am leaving. Bess catches me before I descend to the great hall. Sensing my coldness, her soft eyes make their appeal. She clings to my hands as if she does not know of her transgression. I snatch them from hers and scowl. Her face registers her sorrow as she seizes my wrists.

“My lady.” Her voice is almost a whimper, stirring my heart. “Your father is a powerful man. We can only all of us do his bidding. My family … they depend on His Grace.” Tears stream down her cheeks with abandon. “I … I have no choice, my lady.”

I blink several times to keep fresh tears at bay. “Such topics are not suitable for my ears,” I say, thinking myself to be quite dignified, but feeling a fraud. I disengage myself and turn around to go meet my parents.

“Mary!” Bess cries.

The unchecked agony of her voice causes me to stop.

“I love you like my own,” she says, her milky voice edged with desperation.

I burst into tears and run to her, flinging myself into her arms. “Oh, Bess, dearest Bess,” I sob. I forget the coolness of my mother and the wantonness of Bess’s actions. All I know is I am in the arms of the one person I have trusted to love me without reserve— my Bess. I cannot fault her for anything now, nor can I blame my father for loving her. My sense of right and wrong has been thwarted. I do not know what game I have been thrust into. I have yet to ascertain the character of the players.

I only know that I am one of them. My mother’s words ring in my ears. Self-preservation, Mary …

With effort I extract myself from Bess’s embrace and know that as I leave her I am leaving all vestiges of childhood behind me.

Chapter 3

Farewell to Kenninghall

I ride away with my father’s armed retinue, watching my childhood home become a small black speck on the horizon. Mother rides in a covered litter with the curtains drawn. I asked to sit beside her but was refused, as she prefers her privacy.

“Soon you will not see it at all,” Norfolk says in reference to Kenninghall as he sidles up beside me. He looks formidable on his black charger, though in lieu of armor he wears the fine furs and velvets of a much-favored courtier. The heavy cloak envelops his slight personage and he appears more solid. He holds the reigns with one slim-fingered hand while the other rests on the hilt of his sword.

“Stop looking back,” he tells me. “Howards do not ever look back; we press onward. No matter the circumstances. Onward.” He gestures for me to look ahead and I do, taking in the fields that surround us; they are barren and gray. Winter is pondering its arrival. It teases us with a scattering of snowflakes now and then. I shiver. I wish we were traveling in the spring when the landscape has more to offer.

So far what is ahead looks bleak. I am at once clutched in anxiety’s sadistic fist. What if I do not fit in at court? What if no one likes me? Kenninghall may not have been an exciting place, but along with Tendring and Hunsdon—my other childhood homes— it was familiar. I had my lessons. I played with my brother and Bess. Now I am plunging into a life alien to me. My father is foreign to me. I have only seen him a handful of times. I want to impress him; I want him to be proud of me. Yet he frightens me. His brutality toward Mother, his tenderness toward Bess … I cover my mouth to stifle a sob.

“Are you ill, Mary?” Norfolk asks.

“No, my lord,” I say quickly. I avert my head. I do not want him to see my tears.

“You have not been made accustomed to long rides,” he comments. “You must be tired. Come.” In one effortless movement he leans down and scoops me right off my saddle, setting me in front of him. I stiffen, unsure of how to conduct myself. He is my father, but he is also the intimidating soldier-duke. He is the man who beat my mother and made love to my maid in the same afternoon. But he is also the man we are taught to worship and long for.

I lean back, giving in to the need to rest against something. His chest is warm; I feel his beating heart against my back. I look down at his hand, a hand of such perfection it could have been the model for a statue, with its strong tapering fingers and subtle blue veins snaking like rivers beneath his tanned skin. It is the hand of a scholar and soldier. The thought sobers me. This hand is capable of much cruelty.

Now it rests about my waist, quite nonthreatening. In a moment forged out of the desperate need for reassurance, I reach out and take it in my own.

“I am so glad to be with you, Father,” I tell him, and in that moment I am filled with the utmost sincerity.

He pauses. “I have been shown your embroidery. Quite fine,” he says. “And I am told you have a nice ear for the virginals and dance prettily. At court you shall learn all the new dances. It is vital that you study all the womanly arts, Mary. It is also important to keep up with your education. It pleases me to learn that you are a good reader and know your letters.”

“In English and Latin, sir,” I brag, trying to mask my hurt that he has not yet told me he is glad to be in my company. Perhaps, because he is first a soldier, he does not know how to return a compliment.

“The most important thing to remember, Mary, is to keep your cousin Anne happy. Serve her, please her, whatever she wants. She is favored by the king and our family’s hopes lie with her,” he goes on to advise. “But as high as Anne is raised, never forget who the head of this family is. Never forget who your first allegiance is with; that it is your goodly and Christian duty to obey your father always. Swear to me, Mary. Swear to me your obedience and fidelity in all things.”

“I swear,” I say, unnerved by the intensity of his tone.

“Good,” he says. “Very good.”

He squeezes my hand.

I shall be everything he wants, I think to myself. I shall work very hard so that someday he will look at me and say Mary, I am so glad to be with you.

Chapter 4

London!

How is it I, little Mary Howard, can be so fortunate as to enter this fairest of cities? My heart is swollen with joy as I behold all the sights and smells of this magical place. It is so very big! Tears sting my eyes as I behold beggars on the street, but my eyes are filled with as much excitement as compassion when they are drawn to the fine ladies and gentlemen that stroll the market, many of whom I have been assured are mere servants from the palace. If the servants are garbed in such finery, then how must it be for the true set!

Most of the streets are dirt but some are cobbled, and I love the sound of our horses’ hooves as they strike against them. I ride my own pony now, sitting straight and proud. Some of the fishwives and other ladies of the market shout blessings out to me and I imagine that this is how the Princess Mary must feel when she travels about in the open.

I firmly believe that God chose England as the spot to place His most beautiful river, the Thames. In its shimmering waters float barges and little rowboats. I squirm in delight, longing to be a part of it. Ahead I can see London Bridge and the approaching Tower, where all the fair kings and queens stay upon their coronations.

“It’s not all a tale from faeries’ lips,” one of Norfolk’s pages tells me. He is young; not much older than my brother Henry. I estimate him to be about fourteen. “See that river? Every day they pull hundreds of bodies out of it. And the pretty Tower? Below it are some of the most gruesome dungeons ever constructed. They torture people on the rack and—”

“Enough!” I cry, urging my pony forward. I refuse to think of anything unpleasant as I make my debut into London.

But somehow the day is a little less sunny, the river a little less sparkly.

And the Tower is a lot darker.

Westminster is a bustling palace! There are people everywhere. Up and down the halls rush servants and heads of state, foreign dignitaries, and courtiers more beautiful in person than I could ever have imagined. As we walk down the halls, I note that my father is greeted with a mixture of aloofness and what I would call sugared kindness. He greets them all the same; with no expression and a grunt of acknowledgment.

I have to refrain from skipping. Norfolk walks with a brusque, determined step and I am all but running to keep up as it is. My face aches from smiling as I take in all the beauty around me.

“Don’t be a fool, Mary,” Norfolk says sotto voce when he catches my expression of bewildered joy. “You haven’t just stepped out of a stable. Behave as though you’re accustomed to some level of refinement.”

I sober immediately, swallowing tears. He is right, I remind myself. I must do the family proud. It would not do my father much credit to appear ignorant before the court.

As we walk we encounter an older woman accompanied by a small entourage of ladies. She wears a somber blue gown and a long mantilla over her graying auburn hair. Her blue eyes are soft and distant. She clutches a rosary in her thin hand and every step she takes seems laden with weariness.

My father sweeps into a low, graceful bow. “Your Grace,” he says in a gentle voice.

I sink into a deep curtsy before Queen Catherine of Aragon.

“Returned from your business?” the queen asks. Her voice is low and sweet—motherly. I imagine it would be very nice to sit at her feet while she reads.

“Yes,” Norfolk answers. His face is wrought with tenderness. His hand twitches at his side. He wants to reach out to her, I deduce.

“Who is this little creature?” she asks, and a wistful smile plays upon her thin lips.

She lifts my chin with two velvet fingertips. I manage to lower my eyes in respect.

“May I present my daughter, Mary,” Norfolk answers.

“Ah, so you have brought another Howard girl to court,” she tells my father. She removes her hand from my chin. “To ensure we do not run out?”

Norfolk does not answer.

The queen emits a small, mirthless laugh. “I must attend Mass now. Do you and your little girl wish to accompany me, my lord duke?” She does not wait for him to respond. “No, I suppose not. Attending Mass with the queen has grown quite out of fashion of late, I think.”

She moves on and my mother joins her small assemblage of ladies. Norfolk bows, holding the position until she has long since passed.

When he rights himself his eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

I avert my head, realizing with a pang that while my father is avowed to Mother and enthralled with Bess, it is Queen Catherine of Aragon he respects.

It is an esteem I, too, hope to earn.

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.

Chapter 6

The King’s Great Matter

I awaken, forcing heavy lids open to find that I am not in the maidens’ chamber. I am in a great four-poster bed with a soft feather mattress that smells of lavender. There is naught but a single candle to illuminate the room. My body aches. I cannot will myself to move.

Someone in nightclothes and bare feet is kneeling by a priedieu, shoulders shaking.

I drift back into dreamless sleep. At intervals my eyes flutter open to find the figure still there, like a wraith, back turned to me, head bent in prayer. I do not know how long it is like this. Sometimes I think I hear muffled voices. Other times I feel a cool cloth swabbing my forehead.

Strength ebbs back into me, reluctant and sluggish in my veins. I open my eyes to see the figure by the prie-dieu rising. He turns. Norfolk. I do not know if my shock registers on my face; though my father is one of the most professed Catholics at court, I did not know he really prayed much except at Mass.

“So,” he says, striding toward the bed and sitting beside me. “You’ve decided to join us.”

I nod. I wish he didn’t know I am awake. I should like to watch him pray for me more, now that I realize it is him.

“Good,” he says in clipped tones. “There have been many goings-on since you’ve been on your little holiday. I have plans for you.”

My face falls.

He reaches out as though to touch my face, then seems to think better of it and withdraws his hand. Perhaps he is afraid of contracting whatever it is I have.

It is not the plague, something that would have sent king and court into such panic that they would have retreated immediately to one of the country palaces. It is a fever; some indistinguishable imbalance of the humors that the physicians assured would resolve itself with rest.

“This is quite an active life for a child as young as she,” one physician ventures. “Likely it was spurred by exhaustion.”

My father says nothing and the man is dismissed. We are alone. I am sitting up now, taking in broth and bread with trembling hands.

“We are returning to Kenninghall,” he says. “You will rest there while I take care of some business.”

My disappointment is writ on my face, for he adds, “Look sharp, girl. We will return directly.”

I do not want to tell him of the heaviness in both stomach and heart at the thought of him, my mother, and Bess Holland under the same roof again. Perhaps if I play sick enough they will be too preoccupied with me to cause much grief.

I ride in a litter to Kenninghall this time, as my health is still too fragile to sit a horse. As we depart London I draw the curtains around me. To leave the bustling court for the dark, mournful halls of home is disheartening. I wonder why Father is taking me at all. I could have been left behind in his spacious apartments to recover under the watchful care of his staff. He must have his reasons; after all, he did say he had plans for me.

At the sight of my childhood home I am stirred by a surge of strength and leap out of the litter, running into the great hall. All homesickness for court has dissipated and I can think of nothing but Bess. I want to run into her arms and tell her all I have seen and done these past two years.

I know I must refrain from such displays, however. I must not offend my lady mother.

She stands in the hall, small and square shouldered, to greet Norfolk. Her dress is a somber black velvet with a matching gable hood. A few stray curls have escaped the hood to frame her face. Again I can’t help but think of how becoming she would be if she were happy.

“Back so soon, my lord?” she asks in her low, ironic tone.

Norfolk sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “My lady,” he says.

“Trust I would have postponed the ordeal indefinitely had I my druthers. However, given your last letter, I was compelled to rush to your side.” His voice is riddled with sarcasm.

Mother scowls. “To what purpose?”

“Let us call it persuasion.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a suggestion of a smile, a smile without love or joy or kindness. I shudder.

She closes her eyes, looking inward to draw from some deep strength of will, as though readying herself for a great battle. She expels a heavy sigh. “Let us sup first.”

No one argues. Far better to go to war on a full belly.

We are ravenous and Mother laid out a good table. From silver plates we eat an assortment of mutton, capons, venison, hare, all in rich, delicious sauces. There are sugared fruits for dessert, cheese and bread, and delicious mulled wine.

“You’re looking thin, Mary,” Mother tells me.

We have not laid eyes upon each other for a year. I suppose I was hoping for some kind of change during that time, that perhaps her longing for me would inspire her to embrace me. It must be much easier asking a girl of my age to change, rather than a middle-aged woman. I decide to accept the observation as a show of her concern.

“I’ve been ill, my lady,” I inform her.

She sips her wine. “No contagion, I hope.”

I shake my head. “No, my lady. Just a fever. I was overtired.” I offer a bright smile. “I’m much better now and eating such a lovely supper restores me mightily.”

My father is growing impatient with the nonsensical chatter. I can tell by the way he grinds his teeth on the left side. He stares at his plate, disinterested.

“You are attending Anne’s elevation to the peerage,” he says in a quiet voice.

My eyes grow wide. Anne is being elevated to the peerage? Anne, a subject humbly born, with no royal blood surging through her delicate blue veins?

“If you think that I am going to lower myself to serve that whore, you are sorely mistaken.” My mother’s voice is also quiet but bears a bitter edge. She wipes her mouth. “I will not go anywhere near the slut. Unlike some, I stand firm in my loyalties. I do not compromise my principles for sake of pride.”

Norfolk draws in a breath. “You are going. You will carry her train like a good aunt. She is to be Marquess of Pembroke. Marquess, Elizabeth! Do you realize what that means? Ladies are made marchionesses at best. A marquess is a man’s title. There is only one reason she is being ennobled: to elevate her to royalty so that she may be made presentable to Europe as the king’s chosen bride.”

“The king already chose a bride,” Mother reminds him. “He has a bride and an heir.”

“I should not have to condescend to explain to you that it would mean civil war putting Mary on the throne. She is a woman. No woman is fit to rule England alone, and the Tudors’ hold on the throne is too weak for her to keep it by herself.” Norfolk shakes his head, exasperated.

I am trying not to look. I bow my head but observe through my lashes, hoping no one sees me, like at court.

“Codswollop,” says Mother. “He has Fitzroy if he wants an heir. He even has Henry Carey if he wanted to get a little desperate. Nothing is preventing him from naming either of them. And for merit he could acknowledge Catherine Carey and God knows whatever other bastards are out there.”

She has him.

“Even now an act is being considered to name Fitzroy heir, should Henry not bear any more in the future,” Norfolk tells her.

“Good. Then there’s no need of Anne,” says Mother as though it is all decided. She breaks off a piece of bread and begins to nibble on it.

“There is need of her as long as he says there is,” Norfolk says, his voice firm. I stiffen at the tone. “You still do not seem to grasp how this affects us, how this will elevate us.”

“I am a duchess!” Mother cries. “I don’t aspire for more!” Her eyes shine bright blue with loathing as she regards Norfolk. “When I became Catherine’s lady-in-waiting all those years ago, I pledged her my loyalty. She has it still.”

“And a lot of good it’s done you,” Norfolk interposes. “Your ‘loyalty’ earned you banishment and nothing more. You are not remembered with favor by anyone and you certainly are not missed. Yet you will not take the opportunity to redeem yourself with the new regime.”

“Pah! ‘New regime’! Really, I haven’t been so amused in weeks.” At once her countenance turns stony. “I tell you, Thomas Howard, I will not go. See how the court finds you when they see you dragging me, screaming obscenities and biting your wrists, at Anne’s ceremony. See how dignified you’ll look then.” She sits straight in her chair, her gaze unwavering. “I will not go.”

Norfolk turns to me. “Leave this room,” he orders.

I do not hesitate. I run from the parlor, tears filling my eyes. I admit I am as much disappointed in missing my delicious supper as I am in my parents’ relations. This time I do not stay to eavesdrop. I run, the sound of clattering plates and trays following me all the way to the nursery. I am hoping that what is occurring in my imagination is worse than what transpires between them now.

Bess is awaiting me there. She is as beautiful as when I left her, perhaps a little fuller of figure, but it compliments her. Her long flaxen curls fall about her shoulders uncovered, as if she were a young maiden.

“I set myself to work as soon as I heard you were coming,” she says as I run in. Her smile is broad as she opens her arms.

I fall into them, unable to control my sobs. I cry for my parents, for myself, for Queen Catherine, for things I do not understand.

“No tears, lamb,” she coos. “Let’s celebrate your homecoming!”

“But my mother and father …” I whimper against her skirts. “They—”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You mustn’t worry your pretty head about them. They take care of themselves.”

“But why must they always be at odds?” I cry, pulling away.

Bess averts her head and I regret the question, knowing I have inadvertently put her to shame. I embrace her once more.

“Are you still hungry, my lady?” she asks then. My stomach growls loudly in response and I giggle. “We’ll send for some food from the kitchens and then you will tell me everything,” she says in a cheery voice as she takes my hands, drawing me to the settee. “Tell me of Lady Anne and the king and how all the ladies dress. Tell me of the food and the jousts and masques.”

I am all smiles, thrilled to be the center of attention and purveyor of knowledge. The food arrives—plates of cold meat, cheese, bread, and a decanter of wine. I invite Bess to share with me but she declines.

“It wouldn’t be proper, dining with my lady,” she informs me.

“Nonsense,” I say. “You’re too humble, as though you forget you’re gentry yourself. Dine with me, my Bess. You have been working so hard to make my home nice for me. You deserve fine food.”

Bess smiles and takes some mutton. She chews with enthusiasm, licking her fingers soundly.

As I enjoy my supper I tell her about all the new colors that Anne has set herself to naming, the gowns she designs, the voluminous sleeves and glamorous French hoods. I brag about the food, tell her that to dine at the court of King Henry is tantamount to eating in Heaven itself. I describe the grandeur of the jousts and elegance of the masques. She is riveted, stopping me now and again to ask a question or make a comment.

“Do you have friends, Lady Mary?” she asks me. “Do you get along well with the girls? They are kind to you?”

I am so touched by her concern my throat swells with tears. “Yes, for the most part they are kind. My cousin Anne can be … difficult at times.” I laugh as I think of her. “But as strange as she is, I can see why the king is so taken with her. She is full of fire and life. She’s very smart, much smarter than I could ever be. She talks like a scholar and argues about religion and politics like a man. She appreciates art and beauty and music. I think we shall have a most learned and cultivated court under her rule.”

“You think it will happen, then?” Bess asks.

I nod. “It is almost a certainty. She is being elevated to the peer-age.”

Bess’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth with her hand as though stifling a gasp.

“She is to be Marquess of Pembroke,” I go on to say. “It is unprecedented.”

“Then I suppose everyone will be happy—at least the king and Lady Anne and His Grace your father,” Bess comments.

“They will be indeed,” I say, but my voice is void of the triumph I should feel for my family. “Still, I worry about the people’s response to her. They have been so cruel.” I relay the incident on the barge and the jeering cry, “ ‘We want no Nan Bullen.’ ”

Bess says nothing and I realize I have again made her uncomfortable in her position.

I squeeze her hands and continue. “Imagine how it must be for them,” I say. “Anne and the king can’t control their love for one another. I know a lot of people have been hurt.” I think of the Princess Mary and Queen Catherine. I think of poor, dead Cardinal Wolsey. I think of Thomas More, who I have heard, was at last allowed to resign his post as lord chancellor, to be replaced by Thomas Audley. How my father lamented over that appointment! He claimed chest pains, but all knew he was wrestling with his religious convictions and the rightness of King Henry’s increasing denial of papal authority. “But I wonder, had they a real choice in the matter, would they have stayed this course? The king is a victim of his passions—he has very little self-control. And Anne— well, she must love him, too. I can’t imagine all the trouble they have gone to being for nothing. It must be due to their great love.”

Bess looks at me, her liquid brown eyes filled with an emotion akin to pity. She reaches out, cupping my cheek in her hand.

“You are a good girl, Mary,” she tells me. “Stay that way.”

I nod with a small smile. At once our heads turn toward the door as we hear footfalls approaching.

“It is His Grace,” says Bess. Her tone registers something between panic and anticipation; her eyes reflect both fear and expectation. She rises. “I must go, my lady.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you more on the morrow, Bess,” I tell her.

She throws me a kiss and exits. I hear her and my father exchange a few words outside my door.

“Damn stubborn woman is what she is,” Norfolk is saying. “We will see if tonight’s exertions have brought about a change of heart.”

Bess says nothing. I realize I am not breathing. I wonder what he meant by “tonight’s exertions.” Part of me wants to run to my mother to check on her welfare, but I daren’t.

“Come, now, Mistress Holland,” Norfolk says in a tone I never hear used; it is almost solicitous. Almost loving. “Let us to bed.”

My heart sinks. I do not want to hear that.

I return to my lavish supper set on my little table. My room is so spacious, the furniture and tapestries so vibrant with beauty.

But I am alone and do not appreciate the food anymore, nor the surroundings. I take to my bed, escaping my loneliness the only way I know how, through sleep.

In the morning I am summoned to Mother’s chambers. I make certain to appear neat and proper, my hair brushed, my hood straight, my face and hands clean. I enter her rooms hoping we might break our fast together, but am surprised to find her propped up in bed. I have never seen my mother in her nightdress before—when I was little I believed she was born clothed. Yet now she is clad in a simple ivory nightgown with ruffles at the neck and wrists, appearing childlike in her large four-poster.

I curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

She nods in greeting, regarding me with a stern countenance. With a thin hand she beckons me toward her. As I approach I note that her eyes are surrounded by puffy purple shadows. Looking closer, I realize they are not shadows but bruises. My heart begins to pound as I realize what last night’s “exertions” must have been for her.

“You are growing up at this court of Henry VIII,” she says.

“Yes, my lady,” I answer.

“You are attractive enough.” She reaches up to tuck a curl that strayed from her ruffled night cap behind her ear. As her sleeve slips down her arm I see her thin wrist is also encircled with dark bruises, imprints of my father’s fingers.

“Thank you, my lady,” I say, trying to fight off tears as I regard her condition. What else did he do to her?

“Things are happening,” she says. “Great changes, as well you know. Many will be asked to compromise their beliefs, abandon their principles. Whatever you hold sacred, Mary, whatever you believe in your heart, keep it there. Keep your own counsel. Tell them what they want to hear, believe what they want you to believe, and keep your opinions to yourself. Do you understand?”

I nod, frightened.

To my surprise tears fill her eyes. “It is too late for me.” She shrugs, bringing one thin finger to tap her chin in a nervous gesture. “I cannot stray from my convictions. If you had known Her Majesty …” She shakes her head. “She inspires devotion. But devotion is becoming rather passé in this day and age.” She sighs. “Yet I remain so at great expense. It does not matter. I must cling to something.”

I reach out and take her hand. “You have me, my lady. Always.”

At this a tear spills onto her fair cheek. Frustrated, she shakes her head and wipes it away. “No. I never had any of my children. Perhaps that is where peasants are most fortunate. They keep their children; ours are sent away as chattel to be bartered for political gain. But such is our lot, I suppose. No, I do not have you, Mary. Not now, not ever.”

I blink away tears at the reality of the thought. I recall my father’s words about the advantaged, how sentiment cannot be considered if one wishes to keep one’s position. I begin to wonder if any position, no matter how exalted, is worth such emotional sacrifice.

“I’m so sorry about Catherine,” I tell her. “Both Catherines. My sister and Her Majesty.”

Mother averts her eyes.

“I met Her Majesty. She was most kind to me,” I say. “Oh, my lady, if only things were different.”

“Don’t waste time wishing for things you can never have.” Her voice is firm. “Life is short enough as it is. Not one moment should be spent in regret.” She covers her face with her hands an instant before going on. When she pulls them away she clenches them in impatience. “You will carry your cousin the whore’s train at her ceremony. I will not be attending.”

“But, my lady, what of Father?” I begin to tremble. “What will he ...?”

“What can he do to me?” she finishes. “Nothing. There is nothing he can say or do to break me, Mary. See this?” With effort she rises from the bed, pulling up her nightdress. I am ashamed at her nakedness; I almost turn but cannot. I am riveted by the bruises that mark her slim frame. She drops the gown, covering herself once more. “It is just a body, a shell. It means nothing to me. He can do as he pleases to it—but all is transient, temporary. I will suffer as God wills it and look forward to the freedom Heaven will surely afford me.”

“My lady!” I cry in despair. I want to embrace her, but am afraid of hurting her. There are so many bruises. Never have I seen such blatant cruelty. I begin to cry.

“Don’t cry for me, Mary,” Mother says, settling under the covers once more. “Cry for yourself, for the lot we must suffer as women, as God’s cursed creatures.”

“Surely we aren’t cursed,” I say. “God does love us, doesn’t He?”

Mother purses her lips. Her eyes are dry. “He tolerates us because we serve a purpose—rather like your father,” she adds with a sound that could be called a laugh.

This makes me want to wail in despair, but I refrain, drying my eyes in the attempt to achieve a semblance of dignity. If God tolerates us, that means He doesn’t have to like us. It means we are just short of a mistake in His eyes. Oh, that can’t be … that can’t be. Mother’s bitterness over her own pitiful lot has caused this view toward God. Doesn’t Her Majesty, the most devout woman in Christendom, see God as a loving benefactor of mercy? If she can harbor such regard for the Lord then so must I, for she is as justified in her sufferings as my mother.

We return to court and I am filled with relief. As soon as I am able, I escape Norfolk and return to the maidens’ chamber. Everyone is in a frenzy of gossip. Trunks are being packed, servants are running everywhere.

No one notices I have returned; indeed, they may not have realized I was ever gone. For a moment I stand a silent observer until Madge Shelton approaches me, taking my hand.

“I thought you had abandoned us,” she says in her light voice. “Are you well?” Her eyes are lit with genuine concern.

I nod. “Much better, thank you.”

She beams. “Are you excited about France?”

“France?”

She regards me as though I had emerged from the tomb. “Of course, France! We are going to accompany the king and Anne after her elevation to the peerage, to meet the king of France and his dazzlingly naughty court!”

“Madge!” I cry in delighted anticipation. “No one told me! When do we go?”

“October,” she said. “So you best pick your gowns out now. We are. Oh, I can’t wait! Mistress Anne is in a huff. She is determined to be accepted by King François—I think she feels that if he openly embraces her she’ll be—”

“Validated?”

We turn at the cool voice. It is Anne herself, regarding us with furrowed black brows and narrowed eyes. “Gossiping about me, Mary Howard, and you have not yet condescended to greet me?”

I curtsy. “My profound apologies, Mistress Anne. I am so happy to see you.”

“Ha!” Anne waves me off with a hand and sits on my bed. “I suppose it’s true enough.” Whether she refers to needing validation or my happiness in her presence, I am unsure. Her face softens. “I have to be accepted in Europe—they must realize I am meant to be queen of England. Once they see me with His Majesty, once they come to know my mind, there will no longer be any doubt which woman is most fit to be by King Henry’s side.”

I say nothing. Something about Anne frightens me. Her eyes glow with a light akin to madness. She is fidgety, unsure of what to do with her hands. Her laugh is painful; forced and edgy. Joyless. I realize as I regard her that I am looking at a nervous wreck.

“So, little Mary is carrying my robes of state,” she says, her eyes fixing on mine. “Such a little thing you are. You had better not trip and make a fool of yourself.” With this she rises and ruffles my hair. “Glad to have you back,” she says as she exits to a flock of curtsying ladies.

My cheeks burn but I do not cry. I imagine she must be under so much pressure. It would be hard to be nice all the time.

My father is also quite direct in his instruction.

“Do anything stupid and childish and I will make certain you are sent to Scotland to marry a barbarian,” he tells me.

I stifle a gasp of fear. Somewhere inside I know this could be his form of jesting, but as I recall my mother’s bruises I decide it may be an error in judgment to laugh.

“You will stand straight, like this.” He rises from the chair behind his desk and grabs my shoulders, pushing them back as he straightens my posture, something I admit is one of my less attractive attributes. As I am usually hunched over a book or my writing, slouching has become habitual. Norfolk places his left palm on the small of my back and his right on my abdomen. “When you stand straight you draw your stomach inward toward your spine.” He stands back to regard me. “And head up.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers. “Proud, like a Howard girl should be. You belong to the greatest family in England. Act like it. My God, girl, who taught you to stand?” He scowls. “Now walk.”

“Walk, Father?”

“You aren’t deaf, are you?” he asks, as though this would be the ultimate inconvenience to him. “Yes, walk the length of this room, to the door, then back to me.”

I do so, shaky and self-conscious.

“Where did you learn that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer—to my good fortune, as I had none that would please him, since the only person I ever tried emulating in gait was Bess Holland. “Take slow, measured steps, toes pointed straight ahead of you. You want to glide, you want to float. You aren’t off laboring in the fields. You are a lady. Now. Walk.”

I walk, trying to emulate as he envisaged, but he stops me.

“Apparently you do have some sort of hearing issue,” he tells me. “Do it again, and this time do it right.”

I try again. Again he stops me. “Mary, would you like to be replaced? Is this role too much for you? Perhaps Jane Parker would be happy to—”

“No!” I cry, daring to interrupt him as I envision my sour-faced cousin Jane, wife of cheerful George Boleyn, taking my rightful place in the ceremony. “No, please. It is an honor to carry my lady’s robes. Please don’t take it away from me.”

“If the honor is denied you, it is no fault of mine,” Norfolk says. “Now. Walk. One hundred times back and forth, from me to the door. A thousand if need be. You will walk until you walk like the lady I am raising you to be.”

So I walk. I walk and walk. The sun sets. The night drags on. The sun rises. My legs are heavy and my feet ache.

“Stop,” he says. “That is passable.”

I cease walking and stand, numb.

“Now about your hair,” he says. “It’s one thing to wear it down your back if you take care of it, but if it continues appearing as though you’ve stood the length of a windstorm, I will not allow you to wear it unbound. Who brushes your hair?”

“No one, really,” I say. “Sometimes we brush each other’s hair or a servant will, but everyone is so busy—”

“Come here,” he says, sitting behind his desk once more. I realize for the first time that he has been standing the entire night as well. I wish he would offer me a chair. He doesn’t. He calls for a brush with hard bristles. Once it is produced, he gestures for me to come to him, then removes my hood and turns me around. With hard, relentless strokes he brushes through my thick golden hair, pausing to detangle snarls without care of the fact that I feel my scalp is being torn from my skull.

“This is a mess,” he says, using his fingers to detangle some of the snarls. “You are not the comeliest creature—take pride in your redeeming features.” When he can’t detangle certain stubborn snarls, he pulls at them so hard that they come out in clumps that he drops to the floor beside me. My scalp aches. Each hair seems to have its own individual complaint.

At last—between the pain in my legs, feet, and head—I begin to cry.

“Stop it this instant,” he commands. Immediately it is as though some force has pulled my tears inward, sucking them inside my eyes. My head feels full. My body feels full, full of tears and anguish I dare not expose.

The ordeal takes an hour. When he is finished he puts down the brush and smoothes my hair with his hands. “It glows with a fire from within.” He turns me around to face him. “When you come tonight we shall do it again.”

“Which part?” I ask, dread pooling in my gut.

“All of it,” he says. “You should be flattered that I condescend to such matters, but as no one else seems to be able to fill the capacity, including yourself, I shall have to. I can’t abide you running about court like a peasant.”

“I am … most humbled and grateful, sir,” I tell him, longing to douse my head in hot water to assuage the pain.

“You are dismissed.”

I curtsy and quit the room, knowing that with the demands of the day I will have no opportunity for rest, and praying he will not keep me up the entire night again.

There must be some way to find peace.

As I trudge toward Anne’s apartments I hear someone whisper my name. At first I think my overtiredness is causing delusions, but when it persists I turn my head to find the musician Cedric Dane peering out from a doorway.

“Good morrow, Mistress Howard,” he says with a smile. “How are you?”

My heart is racing. I pray my cheeks are not flushed. “Master Dane, a pleasure to see you. I am well, thank you.”

“Can you spare a moment?” he asks.

I know I should attend Anne, but my feet remain rooted in place. I wrestle with my conscience but a moment, before following Cedric into a chamber where there are many various instruments: virginals, a lute, a harp.

“We practice here,” Cedric tells me. “At least it resembles practice.” He sits behind the virginals and begins playing effortlessly, a haunting melody that calls to mind lost love and distant dreams.

“It’s lovely,” I tell him. “Is it your own?”

“Yes.” I admire how he does not have to look at the keys. That is something I am working on as yet. He regards me with a carefree smile. His eyes, those strange, violet-tinged eyes, sparkle. I feel a bubble of laughter catch in my chest.

“It needs a bit of work, though,” he says. “I haven’t any words to it yet. Tell me what you envision when you hear it.”

I close my eyes, allowing the melody to envelop me. “The sea. Rolling waves, a calm blue sky … a ship … it is a lovely scene but sort of melancholy. It is good-bye. A man has left his maid …” I bow my head and know from the heat of my face I am flushing furiously.

“Why did you stop?” Cedric asks.

I avert my head, unable to meet his eyes. “Mayhap it is a little … I’m not sure …”

“Mistress Howard, please. Continue,” he urges.

I raise my eyes to him to find his head is bowed toward the keys. His eyes are closed and he weaves subtly in time with the tune. He is a musician in complete harmony with his song.

“I—I see the maiden. She stands alone on shore, bidding her lover good-bye.” I swallow. I am caught up in my scene. “Somehow she knows his voyage is perilous. She will not see him again.”

“Tragic,” says Cedric. “But beautiful, as tragic love tends to be. Leaves you blissfully unsatisfied, yet somehow there is a perverse pleasure in the agony of it all.”

I never thought of it like that. Perhaps I have witnessed too much agony to find it pleasurable. Or I have not witnessed the right kind.

“Will you sing for me, Mistress Howard?” he asks. “Put verse to your story. Breathe life into my song.”

“I can’t—”

“Come now.” He chuckles. “You’re not afraid.”

“Yes,” I admit. “My voice might grate on you.”

“It might,” he says. “But I promise I will tell you.”

I giggle. “I am not good at verse on the spot.”

“Not many people are, save your brother, I hear.”

“Henry?” I arch an eyebrow.

“I had the privilege of keeping company with him and the Duke of Richmond of late. Your Lord Surrey is a wonderful poet— a hot-tempered boy, but a gifted writer with a great deal of heart,” he tells me.

“Boy!” I cry.

“He’s no older than you!”

“He’s a boy,” he says.

“And you’re not?” I tease.

“That’s for you to learn.”

“Master Dane!” I cry, scandalized.

“Forgive me, Mistress Howard,” he says. “I grow too comfortable in your charming company.” He clears his throat and continues playing. “Now. Do enlighten me with a few verses.”

I pause a long while, allowing images and words to whirl in my mind and take form. It is a creation in itself, writing verse, and I envisage the Psalmists feeling a similar exuberance when composing God’s Word. I am tingling with inspiration. Slowly but in a clear, low voice, I begin.

“O happy dames … that may embrace the fruit of your delight.” Tears fill my eyes. “Help to bewail the woeful case and eke the heavy plight …” I take in a breath. “Of me, that wonted to rejoice the fortune of my pleasant choice: good ladies! Help to fill my mourning voice …”

I trail off, unable to continue. Cedric stops playing. He is staring at me.

“Where did that come from?”

Embarrassed, I avoid his eyes. “I—I don’t know.”

He rises, approaching me. “You are more gifted than I could ever have imagined. You compose from your innermost being, from your soul, your heart … You are an artist.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “Tell me you will write that down and finish it for me.”

I nod.

He sits on the bench once more. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the vacant space so near to him. I sit. I have never been so close to a man outside of my family before. His presence, his warmth cause me to shiver all over. Gooseflesh dots my arms and I’m grateful my sleeves cover it.

“Your voice is beautiful, fraught with emotion.” At my dubious expression, he goes on. “It is not mere flattery, Mistress Howard. I don’t waste my time with empty obsequiousness. I leave that to the courtiers,” he adds with a wink.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Thank you.” He nods toward the keyboard. “Will you play for me as well?”

I place my hands on the smooth keys. They are at home here. I close my eyes. I find I cannot do anything but his bidding. I want to elongate this moment forever. I begin to play one of my own compositions. Unlike his bittersweet melody, mine is violent and dark, with a heavy bass hand and strong minor chords. As I play, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. When I finish I stare at my stilled hands. Blue veins are raised against the fair skin like a surging network of rivers from my efforts. My breathing comes quick and shallow.

Cedric is silent. “You have a talent.” He pauses as though considering. “Where does all that darkness and passion come from? I should think a girl your age would be composing light, frilly little songs.”

I bow my head. I cannot say where it comes from, only that it emerges from some depth of my soul and cannot be ignored. When my fingers touch the keyboard they are commanded by something else, something illogical and not of this world.

I say nothing. I cannot speak past my emotion.

He seems to perceive this so clears his throat, changing the subject. “Are you—are you excited about Mistress Anne’s elevation ceremony?”

I nod, relieved. “I am carrying her robes,” I say with pride.

“Quite an honor,” he says. “Your family is steeped in honors, I think.”

“Yes,” I agree, then realize I should take offense. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Such is the way with the king’s favorites. The blessings spill over. I’m certain Mistress Anne isn’t the only one benefiting from her match.”

I rise from the bench. “You mean my father?” I cry. “Every honor that is bestowed upon him is earned. He is a man to be feared by all—”

“Odd that should be the attribute you mention first,” Cedric observes in soft tones. He arches a well-defined black brow. “Do you fear him, Mistress Howard?”

My words catch in my throat. I see my bruised mother. I feel the pain in my scalp. I recall the humiliation of being made to wipe my puppy’s mess with my red velvet wrap. I blink back tears. “I fear him as I fear God,” I say at last. “It is a fear born of respect for his greatness.”

“Greatness.” Cedric regards me with eyes that belong to a man much older than himself. “Can greatness be born of bloodshed and suffering, from manipulation and cruelty?”

“You go too far, Master Dane,” I tell him, my heart sinking at knowing our moment of beauty has fled.

“Forgive me. I get caught up in debate for the spirit of it,” he tells me. “I mean no offense against the great Lord Norfolk. I am certain he is a most loving and attentive father who will think of nothing but your happiness all of his days.”

“Of course,” I insist. “He always thinks of my happiness. He wants me to be a great lady. He is showing me how to walk… .” I cannot stop the tears from coming now. “If he didn’t love me, why would he lower himself to such things?”

“Indeed,” says Cedric. “God bless the man who instructs his thirteen-year-old daughter on how to walk.”

“Why are you being cruel?” I demand.

“Oh, little Mistress Howard,” he says, taking my hands. “I want you to know something, and please take it to heart. I am the least cruel person you will find at this court. The only words that leave my lips are honest ones. Mistress Howard,” he says in a voice so gentle it wrenches my heart. “Mary. Take care of yourself. Look after your own interests first for, believe me, no one else will.”

I withdraw my hands. “You forget yourself and my rank. You will neither address me informally nor lay hands on my person again,” I say haughtily as I turn about in a whirl of skirts and quit the room.

But his words haunt me as I make my way to Anne’s apartments. He is wrong, surely he is wrong. He is just an arrogant musician who is not nearly as mature as he thinks he is. He knows nothing of me or my father or my life.

He is wrong. I am well looked after. Norfolk does think of my best interests.

Norfolk does love me.

Chapter 7

The Marquess of Pembroke

Though my feet ache from practicing my walk, it is well worth it when at last the day of Anne’s elevation ceremony arrives. I vomited everything I ate that day, so decide against eating anything else, and Madge Shelton continually pinches my white cheeks to bring color to them.

“You mustn’t worry so,” she reassures me as we dress Anne for the event. “You’re going to do wonderfully.”

“You’d better,” Anne cries as ladies flutter about her in an effort to dress her. Nothing is good enough for Anne today, and the slightest thing causes her to unleash a string of curse words I did not think ladies even knew. No one can do anything right. Her corset is not tight enough. Her sleeves are not tied right. The velvet itches. The ermine smells. Her bum roll is lopsided. Any grievances that can be aired against both her gown and attendants, are; and it is no surprise to fall under her criticism.

“All I need is you falling with my robes,” she goes on in a sharp voice as her sister brushes out her long black hair. Despite her foul temper and the scowl that crinkles her forehead, she is the most alluring woman I’ve ever seen.

“I won’t, my lady,” I assure her. “I’ve been practicing.” Indeed, the last few times I was with Norfolk he piled a few cloaks in my arms so that I would adjust to the weight of the robes.

Anne scoffs and regards her reflection in the glass as the other ladies offer their admiration.

When my father comes to escort her and the procession to the king’s presence chamber, I cannot contain my trembling. This is the moment. This is what I have been practicing for.

I will be solemn and grand. I will do my lady and Norfolk proud. I carry the robes and the coronet to the presence chamber, following my lady with slow, measured steps.

Once there I behold the king in all his majesty beneath his canopy of cloth of gold. He radiates light and glory and power. This is a stunning personage and not one to be crossed. To think my cousin will soon be his wife. They will be a formidable couple. A sudden lightness in my heart tells me they will be a happy one as well.

I follow the standard-bearers, each carrying Anne’s symbol: the falcon, a creature as exacting as she is. My father follows them. The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, a cantankerous old buzzard with an ever-present scowl, is there offering begrudging support to his brother-in-law the king.

The countesses of Sussex and Rutland help Anne to kneel on the platform, and already I am eager for the ceremony to end. I am shaking, and fear my father will notice and begin rehearsing his lecture in his head even as we speak.

I endure all the prayers uttered by the king’s less-than-personable secretary, Bishop Gardiner. I am amazed the king has shown such mercy to Gardiner after his vociferous disapproval of the king’s becoming head of the Church of England, but sometimes he surprises me. Instead of burning him at the stake or some such horror, he merely confiscated his home, Hanworth, and made it another gift to Anne.

I wonder fleetingly how many other bold clerics might lose their homes to Henry and his bride before his reign is out, then chastise myself for the treasonous thought.

At last the king approaches me, taking the robes and coronet. I am relieved to hand them off. He meets my eyes with his own glittering blue gaze and offers a bright smile. I smile back. Perhaps that is his way of telling me I did a good job and he is proud of me.

He wraps the robes about my lady’s shoulders and, with the utmost loving care, places the coronet atop her dark head, creating her Marquess of Pembroke.

She stands beside her intended, glowing with pride and triumph. The air thrills with their happiness. The world seems full of hope and endless possibilities.

Chapter 8

France

When I think that Anne cannot be defeated and is at last allowed a moment of quiet to revel in her joy, something spoils it, causing her to be up in arms all over again. The very next day we are informed that the queen of France will not come to Calais or Boulogne to meet my lady. This is a blatant demonstration of the French queen’s disapproval of the match and the king’s break from the Church of Rome.

Anne breaks down in a moment of fury and calls the queen as many derogatory names as she can think of on short notice, but the much-favored Master Cromwell, ever calm, reassures her that King François’s sister, the queen of Navarre, will attend her instead, which does something to mollify Anne. Now she will at least be able to meet King François and make an impression upon him as future queen of England.

Later Anne decides that, though she is satisfied with the jewels she has planned for her trip, she would like to have in her possession Queen Catherine’s jewels as well.

I am saddened at this. I do not understand why she would want another woman’s jewels. But then she wanted another woman’s husband, so I suppose the jewels are the least of it now. Such un-charitable thoughts do not become me, I think, and vow to be more compassionate toward my lady, whom I imagine is under the highest level of anxiety.

When the king tells her my father will be sent to fetch the jewels from Catherine, Anne’s wild black eyes lose their glint of madness. She calms and, exhausted, sinks onto her chaise, demanding one of us to fan her. She is trembling and smiling, but tears fill her eyes.

I am starting to think it is not so great a thing to be Anne Boleyn.

It pains me to admit that the days my father is up north visiting the queen—I mean, the princess dowager—are my most peaceful. I pack my things for our trip to France. I break from the norm and write some frivolous verse, which I share with some of my friends who are writing their own. We decide we will make a little compilation of our work. I vow not to write anything in “O Happy Dames” for Cedric Dane. I will not write a thing for him ever. Indeed, I hope not to have any future run-ins with the presumptuous lad again.

My peace is short-lived, for Norfolk returns, somber and unsuccessful in his attempt. Her Highness said she would not relinquish her jewels without a direct order from King Henry.

“No matter what I told her, she would not hear,” he sighs. “Strange. Was a time not too long past when she heeded my advice. Yet she clings to these ideals that are foolish and false. She lives in another time, or a time that never existed at all. Damn romantic fool.” His face twists in a sort of agony. Is it the agony Cedric described to me that day—the agony a lover feels? “If she’d give in, her life and that of her daughter would be so much easier. Doesn’t she want peace? She tries to avoid bloodshed, yet by remaining so obstinate she will cause it just the same,” Norfolk grumbles that evening as I sit before him, giving an update.

“She loves him,” I venture.

He flinches. “It is a matter of pride for the both of them. Love doesn’t enter into it at all. It is about religion and power and being right. That’s all it’s ever about with anyone. When will you see that?” He removes his cap and runs his hand through his thick black hair. “She’s not only obstinate, she’s fanatical, a martyr. Nothing is more pathetic than a martyr, Mary. See to it you don’t become one.”

I nod, then bow my head. I don’t want to discuss poor Catherine with him, so try another course. I raise my head and offer my sweetest smile. “I’m so excited to go to France, my lord.”

“I suppose you are,” he says idly, then meets my gaze with his impenetrable black eyes. “I expect you to conduct yourself like a lady. I know how it gets when traveling. Don’t get caught up in any foolishness. You think just because you’re abroad your actions have no consequences here, but they do. You have a reputation to maintain and I won’t have it sullied by girlish fancies.”

“Yes, my lord,” I say in a small voice, shrinking in my chair.

He rises. I do the same. He has not removed his eyes from me and I shift, uncomfortable under the raptorlike gaze.

“You will be watched, Mary—don’t think you won’t. There is not one thing that happens at this court that escapes me.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. I tremble, wondering if he knows about the time I spent with Cedric Dane. At the thought of the musician my heart bounds in an involuntary leap. Norfolk applies such pressure to my shoulder; dots of light appear before my eyes. The pain drives out any thoughts I’d been indulging in. He continues. “If I learn of any unseemly behavior on your part I will beat you within an inch of your life. Do you understand?”

I begin to tremble. Tears fill my eyes. It is the first time Norfolk has threatened me with physical violence. I know it is within his rights to discipline me as he sees fit, but I am not eager for such a demonstration.

I reach out, daring to take the hand that squeezes my shoulder with such force. “My lord … Father.” I swallow hard. “Don’t you think I’m a good girl?”

He withdraws his hand. “That remains to be seen.” He nods toward the door. “Dismissed.”

I curtsy, choking down tears, wondering how I can prove my worth to this formidable man.

* * *

His Majesty didn’t waste any time with soft words and negotiations. He ordered from Catherine the very jewels he had bestowed upon her in the years he claimed she was his only love. Catherine relinquished them.

Anne’s black eyes shine with triumph. She unpacks the diadem inlaid with sapphires and diamonds, the necklaces and eardrops, running her fingers sensually over each item as though they were the flesh of a lover.

“See?” she cries over and over. “See what my king does for me whom he loves?” She tips back her head and laughs that edgy laugh, her throat as long and graceful as a swan’s. “There is nothing he will not do to please me.”

“Unless you don’t get an heir in that belly of yours,” her sister teases.

Anne draws a hand back and brings it across Mary Carey’s cheek in a resounding slap. Tears light Mary’s eyes as she stares at her sister, scowling. As I regard her I realize, as if for the first time, how much Anne has taken from Mary; her lover, her place of high favor, and even her son. Anne has been given wardship of little Henry Carey, who is said to be another bastard of the king’s, because Anne supposedly feared for the boy’s moral development under Mary’s care. The court gossip is that in truth Anne adopted him in case she does not produce a male heir of her own. The likelihood that Henry would name the boy his heir is very slim, and everyone knows it to be a desperate move on Anne’s part. In any event, hopefully that is a plan she will not have to resort to. After all the trouble and heart-ache she and the king have wrought upon so many, the least they could do is produce a prince for the realm!

Mary brings her hand to her cheek and I am reminded of Mother doing the same whenever Norfolk spoke to her. Yes, there is a great deal of Howard in Anne.

For a moment the ladies are silent, until Anne adopts her lovely courtier’s smile. “I’m certain that is an area my”—she cocks a sweeping black brow in mischief—“virile king and I will have very little trouble in,” she says, causing many a speculative glance to be exchanged.

She has succeeded in lightening the mood, and soon everyone is back to discussing the voyage.

But Mary Carey stands in a corner, head bowed, staring at Catherine’s jewels—more things that Anne has stolen.

After we ogle the jewels some more, Madge Shelton and I extricate ourselves from Anne’s apartments and return to the maidens’ chamber to pick out our favorite gowns for the trip.

“She’s a wench, isn’t she?” Madge asks as she helps me unlace my sleeves to get ready for supper.

I am surprised she offers such open criticism of our mutual relation and want to agree, but guard my tongue. One never knows from one moment to the next when another’s loyalties will shift.

“I know I wouldn’t have wanted Princess Catherine’s jewels if I were her,” Madge goes on. “I’d want my own. Really, Mary, it’d be like wanting the wedding ring of your husband’s dead wife. It’s sort of … well, rather like a circling vulture, don’t you think?”

I can’t help but nod at that.

As she helps ease my sleeve off she brushes against the shoulder my father had squeezed with such enthusiasm some time ago. I try to stifle a groan, but it has escaped and Madge grabs my arm, examining the bruise that has faded from onyx black to a deep purple.

“God’s blood, Mary, who did this to you?” she asks, raising concerned blue eyes to me.

I withdraw my arm, smiling. “It was so silly,” I tell her. “I ran into a doorway. I’m so clumsy sometimes.”

Her lips twist. “Did the doorway resemble a man’s hand?”

I cover my shoulder with my sleeve. I have no words. I want to defend myself, to contradict her implications, but cannot. I bow my head, blinking back tears.

“It’s him, isn’t it? The duke?” she wants to know. Her voice is gentle but bears an edge, the same edge Anne adopts when angry. When I say nothing she continues. “Everyone knows about him, Mary. How he treats your mother. Tales have circulated …”

“It isn’t true,” I say, knowing I must stop her. “Whatever you’ve heard, put it out of your head. Please, if you have any love for me, stop this and do not take part in spreading any false rumors about my honored father.”

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