Secrets of the Tudor Court. D.L. Bogdan

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 heartache 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.