"Why not bring France into this, then?" More, an intellectual but
frustrated military man, suggested.
"Nay, I wish not to bring them into this. 'Tis a domestic issue, a
very English issue, done for a specific reason, for nationalistic
reasons. We are not fighting for land or religious reform. We are
trying to regain our claim to the throne. This is something the
French would not appreciate, could not fully understand. Besides, I
never trusted the French. They spend too much time romancing to be
effective, serviceable allies. Leave them to their flamboyant art
and their romantic theater. We are too stolid for them. We would not
fight well side by side."
"But the best mercenaries are from the Continent. We would never be
able to raise an army to defeat Henry's forces with Englishmen
alone."
"Whom do you have in mind?" she asked, never one to miss an
opportunity.
"Oh, I can rustle up a band of soldiers, never fear," More assured
her. "Just leave it to me. You can retain your men of noble blood.
Leave the other ranks to me."
"Aye, I shall let you know if we need reinforcements. I have a
strong leader in mind already. He is old, but he is experienced.
What he lacks in bodily strength will be made up for in sheer
military genius."
She folded the parchment carefully and slipped it between the pages
of her Latin Bible. "How does Thomas More, Duke of Richmond sound?"
"The title that Henry's bastard son holds? Absolutely magical!"
"Then it will be yours, when I am Queen Topaz the First and my son
is the Prince of Wales. Let us engage these other true believers and
fulfill our mission."
The clink of pewter goblets rang like the clash of swords as they
toasted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hampton Court Palace
"Henry, what are you saying!" Amethyst moved away, darting across
the chamber, afraid of him, a fear very different from the reverence
of her younger days. Her fingers grappled and found the door. She
grasped the knob in case he decided to attack her verbally, too, as
he had been doing to Anne
in absentia
for the last ten
minutes.
"I am saying I must be rid of her! Cromwell will not divorce us, so
I must rid this earth of the she-devil and her evil, her demonic
ways! I must have her executed!"
Now that the startling realization was beginning to gnaw at her
conscience. All the warnings, Topaz's rantings on about Henry having
inherited his father's violent temper and his ability to end a
fellow human's life at whim, were now coming true.
She saw it all so clearly now. Saw it, and was stunned. Henry was
her friend, her lover, her equal in the bed chamber, at her mercy
and under her control, submitting to the power of his desire as
helplessly as any sexually aroused male, but he was still very much
the King of England, and as such held the highest power in the land.
She swallowed hard and dared not speak. In the past, he'd awed her,
thrilled her, and astonished her. Now he simply terrified her.
He seemed to have detected her fear, for his features softened
immediately and he discreetly kept his distance. "I shall not hurt
you, Amethyst. Don't you understand? She is a witch! The Imperial
Envoy just confirmed it."
"Chapuys? How?" Her mouth was so dry, she could barely form the
words. Her throat felt as if it had been doused in the dust of the
rutted roads they travelled on parched summer days.
"He just delivered the message that Mary is deathly ill." He held
the letter, bunched up in his fist, and waved it at her. "Mary wants
Catherine to nurse her back to health. This is Anne's doing! This is
the next spell she has woven, but God's truth, it will be the last!"
"Let Catherine go to her daughter," Amethyst said. "What harm could
she do?"
"What harm indeed!" he spat, smacking the letter against his leg—his
bad leg—at the utterance of each word. "She plans to depose me. In a
letter she wrote to the Pope, she urges Charles and Francis to
invade England. She is a traitor!"
Was Topaz party to such a plot?
she couldn't help but
wonder. Topaz had never mentioned Spain or France, nor any desire to
involve them, or their wanting to be involved. It seemed unlike her
sister, though. Her deposing of the King would be her triumph—and
hers alone, an English victory, shared by no other nation. Nay, it
couldn't be.
"Then let me go to Mary," Amethyst said.
He waved her away. "Go, go to Mary. You will not poison her mind the
way Catherine would. Go to her if you want to so badly."
"My lord, you are her father, she needs you, too."
"I am much too busy. You go. Bring her money, cloth, and whatever
else you think she would want."
"How about your love, sire? May I bring that to her?" she asked
softly.
"Amethyst, you will melt me like an ice sculpture in the July sun.
You will melt me yet!" he exclaimed, tipping a wine goblet to his
mouth, his signal to end the conversation.
She implored him once more before she left. "Please, sire, think
this over. I've told you time and again. Anne cannot be a witch.
There are no such things as witches! Just convince Cromwell to
divorce you and be done with it so we can finally marry!"
"We shall see." His voice was placid, too calm, frightening her now
with its cold composure. "This will be the test, and the final test.
If the Princess Mary dies within a fortnight, Anne will follow her
to the grave."
Amethyst rode Honey all the way to Ludlow Castle, stopping at only a
couple of inns on the way, and only long enough for her most urgent
needs, and those of her mount and her escorts.
Upon entering Mary's chamber, she sighed with relief that the girl
was sitting up in her window seat, tuning her lute, looking pale but
healthy enough.
"Mary," Amethyst rushed into the chamber and embraced the young
girl.
Mary was terribly thin, her gown hanging at the shoulders and
sagging at the neckline, but her face brightened upon seeing her
ally. "Are you well?"
"Aye, much better. 'Tis a recurring sickness, I know not what it is.
The physicians know not what it is. It comes over me suddenly. One
minute I am reading or studying or at the virginals, the next minute
I am deathly weak, and in bed with fever and complete loss of
appetite. Today is a good day. And all the better for having seen
you."
Amethyst sat upon the window seat next to Mary. "Mary, I came here
of my own volition. Your father did not send me."
"I fear he will not be sending my mother any time soon either," she
said with a sigh.
"They have divers problems they must work out."
"What problems? His only problem is Anne Boleyn, and he is already
tiring of her! If only he would take my mother back, once Anne is
out of the way."
"I sincerely doubt that will happen, Mary," Amethyst said, glancing
at some sheet music Mary had propped up on a stand. "He still needs
that male heir, or so he thinks."
She longed to tell Mary about her love for the King, about their
desire to marry, but not while she was still so vulnerable. She
wondered if Mary would resent her forever for marrying her father,
and she vowed to regard Mary as her own daughter no matter what her
feelings about the matter.
Mary let out an ironic chuckle. "I cannot help but feel sorry for
Anne," she said, plucking her lute strings aimlessly. "She signed
her own death warrant by not giving my father his male heir."
She was silent for a time, then asked, " How fares my sister? I
regret to say we have never met. Who does she look like most?"
"Oh, she's got the Tudor red hair, the Tudor sprightliness—"
"The Boleyn arrogance and stubbornness as well?"
"She is but two years old. Her dominant traits have yet to form one
way or the other."
"I trust she is being brought up as a Tudor, if my father has
anything to do with it."
"She is at Hatfield being attended by governesses and nurses,"
Amethyst replied.
"What is to become of Anne now?" Mary asked, setting her lute aside.
"I know not, Mary," Amethyst admitted, thinking with a shiver of
what Henry had said about executing her. "It is up to the King.
Anne's fate is no longer in her own hands. I must admit that I am
afraid for her. If only they can have a simple parting of the ways
all will be well. I do not want to see anyone die. Your
father...scared me. He's never been so enraged."
"In that event, we shall see whether she truly is a witch," Mary
said lightly, turning towards the window. "She has not yet been able
to curse me. I am still alive. But I am worried she will bring harm
to my mother."
"She is not a witch, Mary. Anne Boleyn may be a lot of things, but a
witch is not one of them. She is as mortal as you and I."
"Just pray for my mother, Amethyst. I have the most terrible feeling
about Anne Boleyn. Just say an extra prayer."
She reached out and patted Mary's hand. "If it will make you happy,
then I shall. But believe me, no one has to worry about Anne Boleyn.
She certainly needs to worry about herself."
Amethyst felt deep in her hear that she had spoken no less than the
truth. She knew if Anne had any supernatural faculties, she would
have used them to do what Amethyst had already done without any
powers but those possessed by every woman—make the King love her.
But Amethyst's hopes that Henry's marriage to the dark-eyed witch
would soon end were dashed. Within two weeks, Anne announced she was
with child once more, and Amethyst, shocked to discover that Henry
was still availing himself of the marital bed when he had sworn he
would not, caused her to lose all patience once more.
Her emotions poured out of her pen in yet another letter to her
loyal correspondent Matthew. She had already decided to visit
Warwick Castle for Christmas, as the mood at court was quite sullen
indeed. It was no atmosphere for a twelve-day celebration.
"Perhaps this is Anne's salvation," she wrote to her dearest friend
outside the palace.
For I dread to think of what her fate will be should she not
produce the heir Henry so desperately wants. Unlike the disdain
the rest of the kingdom feels for Anne, I cannot help but feel
sorry for her. First the object of the King's curiosity, then a
breeding mare for his heirs, now branded as a witch...how much
control could she possibly have had over her fate?
Her pity for Anne was stronger than that for the doomed Catherine.
She thought of going to Anne, but dismissed the thought like a
hovering wasp about to sting. She and Anne had never exchanged a
civil word since the day Anne had surfaced at court. They were not
on friendly terms. Anne knew the King had not married her out of
love. She'd always known Amethyst was first in Henry's heart.
But all these illnesses, all these deaths...it made her wonder.
Amethyst had always kept an open mind about matters beyond the
understanding of mere mortals, and though she didn't readily believe
in spirits, reincarnation, or the supernatural, neither did she
disbelieve.
But Anne Boleyn was as mortal as any human being upon the earth, and
as such she was but a fly captured in the tangled web of the
monarchy, unable to use even her esteemed wits to escape. Amethyst
prayed she would never be in the same position herself one day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Amethyst had seen Topaz only briefly over the holidays, preoccupied
as her sister was with the heated animal hospital she'd had built
within the stables.
Amethyst bumped into her in the kitchen wearing a filthy apron,
sitting with the servants and shelling peas for the poor. Topaz
breezily mentioned having heard about the King's estrangement from
Anne, obviously from a reliable, thorough informant, for she asked
no further questions of Amethyst and refused to divulge her source.
There was no mention of her rebellion, no tirades about wanting to
be queen. Even the lads remained mum on the subject of what a
usurper Henry was.
Amethyst should have been delighted. Instead she took this ominous
silence as a bad omen. Perhaps her rantings were giving way to
calculations, and she no longer felt the need to vocally proclaim
her rightful position.
Amethyst voiced her fears to Matthew when she went to visit him,
joining the lads on their journey to Kenilworth to see their father.
They sat in his solar before a roaring fire sipping sweet red wine.
The lads and the servants were already abed. It was after midnight,
the only private time they could secure together to speak of their
concerns over Topaz's state of mind.