by Diana Rubino
"Why not bring France into this, then?" More, an intellectual but frustrated military man, suggested.
"Nay, I wish not to bring them into this. 'Tis a domestic issue, a very English issue, done for a specific reason, for nationalistic reasons. We are not fighting for land or religious reform. We are trying to regain our claim to the throne. This is something the French would not appreciate, could not fully understand. Besides, I never trusted the French. They spend too much time romancing to be effective, serviceable allies. Leave them to their flamboyant art and their romantic theater. We are too stolid for them. We would not fight well side by side."
"But the best mercenaries are from the Continent. We would never be able to raise an army to defeat Henry's forces with Englishmen alone."
"Whom do you have in mind?" she asked, never one to miss an opportunity.
"Oh, I can rustle up a band of soldiers, never fear," More assured her. "Just leave it to me. You can retain your men of noble blood. Leave the other ranks to me."
"Aye, I shall let you know if we need reinforcements. I have a strong leader in mind already. He is old, but he is experienced. What he lacks in bodily strength will be made up for in sheer military genius."
She folded the parchment carefully and slipped it between the pages of her Latin Bible. "How does Thomas More, Duke of Richmond sound?"
"The title that Henry's bastard son holds? Absolutely magical!"
"Then it will be yours, when I am Queen Topaz the First and my son is the Prince of Wales. Let us engage these other true believers and fulfill our mission."
The clink of pewter goblets rang like the clash of swords as they toasted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hampton Court Palace
"Henry, what are you saying!" Amethyst moved away, darting across the chamber, afraid of him, a fear very different from the reverence of her younger days. Her fingers grappled and found the door. She grasped the knob in case he decided to attack her verbally, too, as he had been doing to Anne in absentia for the last ten minutes.
"I am saying I must be rid of her! Cromwell will not divorce us, so I must rid this earth of the she-devil and her evil, her demonic ways! I must have her executed!"
Now that the startling realization was beginning to gnaw at her conscience. All the warnings, Topaz's rantings on about Henry having inherited his father's violent temper and his ability to end a fellow human's life at whim, were now coming true.
She saw it all so clearly now. Saw it, and was stunned. Henry was her friend, her lover, her equal in the bed chamber, at her mercy and under her control, submitting to the power of his desire as helplessly as any sexually aroused male, but he was still very much the King of England, and as such held the highest power in the land.
She swallowed hard and dared not speak. In the past, he'd awed her, thrilled her, and astonished her. Now he simply terrified her.
He seemed to have detected her fear, for his features softened immediately and he discreetly kept his distance. "I shall not hurt you, Amethyst. Don't you understand? She is a witch! The Imperial Envoy just confirmed it."
"Chapuys? How?" Her mouth was so dry, she could barely form the words. Her throat felt as if it had been doused in the dust of the rutted roads they travelled on parched summer days.
"He just delivered the message that Mary is deathly ill." He held the letter, bunched up in his fist, and waved it at her. "Mary wants Catherine to nurse her back to health. This is Anne's doing! This is the next spell she has woven, but God's truth, it will be the last!"
"Let Catherine go to her daughter," Amethyst said. "What harm could she do?"
"What harm indeed!" he spat, smacking the letter against his leg—his bad leg—at the utterance of each word. "She plans to depose me. In a letter she wrote to the Pope, she urges Charles and Francis to invade England. She is a traitor!"
Was Topaz party to such a plot? she couldn't help but wonder. Topaz had never mentioned Spain or France, nor any desire to involve them, or their wanting to be involved. It seemed unlike her sister, though. Her deposing of the King would be her triumph—and hers alone, an English victory, shared by no other nation. Nay, it couldn't be.
"Then let me go to Mary," Amethyst said.
He waved her away. "Go, go to Mary. You will not poison her mind the way Catherine would. Go to her if you want to so badly."
"My lord, you are her father, she needs you, too."
"I am much too busy. You go. Bring her money, cloth, and whatever else you think she would want."
"How about your love, sire? May I bring that to her?" she asked softly.
"Amethyst, you will melt me like an ice sculpture in the July sun. You will melt me yet!" he exclaimed, tipping a wine goblet to his mouth, his signal to end the conversation.
She implored him once more before she left. "Please, sire, think this over. I've told you time and again. Anne cannot be a witch. There are no such things as witches! Just convince Cromwell to divorce you and be done with it so we can finally marry!"
"We shall see." His voice was placid, too calm, frightening her now with its cold composure. "This will be the test, and the final test. If the Princess Mary dies within a fortnight, Anne will follow her to the grave."
Amethyst rode Honey all the way to Ludlow Castle, stopping at only a couple of inns on the way, and only long enough for her most urgent needs, and those of her mount and her escorts.
Upon entering Mary's chamber, she sighed with relief that the girl was sitting up in her window seat, tuning her lute, looking pale but healthy enough.
"Mary," Amethyst rushed into the chamber and embraced the young girl.
Mary was terribly thin, her gown hanging at the shoulders and sagging at the neckline, but her face brightened upon seeing her ally. "Are you well?"
"Aye, much better. 'Tis a recurring sickness, I know not what it is. The physicians know not what it is. It comes over me suddenly. One minute I am reading or studying or at the virginals, the next minute I am deathly weak, and in bed with fever and complete loss of appetite. Today is a good day. And all the better for having seen you."
Amethyst sat upon the window seat next to Mary. "Mary, I came here of my own volition. Your father did not send me."
"I fear he will not be sending my mother any time soon either," she said with a sigh.
"They have divers problems they must work out."
"What problems? His only problem is Anne Boleyn, and he is already tiring of her! If only he would take my mother back, once Anne is out of the way."
"I sincerely doubt that will happen, Mary," Amethyst said, glancing at some sheet music Mary had propped up on a stand. "He still needs that male heir, or so he thinks."
She longed to tell Mary about her love for the King, about their desire to marry, but not while she was still so vulnerable. She wondered if Mary would resent her forever for marrying her father, and she vowed to regard Mary as her own daughter no matter what her feelings about the matter.
Mary let out an ironic chuckle. "I cannot help but feel sorry for Anne," she said, plucking her lute strings aimlessly. "She signed her own death warrant by not giving my father his male heir."
She was silent for a time, then asked, " How fares my sister? I regret to say we have never met. Who does she look like most?"
"Oh, she's got the Tudor red hair, the Tudor sprightliness—"
"The Boleyn arrogance and stubbornness as well?"
"She is but two years old. Her dominant traits have yet to form one way or the other."
"I trust she is being brought up as a Tudor, if my father has anything to do with it."
"She is at Hatfield being attended by governesses and nurses," Amethyst replied.
"What is to become of Anne now?" Mary asked, setting her lute aside.
"I know not, Mary," Amethyst admitted, thinking with a shiver of what Henry had said about executing her. "It is up to the King. Anne's fate is no longer in her own hands. I must admit that I am afraid for her. If only
they can have a simple parting of the ways all will be well. I do not want to see anyone die. Your father...scared me. He's never been so enraged."
"In that event, we shall see whether she truly is a witch," Mary said lightly, turning towards the window. "She has not yet been able to curse me. I am still alive. But I am worried she will bring harm to my mother."
"She is not a witch, Mary. Anne Boleyn may be a lot of things, but a witch is not one of them. She is as mortal as you and I."
"Just pray for my mother, Amethyst. I have the most terrible feeling about Anne Boleyn. Just say an extra prayer."
She reached out and patted Mary's hand. "If it will make you happy, then I shall. But believe me, no one has to worry about Anne Boleyn. She certainly needs to worry about herself."
Amethyst felt deep in her hear that she had spoken no less than the truth. She knew if Anne had any supernatural faculties, she would have used them to do what Amethyst had already done without any powers but those possessed by every woman—make the King love her.
But Amethyst's hopes that Henry's marriage to the dark-eyed witch would soon end were dashed. Within two weeks, Anne announced she was with child once more, and Amethyst, shocked to discover that Henry was still availing himself of the marital bed when he had sworn he would not, caused her to lose all patience once more.
Her emotions poured out of her pen in yet another letter to her loyal correspondent Matthew. She had already decided to visit Warwick Castle for Christmas, as the mood at court was quite sullen indeed. It was no atmosphere for a twelve-day celebration.
"Perhaps this is Anne's salvation," she wrote to her dearest friend outside the palace.
For I dread to think of what her fate will be should she not produce the heir Henry so desperately wants. Unlike the disdain the rest of the kingdom feels for Anne, I cannot help but feel sorry for her. First the object of the King's curiosity, then a breeding mare for his heirs, now branded as a witch...how much control could she possibly have had over her fate?
Her pity for Anne was stronger than that for the doomed Catherine. She thought of going to Anne, but dismissed the thought like a hovering wasp about to sting. She and Anne had never exchanged a civil word since the day Anne had surfaced at court. They were not on friendly terms. Anne knew the King had not married her out of love. She'd always known Amethyst was first in Henry's heart.
But all these illnesses, all these deaths...it made her wonder. Amethyst had always kept an open mind about matters beyond the understanding of mere mortals, and though she didn't readily believe in spirits, reincarnation, or the supernatural, neither did she disbelieve.
But Anne Boleyn was as mortal as any human being upon the earth, and as such she was but a fly captured in the tangled web of the monarchy, unable to use even her esteemed wits to escape. Amethyst prayed she would never be in the same position herself one day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Amethyst had seen Topaz only briefly over the holidays, preoccupied as her sister was with the heated animal hospital she'd had built within the stables.
Amethyst bumped into her in the kitchen wearing a filthy apron, sitting with the servants and shelling peas for the poor. Topaz breezily mentioned having heard about the King's estrangement from Anne, obviously from a reliable, thorough informant, for she asked no further questions of Amethyst and refused to divulge her source.
There was no mention of her rebellion, no tirades about wanting to be queen. Even the lads remained mum on the subject of what a usurper Henry was.
Amethyst should have been delighted. Instead she took this ominous silence as a bad omen. Perhaps her rantings were giving way to calculations, and she no longer felt the need to vocally proclaim her rightful position.
Amethyst voiced her fears to Matthew when she went to visit him, joining the lads on their journey to Kenilworth to see their father.
They sat in his solar before a roaring fire sipping sweet red wine. The lads and the servants were already abed. It was after midnight, the only private time they could secure together to speak of their concerns over Topaz's state of mind.
"Topaz wasn't herself on this visit," Amethyst said, with a worried frown. "The whole mood was strained and subdued. We exchanged our gifts, ate and drank as usual, sang, played music...but she was quite aloof."
"Thank God she no longer talks of it day and night, I say! Perhaps she's realized her folly and decided not to carry through with this absurd charade after all."
Amethyst looked deeply into the eyes of the man who had been Topaz's husband for too short a time. What she could tell him about that woman could fill volumes, all her quirks and moods that he never could have beheld during a mere few years of marriage.
It mattered not, because Topaz was no longer his problem. But he did have the lads to think about, who were being reared and groomed by Topaz alone, not being sent away to other nobles' homes to be educated like most boys. She was shaping them her way, and that bothered both their father and Amethyst.
"Nay, Matthew, you do not know her the way I do. She only showed you the side of her that she wanted you to see during the time that you knew her. I know my sister, and I know her restrained tone this last week speaks volumes. She is finished talking and is now getting ready to act."
He sighed heavily. "I was so glad the lads hadn't spoken of any rebellion or evil words against the King or Mary, or anyone in so long, I had begun to believe it was a forgotten issue."
"The lads do not agree with her, thank God. They've formed their own beliefs. But Topaz will never change."
"Have you discussed this any further with the King?" he asked quietly.
"Nay," she said with a shake of her head. "I saw no need to mention it, for I had hopes all was well. And if I had any misgivings of late, I kept them to myself. He's got his plate full at the moment, with all the recent deaths, plus Mary being ill, and his disgust with Anne. You should have heard him talking of executing her. I'd never seen the King behave like this. He was not the Henry I've come to know."
"Perhaps he was just venting his anger," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "I mean, look at Topaz. Look how worried I was when she spoke of poisoning the Princess Mary."
He stopped dead in his tracks and his hand flew to his mouth as his goblet slipped from his grasp and clanked to the floor, sending a cascade of wine splattering onto the rug.
Her eyes rounded in horror. "Oh, no, Matthew, no! It couldn't be—"
"I would never wish that it could. But mayhap it is."
"Queen Anne and...Topaz?" she gasped, unable to believe the ambition of both women.
Matthew looked pale with shock. "Perhaps Anne is not the only witch of whom the King speaks, Amethyst."
Suddenly a fear she'd never known drenched her, and she rushed over to Matthew, nestling into his embrace, wanting him to hold her, to comfort her, to envelop her in his warmth, never to relinquish her.
"Oh, Matthew, the King was so livid, I was so horrified! He's become someone else, someone I did not know. He's been plagued because of all this, all these deaths, all these illnesses... He has blamed Anne for it all! He barely remembers Topaz exists!"
"Anne has enough reason to rid Henry of his most staunch allies, since most of them detest her audacity and her manners. If Topaz is involved with this, she has certainly been more clever than I ever gave her credit for. And if the two of them are in league with each other, well then, God help us all."
Amethyst shivered at his words and held Matthew even more tightly. He comforted her, clasping her in a light but warm embrace. As she relaxed into his arms, she reflected on how different he felt from her King Henry. How unfamiliar were the contours of his body, how strange it felt as he clasped her around the waist and patted her back.
She forced herself to break away despite the joy of the enveloping warmth, and sensed Matthew was equally reluctant to let her go, his hand lingering on hers a bit longer than it should have.
Later in bed, she denied just how much she
enjoyed being with him, talking with him, laughing with him...as well as the stirrings of arousal she'd felt while in his arms. All the same, she had a restless night longing for such joyful comfort once more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
When she returned to court on January 10, Amethyst's maid of honor greeted her with a wish for a happy new year, then she broke some tragic news. Catherine of Aragon was dead.
"She expired at two in the afternoon, day before yesterday, Lady Amethyst."
"What happened?" she asked in a horrified whisper.
"She had been gravely ill for quite some time—"
