26

THE UPROAR OVER THE DANISH VISIT REACHES AN INTOLERABLE pitch. The prospect of a tournament makes the men insatiable in the practice of their war games, as evidenced by the constant clangor of metal and shatter of wood from the practice grounds. The women buzz and twaddle over gowns and silks and gossip—the nonessential commodities of court life relegated to the female realm.

The court becomes oppressive, and I begin to reconsider the appeal of Wyatt’s teasing offer to hide me away in the country. I laugh at the idea as I slip down the stairs of the donjon and across the inner courtyard, hoping for a moment alone. The conduit burbles, but I still hear the knock of boots on stone behind me.

At the little gallery that leads to the middle courtyard I stop and turn. James Butler is practically on top of me.

“What are you doing?” The brutality in his voice is evident, but I refuse to back down and I won’t step away from him.

“Exactly as I please.”

My voice wobbles much less than my legs.

“You flirt with the whole damned court.” His voice is roupy, ratcheting out of his throat.

“Not with you.”

“That’s what I mean!” he shouts. I take a step back and glance quickly through the gallery to the empty courtyard beyond. No one else is in sight. “You should not be flirting with anyone. For soon you will be engaged to me. You will be my wife.”

“But we are not engaged.” Nor will we be. If I can help it.

“Letters crossed Wolsey’s desk this morning. Your father will be here any day. The Irish lords are pressing for my return. We will be married by the end of summer.”

My fingers grow cold and I rub them hard against my skirts to warm them. Summers in England are short.

“You speak as though you already know the outcome of your life.” I clear my throat to steady my voice. “But don’t we rely upon God and the king to bring these things about?”

“Wolsey knows the fates of men better than the king.”

It’s true. Wolsey is a puppet master, pulling all of our strings.

“It will happen,” Butler says, and I feel his presence as surely as I feel my breath. “And you will change your ways. If you don’t, even I won’t want to marry you.”

“So I should hide myself away like a nun in a convent because your father may agree to this marriage? Or maybe I should just wait until I grow old and undesirable and then truly join a convent.”

“You’ll never be a nun.”

“At least we agree on something.”

Butler grabs me by the shoulders. “I will not hear that you are Wyatt’s doxy. Or find your brother in your bed!”

I see a flash of memory: Butler outside the maids’ room.

“Bedchamber,” I correct him. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Butler shakes me so hard my neck hurts.

“You are nothing without me,” he shouts, frustration straining his voice into the higher registers. “Nothing!”

I open my mouth to speak, to argue, to contradict, but I’m cut off by a rising shriek that echoes across the cobbles.

“How dare you!”

A tiny ball of deep-blue fury flings itself past me and straight at Butler’s chest. Jane Parker beats at his arms with pale fists. Her hood is askew, strands of hair flying like witches’ wings.

“How dare you?” she howls again, sounding like a madwoman.

Butler covers his face with crossed arms, releasing me from his grip. I take a step back. Jane looks like a weasel attacking a bear, leaping and stretching, the big beast reduced to terror at the surprise of her onslaught.

It would be laughable under other circumstances.

But fighting in court is forbidden and can cost the instigator a hand—or a head—so I grab Jane from behind, avoiding her flailing elbows, and pull. She steps hard on my slipper, the heel of hers digging into my instep, and I stumble.

The two of us fall backward, a tangle of skirts and pearls, to the damp cobbles of the walkway. She lands on me, heavier than she looks.

My chest collapses and a stopper is put into the bottle of my lungs. Everything tightens. My face strains with the effort to squeeze a tiny bit of air back into my body. Helplessness makes me rigid.

Jane rolls off me and turns, panting. When she sees my face, hers goes pale.

“Butler?” she cries. “What’s wrong with her?”

James Butler has disappeared. He left us when we fell. Probably ashamed to be terrorized by a mere girl.

“Anne!” Jane kneels beside me, cradling my head in her hands.

I gasp, a long, low, whining sound. My chest heaves, my stomach with it. I might vomit. I turn to the cobbles, retching.

“I’m so sorry.” Jane strokes my hair away from my face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I wonder manically if Wyatt would rebuke me for apologizing in a similar situation.

I struggle to draw another breath, and discover that this time, it is a little bit easier. This gives me courage, and I nod faintly at Jane to let her know I understand that she meant only to protect me.

Little, mousy Jane Parker rushing to my rescue.

My third breath gives me enough air to wheeze out a laugh.

“Oh! You’re breathing!” She starts to cry.

I push myself into a sitting position and find myself patting her back. Comforting my comforter. The air comes more easily into my lungs and I feel the blood return to my face. Delicately, I touch my ribs, hoping nothing is broken. But the rigidity of my bodice seems to have protected me.

“He just made me so angry!” Jane sobs.

“He has that effect,” I croak. “You knocked the breath out of me. I think I’ll live.”

She wipes her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“I can’t believe you have to marry him.”

“I won’t if I can help it.” I reach out to adjust her hood. A French one. “I’ll marry someone else.”

“Someone you choose?” Jane asks. “A love match?”

I think of Percy and wonder if love enters the equation.

“I would like to have a choice. Or at least some control.”

“And your family will honor that?” The hope in Jane’s voice is heartbreaking.

“My father only wishes to use me for leverage,” I tell her, “and thinks my only goal should be to better my family.”

“So . . .” Jane pauses and bites her nail. “What makes you think you can make a difference?”

I think of how a few months before, I had no friends. I was an outcast sitting on the fringes of the court. Now I may not be on top, as Wyatt wants, but I am certainly somewhere in the middle. Closer to the royal circle. I have made a difference already—escaped some of the restraints that bound me—with Wyatt’s help.

“I hope we have more control than we are led to believe.” I stand up shakily. “Perhaps I can circumvent my father’s wishes. Use my own leverage.”

I demonstrate by leaning back to pull her up.

“I have to believe that what I want matters, Jane,” I tell her. “And what I think.”

“And whom you love.” Jane’s voice is thick with thought. Then she brightens.

“Anne, are you my friend?”

I stare at her. The directness of her question startles me, because it had never occurred to me to question our friendship. Not like Wyatt’s.

“Never mind.” Jane shakes her head. “It’s ridiculous. I’m too quiet. I never speak. I just watch. That makes people nervous. They can’t stand to be watched. It makes them feel judged. Anyone who has done anything remotely wrong always feels judged badly.”

“That covers just about everybody at court.”

“I know! Which is why no one likes me.”

“I like you,” I say, giving her arm a squeeze. “Of course we’re friends.”

She smiles weakly. “I’m nothing like you and George.”

“That can be a good thing. We both tend to speak before we think. Not always an ideal quality.”

“But you’re both so vivacious. And elegant. Everyone follows you. George is the most talked-about man at court. And everyone is madly trying to copy your French hoods.” She touches her fingers to the exposed hair at the edge of her own.

“What about the Duchess of Suffolk?”

Jane pulls her mouth down.

“The Duchess of Suffolk is more of an enemy than a friend. She only pretends to be nice to someone if she can laugh at her afterward and then speak against her. They’re all like that. That entire crowd.”

“At least I know you’ll never speak against me.”

“How is that?”

“Because, by your own admission, you never speak.”