“Your sister still doesn’t like me.”
“I thought she’d been behaving rather well,” he murmured absently. “Better, certainly, than in Yorkshire.”
“Didn’t you notice the way she failed to include me when speaking about the plans for today? It’s as if she’s trying to pretend I don’t really exist.”
“Oh, you exist, my love. I can certainly vouch for that.”
His fingers were exploring intimately, expertly, and Micheline’s thighs opened in surrender. Cicely was forgotten as Sandhurst’s mouth covered hers; the love storm that dominated their lives was swelling to another crescendo.
*
That afternoon, while boats blanketed the river itself, the banks of the Thames were thronged with people. Everyone wanted to watch the magnificent procession for Queen Anne, though most subjects still judged Catherine the real queen. For despite the Archbishop of Canterbury’s recent decree that King Henry’s first marriage was invalid, no such decision had been handed down by the pope!
Micheline could not imagine a more sumptuous pageant than the one taking place around her on the Thames. Perhaps the procession had been made so overwhelmingly lavish in order to impress and thereby win over the skeptical citizens. The most incurably stubborn were said to crowd the dungeons of the Tower of London.
Music, cannon fire, and trumpet calls filled the warm air. Numerous barges had sailed down to Greenwich Palace more than an hour ago. Now they were returning. Cicely, clad in a pretty new gown of ruby silk, clapped her hands in excitement while Rupert shouted “I say!” over and over again.
The first barge held Queen Anne herself, dressed in cloth of gold, attended by the colorfully decorated vessels of bishops and lords. The mayor even had a dragon on board, which thrashed about and spat fire into the river. More than two hundred other boats followed, embellished with tinkling bells and Anne’s coat of arms paired with the king’s. Streamers fluttered and danced in the breeze while musicians played with gusto from every craft.
When the queen’s barge reached the water gate of the Tower of London, the mighty guns above her boomed in welcome. The constable and lieutenant came out of the crowd to greet Anne and take her to join the king, who waited at the postern gate.
“She’ll spend the next two nights in the queen’s apartments in the Tower,” Andrew explained to his wife. “It’s a tradition. On Saturday there will be another procession—this time through the streets of London, bearing her to Westminster, where she’ll be crowned on Sunday.”
Nibbling at a sweetmeat, Cicely proclaimed, “I intend to be queen one day, but I suppose I shall have to be patient, for I would not marry King Hal!”
Micheline smiled wanly. For the first time in her pregnancy, she felt the heat and was conscious of an enervating malaise, compounded by all the commotion and ceaseless music. “It’s all very exciting.” She gave Sandhurst a hopeful look. “Are we going home now?”
“No!” cried Cicely. “Please, Andrew, take us to join the celebrations! I don’t want to return to that boring house!”
He had already given a signal that sent the oars dipping into the glittering water. As the barge glided upriver, he said, “Spare a thought for Micheline. She’s with child, as I have told you, and deserves an extra measure of consideration.”
The girl wore a petulant frown. “This is the most exciting day of my life! I don’t see why—”
“No need for all this!” Rupert exclaimed, moving forward to clap Sandhurst on the back. “Patience and I would be happy to take Cicely out to enjoy the festivities, wouldn’t we, my darling?”
Patience surveyed them all with calm, tiny eyes. Her face was colorless in the sunlight. “Naturally,” she said, smiling.
Chapter Thirty-Three
May 31—June 5, 1533
Saturday found Micheline standing with Cicely. Rupert, and Patience behind one of the rails that lined the route of Queen Anne’s procession through the streets of London. Although she felt better today, Micheline nonetheless missed Andrew’s company, especially since she was surrounded by her new and less than ideal relatives.
The roads were hung with tapestry, velvets, and silks, through which traveled twelve Frenchmen, in blue velvet coats with sleeves of yellow, on horseback. Most of them Micheline recognized from Fontainebleau, but this was not the time for greetings.
Following the Frenchmen came all manner of officials in ceremonial robes. Knights of the Bath in their purple gowns, and finally noblemen in crimson velvet. There was Andrew, Marquess of Sandhurst, his hair ruffled in the breeze, standing out from the crowd as usual.
“Isn’t he handsome!” cried Cicely, waving.
Micheline merely smiled. Sandhurst saw the hand in the air and winked, but it was his wife who caught the flash of warmth from his eyes.
“That crimson velvet would flatter any man, it seems to me,” Patience observed quietly.
Rupert took up his half brother’s defense. “Sandhurst is always the best-looking man in any gathering! Surely you realize that, my love!”
More richly garbed officials appeared, including the lord chancellor of England, the mayor of London, and an assortment of archbishops and ambassadors. In their midst came Anne, perched in an open litter covered with cloth of gold which was borne by two white damask-comparisoned palfreys. Dark hair flowed down her back so that she seemed to be sitting on it, and on her head was a coif whose circlet was set with jewels. She wore a surcoat and mantle of silver tissue, the latter lined with ermine. From under a cloth-of-gold canopy held over her by four knights, Queen Anne scanned the crowds, searching for signs of admiration.
The citizens might admire her beauty, but they withheld the approval she sought. Micheline noticed that few men removed their caps, and the sound of cheering was muted and unenthusiastic. The people seemed more curious than worshipful.
In an effort to rectify the situation, Anne’s fool, capering at the edge of the parade, shouted, “I think you all have scurvy heads and dare not uncover!”
Stubbornly the crowd refused to laugh… or take the hint.
“Why is it that you were not asked to ride in one of the chariots?” Cicely inquired of Micheline, referring to the crimson-clad ladies who followed Anne in decorated chariots.
“I’m not certain,” Micheline replied honestly. “Perhaps it’s because I’m French, and so new a marchioness. Or perhaps it’s because they weren’t certain we’d be here. As you know, Andrew was told only last night that he would be required to join in the procession. In any case, my feelings are not bruised. I’ve had my fill of pageantry these past few months.”
Cicely exchanged a look of disbelief with Patience but said only, “You are more forbearing than I, madame. I should feel quite insulted if I were you.”
“I am too content with my life to take offense over trivialities.”
After the procession passed, the crowd returned to its daylong celebrations. Rhenish wine flowed freely from London’s fountains and music filled the air. Even the conduits of Cheapside ran with white wine at one end and claret at the other. Micheline watched as Rupert filled cups for himself, Cicely, and Patience. Now that the queen was gone, the mood turned festive, but Micheline had no taste for it. She could feel men’s hands on her in the crowd, and her head had begun to ache.
“Have some wine, dear sister!” Rupert urged. “ ’Twill lighten your mood!”
“Thank you, but I must refuse. It’s past seven o’clock, I’ll wager, and the day has been a tiring one. I would like to go home and wait for Andrew to return from Westminster.”
“My brother’s wife seems intent on spoiling our fun,”
Cicely said to Patience as if Micheline were not there. “Next she’ll insist that we accompany her back to Weston House.”
“That’s not necessary, my lady.” Finchley stepped forward from his place behind them in the crowd. “I’ll be happy to escort the marchioness home.”
Micheline gave the manservant a radiantly grateful smi
le which melted his usual reserve and caused him to beam in response. “How very kind you are, Finchley!”
Farewells were made and Micheline set off with Finchley while her new relatives watched her go over the rims of their wine cups.
*
“Are you certain you feel up to this?” Sandhurst asked again. Seated in a chair by the window, he was watching Mary dress Micheline’s hair with diamonds and sapphires.
“Stop repeating that tiresome question! I’ve only been a bit fatigued lately. It’s normal, considering my condition. Do you imagine that I’m the sort of female who takes to her bed at the least excuse?” She took a deep breath, hoping to ease the vague feeling of nausea that plagued her. “Besides, I wouldn’t miss this coronation for anything.”
Andrew threw up his hands and sighed. “What am I to do with you?”
“That’s easy.” She gave him an enchanting smile, but he only narrowed his eyes in return. “You’ll take me to Westminster, Lord Sandhurst, and allow me to enjoy the pleasure of being presented as your wife.”
“You’ll tell me if you feel the slightest discomfort?”
“Did I not swear?” Micheline glanced back at Mary, who was taking in the scene with wide eyes. “Don’t you think that my husband looks magnificent today, Mary?”
“Oh—oh, yes, but of course, my lady!” This was a major understatement, for the girl had been casting surreptitious glances of awed admiration his way all morning. Lord Sandhurst was clad in a slashed, tailored doublet and breeches of rich amber velvet sewn with gold thread and set with diamonds. The colors served to emphasize his tanned skin, warm brown eyes, and rich brown hair.
“Do you imagine that you can change the subject by appealing to my vanity?” Sandhurst was asking his wife, half amused by such an obvious ploy. Rising, he crossed over to look down into her eyes.
“A valiant effort, you must admit.” She laughed.
He shook his head, smiling. Mary had finished with her mistress’s hair and now stood back to admire the effect.
“You look glorious,” he murmured, softening in spite of himself.
Micheline glanced in the mirror. Her gown, of soft violet satin set with sapphires and diamonds, parted in front to reveal a petticoat of sapphire silk lavishly embroidered with gold thread. The neckline was low and flattering, and the sleeves were puffed, divided by golden ribbons, and slashed to reveal more sapphire silk. Micheline wore a girdle of gold filigree set with diamonds that grazed her hips, from which hung a cordeliere with a small mirror attached. Her only other jewelry consisted of necklaces of delicate gold and pearls, small sapphire earrings, and her wedding band.
Sandhurst’s warm gaze traveled over his wife’s small waist, the curves of her breasts and throat, then lingered on her face. He adored the little cleft in her chin, her sensuous mouth, the tilt of her nose, and the eloquent beauty of her iris-blue eyes with their thick lashes. Reaching out, he brushed the backs of his fingers over Micheline’s cheekbone and smiled when he saw a blush spread under his touch.
“It is I who will be afflicted with vanity if you continue to stare at me so,” she whispered.
“The diamonds and sapphires in your hair dim in comparison to your eyes, my love. You’re the loveliest woman in England.”
“My nose is too short,” Micheline protested weakly.
This statement, combined with the sight of little Mary bumping into furniture as she attempted to back out the door, drew a chuckle from Andrew. “Nay. It is perfect.” He bent to kiss it, then grazed her parted lips. “Perfect because it is part of you.”
*
The day passed in a blur for Micheline. She stood beside her husband in Westminster Abbey, watching as the new queen advanced up the aisle. Anne wore a robe and surcoat of purple velvet trimmed with ermine. Her train was carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, and the laps of her robe were held by four bishops. Micheline recognized the man who walked in front, bearing the crown of St. Edward, as the Duke of Suffolk, high constable of England, who had tried with all his might since Cardinal Wolsey’s fall to keep this event from happening. Anne’s lips curved triumphantly as she stared at the duke’s back.
No pains had been taken to disguise the queen’s five-month pregnancy. Micheline had remarked on this to Andrew the night before, and he had explained that Henry VIII felt his subjects might approve the marriage because Anne would give England a prince. Apparently the king would not consider the possibility that he might have sired another daughter like Mary, Catherine’s offspring.
At the high altar, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, spoke in Latin, then anointed Anne on her head and breast. Slowly the heavy, jeweled crown was placed over her hair. She was given a scepter to hold in her right hand, a rod of ivory with the dove for her left. Victoriously the newly crowned queen of England turned to face the assembled guests.
“Well,” Micheline whispered doubtfully, “I hope she’ll be happy. She’s certainly waited long enough for this day.”
“Six years.” Sandhurst nodded. “Unfortunately, I have a feeling her troubles will worsen rather than cease. Our king is not the sort of man who finds contentment in the blessings of the present. He tends to want what he does not have.”
*
The Lord and Lady Sandhurst were privileged guests at the banquet that followed the coronation. Cicely, the only other family member who had been invited that day, sat next to Lord and Lady Dangerfield at one of the four long tables that ranged down Westminster Hall, while Micheline had a place at the queen’s table on the dais with other chosen ladies.
Although the king was not present, he watched the feast through a hole in the wall of a closet he’d had specially made in the adjoining church of St. Stephen. Lord Sandhurst was one of the marquesses designated to serve the new queen. He was the carver, while others executed the tasks of cup bearer, officer, and chief butler. Lords of the realm performed lesser serving duties.
Queen Anne, under her cloth of estate, with Cranmer seated to her right, was in her glory. She allowed her old favorite Thomas Wyatt to pour scented water from a ewer over her hands, and then the first course, consisting of twenty-seven separate dishes, was brought in. During the banquet the Duke of Suffolk and Lord William Howard rode up and down the hall on horseback, accompanied by the sounds of trumpets and hautbois to herald each new course.
Not for the first time that week, Micheline wished she and Andrew were back at Sandhurst Manor. She would have gladly traded all the rich food and titled company for a hard gallop on Primrose over the sunlit Cotswold hills followed by an afternoon in Andrew’s arms on a bed of meadow grass and wildflowers.
*
“Good morrow, my lady!” Betsy Trymme entered the spacious bedchamber carrying a tray of warm gingered bread and rosy peaches. “How are you feeling?”
“Sleepy, but so happy to be back.” Micheline sat up in bed and smiled. “I’ve missed this house and all of you.”
“And we’ve missed you, my lady.” Betsy set the tray on a chest beside the bed and beamed down at her mistress. “It’s as if you’ve lived here always. Even my husband agrees that it’s hard to imagine those days when Lord Andrew was unmarried.”
“Speaking of Lord Andrew—”
“He’s gone to the stables. Didn’t want to wake you. He’s quite concerned about you, you know, and bade me bring you this food when you woke.”
Micheline moved to get out of bed. “What time is it?”
“Half past nine, my lady.” Firmly, Mistress Trymme pressed her back into the pillows. “There’s no hurry. Lord Andrew and your Primrose will wait. You’ve a baby to think about, you know. I’ve even brought you a mug of fresh milk. His lordship tells me you’ve not been eating properly this past week, and I mean to rectify that! Just have yourself a nice quiet breakfast and I’ll have a bath sent up for you.”
She sighed in surrender. “It would seem I have no choice.”
“None whatever!” Betsy declared with a grin.
&nb
sp; Before the housekeeper disappeared out the door, Micheline called, “How fares Lady Cicely—and Mistress Topping?”
“Lady Cicely went riding with her brother, and Mistress Patience is doing needlework in the gallery, my lady.”
“Oh. Well, thank you again.”
Alone, Micheline sipped the rich milk, then set it down and stared up at the green velvet tester. It was a great relief to be back at Sandhurst Manor, but her contentment was marred by several worries that she hoped were minor. Before they left London, Rupert had informed Sandhurst that their father wanted them to take care of some business of his there, then suggested that the women go on to Gloucestershire without them. Andrew had refused, saying that his wife was his chief concern, but Micheline sensed that part of him regretted cutting short their stay in the city, for she knew that he must have business of his own to look after. She felt so bad about the effect her “condition” was having on his activities that she insisted that he go about his affairs without her the last two days in London, even to the extent of pressing him to take Cicely to a masque at Whitehall Palace that she felt too fatigued to attend herself.
Somehow, Patience inserted herself into the group traveling to Sandhurst Manor. It seemed the least they could do, inviting her there, since Rupert would be occupied in London. In spite of Patience’s quietly gracious manner, Micheline felt doubly uneasy when left alone with both her “sisters.” Instinct told her that Patience sympathized with Cicely.
Meanwhile, Lady Cicely Weston was on her best behavior. She was unfailingly polite to Micheline, especially when Andrew was nearby, but there was no real affection in her voice or manner. Cicely seemed to truly wish her sister-in-law did not exist. One day, when they’d found themselves alone in the summer parlor at Weston House, Micheline had decided not to strike up a conversation, just to see how her sister-in-law would react. A full five minutes had passed during which Cicely refused to look up from her book, pretending that she hadn’t noticed Micheline’s unremarkable presence.
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