Tarnish (8 page)

I step back—slapped by my own words.

“One day”—George pursues me and whispers closely, his breath reeking of wine and malice—“someone will call you the same thing, and you’ll know how it feels.”

“I think I already do, George. Because I think you just did.”

“Clever girl.”

George lifts his goblet in an empty toast and walks away.

9

I
GO STRAIGHT TO
W
YATT.
I
’VE LOST MY FAMILY.
I
HAVE NO
friends. I don’t know where else to go.

I find him in the gardens, amongst the lions and dragons, the knots and heraldic emblems.

“Can’t stay away from me?”

Wyatt slips an arm around my waist and kisses me quickly. It’s so English. So foreign. And far too intimate. My lips taste like sugared almonds when he pulls away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“What have you been saying about me?” I ask. “What have you been telling everyone about . . . about this?” I wave my hands through the little space left between us, fingers brushing the velvet on his chest.

He grabs my wrists and lowers my hands.

“You are shrill and agitated,” he says tightly. “And this is not part of our plan.” He grins. “We cannot have a lovers’ quarrel until we are lovers.”

“And we are not lovers!” I hiss at him. “So why is Henry Norris talking to me about passion?”

“Henry Norris will talk passion to any girl who listens.”

“Why did it sound as if he’d heard about my passion from you?”

Wyatt pauses.

“Did you tell him something?”

“I may have . . . implied.”

I set my jaw and ball my fists, tendons flexing against Wyatt’s grip.

“You will not talk about me that way,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “I will flirt and pretend with you all you like, but I will not be the subject of lies.”

“The small-minded interpret what they see and hear only as they wish to.”

I scowl at him. “You are the one who told me the court is filled with small-minded people. Am I to assume everyone will interpret things this way? That they will think as my brother does—that I’m your whore?”

A look of shock crosses Wyatt’s face, but he chases it with a wry smile.

“You’re scowling,” he says, and releases me to brush the strain at my brow.

“There’s no one around! No one can see!” I slap his hand away. The man doesn’t even argue properly.

“Makes no difference. You have to practice your art in private as well as public venues, my dear. You cannot let down your mask for anyone. Court is a game played in every corner and at every moment. Even while you sleep.”

“Even when I’m married?”

“Especially with your spouse.” Wyatt’s face darkens, and I feel a distinct cooling in the air between us.

“It sounds exhausting.” I feel exhausted. “Having to wear the mask for everyone. Even family.”

Wyatt lets go of my other wrist, and we stand in the wan April sunlight, arms at our sides, unmoving.

“You and George were always close,” he says quietly. “Always together as children. He told me once you slept in the same bed.”

I glance up at him. Is he jealous?

“A closeness forged in the iron of my father’s will.”

“Your father doted on you.”

I manage to suppress a snort.

“When I was six.”

“No more doting?”

I have to look away from the sympathy in his eyes.

“When I was six, I was his clever little girl,” I say, studying the light on the topiary leaves, concentrating hard to keep the pain from my voice. “But I grew up away from him. I came home from France thin and unnoticed, certainly unbeautiful, surpassed in my father’s affections by my pretty, easy sister and her capacity to earn him accolades.”

“Your voice is sweet, but your words are bitter.”

“My words. Everyone tells me my words are wrong. Aren’t you really saying it’s me?”

He tilts my chin back to face him and gazes at me unspeaking, his narrow features serious.

“It is just something I think you should mind, Anne,” he says softly. “Your words will be your downfall.”

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and brush my hands on my skirt.

“Well, thank you for taking the time to make that assessment.”

I turn to go, but he grabs my hand to stop me.

“You came to me for a reason, Anne.”

My heart lurches. George. Father. Mary. Why did I think Wyatt could help?

Because he said he would be my friend. In a foolish poem. But even a pretend friend is better than no friend at all.

“My father’s coming home.”

Wyatt hesitates. “With his iron will.”

I nod. I don’t want to need him. But I do.

“He’ll force my marriage to James Butler.”

“And you want to prevent that.”

“I want to find an alternative.”

If I think I see a flash of sadness in those blue eyes, it vanishes quickly into skepticism.

“You don’t have much time.”

“Then you’ll have to work your magic quickly.” I try to keep my voice light, and offer a weak smile. But truly, Wyatt is my only hope. If he can do what he claims.

He slips an arm around my waist and, in what I’m sure he thinks is a seductive way, whispers, “You could succumb to my potent and innumerable charms and become my mistress.”

“And tarnish myself so much that not even James Butler will want me? I don’t think so.”

Wyatt laughs. “I could spirit you away to the country, and no one would ever find you. Not even your father.”

I manage not to pull a face.

“The country? That might be a fate worse than Butler. Try again.”

“Then we’ll have to find you someone with more influence. Norris?”

I turn to him full on. He needs to understand this.

“I will not be a mistress. I’ve seen what it did to my sister and her reputation. She may be a favorite of the king, but I’ve seen how mistresses are treated by everyone else. I know how they are vilified. I never want to be called a concubine.” Or a whore.

“Ah.” Wyatt guides me by the elbow along the path. He pulls a leaf from a shrub trimmed into the shape of a stag and twirls it. Speaks quietly from the corner of his mouth. “We have to keep moving. We are being watched.” He nods toward the donjon—the palace’s central tower—where the windows stare like blank faces from its façade.

“Being a mistress can be a noble pursuit,” he says. “Your sister has done well.”

“I would not wish for a life like my sister’s, or any mistress’s. Hidden away in poky rooms or country houses. Disguised as serving women. Even Bessie Blount, mother of the king’s son, is not at court. All mistresses are confined to prisons because the men who ‘love’ them cannot allow them to be seen. Not a noble pursuit at all.”

Then again, if King Henry asked, I might find it hard to say no.

“I’ll take that as a refusal,” Wyatt says, laughter in his voice. “So what you want is a husband.”

I consider this for a moment, and Wyatt is silent. The only sound is the scratch of gravel beneath our feet. A marriage would save me from James Butler. It would nullify the influence of my father, placate my brother, put me on equal footing with my sister. Of course, it would also make me subject to the whims and words of yet another man’s will. Someone else to silence me.

If only I could find a place where my own whims and words matter.

Ridiculous notion.

“Marriage seems my only option.”

Wyatt stops and studies me. Unlike the king, who always seems to be in motion, Wyatt holds his stillness within him, as if it is an integral part of his being.

“There are always choices.”

I shake my head. “Not in this case. I need to be rid of Butler before my father arrives. So I need a proposal. A betrothal. Something.” I close my eyes and try desperately to think of someone who might listen to me, but the image that presents itself is of Thomas Wyatt, so I open my eyes to the real thing. “Preferably from someone
not
pursuing the earldom that rightfully belongs to my father. Someone at court.”

We walk again, side by side beneath the gaze of the donjon.

“Then we shall have to get you into the center of attention—the attention of the royal circle—using much more . . . dramatic means.”

“Dramatic?”

“A masque, my dear. An interlude. We’ll stage a little play, with you as the focus. We’ll invite the king and Wolsey and pretend it’s just a little nothing, the whim of a poet. But you will be seen and admired by everyone of influence.”

I will be seen by the king. Wyatt is wearing a smirk of supreme self-satisfaction.

“And so will you,” I prompt. He has obviously already thought this through.

“My motives are never entirely unselfish.”

I have a flashing memory of
The Château Vert
. I tremble at the thought that others will remember, too.

“But won’t it take months to prepare? The costumes? The set?”

“It will be simple,” he says. “No elaborate costumes. No enormous sets created to give the appearance of false castles. No gilded chariots. As if it’s the spur of the moment. Improvisational. And starring whomever I please.”

I’m quiet for a moment.

“Not to your liking?” There’s an edge to Wyatt’s voice.

“It’s a wonderful idea.”

“But?”

I glance at him. His knuckle brushes mine. It looks accidental, but I think I know Wyatt well enough now to believe it’s contrived. It calls attention to our close proximity to each other.

I know him. But can I trust him?

I take a deep breath.

“Will this . . . interlude . . . not merely call attention to my former transgressions?”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow.

“You mean
The Château Vert
?”

I nod.

“No one remembers it, Anne.”

“Yes, they do.” My heart warps at the thought that the king remembers. That he thinks me a fool. If that’s the case, I don’t wish to remind him.

“No.” Wyatt stops. “They don’t. No one remarked on it. No one remembers it. No one cares.”

“You knew about it, and you weren’t even there!”

“Because your brother told me. No one remembers but the Boleyns.”

“It got me sent away. Exiled to the country.”

Wyatt sighs. Rubs his forehead. And continues up the path.

“The king’s interest in your sister was just beginning then, wasn’t it?”

I nod miserably.

I’d been at court for just a few weeks. I was homesick for France, mourning the escalating hostilities. Lonely. Father got me a position in the queen’s household, a part in the Shrovetide pageant—a chance to shine. I wondered secretly at the time if the part of “Perseverance” was mine by design. More fool me.

Mary played “Kindness” and positively glowed in the white gown and gold bonnet. I stood beside her, flushed in the sunlight of the king’s smile. When the dancing started, I leaped into the king’s arms when he held out his hand. To her.

I can still picture the shock and astonishment on the king’s face. The bewilderment on Mary’s. Until he sidestepped me neatly and swept her away, leaving me alone in the center of the room, rigid with humiliation.

No one challenged Father’s decision to exile me to the country. Not George. Certainly not Mary.

“The court doesn’t care, Anne,” Wyatt says. “Just your family.”

A weight lifts from me. If the court doesn’t care—if the king doesn’t—perhaps there’s hope for me yet.

“So what will be the theme of this masque?”

“Why, love, of course, my dear. Nothing but love.”

“Sounds inspiring,” I tease. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“. . . is exactly the right thing to say.”

I laugh and squeeze his arm, his elbow brushing against my breast. The shadows from the slanting sunlight flicker like a frown across his face, then his dimple reappears in full sun.

“First, we must invite our cast to join us.”

My footsteps slow of their own accord. I have no friends.

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Norris. Bryan. Your brother.”

I start to interrupt—to argue—but he carries on.

“Your sister.”

“She’ll never agree.”

“And Jane Parker.”

I think of the look in Jane’s eyes as she gazed at George. “A matchmaker now, are you?”

“Jane’s infatuation is obvious to everyone. I’m just creating opportunity. She might be a good influence on him.”

I think of George’s red-rimmed eyes and empty wine goblet, and I certainly hope so.

“Unlike you.”

“Balance in everything, Anne.” He leaps onto the ground-trailing branch of an ancient yew tree and runs along it—arms outstretched—and turns without wobbling. “As for your sister, she will agree to it.”

“How do you know?”

Wyatt walks back along the branch and returns to earth without a sound.

“Because you are going to go and ask her.”

“And apologize.” It’s been so long, will Mary accept it? Will she even see me?

“Anne,” he says, and takes me by the shoulders. He stares hard into my eyes and won’t let me look away. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”