by Lyn South
“I’m flattered, my Lady Marquess, and confess to being quite confused,” I say. “I’ve done nothing to earn this gift.”
“It was my suggestion,” Mary Boleyn says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “My sister planned these gifts for her ladies to celebrate her triumph in Calais.” She wraps her arms around Anne’s shoulders and squeezes. “Since you have an honored position in our circle, I knew you should have one, too.”
I feel the weight of the stares from the other ladies-in-waiting. They’ve not been warm and welcoming, but I’m not here to be their best friend. It’s clear from their side-eye glares and subtle sighs of disgust, they don’t consider me worthy of a gift from their queen. I don’t care what they think. This Holbein original is worth bank to a collector back home.
“Mary was quite insistent that you be included,” Anne says. “When storms over the channel delayed our return to England, I asked Master Holbein to make good use of the time to paint your likeness as discreetly as possible. He only finished his work yesterday.”
I noticed the bearded, block-faced artist leering at me over the two weeks we spent waiting for the weather to clear so we could sail to England. His stalker behavior was creepy, and I intended to put a well-placed knee into his groin. Fagin nixed the idea since clobbering the king’s favorite artist might get us banished from court.
“I’m surprised Master Holbein was agreeable in observing me under such conditions,” I say, turning the exquisite necklace over in my palm. “He doesn’t seem the kind of man who relinquishes control of his artistic environment.”
“He did grumble about the circumstances. When we arrived at Dover Castle, he demanded that you either sit for him or he wouldn’t complete the work,” Lady Anne says. “As a compromise, we asked your mother’s help in providing a reasonable likeness of you so Master Holbein could finish the painting by the time we arrived here at Greenwich.”
I turn to Fagin who shrugs. “I remembered that beautiful charcoal rendering the Spanish artist drew for your birthday.” She fidgets a bit. She knows how I feel about surprises.
“I don’t recall that one,” I reply, folding my arms in a tight knot across my chest.
When the hell did Nico have time to—
“I can draw every curve of you from memory.” Nico’s voice buzzes through the earpiece, answering my thoughts. “Don’t worry. I filtered this transmission. You’re the only one who can hear me.”
“For your sake, mademoiselle, we shall forgive your mother’s ill choice of patronage with a Spaniard.” Anne wrinkles her nose and her dramatic black eyes flash. No doubt, her thoughts are on the Spaniard impeding her path to the throne which doesn’t dispose her kindly toward any Spaniard.
“I would like to know the artist’s name, so I can thank him for his part in this...surprise.” Actually, I’d like to throttle him. Did I mention that I hate surprises?
Nico picks up on my annoyance and returns the volley, a laugh tucked inside his wry commentary. “I’m shaking in my boots. Remind me to faint when you get back.”
I play along like a good soldier. “Offering a simple ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem adequate for this treasure, but thank you both,” I say, offering a curtsey. From the depths of this obeisance, I glimpse the item Lady Anne holds as it slips through her fingers. She catches the leather cord before the thing drops to the floor.
A ripple of adrenaline makes my breath catch in my chest, and I have the sudden urge to scratch the itch in my palms. It’s Anne’s portrait miniature, the one Trevor added to the acquisition list. Lady Anne’s silver locket, when shut, forms a seamless closure beneath the lapis lazuli cabochon—so blue it’s almost black—embedded in the locket in a way that allows it to straddle both sides of the locket wings when closed.
“Your locket is exquisite, my lady. Is there also a limning inside?”
“There is,” she says as she slides her fingertips around the rim of the silver filigree edging and flips a tiny hidden latch. The locket opens to reveal the famous Anne Boleyn portrait—the red dress, pearls, and the “B” initial necklace she wears now.
The necklace is an intricate puzzle that mimics a solid piece of jewelry; one would never know there is a portrait miniature inside unless you knew how to open it.
“It’s a present for the king,” she says. “I’m giving it to him tonight at the banquet.”
Anne’s ladies-in-waiting squeal over their own limnings and plot which eligible bachelor will receive their portraits as precious tokens of courtly love. Some of the prospects elicit eager sighs, confirming the target’s desirable status. Others induce lectures from the older women for their more rakish and questionable attributes. When Grace Parker jokingly suggests Will Somers — the King’s fool — as the only acceptable choice of romantic suitor for a discerning noblewoman, visions of the jester in his parti-colored tunic, hose and floppy, three-horned hat, unleash gales of laughter.
Lady Margaret Douglas wipes tears from her eyes. “Take care that Master Somers doesn’t aim his sharp tongue at you for those words, my dear.”
“Nonsense. Being a merry and pleasant fellow, he may take liberties without offense.” Grace selects a fig from a platter of dried fruits. “His humor is done with such goodwill that if the King himself is not displeased by his jests, it’s impossible for anyone else to truly be injured by him. Except, perhaps, the Spanish ambassador.” She frowns in disapproval. “He was quite churlish when Will teased him.” She twists her face into an exaggerated impression of the comic — cheeks puffed out, eyes wide and wild — only inches from Madge Shelton’s face. “Sir, what say ye with your fat face?”
Madge screeches and turns away, laughing. “I shall tell Master Somers that you swoon for him. You can give him your likeness so he may dream on it every night,” she teases, and a spirited game of keep-away—with Grace’s locket as the prize—begins. Madge tosses it to the other side of Lady Anne’s temporary privy chamber. Anne Gainsford elbows a sullen Jane Rochford out of the way to catch it.
Grace dashes around the room in vain attempts to intercept the next throw as the locket flies from hand-to-hand. When it lands with Jane Seymour, she takes pity on the poor victim and returns the necklace.
“My ladies.” Anne pokes Madge Shelton in the ribs. “Give your treasure to one worthy of its value. Villains will only break your hearts and sully your reputations.”
“Which treasure do you mean, madam?” Madge replies with a breathless giggle. “I can think of more than one.”
“Virtue is the treasure you should protect,” Lady Margaret cautions. “It’s more valuable than any else you possess.”
Eyes collectively roll, but no one dares contradict her. Cheekiness with this elder stateswoman of the court is cause for dreadful lectures and shorter leashes to curb bad behavior.
“Lady Douglas is a stern taskmaster, but she means well,” Lady Anne shoots a teasing look at Lady Margaret, who exhales a soft pffft in response. “Master Holbein took so long with each painting, I worried these gifts for a job well done in France may become gifts on a more significant occasion.” She makes a great show of selecting the perfect dried date from the silver tray and plops it into her mouth.
“Sister.” Mary Boleyn’s eyebrows fly up into her hairline. “Have you news to share? Do you speak of your coronation?”
Lady Anne notes that I still hold my necklace while everyone else wears theirs. She sweeps my hair to one side and secures my locket in place around my neck. I feel her breath on my skin as she whispers in my ear.
Fagin studies me intently; I can tell she’s trying to work out whether I’m on my game or if she’ll have to do damage control from whatever outburst might be coming.
My blood runs cold. It’s not Anne’s words that hit me with the force of a tsunami; it’s the arrogance bleeding through them like a toxic red tide. Her hubris is overwhelming.
All eyes are on me and I have a choice: lose my shit and strangle her where she stands or play the trusted ally, keeper o
f secrets. Out of pure self-preservation, I choose the latter, forcing laughter so deep and raucous that I cry real tears. I wonder if they can tell it’s all just an act.
“What is it?” several voices demand at once, laughing in earnest because I’m still cackling and the sound is infectious.
“Le falcon doit consommer le grenadier.” I repeat Anne’s words in sputtering gasps. That part—the wracked breathlessness stemming from disbelief mingled with grief—isn’t an act, but everyone seems willing to think the mania is still laughter.
Fagin, still watching me, moves to stand at my side and digs her fingernails into my shoulder. A silent admonition to pull myself together.
Mouths drop open. There are blank stares. “The falcon shall consume the pomegranate,” I say, translating for those whose French is weak.
Lady Anne smiles and settles into a chair upholstered in crimson and gold. When she asks for a footstool, Madge fetches a red velvet pouffe, and carefully arranges it under her feet. Among the ladies-in-waiting, flickers of recognition begin to spread.
“By the time the king and his lords finish their tour of the coastal fortifications the servants at Greenwich will be done replacing that Thin Old Woman’s pomegranate and crown badge with my white falcon holding a scepter,” Anne says.
Her message is clear: Change is coming. She will displace her rival as Queen of England. A mixture of confusion, shock, and excitement buzzes through the chamber as Anne defers any more questions.
“When the time comes, you’ll know all there is to know.” She smiles and I want to strangle her all the more.
“I think Lady Anne’s pronouncements are a bit premature,” Nico says. “Her coronation doesn’t occur until the end of May next year. She must be talking about the wedding to King Henry or she’s referencing when her child is conceived, which, according to historical holograms, both occur around Christmas.”
“Christmas,” I say, murmuring under my breath. “Doesn’t give me much time.”
There’s a brief silence on the other end of the CommLink. “Enough time for what?” Nico asks.
“Nothing,” I say, murmuring again.
“Dodger?” His voice is more urgent, more concerned.
“Shh. I’m thinking.”
The door to Anne’s privy chamber swings open and George, the eldest Boleyn sibling, sweeps into the room trailed by two servants bearing more food and wine. He’s handsome enough, but the way he leers at the women attending his sister makes me feel like something slimy is dripping down my arm.
“Lord Rochford. Great. Watch his hands,” Nico says. “I saw some footage of him with a few of the French girls in Calais and let’s just say it’s not family viewing.”
I skirt around Anne and Mary, who move to greet their brother, but I’m not fast enough to escape him. He catches me around the waist and breathes into my ear. There’s the strong smell of wine on his breath. It’s not even noon yet.”
“Mademoiselle Clémence, leaving so soon? Every time I seek your company, you run the other way. If you keep avoiding me, I shall take offense.”
“You flatter me, Lord Rochford.” I say, attempting to wriggle free of his vise grip. “I’m a simple maid and not worthy of your attention.”
A tipsy laugh, ending in a high pitch squeal, escapes his throat as he buries his nose into my hair. George breathes heavily against my neck; the sickly sweetness of his breath makes me want to gag. Discreetly trying to free myself from his grasp isn’t working, and no help is in the offing from anyone else in the room.
“But I do fancy you, my girl,” he says. “Come, I’m sure my sister won’t mind if I spirit you away and entertain you with my poetry. But I must warn you, spend much time in my presence, and you may not maintain your honor for very long.”
“Fagin,” Nico says, a note of alarm in his voice. “You gonna take care of this or do I need to pay him a visit later?”
“I’ve got her,” Fagin says softly. She moves closer, keeping an eye on Boleyn’s hands. She can’t make any bold moves; it would risk flaring Anne’s temper.
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” I say, trying to calm Nico. Nico going rogue to defend my honor is the last thing we need.
“Our brother is quite handsome.” Anne’s flashes the kind of smile a bad influence gives as they talk you into doing something rash and stupid. “I think you would thoroughly enjoy his...poetry.”
Mary goes wide-eyed and a delighted gasp gushes out of her. “I agree. George should share his ‘poetry’ with our new friend. Then, she can tell us how she likes it; whether his words are slow and soothing or wickedly hard and— “
“Husband,” a stern voice chides from behind us. “Do you ever tire of making a public spectacle of yourself by molesting young maidens in full view of the entire court?”
George makes an awkward turn, with me still in his arms, to face his wife, Jane, Lady Rochford. “You forget yourself, madam. It’s you who are the public spectacle. A public spectacle of an albatross around my neck.”
Jane’s expression contorts, as though he has slapped her in the face. She manages a smile, but her reply is filled with venom. “Seek pleasure with this trollop, then. Or your sister, for all I care. Any of them can be in your bed tonight, because it won’t be me.”
“Both Mademoiselle Clémence and my sister would be more pleasant company than you, good wife.” His smile is a twisted, humorless thing devoid of any good will. He looks ready to spit in her face, but a more fitting verbal attack seems to have come to mind. “I will decide who is in my bed tonight. If I am feeling charitable enough, it may even be you.”
“Jane, this is only innocent banter and no cause for a public outcry,” Anne says. Whatever she had in mind about using me to make mischief between George and his wife, she apparently hadn’t bargained on a public confrontation between the two.
There’s cool determination in her eyes to get the scene under control before it escalates further. Anne steps closer so that only Jane, George, and I can hear. “George is only pursuing a friendship with Mademoiselle Clémence. Surely, you can see that.”
“I see very clearly, madam,” Jane says, indignation burning white-hot in her eyes. “It seems I am forever damned to mockery for your perverse entertainment. My position is unbearable and I have no stomach for it.”
Anne pauses, her eyes searching Jane’s for a sign she’ll back down. Knowing that everyone in the room is watching and, not seeing an inch of ground being given by her brother’s wife, she turns to her brother. “I think it’s best if you retire to your chambers, sweetheart.”
“Will you allow this cur to dictate—”
“It’s unwise to further provoke this matter further. Please.” Her eyes plead with him as she clutches his arm, “I will speak with you later.”
George tries to shrug Anne off, but she grips him tighter. “George,” she says firmly, accompanied by a severe look that brooks no further argument. “Now.”
He stumbles slightly as he pushes me away. He bows with mock flourish to Jane, who turns on her heels in flushed embarrassment and retreats to a corner of the room near Jane Seymour and the other ladies.
Thankfully, drunks have short attention spans. Lord Rochford mumbles something about finding better company elsewhere and staggers out of the room.
Two boys bearing more wine and food catch my eye. One bustles throughout the room with precise efficiency; his actions and demeanor are the result of years of royal service. He’s been all but invisible, carrying out his duties with minimal disruption.
The other servant, however, is conspicuous with his sloppy manners and inattention to detail. Moving at a snail’s pace, this boy’s orbit around the room is more languid than his peer’s. There are furtive glances over his shoulder, but not long enough to allow me to get a good look at his face.
I’d lay odds this servant is soaking up every bit of gossip he can to take back to the kitchens. Still, there’s something else. Something about the physical build
that’s softer and rounder than a teenage boy’s body should be.
“Come,” Lady Anne interrupts my thoughts, beckoning me to sit in a chair next to hers. “There’s been enough upheaval today. Let’s distract ourselves with another of Clémence’s riddles.”
“If you wish, Your Majesty.” If flattery is the main currency of the court, then I’m intent on making Anne a billionaire. “I have a challenging one for you tonight. Let’s see who is clever enough to answer this riddle.”
“My dress is silver, shimmering gray,
spun with a blaze of garnets.
I craze most men, rash fools I run on a road of rage,
and cage quiet determined men.
Why they love me — lured from mind
— stripped of strength, remains a riddle.
If they still praise my sinuous power when
they raise high the dearest treasure,
They will find, through reckless habit,
dark woe in the dregs of pleasure.”
Settling back into my seat, I let my fingers dangle over the arm of the chair and survey the room. “Who’s going to take the first guess?”
Madge chews a fingernail, her brows pinched in concentration. “Silver dress, shimmering gray, blaze of garnets,” she repeats. “A jewel?”
“No. It does sparkle like one, but it isn’t a jewel.”
“Crazes most men, making them rash fools,” Grace says, then shrugs one shoulder. “What crazes men most?”
“War,” says Lady Fitzwalter.
“Sport,” says Anne Saville.
“We do.” Lady Anne laughs, inducing giggling fits in the younger girls, and knowing nods from their elders.
“A woman, then.” Madge jumps from her seat, certain it’s the right answer.
“It sounds like our guest, doesn’t it?” Lady Rochford’s bloodshot eyes bore holes into me.
Of all the royal ladies, Jane Boleyn is the only one who hasn’t joined in the evening’s entertainment, choosing, instead, to continue sewing. She pulls her needle through the linen shirt, snapping the thread with the force of her last tug. She glances at the broken thread, then back at me. “I imagine you have run men’s wives by the wayside as well. Did you enjoy having my husband’s arms around you?”