by Lyn South
Mary’s eyes flash in helpless shock, confirmation she’s not a willing participant in this affair. I discard the wine glasses on the nearest table, then press myself between her and the man in fur, slipping a hand beneath his cloak to stroke him. “Sir,” I say, purring in my most alluring tone, “wouldn’t you rather have me?”
He shudders in response. “Mademoiselle, you look ravishing tonight,” he says. If he were any closer to me, he’d be inside my gown. “Perhaps you can join us as we entertain Mademoiselle Boleyn.”
Sometimes I revel in the raw power that a single touch can have over a target. With every smile, every gesture and tilt of the head, or brush of my hand, I can usually get anyone to crave more of me. If I play my cards right, I control the room and can steal whatever I like with little interference.
My goal now isn’t to seduce or tease. I want to send this asshole a message and make Mary Boleyn obliged to me. Two birds. One stone.
The gentle, tantalizing squeeze tightens into a vise grip on one testicle trapped in my right palm. The man groans, face contorted in agony. He trembles, and I release him as he drops to his knees. He remains on the floor, panting and cradling his balls like they’re as fragile as glass.
Scar Face glowers at me and takes a menacing step forward. I stop him with a demure smile and a not so subtle threat. “It would be unwise to draw the English king’s ire for abusing his future sister-in-law in such a disgusting manner. One scream from me and the full weight of the English court falls on you.”
The man in the plumed hat gasps. Recognition dawning, he gazes at Mary Boleyn as though he’s seeing her for the first time. He shoots rapid-fire glances between this Boleyn sister and the royal party on the dance floor. His chin quivers as he excuses himself in a flurry of contrite bows. The man I put on the floor has recovered enough to follow his friend. He gets as far as the closest table before collapsing into a chair.
Scar Face regards Mary with disdain. “Our king will never sanction the whore’s elevation to queen. We’ll see how far your king’s petition gets with Spain’s Emperor and the Holy See of Rome.”
“Your ignorance is astounding, monsieur,” I say, coolly. “King Francois despises the emperor. His great desire is to isolate the Spanish, then crush them into dust. After King Francois supports Lady Anne as King Henry’s legitimate wife, not even the pope will deny her as England’s legitimate queen.” I bump into his chest, forcing him to take a step backward. “King Francois would be enraged if your actions frustrate his carefully laid plans. Are you so eager to spend what remains of your life in the Bastille.”
“Get her out of there, Dodger.” Nico’s voice is urgent in my ear. “Starting a fight with the locals will attract the wrong attention.”
“What the hell are you doing, Clémence?” Fagin says.
I ignore them both and continue to glare up into Scar Face’s black eyes. Half of me wants this asshole to stand his ground so I can kick his ass into the next millennium. God knows I’ve got enough tension coiled in inside me to start a proper roadhouse brawl if he makes one more wrong move.
Scar Face considers me with a mix of suspicion and apprehension, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying or just foolish. He seems to choose the latter opinion. “Women make terrible spies,” he says with a smirk. “You always give too much away when you talk.”
“That may be true, monsieur,” I say with a nod. “Still, you don’t deny the truth of the current political climate, so who has given away too much?”
The man’s eyes narrow. He scratches his chin as he throws an anxious glance over my shoulder toward the dance floor. “The English mare isn’t worth the trouble,” he says. The comment is an undeniable reference to the crass gossip regarding King Francois’ nickname for Mary, chosen as a reference for how frequently he has ridden her.
I wait until Scar Face is out of range before steering Mary toward the wine buffet. She clutches my hand, her breath coming in shallow pants of frustration and anger. I nod at the Vicomtess who obligingly provides two goblets. I take one and offer the other to Mary, who accepts it with trembling hands.
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” she says, taking a deep, grateful draught from the goblet. “A gallant knight couldn’t have defended me—and my sister—more perfectly than you. France is not as welcoming as it was the last time I was here.”
“You must be careful, Mistress Boleyn,” I say, “There are many in this room who would make sport damaging your reputation.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I am well-acquainted with court intrigues; I served in Queen Claude’s court when I was young. What I am not accustomed to is the righteous indignation of those who should have no say in matters regarding my sister.”
“Our king will do his best to dispel any ill wishes directed toward her. He has pledged his support of the union to King Henry.”
“King Francois says he will publicly support their marriage, yes,” she says. Her expression turns skeptical. “If true, why have both his queen and sister refused to receive Anne? Their denial is a terrible omen for the King keeping his promises.”
“There are people in the French court who continue to remind our king that forging a strong alliance between France and England against the emperor in Spain will change the world.”
“Good, Dodger. Make her believe you’re an ally.” Fagin says, in my ear. It’s the first scrap of validation from her in what feels like forever. My heart leaps; I could run on this simple praise for the next month.
“There are days when I fear it’s quite an ill-fated path my sister follows. It is well-known that our king can be...” she pauses, hesitant to speak the words she’s mulling over. As most well-positioned courtiers with something to lose would do, she softens her tone with a diplomatic whitewash. “Well, he can be inconstant in his mood and appetites, moving easily from one liaison to the next, leaving a woman to contend with being a social pariah. I have much experience with this matter.”
“Your king is well-known for his appetites,” I say. When Mary frowns at the overly familiar and, slightly judgmental bent in my tone, I give her my warmest, most engaging smile. “But, you’re a resourceful woman, and with your sister as queen, surely you have many suitors fighting to wed you.”
“No, mademoiselle.” Her eyes grow sad. “Having occupied too many royal beds, my value in the marketplace suffers. I’m afraid fate has utterly abandoned me.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” I say. “We create our own destinies. Any royal court overflows with schemers. You can scarcely throw a stone, in any direction, without hitting someone who covets what you have. Material riches are shallow compared to true wealth.”
“Riches and wealth are the same thing,” she says, perplexed. “I don’t know how long my father will support me without having a proper husband.”
“Dear Mary, never confuse money with wealth.” God, I sound like Fagin. “One is used to buy goods that decay with time. The other is the thing of higher value that you would abandon all of your earthly possessions to gain.”
“You speak in riddles, Mademoiselle. What is true wealth?” She asks, earnestness brimming in her eyes.
“For some, it’s good health or a clean conscience. For me, it’s being the mistress of my own life. To owe allegiance to none but myself. To thumb my nose at the fates.”
Mary’s face opens up in an expression of incredulous disbelief. “Can any woman have such a life? These are bold words and dangerously close to treason,” she whispers. “Even my sister owes her allegiance to the king, as her sovereign.”
“Where I come from, Mistress Boleyn,” I lower my voice to match hers, allowing the spark of a tantalizing, utopian desire to embed itself in Mary’s psyche, “there are precious few who have not sacrificed their desires on the altar of convention and practicality. An independent life can be had if you want it enough.”
There’s a flicker of raw energy in her smile, and I sense an unexpected yearning begin to for
m within her. Mary Boleyn, feminist superhero. It could happen.
Mary loops her arm through mine and pulls me toward the dais where the King and Lady Anne now sit. “You should meet my sister and the king. They need to know how you saved me and—” She stops dead in her tracks and turns to give me a blushing smile. She shakes her head in a self-deprecating manner. “How silly of me. You saved me from those wretches, and yet I haven’t been courteous enough in return to ask your name.”
Gotcha. I smile and dip a little curtsey. “I’m Clémence Areseneau. My mother and I are wine merchants. We supplied the Madeira for this feast.”
Mary curtsies in return and giggles. “All the more reason you should meet them. They have high praise for the quality of the entertainment and your Madeira, esteeming it above anything else they’ve tasted during our time in Calais.”
“My mother will be glad to hear it,” I say. “And if it’s entertainment you seek, I write poetry and clever riddles. Perhaps I will perform something for you tonight.” Fagin catches my attention as she dances, and I point her out to Mary. “My mother is the lady dancing with the tall gentleman in the blue velvet.”
Mary gives Fagin an appraising once-over. “She looks more like your sister,” she says in a conspiratorial tone.
“So I’ve been told,” I say, motioning Fagin toward the head table.
“Your mother?” Fagin says when she catches up with me. “I should take you over my knee for that.”
“Try it,” I say, chuckling.
Mary ascends the dais and leans to whisper in Anne’s ear. Anne’s eyes lock on mine for a moment, then she turns to King Henry. They confer for a moment, and the English king gestures to us with an open hand. We stand before the dais, aware that all eyes are glued on us. Fagin and I offer our best curtsies in deference to both kings.
As I look up into King Henry’s eyes, anger sends a scorching trail of bile up my throat.
“And you are...?” The king asks.
“Clémence Arseneau, Your Majesty.” My mouth feels dry. Reflexively, I lick my lips. “Allow me to introduce my mother, Madame Fagin Delacoix.”
“Fagin is a curious name, Madame,” Henry says. “How came you by it?”
“A pet name given by my father, Your Majesty.”
I toss a curious glance over my shoulder at my mentor. Fagin knows everything about me and I know so very little about her; even her true name is a mystery to me. I talk and she pretends to listen, but never offers a glimpse of the real woman behind the austere, professional veneer. When asked something as simple and innocuous as the brand of her signature high-gloss crimson lipstick, the reply is usually, “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
There’s an awkward silence. King Henry commands her gaze, all but willing a truthful answer from her, but Fagin offers only a Cheshire cat smile. Clearly, she’s in no mood to reveal any of her secrets.
“Well, Madame Fagin, if that is how you wish to be addressed,” Henry says. “My sweetheart tells me that you are the purveyors of this Miracle Madeira.” He holds his goblet aloft in salutation. “We commend you for providing such excellent drink for our feast.”
“More importantly,” Lady Anne cuts in, “my sister says you offered a great service in coming to her rescue, and my defense, when she was accosted earlier. We are grateful for your friendship.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Majesties,” I say, swallowing the bitterness sitting at the back of my throat. “My mother and I are humbled and grateful for the privilege of serving the wine tonight.”
“It is a most exquisite drink. Its equal I have tasted nowhere before,” King Henry says. “Truly one-of-a-kind.”
“We would be most happy to bring our wine to your court, sir,” I say. “A more perfect way to herald your new queen I cannot imagine.”
Anne peers at me, barely suppressing the smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She seems pleased we’re acknowledging her as Henry’s queen, but I know she’s been privy to many backroom conversations questioning her legitimacy to trust anyone on a first meeting. There is hesitant skepticism behind her eyes.
“What do you say to this request, sweetheart?” Henry asks. “I know how fond you are of all things French. Would you enjoy having this mademoiselle as one of your ladies?”
Anne looks me over, head to toe, before speaking. “Mary tells me they are clever and have many artistic talents. Tell me, mademoiselle, what employment can you offer in return for an invitation to our court? Everyone who attends me has some talent to offer.”
After dozens of Sim Lab etiquette and historical lessons—the endless chivalric games and politics simulations—I know the perfect, honeyed flattery Anne loves. “I offer all of myself to Your Majesty in whatever employment you think suitable.”
She gives me a tolerant smile. “Yes, but what particular talents have you to offer in my service?”
“I can offer talents in many leisurely entertainments, my lady. Singing, dancing.”
“My sister tells me you write poetry and compose riddles,” Anne says. “I’m very good at riddles. Do you have one that would challenge me?”
“Yes,” King Henry says. “Tell us a riddle. If it’s clever enough, you shall have a position as lady-in-waiting.”
He looks to Anne, who gives him a wide-eyed look in return. She whispers to the king. He whispers back and she nods what appears to be grudging approval.
Courtiers jostle for better positions in the crowd so they can hear and see. As a time traveler who has assimilated into dozens of cultures, in many time frames—not to mention a thief who’s had to talk her way out of trouble after being caught in the act—I like to think my performances rival any classically trained actress. This should be a piece of cake. “Very well,” I say. “Are you clever enough to solve this puzzle?”
“One lady conquers her foes on the board, her lord’s life to secure;
A second plays her hand with her love on her sleeve ‘til a suit of four be procured.
A third leads her fellows when they are abuzz, and their insults mightily sting;
Pray, what in common have each of these ladies when fortune kisses the ring?”
“Did I not tell you, sister?” Lady Mary says. “She is so clever, we must have her at court.”
“We shouldn’t be so hasty, sister,” Anne says, admonishing Mary with a sober look. “We must first know the riddle’s answer to see if it is, indeed, clever. What is the answer, Mademoiselle Clémence?”
“I’m sure a great mind such as Your Majesty’s will unravel the mystery,” I say, offering what I hope is my most flattering smile. “If not, then I shall tell you after you bring us to England.”
A collective gasp ripples from one end of the room to the other. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fagin glaring at me. If it were possible for steam to rise from a human head, Fagin would be a smokestack of frustration and irritation. The room exhales when both kings and the would-be queen roar with laughter.
“Methinks she has, indeed, offered a great challenge to you, my lady,” King Henry says, kissing Anne on the cheek. “Come, sweetheart. Let’s find the answer together.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Anne says. She repeats the first line of the riddle. “One lady conquers her foes on the board, her lord’s life to secure.” She nibbles her lower lip as she thinks; her eyes sparkle. She lifts her chin and regards me with cool confidence. “In chess, which piece has the most power to protect her Lord, the king, from capture?”
Francois chuckles, then elbows Henry in the side. “The queen, of course.”
“Very good, majesty,” I say. “And the second lady who plays her hand with her love on her sleeve ‘til a suit of four be procured?” I raise a questioning brow, eyes drifting from one royal patron to the next.
King Henry’s eyes pop and he grasps Anne’s hand. “Perhaps the queen of hearts in a deck of playing cards.”
“Exactly.” I reward the correct answer with a flashing smile.
/> “Then, the final piece of the puzzle,” Anne juts her chin into the air, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. “A third leads her fellows when they are abuzz, and their insults mightily sting.”
I nod, my eyes locked on Anne. “And the last line?” Several seconds pass. Fagin walks to my side and loops her arm through mine.
“Perhaps, the last line refers to...” Anne pauses, considering. Then chuckles. “All of these ladies have one thing in common when fortune kisses the ring.” She lifts King Henry’s hand to her lips and plants a light kiss on his signet ring. “They are each a queen.”
“What a keen mind you have, Your Majesty,” I say. “You have guessed exactly right on every count.”
The room erupts in applause, as the royal party makes their way from the dais to the dance floor. Anne glows from the adulation. “You have won your prize, mademoiselle. You have a place with my ladies in our English court.”
“Dancing!” King Francois says, with a wave to the musicians. “We shall have more dancing!”
The music begins anew, and the royals make their way to the dance floor. Before the dance begins, I overhear Anne conspiring with her sister. “At the very least, this French beauty may be a great challenge to our brother’s wife, that little cur. It will be great entertainment to watch Jane squirm when we unleash Mademoiselle Clémence at court.”
As the sisters laugh over plans for their sister-in-law’s humiliation, Fagin hugs me tightly. “You did it, ma petit. There’s the Dodger I know and adore!”
“Well done, kiddo,” Nico says, echoing the sentiment.
I can’t revel in this first victory. My mind is stuck on the Boleyn sisters using me as their weapon of mass destruction against their sister-in-law. Is this arrogant enjoyment of domination just another family heirloom to be passed down like money, titles, and land? There’s no one here to stop them in their cruel games.