see.’
‘Did I do that?’ she could not help asking, and saw him flinch.
‘What do you want, Margerie?’ he demanded, looking from her to Kate Langley, his eyes narrowed. ‘You must have heard that I am married now. Or perhaps you came because of that. You should know, I have no need of a mistress.’
He had grown cruel too. Cruel and unthinking.
But then he did not understand their mission, Margerie reminded herself, and he had a beautiful young bride to protect from the king. Even if that cost him his life. Like a bear tied to the stake, Wolf stood alone in a court of enemies and thought every hand must be turned against him, for he had been given no reason to trust. But she and Kate would help his wife Eloise, if he would only trust them. For if women could not help each other in such dangerous times, their shame was all the greater.
Margerie saw the suspicion and doubt in Wolf’s face, and slowly, carefully, began to explain how they could help him keep his wife out of the king’s bed.
Perhaps in time they would be able to greet each other as friends, she thought, and found herself almost smiling at such an outlandish idea.
CHAPTER FIVE
Margerie took the last of her sleeping draught the night before Anne Boleyn’s execution, not wishing to wake too early. She had made herself almost unwell these past few days, thinking of the beautiful queen, all hope of clemency gone now, preparing herself to meet the horror of the scaffold. Nor could she forget those gentlemen who had been found guilty of treason and already lost their heads to the axe, some for no worse a crime than having thought Her Majesty charming and beautiful, the queen’s own brother among them.
The draught of poppy did its task that night. She slept heavily, not even waking when the other women rose and dressed around her, and stirred only at the sound of distant thunder echoing down the river the next morning.
Margerie lay a moment in drowsy confusion, listening to the sound and thinking there must be a storm. Then she turned, blinking across at the bright window. It had been thrown open to air the chamber, dust-motes swirling in the thin shafts of May sunshine streaming in.
Slowly her mind groped after the truth. No, it had not been thunder but cannon fire she had heard. From the Tower of London, most likely. There was only one reason why the Tower’s defensive cannon would be fired when they were not at war and that was to announce an important event like the execution of a high-born traitor.
Which meant Anne Boleyn was dead.
Margerie buried her face in her pillow and wept, but silently, taking care to muffle her sobs, lest someone hear and claim she did not think the king just in his actions. She had not known Anne Boleyn well, for she had returned to court too late. But the very thought of a wife being condemned to death by her own husband was so terrible, such a shocking crime against nature, it frightened her to know she lived under the power of such a king, and might at any moment lose her own life at his whim . . .
Later she rose and dressed, fumbling unhappily with the fastenings of her gown, then splashed her face with cold water to hide the fact that she had been weeping.
But it seemed few were at their work that morning anyway, for when she finally stumbled down to the seamstresses’ room, she found the sunlit chamber empty, and was told by a surly guardsman that most courtiers were at their prayers.
‘Thanking God for His Majesty’s release from a wicked adulteress,’ the guard added sneeringly, looking her up and down as though he thought her cut from the same cloth as the Boleyns.
Margerie turned away from him, sick at heart, wondering where Kate was. She needed her friend more than ever, but no doubt she was with her husband at this difficult time.
Wandering through the empty state rooms in search of Kate, she passed a group of young noblemen at dice, laughing together as though unaware that Anne Boleyn had just
‘Did I do that?’ she could not help asking, and saw him flinch.
‘What do you want, Margerie?’ he demanded, looking from her to Kate Langley, his eyes narrowed. ‘You must have heard that I am married now. Or perhaps you came because of that. You should know, I have no need of a mistress.’
He had grown cruel too. Cruel and unthinking.
But then he did not understand their mission, Margerie reminded herself, and he had a beautiful young bride to protect from the king. Even if that cost him his life. Like a bear tied to the stake, Wolf stood alone in a court of enemies and thought every hand must be turned against him, for he had been given no reason to trust. But she and Kate would help his wife Eloise, if he would only trust them. For if women could not help each other in such dangerous times, their shame was all the greater.
Margerie saw the suspicion and doubt in Wolf’s face, and slowly, carefully, began to explain how they could help him keep his wife out of the king’s bed.
Perhaps in time they would be able to greet each other as friends, she thought, and found herself almost smiling at such an outlandish idea.
CHAPTER FIVE
Margerie took the last of her sleeping draught the night before Anne Boleyn’s execution, not wishing to wake too early. She had made herself almost unwell these past few days, thinking of the beautiful queen, all hope of clemency gone now, preparing herself to meet the horror of the scaffold. Nor could she forget those gentlemen who had been found guilty of treason and already lost their heads to the axe, some for no worse a crime than having thought Her Majesty charming and beautiful, the queen’s own brother among them.
The draught of poppy did its task that night. She slept heavily, not even waking when the other women rose and dressed around her, and stirred only at the sound of distant thunder echoing down the river the next morning.
Margerie lay a moment in drowsy confusion, listening to the sound and thinking there must be a storm. Then she turned, blinking across at the bright window. It had been thrown open to air the chamber, dust-motes swirling in the thin shafts of May sunshine streaming in.
Slowly her mind groped after the truth. No, it had not been thunder but cannon fire she had heard. From the Tower of London, most likely. There was only one reason why the Tower’s defensive cannon would be fired when they were not at war and that was to announce an important event like the execution of a high-born traitor.
Which meant Anne Boleyn was dead.
Margerie buried her face in her pillow and wept, but silently, taking care to muffle her sobs, lest someone hear and claim she did not think the king just in his actions. She had not known Anne Boleyn well, for she had returned to court too late. But the very thought of a wife being condemned to death by her own husband was so terrible, such a shocking crime against nature, it frightened her to know she lived under the power of such a king, and might at any moment lose her own life at his whim . . .
Later she rose and dressed, fumbling unhappily with the fastenings of her gown, then splashed her face with cold water to hide the fact that she had been weeping.
But it seemed few were at their work that morning anyway, for when she finally stumbled down to the seamstresses’ room, she found the sunlit chamber empty, and was told by a surly guardsman that most courtiers were at their prayers.
‘Thanking God for His Majesty’s release from a wicked adulteress,’ the guard added sneeringly, looking her up and down as though he thought her cut from the same cloth as the Boleyns.
Margerie turned away from him, sick at heart, wondering where Kate was. She needed her friend more than ever, but no doubt she was with her husband at this difficult time.
Wandering through the empty state rooms in search of Kate, she passed a group of young noblemen at dice, laughing together as though unaware that Anne Boleyn had just
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