31

THE BANQUET HALL ADJACENT TO THE TILTYARD IS LIT WITH countless candles, the shimmer reflecting off the gold plate in the buffet against the far wall. It gleams on the silver goblets on the table—gold is too good for a deposed monarch who tried to rid his country of the nobility.

As everyone is seated, there is a minor confusion at the end of the room. King Henry and Queen Katherine sit at the head on a dais, seen together for the first time in ages. King Christian sits to King Henry’s right. But then Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, is given precedence over Isabeau. The duchess, who was once married to the king of France, is seated higher than the queen of Denmark. Isabeau takes a step back from the table, causing a minor blockage in the flow of food and wine being carried from the kitchens. But she doesn’t say a word. She melts into her place like a farmer’s wife.

The Duchess of Suffolk preens, arranging her black velvet hood—of the French style, I notice—decorated in rubies and pearls. Her gown contains all the colors of a peacock, and seems quite fitting.

“Mutton dressed as lamb,” I mutter.

“Watch your tongue, Anne.”

I turn to see George beside me. Goblet in hand.

“As well as you watch your lance?” I ask him. “Jane was gutted when you trampled her kerchief.”

“She’ll recover.” George takes a drink and doesn’t look at me.

“She fancies you, George.”

“All she does is watch and judge. She sees everything and does nothing. It’s like being beneath the very gaze of God himself.”

“I don’t honestly think Jane has the ability to judge you quite so ferociously.”

“Oh, you don’t know what the judgment of girls can do to a man. You should talk to Wyatt.”

The Danish envoy stands to give a speech. His accent is lilting and somewhat soothing. I try to give him my attention. Try to ignore my brother.

“I think it’s the reason he moves so quickly from one girl to another.” George slings himself up off the wall and practically stands on my toes, leaning into me. “Why they say he is so experimental with his sexual appetites.”

Bile rises in my throat, but I keep my eyes fixed on the Danish envoy. Pretend I don’t hear. Pretend I don’t care.

“So unlike the boring, bland Henry Percy.”

George always knows what will hurt most. Like lashing a fresh wound.

“Not everyone can be like you, George. I wouldn’t want Percy to be.”

“What? Charming, well-dressed, and personable?”

“No. Drunken, womanizing, and rude.”

“Oh, Anne, you wound me.”

“Not deeply enough, it would seem.”

George is quiet for a moment. Takes another drink. Bends his head close to mine, his hair tickling my temples. And whispers.

“Father is coming home tomorrow.”

The tension plays out between us like a single, sustained note. The Danish envoy continues to drone on as the noise level rises around him. No one is listening.

No one will notice us.

George takes another drink from his goblet. Refills it from a leather flask he carries in his other hand.

“You’ll have to give them up, you know,” George says. “Your paramours. Norris.”

He pauses.

“Wyatt.”

Droplets of wine stand out on the fuzz on his upper lip. He slides his tongue over it to lick them off.

“But that will be a shame. Just when things were progressing so well.”

I glare at him. “What do you mean?”

“He knows how to keep you in line.”

“Keep me in line?” I barely manage to keep my voice below the volume of the droning Danish emissary.

“Oh, settle down, Anne. Rein yourself in.”

“No, I will not settle down. And don’t treat me as if I’m a dog or a horse. You have no right to speak to me that way.”

“I do if you’re a bitch or a nag.” George drains his goblet again, the laughter apparent in his eyes.

“You watch yourself, George Boleyn.”

“Or you’ll do what, Anne? Needlepoint me to death?”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re an outspoken harpy.”

“How dare you?”

“Father is away.”

My fists clench. “So that makes you brave?”

George pales, though I’m sure it’s more from anger than from fear. His voice drops a notch.

“It’s my job as the man of the family to make sure all the women act as they should.”

Another voice cuts in from behind me. “It appears to me you’re making her act just the opposite, George.”

The banquet returns to my consciousness with a flash, and George’s anger and surprise are quickly replaced by a laugh.

“Thank God you’re here, Wyatt. See if you can talk some sense into my sister.”

I can’t even look at Wyatt for thinking about his sexual appetites.

“See if you can put down your goblet for a minute and get yourself something to eat.” Wyatt tries to take it away from him.

George shakes him off, splashing wine on the floor and the skirts of the Danish waiting woman next to him. She huffs and moves away, catching my eye. I see something I understand there: a wish to be far, far away, back where she feels most comfortable. She’s been exiled from her home because of the political insanity of the men around her.

“Get off me, Wyatt.” George stumbles back, nearly knocking me down.

“I’m thinking of your own good.”

“I know what you’re thinking of,” George counters with a sneer. “And it’s certainly not my good. More like my arse.”

“Don’t, George.”

“Well, you don’t seem to be interested in women anymore. It’s the only logical conclusion. You can’t sweet-talk me or bully me or inveigle me like you do my sister. Though I have to say that whatever it is you’re doing with her finally seems to be working.”

Wyatt casts a quick look at me, his eyes wide with shock.

“He’s not doing anything with me!”

I step away from them both. Away from George’s insinuations and Wyatt’s sexual appetites.

“Oh, I don’t expect he’s sleeping with you.” George shudders obviously.

“Then what do you expect?”

“George—” Wyatt doesn’t move. His eyes are on me. Ashamed. He doesn’t want me. No matter what he says.

“I expect a little more deference from my baby sister.” George pushes me hard enough that I fall into Wyatt, who wraps his arms around me to keep me upright. The smell of night air and almonds engulfs me.

“Try a little harder, Wyatt.”

George turns away with a stumble, narrowly avoiding spilling the entire contents of his goblet over the poor Danish woman, who looks ready to scream or kill him. Or both.

“Excuse me, madam,” George says, doffing an invisible cap and bowing gracelessly over his shoes, his wine decorating her hem. She doesn’t move, frozen in horror. He raises his face and peers at her closely, only inches away from her nose. Her eyes grow more round and she leans backward, barely able to keep her feet below her.

“Yes,” George mutters. “Yes, a female. Despite the mustache. You nearly had me fooled.”

He clucks his tongue as if she’s been naughty and showily grabs her hand for a kiss. Then, with a flourish that nearly unbalances him, he staggers out the door. The woman sags with relief and wipes her hand furiously on her skirts. I pray she doesn’t understand English.

“Don’t listen to him,” Wyatt murmurs. His arms still encircle me. I want to lean back and rest my head against his chest. Breathe him in.

Instead, I release myself and speak without looking at him.

“He’s drunk. And he’s my brother. I never listen to him.”

“Probably for the best.”

I wish I could see his face. Something George said chafes the corner of my mind.

Wyatt takes my elbow and steers me away from the crowd. “He does speak the truth about one thing,” he whispers.

“What’s that?”

I hold my breath and look at him, his face so close to mine. He’s going to tell me his sexual appetites do lean toward men. He’s going to tell me I need reining in. He’s going to tell me—

“That woman does have quite a mustache.”