Thieves

by Lyn South

  “I’m going to check the Madeira and make sure a good amount makes its way to the head table,” Fagin says, then nods toward Lady Jane Seymour. “After that, I’ll start interviewing sweet Jane. Maybe she knows something.”

  “I’ll go make myself indispensable to What’s-Her-Name. Maybe I’ll peel her a grape or something,” I say, jerking a thumb toward Anne.

  Fagin throws a playful elbow jab to my ribs. “Get moving, kiddo.”

  Missions always have an element of déjà vu. Just like the days when I learned to be a pickpocket, it’s all just muscle memory. Practice a series of repetitive steps enough times, it becomes part of you.

  Beyond rehearsing the mission tasks—the meticulously choreographed steps of the action plan, critical to get the job done and get out alive—there’s a been-there, done-that feeling from the Sim Lab sessions that bleeds over into reality when I’m finally immersed in the mission.

  The taste of roast meats and jellied fruits served from silver platters with gilt edges are familiar, even comforting, because I’ve eaten them in the Sim Lab. The aromas floating through the room—everything from the acrid vapors of an extinguished tallow candle to the spicy-sweet citrus and herb pomanders people wear to stave off foul body odors—are familiar, too.

  Legal Observers put their faith in the measure of comfort and security found in this familiar repetition. That view has always been foolish to me because there’s one variable no time traveler can control: the actions and choices of real people. The locals—the term used by Observers for indigenous folks—aren’t just study subjects, they’re also the monkey wrenches thrown into the works.

  I guess it’s different for Observers who always color within the mission’s boundary lines. They’re note-takers, dispassionately recording events with a clinical eye for facts alone. They don’t concern themselves with a local’s unexpected actions that might throw a carefully crafted plan off track. There are three hundred meticulously dressed, jewelry-laden, half-drunk monkey wrenches in this room. It’s going to be an interesting night.

  The atmosphere in the Great Hall is an odd mix of celebration and funeral dirge. Lady Anne’s supporters are giddy with their ascendancy into the political court stratosphere; those on Queen Katherine’s side mourn as though she’s already dead.

  Before I reach the dais where Anne and Henry are seated, I hear a slight hiss as I pass a small cluster of disgruntled-looking courtiers.

  “Jezebel.” The woman’s voice is faint, but I’d recognize that word—so pregnant with fully gestated, holier-than-thou judgment—whether it’s shouted from the rooftops or whispered as softly as a prayer at Mass. Many refined, respectable matriarchs in polite New Orleans society hurled that—and worse—at wayward women in the French Quarter when I was a kid.

  Then, as now, judgment makes my stomach churn.

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” a male voice says. “Lest you get us both thrown into the tower.”

  Stealing a glance over my shoulder, only the backs of two heads are visible as a bald man clutches a woman’s arm as he steers her away toward the back of the room. At the front of the room, the king occupies the monarch’s chair of estate beneath a crimson canopy with gold fringe. Lady Anne sits next to him in a smaller chair.

  “We’re missing some courtiers,” Fagin’s voice says.

  I turn around and walk backward a few steps, searching for her tall, elegant frame. I spot her across the room, approaching Jane Seymour. She pauses and cranes her neck around as she surveys the gathering. “I don’t see the Duke of Suffolk.”

  “How could Charles Brandon not be here? He’s the King’s best friend,” I say.

  “Good question. Guess who else isn’t here?”

  “Aside from Suffolk, everyone who’s anyone seems to be here. The French and Venetian ambassadors are over to your left, gorging themselves on appetizers,” I say. Fagin looks to her left and nods as she spots the pair helping themselves to candied fruit from one of dozens of gilded platters. “The ambassador from Flanders is chatting up the Dukes of Norfolk and Surrey over to your right. And the biggest threat in the room is Anne’s brother. He’s right behind you.”

  Fagin’s shoulders sag at the prospect of fending off Mr. Hands. She sighs in relief as George Boleyn brushes past her and, his eyes locked on mine, saunters toward me. His curled upper lip — his exaggerated, gross idea of sexy — turns my stomach.

  “Shit.” I move toward the dais, hoping I can outpace him getting to Anne before he catches up to me.

  “Chapuys,” Fagin says, finishing her thought. “Ambassador Chapuys of Spain isn’t here.”

  “He attended the same mass as Henry and Lady Anne this morning, but it was probably by accident and certainly more for his own devotions rather than a show of support for Anne. That’s probably as much as he could stand for the day. He’s thumbing his nose at the king by not being here, but Henry won’t risk open war with the Emperor of Spain by banishing Chapuys from court over it. Given the circumstances, you can hardly blame the Emperor’s man for not blasting a celebration trumpet.”

  “Just letting you know some important courtiers MIA. No telling how these slights will affect Henry and Anne’s mood tonight, so proceed with caution.”

  “Roger.”

  Lady Anne laughs. It’s a hearty, full-throated sound that resonates from deep within her chest. Everyone around her joins in. It doesn’t seem manufactured or perfunctory. It’s raucous, infectious, genuine joy for Team Anne.

  She catches sight of me as I negotiate through several clusters of courtiers and smiles, beckoning me to her side. I pause in front of the table and offer a curtsey to both her and the king.

  “Come here, mademoiselle,” she says, waving me to join her on her side of the table. “I wish you nearer to me.” She motions for her sister-in-law, who stands behind her left shoulder, to move.

  Lady Rochford stands her ground and communicates her disapproval with a dismissive ‘tsk.’ Anne turns in her chair and looks Jane up and down; her dark eyes narrow. Jane blinks and takes several steps backward to make room for me.

  “You look ravishing tonight, your grace. There isn’t a woman here who can compare.” Flattering Anne is an exercise in self-control: sound convincing without crossing the line into sycophant. At least I’m not lying about the dress. It looks similar to the

  “What a jewel you are. Every day you become dearer to me.” Anne grabs my hand and presses it against her cheek. “If only you could be another star in Constellation Boleyn, it would be a happy circumstance for my family. Alas,” she glares over her shoulder at Jane, who stares at her feet, not willing to return the look. “I have but one brother and he already has a wife.”

  “You honor me, madam. The gift of Master Holbein’s limning was generous enough.” I run my fingers over the locket around my neck. Anne frowns at me. “Joining your family would be...” I’m trying to think of a better word than loathsome. “A greater honor than I deserve.”

  “It would also be quite scandalous,” King Henry scoots his chair back a few inches, so he can see me. His smile is mischievous. He seems to enjoy stirring the pot. “Think of it. A French woman as my sister. Francois would be steeped in agony at the prospect of French blood so close to the throne of England and, yet, it’s not his own.”

  “Don’t tease sweet Clémence, my love. We must keep her as our friend even though she cannot be our sister. You still have your limning,” Anne says, staring at my locket. “The portrait is not meant to keep, dear one. It’s meant to give away. How can you do that if there is no one to give it to?”

  “One day, I may find someone who is worthy of it. Does the king have your limning in his keeping?”

  Before she can answer, King Henry distracts Anne with a conspiratorial stage whisper. “If we are to make her happy, and keep her at court, then she must have a husband.”

  “Oh... Ohhh. I thank your majesty, but it’s not necessary.” The king gapes at me like I’ve just thrown a rare diamon
d back in his face. Think fast. Think fast. Think fast. “Forgive me, sir. I have no thoughts for my own advancement, only desires to serve your majesties.”

  “Nice save,” Nico says. “And, if I’m not mistaken, that was strike one on finding this damn portrait.”

  Slightly mollified that my profession of loyal servitude is the reason for the refusal, his face softens. He leans toward the other end of the table and whispers something to a steward who scuttles off to do whatever it is the king has commanded. He leans back in his seat and returns to me. “You would be the first in history to ignore your own elevation, mademoiselle.” he says. “Still, you should not deny yourself the pleasures of our court whilst here.”

  “I find pleasure in my lady’s company, sire,” I say. “And in the company of other ladies who attend her.”

  “By Saint George,” the king says, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Do you have the perfect answer for everything I say?”

  His gaze flits over my body, lingering on my décolletage a few seconds longer than necessary. His lips part just a smidge before capturing his lower lip between his teeth. When he raises his attention to my face, there’s a flash of lust.

  Oh.

  His greed dissolves as quickly as it sprang up—good thing, too, because Anne is sitting less than a foot away from him—but for a moment, it was there.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I smile back. “I do.”

  Across the room, a phantom violin begins to play a lively tune. The source of the music, hidden from view by the throngs of attendees, moves through the crowd, growing louder the closer it gets. In front of the dais, the crowd parts like Moses himself is commanding them. Through the gap, the musician appears.

  Tall, lean, and scruffily bearded, he beams at Lady Anne, who squeals and claps in the time with the country dance rhythm.

  “That’s Mark Smeaton,” Nico says. “Musician and Hang on, I’ll pull up his file.”

  Lady Anne jumps to her feet, grabs me by the wrist, and pulls me onto the long, narrow dance floor space in the middle of the hall. Elegant courtiers dance around me in a rainbow swirl of damask, silk taffeta, and velvet. “You will enjoy yourself. I command it,” she says, pushing me into a set of strong arms and, suddenly, I’m being whirled around the floor.

  I look up into the face of my partner, and it’s Anne’s brother, George.

  Merde. No easy way to get out of this without causing offense.

  These English dance patterns are confusing. Boleyn turns left when he’s supposed to turn right. He pulls me forward when it looks like he should circle around me. He causes me to stumble more than once.

  Fagin joins the dance and maneuvers next to me. “What are you doing?” she asks with a tight smile. If she clenches her teeth any harder, she might snap a molar in two.

  “What does it look like? I’m dancing.”

  “Smartass.” She circles to the right with her partner, and on the next pass in my direction, she leans in again. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Can’t do much without more intel,” I say. It would be trouble to rummage through the royal apartments with zero idea of where the limning might be kept.

  Mark changes tunes and tempos, and Lady Anne leads the revelers through the choreography filled with complicated kicks and skips and leaps. I kick George in the shins twice and he smiles through gritted teeth.

  “You call that dancing?” Nico says with a snicker. “Looks like you’re wrestling him for the best two out of three.”

  “Fuck off,” I say under my breath.

  “Is that an invitation, mademoiselle?” George says with his trademark sliminess. He pulls me into him, and gives my right boob a vigorous squeeze.

  “Sir, you are too bold,” I say, prying his fingers from my chest.

  “But, you said—”

  “I’m French. I say a lot of things.”

  “When this is all over,” Nico says, his voice is rich and seductive in my ear. “We’ll take a trip to 1943, and I’ll teach you to Lindy Hop. I won a dance marathon at an officer’s club once. If anyone can teach you to dance, it’s me.”

  “My dancing isn’t that bad.”

  “Yes, my love. It is.”

  A tall, elegant man with tousled, sandy-colored hair moves between us, forcing George to step back or be stepped on. “Mademoiselle Clémence, I believe you have promised this dance to me.”

  “Wyatt.” George Boleyn says, “This dance is mine. Go back to your poetry.”

  “The lady has had quite enough of your charm,” Sir Thomas Wyatt says with a thinly veiled smirk. He whisks me away from Boleyn with a smooth, graceful turn before the lecher can protest more.

  An hour later, the dancers show no sign of slowing down, but Fagin’s blood pressure has likely raised by twenty points waiting for Nico to give the green light to search the king’s chambers.

  Still emboldened by what he thought was an invitation to my bed, George tries to cut in on Sir Thomas Wyatt three more times. Luckily, Wyatt resists. I can’t tell whether his unwillingness to part with me is because I’m captivating company or he just wants to frustrate Boleyn’s efforts to get what he wants.

  Fagin has extricated herself from the group by feigning breathlessness. She waves off her partner and retreats to one corner where she can see the whole room. Still panting from the exertion, Fagin says, “Nico, tell me you’ve got something. We can’t be stuck here all night.”

  “Not yet. Still searching through the footage from the hidden cameras installed throughout the palace. We don’t have a camera in the royal apartments. If Lady Anne gave him the portrait miniature in those rooms, we won’t be able to see it.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose there’s time for Dodger to search both rooms tonight.”

  “It would be tough,” she replies. “The royals are night owls; retiring for the night usually occurs somewhere between eleven o’clock and midnight. I’m not sure there’d be enough time to get in and out of both royal apartments before everyone goes to bed.”

  Dodger would have a hell of a time explaining to Anne why she’s in Henry’s bedroom if she’s caught there.”

  “It’s well after nine o’clock now. I’ll keep looking.”

  There’s a muted voice on the periphery of my attention, like an echo in an empty, cavernous room. It’s only when Thomas Wyatt pulls me out of the dance circle and leans in close, his eyes boring into me, that I realize he’s talking to me.

  “Mademoiselle. I asked if you require assistance. Rochford is, for lack of a more polite term, a libertine. If he harasses you further, I am at your disposal to—”

  “Thank you for the kind offer, Sir Thomas. I can manage George Boleyn on my own. I am quite used to fending for myself.”

  He sighs. “Is it difficult for you here? A French woman in our court? Do you have many problems with my countrymen pressing their advantage?”

  It would be a bad idea to tell him that Lady Anne, herself, is responsible for pushing me into her brother’s arms. “For the most part, everyone has been welcoming, and Lady Anne has been very accommodating of me and my mother since we’ve arrived. She is a generous mistress.”

  “Aye. Generous,” he says with a small laugh. “She is that.”

  “She gave me this locket. Isn’t it beautiful?” I glance down at the ornament around my neck and open it to show the treasure within. “There’s a portrait of me inside. Lady Anne wants me to find a lover so I can give it to him as a token of my undying love and affection.”

  “Master Holbein’s work.”

  “It is. All of the ladies have one. I confess to being quite at odds over whether I want to fall in love or not. It seems quite a painful exercise for most women of my acquaintance.”

  With a small, sad smile, he looks askance at Lady Anne, who is entwined in Henry’s arms. “It’s often painful for men, too.”

  “Ah, well, the course of true love never did run smooth.”

  He looks back at me with wide-eyed appreciation. �
�That’s rather good. Are you a poet, too, mademoiselle? I’ve heard you have a clever wit.”

  “Not a poet on the same level of skill and talent as you are, sir. Take it. It’s yours.”

  “Are you certain, mademoiselle? There are one or two pieces of my current work where a sentiment such as that would fit well.”

  “I insist.”

  Nico cuts in. “I can’t believe you just quoted the Bard to Thomas Wyatt. What if Shakespeare never writes anything because you gave his work to Wyatt?”

  “Back to work, Garcia.” Fagin says, countering the intrusion. “We’re on a deadline, here.”

  Ignoring both of them, I keep my attention on Sir Thomas. “Poetry is the language of l’amour courtois. Had you stayed in France after the royal visit to Calais, you would have done very well with my countrywomen.”

  “The ladies of the French court are lovely. Alas, my home is here. I don’t think I could leave it for long.” His gaze flits, once again, to Anne.

  “I think what you are saying is that you couldn’t leave the one who gave you a limning as a token of undying love and affection. Perhaps it is someone you cannot have?”

  He catches on that I’m looking in Anne’s direction, and bristles at the implication. He diverts his attention to the dancers, clearing his throat several times before speaking. “I have no such token from anyone, not even from my wife. She and I are...well...” he pauses and gives me a similar sideways glance, “not on good terms.”

  “That is a shame, sir, because you seem to be a true and loyal friend any woman would be glad to have as a lover.”

  His muscles grow more tense, causing his shoulders to inch up further toward his ears. He takes a deep breath. “You are very kind, mademoiselle. The woman I love is lost to me now. Sometimes we must bear our longing and pain in silence, for there is nothing else to be done.”

  He still loves her. This could be useful.

  “Perhaps, your lost love still longs for you, too?”

  “I doubt it. She now occupies a station that is so far above me, that—” he catches himself, seemingly embarrassed—or maybe fearful—that he’s said too much. “It’s enough to say she is lost to me. I also have the consolation that loving her has inspired my work.”