51

THE KING IS LIVID. FOLLOWING THE PAGEANT’S ANNOUNCEMENT, it is discovered that the siege engines he designed have been constructed incompetently. His martial fervor has been quashed by the ineptitude of English carpenters. Everything he hoped for has fallen apart. The carpenters flee before his wrath, and courtiers scramble to fill the void. Jesters. Musical entertainments. Gifts.

Christmas Day is celebrated beneath this cloud—a fog of waiting and desperation.

And then it is announced that the tournament is to go ahead as planned. On the day of another Saint Thomas: December 29, when Thomas Becket was murdered by the knights of a different King Henry for defying royal wishes. The siege of the castle will be postponed.

The morning dawns bright and cold. Frost tinges the trees and runs up the hill all the way to Duke Humphrey’s Tower. The cold makes the outlines of everything stark and hard-edged but subdues the colors to a wash—like silks left too long in the rain.

The castle stands to one side. Its walls of wood and fabric and the crenellated battlements, braced and whitewashed, are a simulation of invulnerability. But for today, that conception will remain unchallenged.

George sidles up to me shoulder to shoulder, looking in the same direction. I have not spoken to him. I will not speak to him.

“Ah, the imagery,” George sighs. “The Castle of Loyalty cannot be broken by any of the king’s devisings.”

I keep my silence.

“And the maidens it protects remain unspoiled.”

“I wonder, though,” he says, quietly enough that only I will hear. And I am lost in the wary darkness of his eyes. “Do its defenders realize the extent of the pretense? For virginity lost needs no protection.”

I turn on him, ready to do battle myself. I don’t care if the whole court watches. He sees my movement. His eyes go wide, and he takes a swift step back onto Jane.

“Ow!”

George spins and catches Jane before she falls. His grace is barely marred by his early-morning inebriation, and he manages to keep his balance and hers. Her fingers clench on the muscles of his arms and then she goes a little limp.

“I’m sorry,” she says, breathless.

“No, forgive me, fair damsel,” he says, tugs her upright, and braces her before stepping away.

Jane giggles.

He spins on his toe, back to us, ramrod straight.

“I go to survey your lodgings. Inspect your Castle of Virginity.”

Jane presses both hands across her mouth to disguise her giggles as shock.

He waves a dismissive hand at me and walks away. Jane watches every move he makes.

“He’s very charming.”

“He’s maddening.”

Jane studies George from beneath the gable of her hood. She looks the very model of the ingenue courtier, the virginal maid-in-waiting watching her knight on the field of battle, just like in a romantic ballad.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and stand next to her. I suppress an inward curl of pain, knowing she loves him, that the marriage agreement is signed. That she is consigned to her romantic fate that cannot—will not—end well. My brother is a lost cause. She says nothing. I say nothing. And we watch, shoulder to shoulder.

Suddenly the field goes silent. The men stop shouting. The women stop gossiping. Even the horses stop clanking their armor. All we can hear is the snap of the banners in the breeze.

The queen enters the viewing tower, and we bow as she makes her way to her gilded chair. She seems even more tired than usual. Stooped. Sad.

A cannon fires and the defenders enter the field fully armed, six of them charging across the drawbridge of the counterfeit castle. The crowd roars its approval. I know which one is Thomas by the way he rides, the way his body moves. I grip the rail of the viewing platform with both hands, caught in the still point between running toward him and running away.

Jane catches my eye, but says nothing.

A sudden silence from the audience turns me back to the field. The defenders have adjourned to one end of the lists. And at the other end, two ladies enter on horseback—ladies I’ve never met or even seen. Veils hide their faces. Their hair is perfectly coiffed beneath French hoods. They look awkward on their palfreys, shifting in their skirts and sidesaddles.

They lead chargers carrying two old men whose silver hair and beards shine in the shifting light. The men’s robes are purple damask. The vibration starts deep in my chest. Even grizzled and disguised, I know him. He is a head taller than the rest of the men at court, his shoulders so broad that even when stooped, he looks majestic.

The queen narrows her eyes.

The two ladies ride directly to the queen and bow as best they can. One nearly topples, and some of the men in the stands laugh. Then the tallest lady hands a rolled parchment up to the queen’s usher. As the man unrolls it, I watch the lady. She sits back on her saddle. Scratches under one arm.

That is no lady.

It’s Mark Smeaton.

“‘Youth has left these ancient knights,’” the usher reads. “‘And yet courage and goodwill are with them, obliging them to break spears, if the queen is pleased to give them license.’”

The taller of the “ancient” knights scans the crowd. I follow his gaze as he examines each face quickly and then moves on. He’s looking for someone. I straighten my spine, take a deep breath, and wait. When he finds me, I don’t look away, nor do I curtsy.

I am not being disrespectful. For the sake of the sham, we both have to pretend he is nothing but an old man. The brim of his shapeless cap dips low over his gray eyes.

But they remain on me.

“You look too old and infirm to challenge the young men of the court.” The queen sounds weary, as if she is tired of the games and the pageantry, the disguises and the trickery that can go on behind them. “I should hate to send you to your destruction and humiliation.”

“We shall do our best to avoid that, Your Majesty.” The knight sounds irritable as he turns and bows to her.

“I praise your courage, sir,” the queen says carefully, “and I grant you the right to challenge any and all in the competitions today. May luck be with you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The knight pulls away the silver beard. He throws off his robe. Beneath it he wears a gorgeous doublet of white silk and cloth of silver that turns his chest into a broad, shining expanse, upon which shines a gold-embroidered heart, bisected.

The other knight removes his disguise to reveal Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. The duchess rolls her eyes, but raises two fingers, kisses them, and extends them toward him.

Cheers erupt from the stands and the air reverberates with the stamping of feet and pounding of fists. The men already on the field quickly rush to welcome the newcomers.

Wyatt grins and clasps hands with the king—a gesture of goodwill before the hostilities begin. Eye to eye with the greatest man in the kingdom—possibly in the world—Thomas appears perfectly at ease. I think about his arm around me, about the kiss of his words on my neck.

As if he can hear me thinking about him, Thomas looks up and offers a smile that dives straight to my heart and plucks it from me.

I press my thoughts deep beneath my ribs and pull out the ragged memories of his duplicity. Of every time he hinted seduction. Of every compliment he ever paid me. Lies and betrayal to win a bet.

Then I see the emblem emblazoned on his chest. A heart bisected.

I turn away and lean with my back against the partition. It’s like he’s still trying to win. But is he trying to win the bet? Or me?

Jane looks me full in the face—her expression an exposed question.

“They wear the same emblem,” she murmurs. “The king and Thomas Wyatt. An open heart.”

I close my eyes.

“An open heart,” I repeat. “Or a broken one.”