Tarnish (36 page)

That is no lady.

It’s Mark Smeaton.

“‘Youth has left these ancient knights,’” the usher reads. “‘And yet courage and goodwill are with them, obliging them to break spears, if the queen is pleased to give them license.’”

The taller of the “ancient” knights scans the crowd. I follow his gaze as he examines each face quickly and then moves on. He’s looking for someone. I straighten my spine, take a deep breath, and wait. When he finds me, I don’t look away, nor do I curtsy.

I am not being disrespectful. For the sake of the sham, we both have to pretend he is nothing but an old man. The brim of his shapeless cap dips low over his gray eyes.

But they remain on me.

“You look too old and infirm to challenge the young men of the court.” The queen sounds weary, as if she is tired of the games and the pageantry, the disguises and the trickery that can go on behind them. “I should hate to send you to your destruction and humiliation.”

“We shall do our best to avoid that, Your Majesty.” The knight sounds irritable as he turns and bows to her.

“I praise your courage, sir,” the queen says carefully, “and I grant you the right to challenge any and all in the competitions today. May luck be with you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The knight pulls away the silver beard. He throws off his robe. Beneath it he wears a gorgeous doublet of white silk and cloth of silver that turns his chest into a broad, shining expanse, upon which shines a gold-embroidered heart, bisected.

The other knight removes his disguise to reveal Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. The duchess rolls her eyes, but raises two fingers, kisses them, and extends them toward him.

Cheers erupt from the stands and the air reverberates with the stamping of feet and pounding of fists. The men already on the field quickly rush to welcome the newcomers.

Wyatt grins and clasps hands with the king—a gesture of goodwill before the hostilities begin. Eye to eye with the greatest man in the kingdom—possibly in the world—Thomas appears perfectly at ease. I think about his arm around me, about the kiss of his words on my neck.

As if he can hear me thinking about him, Thomas looks up and offers a smile that dives straight to my heart and plucks it from me.

I press my thoughts deep beneath my ribs and pull out the ragged memories of his duplicity. Of every time he hinted seduction. Of every compliment he ever paid me. Lies and betrayal to win a bet.

Then I see the emblem emblazoned on his chest. A heart bisected.

I turn away and lean with my back against the partition. It’s like he’s still trying to win. But is he trying to win the bet? Or me?

Jane looks me full in the face—her expression an exposed question.

“They wear the same emblem,” she murmurs. “The king and Thomas Wyatt. An open heart.”

I close my eyes.

“An open heart,” I repeat. “Or a broken one.”

52

T
HE KING AND DUKE FIGHT SAVAGELY, AS IF THEY ARE TRULY AT
war, and their very lives depend on their winning. During the tourney, the king attacks Anthony Browne with such determination that I’m afraid he’ll take Browne’s head off.

Needless to say, the defenders of Loyalty don’t stand a chance.

After the tournament, the entire court moves indoors, where the ladies must provide the entertainment. The mass of sweaty men and overly perfumed women fills the great hall of the palace with strangling odors and a miasma of smoke and steam rising from damp doublets. The men cannot let go of their bellicosity, and the atmosphere is one of frenzied carousal and blistering self-importance.

The herald enters, leading the defeated defenders, the crowd parting before them, cheering and jeering and making ribald remarks about loyalty, virginity, and sexual prowess.

But when the king is announced, all banter ceases. The men always bridle their vulgarity when he’s around. The room sinks to its knees as he walks to the dais and turns to face us.

“Let the defenders of the Château Blanc—the defenders of Loyalty—approach.”

The defenders kneel before him. All part of the pageant.

“What say you?” the king asks. “Do you have a spokesman?”

The men hang their heads and glance at one another from the corners of their eyes.

“Thomas Wyatt?”

There is an edge to the king’s voice. He is less jovial.

A hush follows. Thomas raises his head, and the two look at each other for a long moment.

“Rise.”

Thomas stands, his stillness counterpoint to the king’s undeniable energy.

“What say you?” the king asks. “In your defense of Loyalty? Of the maidens?”

“The maidens survived the day with the purity of their characters and persons intact,” Thomas says, his eyes never leaving the king’s, his expression grave.

The king smiles. Just a little. “Thanks to the decency and rectitude of the challengers.”

“As you say, Your Majesty.” Thomas pauses. “But the Castle of Loyalty survives intact, undisturbed by any assault. The maidens in question remain ours to defend.”

It’s a direct challenge, faulting the king for being unable to attack the castle. The king seethes.

Thomas waits a moment more, eyes never leaving the king’s face.

“The maidens remain ours to entertain.”

I can see the king’s jaw working, the spark of ferocity in his eyes. The court holds its breath, waiting for the ax to fall.

“That will remain a subject for debate,” the king says tightly. Then he relaxes visibly, as if by great internal effort. “However, as a show of goodwill, I submit that you shall start the dance, Master Wyatt. Whom do you wish to partner?”

Thomas doesn’t hesitate.

“Your Majesty, I wish to dance with Mistress Anne Boleyn.”

The king stills, just for a moment, then nods his assent.

Thomas turns, his movements loose and graceful. But I can see the calculation in them, the tension in his shoulders, the hesitation in his stride. He’s afraid I’ll run away. Make fools of us both.

But I can’t run away. My body senses his—as if his is the note that will complete a chord, and mine waits for that note to be struck.

The rest of the court melts away. For once, I have no idea what other people are thinking. Whether they see me. If they comment on the fact that I cannot break away from Thomas’s gaze.

Behind those eyes, I know a mind is working. I know he is planning, calculating. I know he chooses his words carefully. I know his mind runs to poetry.

And poetry can’t be trusted.

“Are you still not speaking to me?”

I find I cannot speak. My mind and heart and body are all at odds. All I can do is shake my head.

His hand touches mine and sends a cascade of sensation all the way down my arm. And I don’t know if the music comes from the musicians or from us. But we move to it. With it. Through it. As if we were formed as two, matched, and became one.

I don’t want this. This feeling of completion.

We turn in the dance, my back to him. He takes one step too close, and I feel the length of him against me, like when we were in Hever.

“A man could get lost in you, Anne Boleyn,” he whispers, and we are separated by the dance.

I feel as if I have taken flight, as if my body is not my own, as if I have no past. The music pours through me. I want this. This moment. This man.

When we return to each other, palm pressed to palm, he says, “The king is watching you.”

It sends me crashing back to earth. And I hear a vivid, reverberating hum shimmer through me. Undeniable. I want that, too.

I look up into Thomas’s eyes and see all air and ocean there.

“So are you,” I tell him.

The words slip out. A flirtation.

Triumph shines in his two-dimpled smile. I spoke to him. What am I doing? He lied to me. What guarantee do I have that he’ll not lie to me again? The only certainty is that we can never be together because even though he left his wife, he’s still married. With Thomas Wyatt, all I can ever be is a mistress. Disposable.

But he makes me feel indispensible when he looks at me. When he speaks to me. “Then he’s watching both of us.”

I have to turn. To look.

The king stands on his dais, looking out over the crush of people. In the dim and smoky light of the hall, his gray eyes are dark and piercing. Directed at me.

His very stillness vibrates.

I break away from Thomas, bow my head, and curtsy.

Thomas’s hand slides down my arm and grips my fingers. The king’s eyes flicker once to our hands, once to Thomas, and back to me.

The room grows so hot the very walls could melt. Outside, the wind rages, the ice breaks upon the Thames, the beasts cower in their forest lairs, and people die from cold and starvation. But inside Greenwich, men grow fat and red in the face, the ladies grow light-headed, and the music plays on.

“You should go.”

Thomas’s voice is toneless.

“If you disappear, he’ll want you more.”

“The king? That’s ridiculous.” But something tugs at the corner of my mind. The king flirted with me. The king looked for me, challenged the defenders of my castle. His symbol is an open heart.

“Not so ridiculous, Anne,” Thomas says soberly. “After all, that was the plan. It’s the way the game works. When a deer is spotted, the hunters follow.”

“And you’re the white flag on my tail.”

“I used to be quite crude.”

“You are quite crude. No need for past tense.”

“Don’t tease me, Anne. There is so much I did wrong. The worst was to underestimate you.”

I want his words to be enough for me to forgive him. I’m just not sure they are.

“So what next, Thomas?” I ask. “You set yourself up to rival the king? Another challenge? Don’t you see how ludicrous that is?”

Even if he is interested, it’s impossible. He’s married. And I need a friend, not a hunter. Not a man I can’t have.

“Why? Because he always wins? Not this time, Anne.”

He takes one step closer.

“You love me,” he says, so quietly I feel he is lodged within my soul. “I know you do.”

“You certainly think a lot of yourself, Thomas Wyatt.”

“I know you better than I know myself.” He looks up, his expression wary. “He’s coming. Go now.”

I squeeze Thomas’s hand once and let go.

“No.”

Because the time has come. Not the time to follow his direction, but for Anne Boleyn to decide her own actions.

53

T
HE EXPRESSION ON THE KING’S FACE ALMOST SHATTERS MY
resolve. I see reflected there my own desires—my childish longings from when I first saw him. In him I see a beginning. Possibility.

Thomas bows beside me and I sink into a curtsy.

“Loyalty has taken a beating this evening,” the king says. The edge is there in his voice, his words directed at Thomas.

“Metaphorically speaking, Your Majesty,” I say. “The loyalty of your people will never falter.”

“Even those who are called more French than the French?”

Looking at him is like trying to look at the sun. Blinding me to everything else in the room. I can’t even hear the music anymore. There is nothing but him.

“I appreciate French culture, Your Majesty.” I falter, unable to think of anything clever to say.

“As do I, Mistress Boleyn. Grace, beauty, art, and music. I steal as much as I can. Because it’s wasted on the French.”

He moves closer, bending slightly, immersing me in sensation. The glitter of gold, the scent of cloves, the memory of his lips pressed to mine. The taste of his tongue.

“Beauty, especially, is wasted on them,” he murmurs.

“And what makes you say that?” I tilt my chin. The best angle for him to kiss me if he wishes.

“If they appreciated it, they would never have let you go.”