‘Is that what you think?’ he said. He jerked his head back as if she had struck him. ‘Is that what it’s all about? You think...?’
‘What am I supposed to think?’ she cried. ‘All I know is that we’re going in different directions in this marriage of convenience and that the only times we come near to behaving like husband and wife is in the dark, and in silence. Is that good enough for you? Is that what you’re used to? Personally, I had no expectations at all, knowing as little about you as you do about me, which is why I have to rely on what I can glean from others, even some who’re not my friends. It’s better than nothing.’ As she spoke, she knew the words to be less than the truth and unkind, meant to hurt him. But the days of wanting him and the few nights of loving, although rapturous, had left her more unsure of his motives than ever, or even whether he would come to her at all. Added to that was the ever-present threat of the king’s pleasure when, any evening, he might send for her. She would not be able to refuse any more than Jane Seymour had, or Mary Boleyn, or Queen Anna, for that matter.
After her talk with the king that morning, she had begun to see the chances of Anna’s marital harmony slip away as he became more and more dissatisfied and determined, it seemed, to escape from his dilemma. Ginny herself was doing her best to promote Anna’s rare qualities, and today she’d even had the help of Sir Jon, too. Yet her fear was that, if Henry was to find a way out of his marriage, it might also bring about her own separation from Sir Jon. She would return to Lea Magna and he would stay with the king, and their life would then resemble that of her parents, who preferred it that way. The choice, if there was one, would be unbearable, with the all-consuming mothering urge growing daily inside her like a craving after having held his beautiful child in her arms. She would never remain at court as long as Etta needed a mother so badly, and Sir Jon would never relinquish his position there.
The alternative was even more uncomfortable for, if Henry and Anna were to stay unhappily together, she would be in greater danger than ever from the king’s attentions. Unless, of course, they changed direction. Then, Katherine Howard’s compliance and Thomas Culpeper’s comeuppance would be her dubious rewards.
‘No,’ he said, ‘hearing what gossipmongers say isn’t better than nothing. I know there is still much you’ve not been told, but the king has put me in a damnable position, Ginny, and I like it no more than you do. You will have to trust me to keep you out of his way for as long as I can, but listening to what Culpeper has to say about it isn’t going to help matters. He has the opposite in mind. You must have seen that.’
‘So if you prefer me not to listen to him, Sir Jon, shall you be listening less to that black-haired strumpet with the bare front from now on? Or is that different?’
That had been enough to light the tinder of her tightly held emotions, and now her temper flared, fuelled by the brazen black-haired woman. Jon saw the fire flash in her eyes and recognised something he could respond to with his own brand of anger. ‘Jealous, are we?’ he said. ‘In spite of me telling you to look the other way. Do I see green in your eyes? Eh?’
‘See what you damned well like!’ Ginny snarled. ‘Talk to who you like. See if I care!’ Aiming a push at his chest, she was not prepared for the hand that closed around her wrist, pulling her into a deserted angle of the passageway where a window had once been. Before she could protest, Jon had swung her round onto the wide windowsill where, losing her balance, she was held back against the wall, unable to right herself. This time, she knew she had tried his patience too far, their combined duties disallowing anything more than fleeting contact and no time for the gentler aspects of an early partnership.
‘Then I will see what I like, since we’re talking of bare fronts, lady,’ Jon said. ‘Maybe this will convince you of something, if words do not.’ As he spoke, his hand expertly pulled apart the laces of her bodice, snapping them as easily as cotton threads and exposing the fine lawn chemise beneath. Stopping her protesting hands with one of his, he pulled them together behind her back as her chemise gave way before his force, revealing her breasts to the subdued light as they had not been before.
Far from being dismayed by her husband’s ungentle disrobing of her, Ginny felt the excitement flare into her nostrils as she breathed in the closeness of his body and the heat of his arousal at the sight of the perfect expanse of nakedness. Though she could have struggled against him, her body told her to watch instead, without shame or fear. Partly supported by the open bodice, her breasts seemed to rise to his touch like soft silken orbs, palest pink tipped with deep pink nubs that hardened as his palms brushed past provocatively, asserting ownership. Hearing her gasp, Jon watched her eyes half close with sudden desire and he knew then that she would be capable of reaching a climax, if he were to think of her more like a passionate woman than a tender virgin.
Accordingly, he pursued her desire, skilfully diverting her outrage and jealousy into safer waters, caressing her more boldly than he had done so far, bending his head first to one breast, then the other, leaving her in no doubt where his lips, teeth and tongue had been. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘Convinced now?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of my wanting you. And of something you might have found out for yourself before flying off the handle—that the strumpet is my cousin. We almost grew up together. She was laughing about the suitors my uncle has lined up for her. And I’ve no wish to see her breasts. Never have done.’
Her amazing eyes widened as he spoke and now he saw that the fire had been replaced by dark desire, genuine and unashamed. Her glance moved towards his mouth and he knew she awaited his kiss. Releasing her hands, he held her beautiful breasts as he kissed her, long and passionately, thinking that of all the ways he’d tried to have the last word, this had been by far the most successful. In silence, he pulled the edges of her clothes together, covering her with the cloak to conceal all signs of his intrusion before escorting her along the passageway, smiling to himself at her meekness.
As for her accusation of making love in silence, that was partly because his hunger for Ginny had been so great that to be talking when they could be making love had seemed to him a sad waste of time, of which they had so little when their combined duties rarely coincided. What was the need for talking when lovemaking could say it better? More telling than that, though, was her belief that she was not the one in his thoughts when they made love, but his first wife, and that that must be why he’d spoken to her so little. It was as far from the truth as it was possible to be. There was much to be said that he’d kept to himself for a variety of reasons, one of which concerned his own pride, wounded at a time when the world had seemed to be his. She would have to be told eventually, but not until the time was right. And certainly not in bed. Emotionally, she had enough to concern her for the present. Or so he thought.
He did not, nevertheless, stop to ask himself whether he was the best judge of that or whether, by keeping Ginny in the dark about things she ought to have known, he was destroying the trust he’d asked her to find. Or even whether, by trying to protect her from perceived harm, he was actually doing the opposite.
* * *
Having changed the bodice of her gown, Ginny set off once more for the queen’s apartments, where the furniture was draped like a market stall with lengths of fabrics, braids and laces, patterns and parts of garments, many of them unidentifiable except to the queen’s tailors who had their own intricate ways of piecing, seaming, attaching and lining, facing and binding. Anna stood with arms out like a scarecrow while the tailor knelt at her feet with a row of pins held between his lips that reduced his instructions to a series of squeaks. A group of her maids and ladies sat over by the window with their embroidery before the light faded, their tiny black stitches on white linen making scroll patterns on shirt wristbands and collars. Others sewed narrow white seams on nightgowns and kirtles so fine that one could see through the linen. Fo
r the queen’s wardrobe, Ginny was choosing a soft honey-coloured cloth of cashmere and wool, and a rich fabric that rustled with the silver weft and silken warp, a two-coloured miracle of plum and blue. But Anna looked pensive instead of excited and Ginny believed she knew the reason. She had been talking to Mother Lowe, her Flemish lady, about the getting of children, which her own mother ought to have explained to her many years ago and certainly before her marriage to a king.
* * *
An hour later, with the fabrics still heaped upon the table in a darkening room, Ginny and Anna sat by the fire, warming their hands on beakers of mulled wine and watching the steam rise in convoluted swirls. Anna shook her head slowly from side to side, her lovely almond eyes darting away to one corner, where two maids sat with a young musician and his lute, before coming to rest on Ginny’s sympathetic face. ‘As if that was not enough,’ Anna whispered, ‘why was I not told at the time? Now it seems I’m supposed to make myself more—what is the word—allure?’
‘Alluring, yes. Is that the word the Earl of Rutland used? Did he say how?’
‘Nothing I could understand, Ginny. I think the poor man was as...’
‘Embarrassed?’
‘Yes. But to have a man, my own chamberlain, talk so to me... Oh! I cannot tell you how I felt. Of course, it was that man Cromwell who said he must.’ Her hand covered her mouth, then as quickly resumed its place on her lap. ‘I think you might have said it better. At least I’d have been able to understand you.’
‘So Mother Lowe had already told you what a woman’s part is?’
Anna nodded, her eyes darting again, searching for some point of reference. ‘She did, but I cannot believe it, Ginny. Is that what you do? You and Sir Jon?’
For different reasons, Ginny joined in the queen’s sigh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It sounds dreadful when it’s spoken of, but really it’s not, Your Grace. It’s very comforting and, well...exciting. There is no language difficulty then, you see. One hardly needs words. If you love the man...’ She was stopped by the bleak look of despair on Anna’s face and by the words that echoed inside her own head, finding some resonance there. If you love the man, one hardly needs words.
‘That’s the difference, then, isn’t it? I could never do that with the king. Could you? Answer me, Ginny. Could you?’
By some convenient quirk of fate, Ginny was saved from having to answer by the entrance of a burly figure she recognised at once as the artist who had been sent to Cleves to paint Anna’s portrait for the king. It was on this portrait that Henry had based his decision to make her his queen and, since then, Master Holbein had had to make himself scarce for a while until the king’s anger abated. Turning sharply to see who had entered unannounced, Anna’s gasp was audible to Ginny, though not to the others, and as Master Holbein came forwards into the glow of the fire, she witnessed the serene radiance on the queen’s face that Hans had captured. The half smile of burgeoning desire, the demure yet steady gaze of interest in a man, the anticipation in the curve of her lips, the contained excitement generated by his presence, centred on her alone. Anna could never have done ‘that’ with the king, but Ginny knew that, with Hans Holbein, she could. The question went unanswered as the king’s painter doffed his cap and greeted them both, then sat down and began to speak to Anna in their own language, neither of them noticing when the stool opposite became vacant.
Preoccupied with her own troubles, Ginny had intended to talk to the queen in the hope of discovering the secret of her serenity, her acceptance of things beyond her control, and her thoughts on duty as opposed to preferences. Now she realised that Anna was perhaps less accepting than she had thought, that it was discipline that held her desires in check and not so much the natural composure of an obedient daughter. And since Ginny’s situation was in some ways paralleled by Anna’s and in other ways diverging, it occurred to her in the long walk back to her own rooms that she had the best of it with a husband she desired and who, for whatever reason, desired her enough to take her to bed. He was also concerned for her safety, for he must have known about Culpeper’s crime, too. She had overreacted. It had not been her intention to stir up trouble. But the desire Jon had incited in the passageway was still vividly in her memory. The boldness of it, the spontaneity, the sheer lust between them generated by anger had made her wonder what he might have done next had they been more private.
She found Sir Jon reclining on their bed reading a paper that he quickly folded and packed into his pouch as she entered. Taken aback by his presence at this time of night when he would normally have been with the king, she put aside their last acrimonious bickering. Had he come to continue where they’d left off?
‘I’ve been with the queen,’ she said, unfastening her fur cloak and holding its warmth in her arms. A single candle burned by the bedside, casting long dancing shadows across the bed curtains.
‘And I’ve been with Sir Thomas Cromwell,’ he said, swinging his long legs to the floor. ‘He’s not a happy man. Things are not going well for him.’
‘As the one who proposed the king’s marriage in the first place, I can see why. Anna was not happy either, when Cromwell suggested to her own chamberlain that he should give her some advice about...’ She pursed her mouth, deliberating how to say it.
Sir Jon’s laugh was husky, sending shivers down her arms. ‘I know what it was about. You can see how desperate he’s getting, then, to send a man to give the queen that kind of instruction. Not that it will do any good, I don’t suppose.’
Ginny felt sorry for her friend and said so. ‘Well, none of us knows exactly what either of them gets up to in the bedroom, do we? The king can say what he likes, and probably has done, but there’s only his word for it. Poor Anna doesn’t get to put her side of the story. I cannot imagine how anyone could even pretend to...ugh!’
‘And will she pretend to?’ he said, smiling at the wry face.
Ginny shrugged. ‘Is there any way she can avoid it, if that’s what he wants?’
‘It looks, Lady Raemon, as if we were not the only ones to delay our consummation, only theirs appears to be mutual, whereas ours was not, was it?’
‘Yes, it was. You agreed to it.’
‘For your sake. Not because I was unwilling. Come here.’ He stood up and, reaching out, took the cloak from her arms, tossed it onto the bed, and pulled her closer to him. ‘And you needed no advice, did you? Even the first time.’
‘I was not offered any, sir. We don’t speak. Remember?’
He wore only his shirt, breeches, and hose, and she could feel the warmth of him taking the place of the cloak, his male scent filling her nostrils. Perversely, she wanted to delay him, not to make it too easy, though she knew where this would lead. ‘What will Sir Thomas do?’ she said, tilting her head to look up at him. ‘Henry has not banished Master Holbein for his painting of her. Would he banish Cromwell?’
‘That’s anyone’s guess,’ he said, his fingers pulling at the strings of her headdress. Tossing the contraption aside, he searched for the pins that held her hair up. ‘But he’s been told to find an escape clause in the marriage contract, so even with the chamberlain’s advice to the queen, Henry is quite determined...’
‘No!’ Ginny protested. ‘Not that! He cannot do that. It was all so thoroughly investigated. What will her family say? Will he put her aside on some trumped-up clause just because he doesn’t desire her?’
‘He wants heirs, remember? As I do. He’s not going to get any heirs with Anna.’ His fingers raked through her hair, fanning it out like a silver cloak over her shoulders, piling handfuls of it on top of her head and letting it fall over her face, playing like a boy with water. Like a man with his lover.
Ginny felt her words drying up, but she persevered, just to delay him. ‘So what clause can he possibly invent?’ she said through her hair.
‘He doesn’t have to invent on
e. Nonconsummation is one, and the other might be that there was a precontract to a previous suitor in Cleves.’
‘That’s nonsense. He knows it is. Henry accepted her brother’s assurance that there was no legal contract. She was a child at the time. He can’t use that.’
‘He’s the head of the church in England, my sweet. He can do as he likes.’ He might have said and so can I when he kissed her through an opening in the veil of her hair, tangling their eyelashes in the fine silvery strands and taking some into their mouths.
Ginny pulled away at last, blowing wisps aside. ‘He’ll send her home? In disgrace? Surely he’d not be so cruel, knowing how she’d be shamed before her family? After all her efforts? She’s tried so hard to please him. This one unlaces from the side, not the back.’ She felt his hands relocate, beginning their journey down her bodice, taking time to investigate beneath the openings, making her lose the thread of her enquiries.
‘Henry needs the goodwill of her brother, the Duke of Cleves,’ he said, kissing her neck. ‘He’ll not do anything to shame the duke’s sister. Will she contest it, d’ye think? Make a fuss like his first wife did? Henry hates it when his wives argue.’
‘It’s not the same, is it? He and Catherine of Aragon had been married a long time. This marriage is only weeks old. Between you and me, I think Anna would find life perfectly bearable without Henry in her bed every night with his, ah...fumbling...hands...ah!’ She gasped and writhed as his hands found an expanse of bare skin and pushed her gown down to the floor, then, before she could tell what he was going to do, she was lifted up to him with hands beneath her buttocks to sit astride him, clinging to his shoulders, her face tucked into his neck. It had taken only this to make her ready and for him to bare himself to her.
‘Not like this, then?’ he whispered. ‘Put your legs round me. Rest your feet on the bed. Yes, like that. Hold on, sweetheart. This is what I wanted to do earlier, jealous little cat.’
Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded Page 14
