The 48

by Donna Hosie

  “A piece of text that the queen had been sewing was removed to the library for comparison by the biblical scholars,” said Lady Rochford, barely returning our curtsies. “It has been deemed acceptable, and thus Her Majesty wishes to have it back. It brings her comfort.”

  The text was scripture, and every lady in the room knew who had removed it for comparison to ensure that the words were not blasphemous: Lady Rochford herself.

  “Then we will go there and return with it,” I replied.

  I took Lady Cecily’s arm, and without a word to the others, we left for the open air once more. Walking outside with the cool breeze gently caressing my face reminded me of Thomas’s touch. It was a sensation I could no longer seek out or encourage.

  I tried to push the memory, and all thoughts of Thomas, out of my head. But he sprang right back to mind when Lady Cecily and I entered the corridors and encountered his friend and fellow yeoman, Marlon. Marlon was with one of the new faces at court, Alexander of Cleves, who had only recently arrived with his brother, Charles, and their father, the Duke of Cleves.

  Both sons had come from the womb at the same time. Their likeness was a novelty, and they had already proven themselves popular at court, especially the gregarious Alexander, who appeared to find joy in everything from music to the artwork that hung in the Great Hall.

  Not that I had approached him to confirm his appreciation for such things. I had merely observed him from afar.

  The men bowed as we approached; we replied with a small curtsy. My deepest drop was reserved for the king and queen only.

  “Alexander of Cleves,” offered the newcomer. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is ours,” I replied formally. “I am Lady Margaret, and this is Lady Cecily. We are maids of honor to Queen Anne.”

  “I have seen you about,” said Alexander of Cleves.

  “As we have seen you,” I replied. “You appear to have charmed the court already.”

  “I am the life and soul of this court,” he said, his gray-blue eyes twinkling as if they had caught the stars. His voice was unusual. I knew Cleves was in the northern Rhineland, but the tone and pitch of his words seemed to suggest he was attempting to be more civilized in the English way.

  “How long is it that you have been at court now, Alexander of Cleves?” I asked. The young man smiled. He was tall, with the physique of someone who excelled at sport. He and his brother both possessed a head of fiery red hair that had led more than one courtier to wonder whether two more of His Grace’s bastard sons had been accepted into court life.

  “My brother, Charles, and I arrived just four days past, milady,” he replied. “We journey to our homeland tomorrow to attend to other matters, but we will return for a much longer period in due course.”

  “Do you have far to travel?” I knew the answer; unlike many of the other ladies and maids of the court, I was somewhat learned, having had a sympathetic tutor in my father’s household as the only child. But I was interested to hear his reply.

  “Yes, milady,” he replied after a long pause. “And it is not a journey I am looking forward to repeating.” His voice was becoming ever more pleasant to my ears. Melodic, almost. The voice of a singer. I wanted to ask more of him, but to show a keen interest in any man would have been improper in the open. Cromwell’s spies were always on the lookout for impropriety. And Cromwell’s spies were everywhere.

  “Is Thomas guarding the apartments?” I asked Marlon, changing the subject.

  “N-nay, Lady Margaret. He is…he is…” Marlon trailed off, his cheeks flushing.

  A sharp pain rose in my stomach and pierced my chest. Marlon’s chivalrous hesitation explained very well what Thomas was likely doing.

  It was what all men did, whether they were married or not, highborn or lowly. Whether or not they’d once felt affection for a maid of honor, or someone else of virtue.

  “You mean to say he is not on watch, and is making merry with the loose women of London outside the castle walls,” I said testily.

  “Lady Margaret,” scolded Lady Cecily. “You should not speak of such things. It is not for a lady to know of them.”

  “To know things, even these things, is to have power,” I replied.

  “The king is the only one with power,” she said. “And his knowledge and word are all that matters. You should care not what a lowly yeoman like Ladman attends to. He is beneath you.”

  “I care nothing for Thomas Ladman,” I lied. “I was merely stating that knowledge is powerful, if you wield it wisely.”

  “I happen to agree with you, Lady Margaret,” said Alexander of Cleves. “Knowledge is a gift. Tell me, do you like to read? Perchance there is a library nearby? In my few days here, I have yet to find it.”

  “I love to read,” I replied. “And indeed there is a library. It is not as large or handsome as the library in Richmond, but it is still impressive. In fact, I’ve just been ordered there to retrieve a verse the queen has been sewing. It was removed from her rooms.”

  “And you have been sent to reclaim it from the person who stole it away?” asked Alexander of Cleves, smiling. “A task for a brave person.”

  “I am not afraid,” I said, resisting the urge to smile back.

  I wondered just how deep the vaults of gold ran in the House of Cleves. The king could decide my fate any day, but perhaps he would not marry me off to an English lord or that warty, lecherous old Scotsman if a suitor from elsewhere were rich enough. I could feign affection; I had seen courtiers proclaim love after a simple walk around the gardens. Love was declared every day here. It was done for survival. And if a son of the House of Cleves was made to believe that he could love me, then an immediate match could be made. I already liked this Alexander well enough; he spoke to me as if I was worth speaking to. His questioning was sincere. I noticed that his pale skin, even lighter than mine, was free from the effects of pox and other illness. He wasn’t powdered like many of the men in the court, or sour-smelling. He had an almost divine odor about his person: perfumed, but not heavy.

  I wanted to send him a sign. I gently brushed myself against the handsome stranger as we walked, but lowered my lashes as I did so. This was bold, to be sure, and my actions felt somehow disloyal to Thomas. But at that very moment, Thomas was off philandering—and I had long known that my love for him was childish. This was a risk I had to take. I had no future with a yeoman, but there could be a future here. One of my own making.

  At my touch, Alexander of Cleves’s throat bobbed like an apple dunking in water and he seemed to catch Marlon’s eye.

  “Would you still like me to accompany you, Alexander of Cleves?” said Marlon. He spoke slowly, deliberately—almost as if he was questioning more than our destination.

  “Do not leave me,” replied Alexander of Cleves with great haste. “Not for one moment.”

  They nodded in silent agreement, about what I could not tell. It was very peculiar behavior.

  * * *

  —

  In the library, Lady Cecily and I recovered the queen’s property after a good deal of pleading with the scholar on duty.

  Then Mark Smeaton, a musician in the household of the queen, arrived to inform us that the queen was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day or evening. The needlework could wait. I forced a smile to hide my exasperation. Queen Anne’s whims were becoming exhausting. Lady Cecily and I took to a window seat, where we were offered wine by a cupbearer to the king’s scribe. Alexander of Cleves looked about the busy room.

  “Well, shall we amuse ourselves in the library, then, since we’ve come all this way?” he asked. I nodded, and Lady Cecily’s breathing steadied enough to show that she was not totally averse to this idea.

  I made a show of studying a set of Latin texts but observed as two chambermaids entered and began making eyes and more at the hands
ome son of Cleves, who soon abandoned the volume he had opened. He had not yet been corrupted by court life, but I would not have long before he was. It was my good fortune that Marlon interrupted the chambermaids’ advances on at least two occasions; yet as the minutes passed and the wine kept flowing, the foursome’s laughter became louder.

  I wondered for a moment what it was like to live with such abandon. A closer inspection of the chambermaids, however, reminded me that it was really only the men who could truly be at ease. Both girls had bruises. One was wearing a dress that was too large for her, despite her ample charms. Her bruises lay around her neckline and looked like green fingers stretching across her skin.

  “It is time we took our leave, Lady Cecily,” I announced loudly.

  Alexander of Cleves was suddenly on his feet. “Do allow me to escort you to your rooms, Lady Margaret.”

  His chivalrous offer heartened me. “That would be most kind,” I replied. I avoided eye contact with the chambermaids, and with Marlon, who had risen unsteadily to his friend’s side. I could not acknowledge a yeoman who was clearly the worse for wine, and on duty as well.

  “Please accept my apologies, Lady Margaret,” said Alexander of Cleves, slurring his words slightly as we walked. “Just now I was neglectful of our—our newfound friendship. Can you forgive me? I give you my word that I will be more attentive when I return to court after my travels.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, sir,” I replied. “I pray that this is the first of many meetings between our houses. I long to tell you of my father, Sir Richard Montague, and his lands in Hampshire, and I would be most pleased to hear more of the House of Cleves.”

  I hoped my words were of interest to the son of Cleves. I wanted him to know that my father was a Knight of the Realm and I would be a rich reward for any courtier.

  Alexander did not seem to find my daring untoward. When we reached the queen’s apartments, he bowed deeply. Lady Cecily and I curtsied. As she and I slipped through the doors, I turned back to see Alexander of Cleves pat Marlon on the shoulder.

  What a beguiling gentleman, I thought once more.

  Yet I could not fathom what was in that wine that would have caused him to lose the Saxon intonation in his voice.

  “Hunt, sing, and dance,

  My heart is set!

  All goodly sport,

  For my comfort,

  Who shall me let?”

  What on earth are you doing?” moaned my brother from his bed.

  “Singing,” I replied. “It’s one of the king’s compositions.”

  “Butcher his songs like that and they’ll hang, draw, and quarter you.”

  “You’re only saying that because I woke you up. Really, you’re jealous because you can’t sing like me.”

  “That’s true,” muttered Charlie, and his obvious admiration almost made me blush.

  I pulled back the heavy, dusty drapes. A gray, gloomy light filtered through the windows, and rain pelted the glass. It was so noisy it was probably hail. I could feel the damp spreading into the room. We had been warned about the English weather. Rightfully so.

  “What time is it?” asked Charlie, sitting up groggily.

  “I’ve no idea anymore,” I replied. “It is whatever time the king says it is.”

  Charlie buried his face back in the pillow.

  “Everything feels so wet,” he mumbled. “And there’s a musty smell coming from those drapes.”

  “I’ll make sure to see a few peasant washerwomen are hanged, just for you,” I replied, smiling. “You look like death, brother.”

  “I feel like death. After you deserted me yesterday for Marlon, I ended up drinking with one of the keepers of the keys.”

  “Keeper of the keys to what?”

  “The wine cellar, apparently. I can’t move yet. Leave me here until later. I need to sleep,” said Charlie, his voice muffled by the pillow.

  “Questionable behavior from the brother who told me to be careful?” I said. I was genuinely surprised, and secretly pleased. On any other day, I’d have plied him for more details. But we had important matters to attend to. “You don’t have time to sleep. Or have you forgotten? We’re being introduced to the king this morning. Aramis was just here, and he said he doesn’t care if you’re actually dying. He’ll have our heads if we’re not ready soon. And he recommends dressing warmly. Apparently the king wants to go riding, even though it’s the type of weather that’ll drown ducks.”

  “The king!” Charlie groaned.

  “Yes! The king!” I replied. “Big man, red hair? Likes to behead people?”

  I pulled back my brother’s sheets and he howled. I couldn’t blame him; the room was freezing. The fire had run its course during the night and no one had been in to stoke it.

  “Are you going to die quietly or die making a fuss?” I asked. “Because I could collect a crowd to cheer you on.” Charlie dragged his legs out of bed and placed his bare feet on the cold stone floor.

  “You’re in a good mood,” he said. “You’re always in a good mood. It’s very annoying, Alex.”

  “Of course I’m in a good mood. I’ve had a bath, I’ve been fed, and I’ve made several new friends over the last few days,” I replied. “This short reconnaissance to England has been a success. I could actually get used to this way of living.”

  “Well, don’t.” Charlie stood up and winced as his back cracked.

  “Have something to eat and drink, you’ll feel better,” I said, determined to keep up a cheerful appearance for my brother’s sake. “What about some wine?”

  “I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop talking. And did you really mean it when you said the king wants to go riding? I thought Henry was still recovering from the jousting accident a few months ago.”

  “He is. Aramis thinks it’s just bravado, but do you want to volunteer to be the one to tell the king he can’t get on a horse?”

  “Don’t cock your eyebrows at me,” said Charlie with a groan as he tried to move. “You look like you have two red caterpillars doing the Almain over your eyes.”

  The door suddenly flew open.

  “Are you still not dressed, Charles?” yelled Aramis, storming into the room. Two young boys, no older than ten, scuttled in after him.

  “I’ve only just woken, Father,” he replied.

  “The king wants to go riding,” said Aramis.

  “So I’ve heard,” Charlie said miserably.

  “Well, a poor impression you’ll make if he is curtailed because you couldn’t find your pants!”

  * * *

  —

  Charlie dressed with haste and ran with me down the corridor after Aramis. We drew looks from everyone. Two redheaded, six-foot-tall marionettes here for their amusement.

  Aramis stopped suddenly as we reached two huge doors, guarded by four armed soldiers on each side. He beckoned us over to a tall window that was stained with blue, green, yellow, and red glass.

  “Charles, Alexander,” he said in a low voice. “It’s all down to you and the choices you make from now on. I have spent months gaining the trust of the court and king to enable you to take over from here. The future is in your hands. Remember that the king will look at you both and see a mirror image of himself. His vanity and pride are to be used to your advantage. So is your age. Recall that half of those alive in England are no older than eighteen years. This court is filled with people younger than you. Your age makes you superior in the eyes of the young court, and appealing to a king who wishes to maintain an appearance of virility. So if Henry wishes to hunt, you hunt until your hides are numb. If he wishes to feast, you stuff your stomachs until you cannot move. He will ask for your counsel because you are new and he likes to be flattered. Make the king adore you and he will listen to the House of Cleves when you work it into his head that he is not to marry Jane Se
ymour when he goes looking for another wife. And why not Seymour?” Aramis looked severely at me.

  “Because he is to marry a Protestant,” I answered automatically.

  “And why is that?” He turned to Charlie.

  “Because the Catholic faith is dying in England. Marrying another Protestant after Queen Anne will be its death blow.”

  “Correct. Now, make an impression this morning, and when you return to the court, your task will be easier. You’ve done well in a short period, do not fail today.”

  “I don’t think we should keep the king waiting any longer,” I whispered, flicking imaginary dust off my clothes.

  Aramis nodded. This was it.

  * * *

  —

  Aramis nodded to the guards, who opened the two doors outward in perfect synchronization. I was expecting an announcement of our names, but there was nothing. Following Aramis like two faithful puppies, my brother and I walked into a long room filled with circular pillars and lined on both sides by more stained-glass windows.

  “Cleves,” said a low voice to our left. A large man in black robes lined with brown fur seemed to slide out from behind a pillar. He had a round face, a bulbous nose, and black hair that fell like curtains around his face. I knew immediately that this was Thomas Cromwell, the king’s chief minister.

  “What is it, Cromwell?” replied Aramis. His Rhineland accent was much thicker than the one Charlie and I spoke with.

  I looked around as Cromwell bent his head low and started muttering to Aramis. I could only catch every fifth word, and if I had moved closer it would have been obvious I was listening.

  Eyes were flickering around the room. It must have been populated by at least twenty people. There were several men—both young and old—costumed as Charlie and I were, but in more colorful doublets. There were also a number of women—some of whom didn’t seem older than twelve years—dressed in long gowns with tight bodices and flared skirts that made them look like stacked triangles. All of the women had their hair swept back beneath French hoods.