The 48

by Donna Hosie

  The queen was absent.

  The king was not.

  He was sitting on a dais, dressed in dark purple. His tunic was fastened—only just. Even from my position at the back of the hall I could see the buttons straining across his expansive chest. He was wearing a fur gilet and chunky brown boots.

  We locked eyes and my stomach tried to escape via my mouth. I had never felt so intimidated in my life. The king wasn’t smiling; he was grimacing, as if he was in pain.

  All of my training in proper behavior in the inner sanctum of the king flew out of the stained-glass windows as I looked at him. I couldn’t remember if I was to nod, bow, get on my knees and crawl—

  “Shut your mouth, Alexander,” hissed my brother. “You look like a fish. Now bow…bow.”

  I did as my brother instructed, just as the king’s barking voice echoed above all others in the room.

  “Cleves…come here, man.”

  “Follow me and do not speak unless spoken to,” said Aramis. The Duke of Cleves walked confidently up to the dais and bowed deeply. Charlie and I did the same.

  “So these are the sons of Cleves,” said the king, leaning back. He was rubbing his thigh. “Which is the heir, and which is the spare?”

  The court burst into spontaneous—and very fake—laughter. The king either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He was the center of attention and that was all that mattered.

  “Alexander, Your Grace,” I said, going down on bended knee. “By virtue of a few moments, I am the spare.”

  The king snorted his approval at his own joke being repeated.

  “Which means you can have a lot more amusement,” he said. “I was in that position—once.”

  The tension in the court was so heavy it was as if the stormy elements from outside had crashed into the palace. Not a breath could be heard.

  “And I am Charles, Your Grace,” said Charlie, sinking to a knee and filling the silence. “My brother and I are honored to have been afforded a place in your court.”

  “Do you both ride, heir and spare?” asked the king.

  “We do, Your Grace,” replied Charlie.

  “And what say you to riding today?” asked the king. “My advisors say it is no weather to be hunting outside. The cowards are scared of getting wet.”

  “I think they are correct, Your Grace,” said Charlie.

  Now the collective intake of breath from those closest to the dais was completely audible. I half expected to see my brother’s head fly in an arc across the hall. Had Charlie lost his mind?

  “You believe I am frightened of getting wet?” asked the king in a low, menacing voice.

  “No, Your Grace,” replied Charlie. I clenched every muscle I possessed as he rose to full height to look the king in the eye. “I believe it will be the animals you wish to hunt that will be scared of getting wet. The deer in the parks will not be running freely. Their wish to cower from the elements will curtail your enjoyment. How can a king truly hunt to his full potential when the animals do not run to theirs?”

  The king sat back and raised his chin, as if he was appraising us. His body language had gone from taut and uncomfortable to more relaxed. Charlie had made the greatest first impression ever. With his left elbow resting on the arm of his throne, Henry clicked his jeweled fingers, and a golden goblet was handed to him.

  “I have affairs of state to attend to with my advisors,” said the king. “But I will have your company, heir and spare, this afternoon. Do you play archery?”

  “We do, Your Grace,” I replied, standing. “I am more skilled than my brother. In my experience, second sons usually have the lion’s share of the talent.”

  That comment raised a smile. It wasn’t one that showed a set of teeth, but the king’s lips definitely curled at the edges. He nodded to Aramis, and we were dismissed without further comment or question.

  We took several steps back to show deference and then turned as the dais was surrounded by men with papers and quills.

  “Seymour,” called Aramis to a thin-faced man with a long black beard. “My sons, Charles and Alexander.”

  “Your offspring saved us all from a soaking this morn,” replied the man. “The court will be grateful.”

  “This is Edward Seymour, first Earl of Hertford,” said Aramis. “The Seymours’ residence is Wulfhall, a favorite of the king’s.” Seymour smirked at that comment. “Sir Edward’s sister, Lady Jane, is a maid of honor to Queen Anne.”

  The introduction was strategic. When we returned to the court, we would have to make the king turn away from Seymour’s influence.

  “It’s an honor to meet with you,” said Charlie.

  “Cleves here speaks of you both often,” said Seymour. “I would wager he is angling for earldoms already.”

  “Only if the king is prepared to throw in some pretty girls,” I said, forcing a laugh.

  Seymour laughed too; it was high and squeaky.

  “Then we will see what we can do,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I would introduce you to my sister, but more and more it seems she is spoken for.”

  His mud-colored eyes flicked to the king, whose voice was getting louder and louder with impatience.

  “It would still be an honor to make her acquaintance,” Charlie said with a bow.

  As my brother straightened and stood by my side, Seymour seemed to be taking the measure of our long frames. “I have a request concerning your archery contest, sons of Cleves,” he whispered. “A personal favor in deference to our new friendship. Don’t let him win.”

  * * *

  —

  “Why doesn’t Seymour want us to let the king win?” I asked softly as we left the room. “I would have thought his opponents would sabotage their own bows rather than defeat Henry.”

  “Because if the king loses, then Jane can be sent for to make him feel better,” replied Charlie. “It’s all strategic.”

  “Not for us it isn’t, if we beat the king,” I said grimly. “And I have such a pretty head.”

  I expected Aramis to scold Alex for making light of the king’s bloodlust. But when we entered the corridor, the man instead stopped short, listening. For a split second his eyes widened. What had I missed? Rain was still pelting against the glass, and now rumbles of thunder echoed in the eaves. Then, somewhere underneath it all, I heard footsteps.

  “Your Majesty,” said Aramis, suddenly bowing deeply.

  I turned to see a woman walking down the center of the corridor, followed by two young ladies. Her long green gown swept the ground as she held her head high. A small leather-bound book was clasped tightly between her hands.

  The woman stopped directly in front of Alex and me. Aramis had stepped back into the shadows. My brother bowed, but I was paralyzed, hypnotized by the woman’s eyes. They were as black as night.

  “The sons of Cleves,” she said in a throaty French accent. “Just what this court needs. More men to make foolish decisions for us all.”

  It was Anne Boleyn.

  I was very good at holding my breath, but it was only when I heard the slow beat of my pulse in my temples that I realized I was doing it. It was hard to stay calm. The union of King Henry and Anne Boleyn only a few short years ago had split not only England, but seemingly all of Europe. It pitted religion against religion, as Aramis was fond of saying. Monarch against monarch.

  “Your Grace,” I said with a bow. “Miladies.”

  “You have seen the king?” asked the queen, staring directly at me.

  “My brother and I were only just introduced to His Grace by our father,” I replied.

  “And how was my husband?”

  “Eager to get outside.”

  Anne touched a small gold cross at the base of her neck; her skin was pale and flawless. “Who was with him?”

  “People of the court,” I
replied, trying to remember names. “I do not know many of them yet. I believe Cromwell was there…and Seymour.”

  “Lady Jane?” snapped Anne.

  “No…no,” I replied quickly. “Sir Edward.”

  “Likely you merely overlooked her. I have no doubt that English mouse was waiting to scuttle out of the darkness,” said Anne, her eyes narrowing. “She has not appeared in my chambers for three days now.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t prepared for the queen’s openness about the disintegration of her own court, although it was all anyone else here talked about.

  Anne cocked her head at me like a quizzical dog.

  “But then you have only been at court for a few days at most, son of Cleves,” she said. “You would not yet be acquainted with the whisperings of witches and sorcerers. And I understand you are leaving again.”

  “My sons will return to the court shortly,” said Aramis, stepping forward. “We have some affairs to attend to at home first.”

  “Why?” demanded the queen. “Why would you return here?”

  “We are to be of service to the king and our father,” I replied. “To be friends and allies.”

  “Fresh meat for the slaughter,” said Anne, walking over to a rain-splattered window. “Watch your backs, Charles and Alexander of Cleves. The knives are being sharpened everywhere, but Cromwell, Seymour, and Norfolk have the longest blades.” Her face had become stony and harsh, like one of the stone carvings on the façade of the palace.

  The queen then swept past us without so much as a backward glance. But one of her attendants let her gaze linger on Alex as she passed. My pulse quickened as I started breathing again.

  “Who were the ladies with her?” asked Aramis quietly.

  “Lady Margaret and Lady Cecily,” replied Alex immediately. “Lady Margaret is the only child of Sir Richard Montague of Hampshire. He’s in the king’s navy. According to Marlon of the yeoman guard, she’s in love with Thomas Ladman, the bastard son of some earl or duke, and has been since they were children. They have no future and they both know it. He’s recently taken to seeking the comfort of women outside the palace. She’s sixteen years old and will be married before the year is out, probably to a Scottish earl or northern lord. Lady Cecily is fifteen. Her mother has already made overtures about marriage to one of the sons of the Duke of Somerset. The king is considering it.”

  “Excellent work, Alexander,” said Aramis. “Did you see how Lady Margaret was looking at you?”

  “Unfortunately,” replied my brother.

  “Exploit that if you have to.”

  Aramis didn’t say a word to me. I knew it was because I had disappointed him. This was a reconnaissance. I, too, was supposed to be gathering information that could be used strategically to advance our cause when we returned.

  * * *

  —

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” said my brother as we walked back to our rooms.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You can’t lie to me. And the only reason I knew who the ladies were was because I met them yesterday when I was with Marlon.”

  “You’re better with people than I am,” I said quietly. “You could get information out of a corpse.”

  “Yes, I am,” replied Alex. “And yes, I could. But think of all the ways you’re better than me.”

  “Like?”

  “I would bet a stable of horses that you’re already prepared for the journey back.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m not prepared at all.”

  “You don’t need to be,” I said. “I’ve already checked everything for you.”

  Alex clapped his hand on my shoulder.

  “I would be lost without you, brother of mine. And don’t you ever forget it.”

  I wouldn’t. Alex and I were a team. We had come into this world together, and we would leave it together.

  And unlike most people, we had a good idea of when our demise would come.

  It appeared that the fates were conspiring to acquaint me with both sons of Cleves now. I took the crossing of our paths as a sign. Lady Cecily had been quivering beside me as the brothers spoke with the queen, afraid, as she always was, that words would be uttered that could somehow be twisted and used against us.

  I, however, had held my composure. If Alexander had showed overfamiliarity toward us during our interaction, I would have kept a mask of indifference. Who were the sons of Cleves to me in the presence of the queen?

  Other than my possible salvation away from this murderous den of snakes?

  * * *

  —

  Thankfully, the queen had been in no mood for idle chatter, not even with distinguished guests from abroad. Perchance if the sons of Cleves had been from France, where Her Majesty had spent much of her childhood, she might have tarried longer. Queen Anne still believed herself to have allies there who could somehow protect her. The truth was she did not have allies anywhere, and even her family members at court were openly rebelling against her. In her position, I would have stolen away on a ship for distant shores and never returned.

  * * *

  —

  “I see what they are doing better than they see themselves,” Her Majesty hissed when we were some way down the corridor. Lady Cecily and I exchanged glances. To which of us was the queen speaking? Were we meant to acknowledge her utterance? Queen Anne would often speak aloud and then rebuke a person for answering her. Yet her wrath was fearsome if she believed she was being ignored.

  “What do you see, Lady Cecily?” asked the queen.

  “Your…Your Grace?” stammered Lady Cecily.

  “Open your eyes and tell me what you see,” demanded the queen. She was walking at such a pace it was as if the hounds of Hell were snapping at her feet.

  “I do not understand, Your Grace.” Lady Cecily had gone the color of sour milk.

  “Foolish child,” snapped the queen. “Lady Margaret, tell me. What do you see in the arrival of the sons of Cleves at court?”

  “I see His Grace allying himself and strengthening the bonds of friendship between the houses of the Saxon lands and England. His Grace has a gift for seeing the advancement in friendships between countries.”

  “Exactly,” replied Queen Anne. “At least I am blessed with one maid of honor who is not a simpering mess or a disloyal wench.”

  We knew to whom she was referring with that latter insult. I stayed silent, for I would not condemn Lady Jane Seymour. Recently, my friend had been moved to more spacious, luxurious apartments closer to the king—and the mystery of her whereabouts at night rankled Her Majesty no end. Yet Lady Jane was even more loyal to her family of Wulfhall. The king was sending her gifts. The queen knew this, and there was nothing she could say or do to stop it.

  It wasn’t just the king who needed to advance friendship between countries.

  I needed to get away from this life.

  And I believed I had found a way.

  “Lady Margaret,” said Queen Anne, as if reading my thoughts. “I want you to find out what has become of that treacherous witch.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” There was no heart to my reply. I would not forsake Lady Jane, either. I would lie if I had to.

  “And I command you to get acquainted with the sons of Cleves upon their return to court. I want to know when they see the king, how often, and what is being said.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” This I could agree to in good conscience.

  “You saw their resemblance to the king?” asked the queen.

  “There are similarities, Your Grace.”

  “I have neither the time nor the patience for more bastards in this court. When I have a son in my belly, my husband will forget these usurpers. And I will make them rue the day they believed they could discard me like a commoner.”

&n
bsp; It was an understandable obsession with her now: providing the king with a son and heir would almost certainly turn His Majesty’s attention back to her.

  But it was never going to happen. The sole child the queen had borne was female, and since then she had lost too many, too early. The king’s patience was spent. He was virile. He had bastard sons. In his eyes, it was the queen’s fault he had no heir.

  I prayed for Lady Jane’s sake that if her time came, she wasn’t barren.

  For my sake, I prayed that one of the sons of Cleves was amenable to being acquainted with a potential bride.

  With the rain continuing to do its best to drown England and everything in it, the court decamped to another, much larger, hall in the palace for an afternoon of archery. While Charlie and I despised our toxophilite instructor back home, I had to grudgingly admit that Piermont had turned me into a great bowman. It was the law of King Henry’s land that any fit man over the age of twenty-four should be able to shoot a target from two hundred and twenty yards, which was around the length of ten tennis courts.

  I was seventeen years old and had been able to hit that target outdoors since the age of thirteen.

  * * *

  —

  No one was allowed to touch the bows until His Majesty arrived. When he did, he was accompanied by the large-nosed Thomas Cromwell on his left and the thin-faced Edward Seymour on his right. The large king was hobbling, and Seymour appeared to be limping so as not to outstride Henry. It was quite the sycophantic spectacle, and it took a lot of effort not to laugh out loud.

  Yet another learning experience in how far men would go to curry favor with the king.

  “That must be Lady Jane,” I whispered to Charlie, nudging him with my left elbow. “Behind Edward and next to Lady Margaret.”