Royal Inheritance (18 page)

I made an appreciative sound but, in truth, I had no notion what this accomplishment entailed. My journeys, save for that one year when I’d been summoned to join the royal progress, had all been short ones. When I traveled, it was most often by water. In all my sixteen years, I had never ridden a horse by myself, but only on a pillion behind a man’s saddle.

“Sir Thomas enjoyed Brussels, as did I, but he was ordered back to Calais after only a few months. That he was appointed marshal of the army made up for any disappointment. The invasion of France
should have taken place then, but first King Henry had to deal with the Scots.”

“I am glad you were spared battle,” I said in a fervent voice.

He stopped walking to stare at me. “But I was not. I will not say it was the glorious experience the poets write of, but I survived and Sir Thomas prospered. We saw a good deal of action during the ensuing four-month period. More to the point, Sir Thomas’s activities so impressed His Grace that King Henry made him master of ordnance when English troops finally did launch their assault on France.”

“More fighting?” I thought I understood the changes in him now. How terrible it must have been to see men die . . . and to kill.

His face took on a shuttered look. “More fighting. But Sir Thomas is now made vice admiral. We are based in Dover but will be much at sea these next few months, keeping the coastline safe.”

“Is the war nearly over?”

“So they say, but peace has to be negotiated and reparations made. Many brave men were lost and more were most grievously wounded, among them Tom Clere and the Earl of Surrey. Clere saved the earl’s life by flinging himself in front of him during the attempt to storm Montreuil.”

“But Clere still lives?”

Jack nodded. “He’s been brought back to England, but he suffered serious injuries. He may never fully recover.”

Poor Mary Shelton, I thought. She and Tom had hoped to wed one day. Although it had been a long time since I had heard from her, even longer than it had been since I’d last seen Jack, I still held her in my heart with great fondness. She had always been kind to me.

“Enough talk of death and illness,” Jack said. “Tell me—do you still write songs?”

I prattled on about my few accomplishments, but even in the
midst of frivolous conversation, Jack had a gravity about him that had not been present when he was a gentleman of the Chapel Royal.

“What about you?” I asked. “Have you written any new poems?”

“A few.”

“And do you find time to sing and play music?”

“Very little of it.” The regret in his voice was palpable, but he shook off impending melancholy to ask me if I’d ever heard of an instrument called a kettledrum. “It is something like a naker, but larger and tuned by making the drumhead tight. Sir Thomas arranged for several of them to be shipped back to England from Nuremberg as a gift for the king. His Grace likes nothing better than a new musical toy.”

We had come, by chance or design, to the Eleanor Cross in Cheapside. Circling it were wide steps leading up to the monument itself. While heavy traffic flowed around us, here was a quiet central pool where weary shoppers could rest for a moment before moving on. Jack spread his cloak on the middle step for me to sit upon and stood next to me, using his body to shield me from the impertinent stares of passersby. Edith plunked herself down a few feet away, a disgruntled look on her face.

“You have grown up since I last saw you.” Jack sounded so tentative that it made me bold.

“I was of an age to marry even before you left.”

He looked away, lips tightly compressed. Did he regret going? Because of me? I knew it was foolish to keep hope alive, but I’d dreamed too many times of seeing Jack again. In my imaginings I always found a way to win his heart.

“I have a suitor,” I blurted out. I suppose I was trying to make him jealous.

Instead, his voice took on a teasing note. “Only one? The young men of London must be blind.”

“Only one, and I’d gladly do without him.”

Suddenly Jack’s attitude changed. He was not just concerned. He was ready to do battle to defend my honor. His hand was already on the pommel of his sword. “What has he done?”

I hesitated only a moment. “It is his father I cannot abide. You know him. Sir Richard Southwell.”

A forbidding frown appeared on Jack’s expressive face at the mention of that name. “Tell me.” He moved to sit beside me and took my gloved hand in his.

I tried to explain. As had been the case when I talked to Father, I could see that Jack did not entirely understand my aversion to Sir Richard.

“A feeling?” he asked.

“He makes my skin crawl. I do not trust him. And I do not like him. And besides, he only wants me for his son because he thinks—” I broke off, appalled.

“He thinks what?”

We were in a public place. Even if we were private, I knew I’d hesitate to answer. If Jack had not already speculated about my father’s identity, I did not want to give him a reason to do so now.

“It is not important. He is wrong.”

“It is not Sir Richard you’d be marrying but his son,” Jack said.

“And children tend to grow to resemble their parents.” I felt myself flush and started again, this time more careful to avoid dangerous waters. “Marriage is for life, Jack.
Any woman takes a great risk when she gives herself to a man.”

“Marriage is a business arrangement best left to parents to negotiate.”

“So all young people are taught. That does not make it true. If it is, then why are second marriages, when the choice is made by the couple themselves, so much more successful?” I was thinking of
Father and Mother Anne. I did not know if they’d married for love, but at least no one had arranged the match for them.

“You can always say no,” Jack said. “I do not believe your father would force you into marriage.”

I took a deep breath and kept my eyes on my clasped hands. “He might be more inclined to refuse Sir Richard if someone else offered for me. Someone I’d
want
to marry.”

Slowly, Jack released his grip on my fingers and I could feel him withdrawing in other ways. He did not want me.

The pain of that realization brought tears to my eyes, but it also made me angry. “Would it be so very bad to be wed to me?”

“You will make some man a wonderful wife.” So earnest was Jack’s tone of voice that I could not help but believe him. That only intensified the hurt. “Some man” was not Jack Harington.

“Have you
never
thought of me that way?” Even though I knew the answer would add to my suffering, I could not seem to stop myself from asking.

“We have been friends, Audrey. That means more to me than you can possibly know.”

I sprang to my feet. “I warrant you never gave me a passing thought all the while you were gone. I am nothing to you!”

“I thought of you. Far too often for my own good.” He came after me as I descended the steps and plunged into the crowd. Edith, caught off guard, stumbled after us. She had the presence of mind to scoop up Jack’s cloak as she went.

I had turned down a side street before Jack caught my arm and pulled me to a halt. His face was only inches from mine. “I have nothing to offer a wife—no house, no land, no fortune.”

“I have a very fine dowry. Father said so.”

“There is no question but that you do, and that only proves my point. Marriages are made for practical reasons and have little to do
with feelings.” Sorrow and regret were plain to read in his expression but he forced a smile. “You are not being asked to marry Sir Richard, only his son. Consider that you may find you manage very well together.”

“I want to do more than
manage
!”

My vehemence attracted unwanted attention and I felt heat rise into my face as a shopkeeper and his customer stuck their heads out of his door to gawk. I lowered my gaze to stare at the cobbles. There was so much I wanted to say to Jack. I was certain that if he’d just listen to my arguments, I could convince him that he and I should wed. We had a love of music and poetry in common and—

And, to my dismay, I could think of nothing else we shared. Worse, since it had been so long since we’d seen each other, I had to admit that I had no real notion of what his life was like. Oh, he’d told me a little of his travels abroad with Sir Thomas, and it was clear he despised the wastefulness of war, but he had not really said anything about what he had experienced. Nor had he admitted to tender feelings for me.

“It is time to go home, Mistress Audrey.” Edith was out of breath, but her voice was firm.

I felt Jack’s grip shift to my elbow. I went where he steered me, lost in my own misery. A bleak future stretched before me, one without Jack Harington in it.

Far too quickly, we reached Watling Street. Jack stopped just outside the door of Father’s shop. Edith, for once showing a trace of sympathy for my feelings, continued on, leaving us together.

“I doubt that I will see you again. As vice admiral, Sir Thomas will be much at sea and I will go with him. I return to Dover on the morrow.”

“I give you leave to forget all about me,” I whispered.

At the faint rumble of a laugh, I looked up and met his eyes. “You
have a permanent place in my memory, Audrey. Never doubt it.”

They were pretty words, but I wanted more. Perhaps I had learned something from Bridget after all. Without giving myself time to think about what I was going to do, I acted. I went up on my toes, seized Jack by the collar of the cloak he’d donned again after Edith returned it to him, and planted my mouth firmly over his.

I had kissed men before, but only in friendly greeting. I had no idea what to expect from an embrace fueled by passion.

For a moment, Jack’s lips were cold and hard beneath mine. He held himself stiff and still. And then, in an instant, everything changed. His lips softened. They moved over my mouth, onto my cheeks, my forehead, even the tip of my nose before coming back to where they’d started. At the same time, he pulled me against him so that our bodies meshed from chest to toe. His arms wrapped themselves tight around me. His hands caressed everywhere they touched. When I heard a low moan of pleasure, I could not tell which of us had made the sound.

There was no doubt about the source of the shout that had us springing apart, faces flushed and eyes wide. Father’s roar must have been heard as far away as St. Paul’s. He emerged from his shop red-faced and glaring. I had never seen him so furious.

“Father, I—”

“Go upstairs at once,” he bellowed at me.

“You are not to hurt him!” I shouted back, seeing that his hands were raised to throttle Jack. “The kiss was my doing.”

“To your chamber, Audrey. Now.”

This time I obeyed, but I stole one last glance at Jack as I went. The expression on his face warmed my heart. It was not the look one friend gave another. In spite of the imminent threat that Father might thrash him, he wore a silly grin. My kiss had finally forced him to accept that he had feelings for me.

I
did not see Jack again for many months, or hear from him, either. In the interim, Muriel wed John Horner. Father temporarily abandoned negotiations for my marriage to Richard Darcy, but only because he had other matters to concern him. Richard Egleston, who had been Father’s apprentice and was married to Mary, Father’s first wife’s daughter by her first marriage, had begun a campaign to replace Father as the king’s tailor. He claimed Father was too old to perform his duties. This was arrant nonsense, but Egleston had made powerful friends among the other artisans at court, some of whom had long been envious of Father’s favor with the king, and they supported his suit.

In April, Bridget gave birth to a son she named Anthony. Anthony Denny, who had been knighted by the king and was now Sir Anthony, was one of the boy’s godfathers. Bridget often brought the baby with her when she came to visit Mother Anne. On these occasions she regaled us with all the news her husband, John Scutt, had lately brought home from court. Most were tidbits Father had been too preoccupied to mention.

“It is all the talk at court, or so Master Scutt tells me.” Bridget handed little Anthony to Mother Anne to make much of and fixed her bright-eyed stare on me. “The Earl of Surrey’s squire left all he had to Mary Shelton. She was his mistress, they say, for it is certain they never married.”

“They planned to wed.”

The news that Tom Clere had succumbed to his wounds saddened me. I had never known him well, but I had seen him with Mary and knew they loved each other deeply. I had hoped he’d recover from the injuries he received in France. He’d lingered nearly seven months.

How terrible his suffering must have been. Had he known all along that he was slowly dying, or had there still been some hope for his recovery? Either way, how devastating his death must have been for poor Mary.

Bridget felt no such stirrings of sympathy. “She should have married him long since, then, old as she is! And since Clere did come home from the war, why not wed on his deathbed? Then she’d have inherited as his wife and have avoided all this furor.”

I had no answer to give her. Mary was more than ten years my senior. What was more surprising was that her father had not arranged a marriage for her. I wondered if he was still living. I had no idea. I had never asked.

Having failed to pick a quarrel with me, Bridget moved on to other scandals. I soothed myself by stroking Pocket, who lay curled in my lap. He licked my hand. He was no longer young. I’d had him more than seven years. He’d gotten fat and lazy and spent most of his time sleeping in front of the fire.

Father, upon being questioned, recalled that Tom Clere had been buried at Lambeth only a few days previously. The Earl of Surrey had written his elegy.

Thoughts of Mary Shelton and her lost love haunted me all the rest of that day and half the night. The next morning I sent a message of sympathy to Norfolk House. An invitation to visit arrived later the same day.

Little seemed to have changed at Norfolk House in four years, except that everyone was older and I was much more finely dressed than I ever had been as a girl. The exception was Mary Shelton. Black-clad, her face showed the ravages of long sleepless nights of weeping.