The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

best part. You can always start over.”

      I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.

      I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”

      “I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”

      It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.

      “My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a … fascinating place.”

      “Yes,” I agree. “It is that.”

      “Well,” he says, doffing his feathered cap, “the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions—only the best ones, of course.”

      “I shall make certain of it!” I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.

      I leave Anne’s apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king’s great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle mockery. I whisper his name to myself over and over. Cedric. Cedric. Cedric Dane … Never have I felt this way. I know what occurs between a man and a maid, and that I am expected to make a marriage soon. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that there was talk about my betrothal to Lord Bulbeck, son of the Earl of Oxford, but whether that will ever come to fruition I have no idea. Marriage—my marriage at least—is the farthest thing from my mind. But romance … This court, not to mention my own father, are all shining examples that you do not need to have marriage to have romance. My heart leaps at the naughty thought, sinking just as quickly as I realize where, almost against my will, I am now headed.

      My father’s liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.

      He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.

      “It’s been a lovely night, Father,” I tell him. “I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good.”

      “Who are you to tell me what is good for me?” he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. “How goes it with Anne?”

      “She is well,” I say, though I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.

      “I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very … affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”

      “Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”

      “Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.

      “I … read to the king and Anne,” I say against the nausea in my throat. “A poem of mine … They liked it.” Why this sudden weakness? I bring a hand to my forehead. I want to tear off my hood, but do not have the strength. A vision of Cedric swirls before me. I can’t wait to get back to the maidens’ chamber to tell Madge about him; then rethink it, as most likely she would gossip about it to Anne, who would mock me in turn.

      Thoughts of my cousins and the musician are chased from my mind as I struggle to keep my balance. I want to cry out but cannot. I try to focus on my father, who is coming toward me. His mouth is moving, but I cannot hear …

      Then there is nothing.

      Chapter 6

       The King’s Great Matter

      I awaken, forcing heavy lids open to find that I am not in the maidens’ chamber. I am in a great four-poster bed with a soft feather mattress that smells of lavender. There is naught but a single candle to illuminate the room. My body aches. I cannot will myself to move.

      Someone in nightclothes and bare feet is kneeling by a priedieu, shoulders shaking.

      I drift back into dreamless sleep. At intervals my eyes flutter open to find the figure still there, like a wraith, back turned to me, head bent in prayer. I do not know how long it is like this. Sometimes I think I hear muffled voices. Other times I feel a cool cloth swabbing my forehead.

      Strength ebbs back into me, reluctant and sluggish in my veins. I open my eyes to see the figure by the prie-dieu rising. He turns. Norfolk. I do not know if my shock registers on my face; though my father is one of the most professed Catholics at court, I did not know he really prayed much except at Mass.

      “So,” he says, striding toward the bed and sitting beside me. “You’ve decided to join us.”

      I nod. I wish he didn’t know I am awake. I should like to watch him pray for me more, now that I realize it is him.

      “Good,” he says in clipped tones. “There have been many goings-on since you’ve been on your little holiday. I have plans for you.”

      My face falls.

      He reaches out as though to touch my face, then seems to think better of it and withdraws his hand. Perhaps he is afraid of contracting whatever it is I have.

      It is not the plague, something that would have sent king and court into such panic that they would have retreated immediately to one of the country palaces. It is a fever; some indistinguishable imbalance of the humors that the physicians assured would resolve itself with rest.

      “This is quite an active life for a child as young as she,” one physician ventures. “Likely it was spurred by exhaustion.”

      My father says nothing and the man is dismissed. We are alone. I am sitting up now, taking in broth and bread with trembling hands.

      “We are returning to Kenninghall,” he says. “You will rest there while I take care of some business.”

      My disappointment is writ on my face, for he adds, “Look sharp, girl. We will return directly.”

      I do not want to tell him of the heaviness in both stomach and heart at the thought of him, my mother, and Bess Holland under the same roof again. Perhaps if I play sick enough they will be too preoccupied with me to cause much grief.

      I ride in a litter to Kenninghall this time, as my health is still too fragile to sit a horse. As we depart London I draw the curtains around me. To leave the bustling court for the dark, mournful halls of home is disheartening. I wonder why Father