Jane’s expression contorts, as though he has slapped her in the face. She manages a smile, but her reply is filled with venom. “Seek pleasure with this trollop, then. Or your sister, for all I care. Any of them can be in your bed tonight, because it won’t be me.”
“Both Mademoiselle Clémence and my sister would be more pleasant company than you, good wife.” His smile is a twisted, humorless thing devoid of any good will. He looks ready to spit in her face, but a more fitting verbal attack seems to have come to mind. “I will decide who is in my bed tonight. If I am feeling charitable enough, it may even be you.”
“Jane, this is only innocent banter and no cause for a public outcry,” Anne says. Whatever she had in mind about using me to make mischief between George and his wife, she apparently hadn’t bargained on a public confrontation between the two.
There’s cool determination in her eyes to get the scene under control before it escalates further. Anne steps closer so that only Jane, George, and I can hear. “George is only pursuing a friendship with Mademoiselle Clémence. Surely, you can see that.”
“I see very clearly, madam,” Jane says, indignation burning white-hot in her eyes. “It seems I am forever damned to mockery for your perverse entertainment. My position is unbearable and I have no stomach for it.”
Anne pauses, her eyes searching Jane’s for a sign she’ll back down. Knowing that everyone in the room is watching and, not seeing an inch of ground being given by her brother’s wife, she turns to her brother. “I think it’s best if you retire to your chambers, sweetheart.”
“Will you allow this cur to dictate—”
“It’s unwise to further provoke this matter further. Please.” Her eyes plead with him as she clutches his arm, “I will speak with you later.”
George tries to shrug Anne off, but she grips him tighter. “George,” she says firmly, accompanied by a severe look that brooks no further argument. “Now.”
He stumbles slightly as he pushes me away. He bows with mock flourish to Jane, who turns on her heels in flushed embarrassment and retreats to a corner of the room near Jane Seymour and the other ladies.
Thankfully, drunks have short attention spans. Lord Rochford mumbles something about finding better company elsewhere and staggers out of the room.
Two boys bearing more wine and food catch my eye. One bustles throughout the room with precise efficiency; his actions and demeanor are the result of years of royal service. He’s been all but invisible, carrying out his duties with minimal disruption.
The other servant, however, is conspicuous with his sloppy manners and inattention to detail. Moving at a snail’s pace, this boy’s orbit around the room is more languid than his peer’s. There are furtive glances over his shoulder, but not long enough to allow me to get a good look at his face.
I’d lay odds this servant is soaking up every bit of gossip he can to take back to the kitchens. Still, there’s something else. Something about the physical build that’s softer and rounder than a teenage boy’s body should be.
“Come,” Lady Anne interrupts my thoughts, beckoning me to sit in a chair next to hers. “There’s been enough upheaval today. Let’s distract ourselves with another of Clémence’s riddles.”
“If you wish, Your Majesty.” If flattery is the main currency of the court, then I’m intent on making Anne a billionaire. “I have a challenging one for you tonight. Let’s see who is clever enough to answer this riddle.”
“My dress is silver, shimmering gray,
spun with a blaze of garnets.
I craze most men, rash fools I run on a road of rage,
and cage quiet determined men.
Why they love me — lured from mind
— stripped of strength, remains a riddle.
If they still praise my sinuous power when
they raise high the dearest treasure,
They will find, through reckless habit,
dark woe in the dregs of pleasure.”
Settling back into my seat, I let my fingers dangle over the arm of the chair and survey the room. “Who’s going to take the first guess?”
Madge chews a fingernail, her brows pinched in concentration. “Silver dress, shimmering gray, blaze of garnets,” she repeats. “A jewel?”
“No. It does sparkle like one, but it isn’t a jewel.”
“Crazes most men, making them rash fools,” Grace says, then shrugs one shoulder. “What crazes men most?”
“War,” says Lady Fitzwalter.
“Sport,” says Anne Saville.
“We do.” Lady Anne laughs, inducing giggling fits in the younger girls, and knowing nods from their elders.
“A woman, then.” Madge jumps from her seat, certain it’s the right answer.
“It sounds like our guest, doesn’t it?” Lady Rochford’s bloodshot eyes bore holes into me.
Of all the royal ladies, Jane Boleyn is the only one who hasn’t joined in the evening’s entertainment, choosing, instead, to continue sewing. She pulls her needle through the linen shirt, snapping the thread with the force of her last tug. She glances at the broken thread, then back at me. “I imagine you have run men’s wives by the wayside as well. Did you enjoy having my husband’s arms around you?”
“Jane,” Lady Anne frowns. “That’s quite enough.”
“It is no matter, Your Majesty.” I wave it off, trying to appear unfazed by the accusation. She doesn’t know how close I came to defending her. The price of it would have been our mission. “And the answer is quite wrong, it’s not a woman. Go to the next part of the riddle.”
I repeat the second stanza.
“Why they love me — lured from mind
— stripped of strength, remains a riddle.
If they still praise my sinuous power when
they raise high the dearest treasure,”
“Lured from mind, stripped of strength,” Anne says. A coy smile spreads across her face. “And you’re certain the answer isn’t a woman?”
“Silver dress, crazes most men. Reckless habits and dark woe.” Madge ticks the clues
