The Court of Boleyn (Tudor Romance Book 1) (6 page)

   Cecily sat down hesitantly upon the edge of the bed. ‘Sweet Mary, I’m starving.’

   The innkeeper entered without knocking. She placed a tray on the table and gave them a knowing smirk before leaving. Francis and Cecily ate quietly, both absorbed in the delicious repast of hot mutton pie and salad. When the pie was finished Francis uncorked a bottle of red wine which they swigged from greedily, savouring the warmth of the liquid as it flowed through their bodies.

   ‘Tell me about life at court,’ Cecily said, licking her fingers.

   Francis watched her and briefly wondered what it would be like to feel her tongue licking his body. He smiled. ‘I think you will enjoy it there. Her majesty, Anne Boleyn is a very accomplished woman. She is witty and wise, and beautiful too. Life is never dull in her company.’

   ‘I think you are in love with her,’ Cecily teased.

   ‘Ha, not I,’ Francis laughed. ‘But I know other men dote upon her. Mark, for instance. He moons after her like a lovesick child.’

   ‘Who is Mark?’

   ‘Mark Smeaton.’ Francis reached down and began to unbuckle his riding boots. ‘We both play for the queen.’ He kicked his boots beneath the bed and looked at Cecily. Even with her mud spattered cheeks and rumpled skirts she was the loveliest creature he had ever laid eyes on; her clear eyed gaze oozing innocence tinged with womanly desire. He walked over to the window and turned his back on her, lest she notice his bulging crotch. She was a lady in distress. It would not be right to take advantage of her. ‘We should try to sleep now,’ he said. ‘You can have the bed. I’ll take the floor.’

   ‘No.’

   He turned around in surprise. Cecily was removing her black cloak, a little smile playing about her lips. He opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off.

   ‘We both need a good night’s sleep, Francis. Be content. I shall try not to devour you.’

   Francis grinned and walked towards the bed.

-

   That night Cecily could hardly sleep. The masculine presence of Francis Bowman lay just inches away from her tingling body. She could hear his shallow breath in the stillness of the night; so he was awake too. She lay rigid, barely able to restrain herself from reaching across and placing a hand upon his manly chest, exploring his body with her fingertips. It was evident that he wanted her, too. She had seen the hungry look in his eyes, had felt his tender touch when he had leaned over to squeeze her hand that morning. Her skin glowed with the memory of it. Oh, that he would touch her again! She turned away in frustration and closed her eyes.

Chapter Nine

Greenwich Palace

The great hall was ablaze with the light of a hundred torches and candles. It seemed as if the entire English nobility had arrived for the dancing; the gorgeously dressed courtiers all mingled together in a sea of brightly coloured silk and taffeta.

   ‘Mark!’ Anne Boleyn grasped the musician by both hands and swung him round. ‘What will you play for us tonight? I want something lively – a Volta, perhaps.’

   ‘You shall have a hundred Voltas, sweet madam,’ Mark Smeaton grinned. ‘My heart shall dedicate them to you only.’

   ‘Good man.’ Anne kissed him on the cheek and let go his hands, wandering away to seek out Francis Weston and her brother George. They had both promised her a dance tonight and she intended to keep them to their word. It was unlikely that the king would wish to dance; his ulcerated leg gave him too much pain. Indeed, he had been like a bear with a sore head these days. She wondered if he treated the wench Seymour any better. Well, tonight she did not care. It was time to have some fun. As the music started, she scanned the hall in search of her friends. Suddenly she felt strong arms gripping her waist and twisted around to see who it was. ‘William Brereton, you should not surprise me like that,’ she teased. His blonde hair was cut into a short bob and his rosy cheeks glowed in the candlelight.

   ‘I saw you gazing around the hall and wondered if it was me you were looking for,’ he said.

   ‘No, sir, I was looking for my brother.’ Anne tapped his nose in gentle admonition. ‘But I suppose you will do.’

   They danced a few numbers together, Anne smiling into Brereton’s eyes as he swung her around the dancefloor. It was a long time since she had felt so young, so free. As the evening progressed she danced with many others; Francis Weston, Henry Norris, Thomas Wyatt, and her brother. The music stopped for a comedic interval and Anne watched dutifully as a painted jester took to the floor to show his juggling tricks. It was poor stuff, Anne thought. The man looked too old to be degrading himself thus. With a bored sigh, she walked away and found a quiet corner of the hall, pouring herself a goblet of wine.

   ‘Hello, your majesty.’

   She turned around and smiled. ‘Hello, Mark. You’re playing well tonight. A pity you had to stop for that miserable jester.’

  ‘Well, even musicians need to rest sometimes,’ Mark said, pouring himself a drink. ‘Shall we walk a while?’

   Anne nodded her assent and they strolled off into the gardens. The moonlight cast an ethereal white glow across the knotted garden and the night air was scented with spring flowers. Anne slipped her arm into Mark’s and they walked together in silence, taking in the beauty of the moment. Somewhere, a vixen screamed. ‘Don’t you hate that sound?’ Anne said. ‘It is so ghostly.’

   Mark squeezed her arm. ‘You are safe with me, madam.’

   ‘You are so sweet, Mark.’ Anne squeezed him back. ‘I feel lucky to have such a wonderful friend as you. God knows, I am in need of loyal friends.’

   Mark stopped walking suddenly and threw himself down upon his knees. ‘I would die for you, Anne,’ he said fiercely. ‘No matter what people say, no matter what they think, I know you to be the truest, purest queen England has ever had. That Jane Seymour wench is nothing compared to you.’

   ‘Thank you,’ Anne said quietly. She raised him up and gazed into his limpid brown eyes. ‘I never feel alone when I am with you.’ It was true. Mark Smeaton was one of the only people at court she felt she could truly trust. The women all seemed to despise her. Even her cousin Madge seemed wary of her these days as if the strain of her divided loyalties was growing too much. Anne supposed she could not really blame the girl. The Seymour family was growing stronger with each passing day and it would never be wise to offend those in the ascendancy.

   She smiled and ruffled Mark’s hair. ‘Why are you not married? You are handsome enough to have your pick of the ladies.’

   ‘How could I ever marry, when my heart belongs to you?’ Mark said. ‘If anything happens, Anne, if the king should send you away …’

   ‘You mean to have me?’ Anne raised her eyebrows. The intensity of his gaze told her that he was in earnest.

   ‘All I am saying is that if the king uses you as he used Katherine of Aragon, I will be there for you.’

   ‘For that, I thank you.’ She stood up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek once more. ‘You are very sweet but I intend to fight for my husband.’

   To her surprise, Mark put his arms around her and kissed her firmly on the mouth. It felt good, it felt right. Anne realised she had not been kissed with such passion since the conception of her son; the son she had miscarried. Henry had kept his distance to court Jane Seymour. The bastard. She closed her eyes and felt her body respond to Mark’s touch, pulling away abruptly when her senses returned.

  ‘We cannot do this, Mark.’ She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘You are a musician. Sweet Jesus, I am queen!’

   She backed away from his outstretched arms, shaking her head in horror at what they had done. ‘If word gets out about this, I am ruined. We are both ruined.’ Turning on her heel, she walked swiftly back to the palace and locked herself in her chamber. Her feelings were so confused.

-

   Jane Boleyn and Jane Seymour stood together in a corner of the great hall, scanning the room with their eyes. One minute the queen had been dancing with abandon; the next, she had disappeared.

   ‘She must have gone to her chamber.’ Boleyn took a sip of her wine. ‘Poor Anne. It cannot be easy to lose the king’s love.’

   Seymour shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, she will just have to get used to it. And besides, Henry was not hers to begin with. That sweet lady, Katherine of Aragon, died in misery because of her. Did you know Anne refused to let Katherine see her daughter one last time before she died? She is a cruel woman.’

   ‘I thought it was the king who wanted to keep Katherine and Mary separate,’ Jane said. ‘But who cares anyway? What’s done is done. The future belongs to you, my good Seymour.’

   The two women clinked their glasses and grinned.

-

   Out in the depths of the moonlit countryside, a man and a woman rode through the night, urging their tired mounts into a lacklustre trot. Cecily was exhausted. She had barely slept the night before, consumed with pent up passion for the man by her side.

   ‘It is not too late to find an inn for the night, Francis,’ she called weakly. ‘I am fit to drop.’

   ‘Alright, sweetheart’ he replied. ‘We will stop at Deptford and sleep until morning. We can have our clothes washed and ready for the morning.’

   Despite her weariness, Cecily smiled at the thought of undressing in front of this handsome musician. He had behaved like a perfect gentleman so far but part of her wished he would take her in his arms and kiss her with those perfect lips of his. She looked down at her mud encrusted skirts. Her hair had not been washed for days and she was beginning to smell a bit ripe.

   ‘We would be ashamed to appear before Anne Boleyn looking like this,’ she said, noting how unkempt Francis was beginning to look. His chin was covered in dark stubble and his purple livery was travel stained and creased. She imagined washing his skin with scented water, running her hands over his muscular chest. ‘I would love nothing more right now than to sink into a hot bath. You could probably do with one, too.’

   ‘Do you not like my caveman look?’ Francis laughed.

   Cecily grinned and looked away.
If only he knew,
she thought to herself.

   Later, they found themselves in a large bedchamber on the top floor of a coaching inn in Deptford. The hour was late and Cecily could barely keep her eyes open. They had eaten roast chicken legs washed down with cider and had bathed as best as they could in the ewer of hot water laid out for them by the innkeeper. Francis had turned his back respectfully whilst Cecily undressed and cleansed her body with the towel. She yawned and climbed into the little bed, shifting to make room for him.

   ‘It’s a tight squeeze in there,’ Francis said, doubtfully. ‘I will sleep on the floor.’

   Cecily sighed and opened the coverlet, inviting him in. ‘Don’t be silly. Get in.’ She turned towards the wall and closed her eyes, her senses on fire as she felt his warm body sliding in next to her. She felt his breath on the back of her neck and his hand curling gently around her waist. Their bare feet touched and she bent her knees to allow his long legs more room.

   ‘I promise to be good,’ he said.

   She giggled softly and touched his hand, holding him closer. Moments later she heard his gentle snore and she smiled in satisfaction. So this was how it felt, to lie next to a caring man, to share such sweet intimacy. To think she had ever loved Edmund. The thought of lying with him made her feel sick. Thank God he had never consummated the marriage and got her with child. She would have been trapped forever. All she desired now was to lose her maidenhead to Francis Bowman, to stay in his strong embrace for eternity. If this was love, she liked it very much.

   Cecily slept well that night. Her dreams were filled with golden imagery and warm sensations. As the light of dawn crept into the chamber, she opened her eyes and stretched. Sometime during the night, Francis’s hand had crept up to her breast and nestled itself within the folds of her linen shift. She felt a strange hardness against her buttocks and shifted against it instinctively.

   ‘So you are awake.’ Francis sounded sleepy. He removed his hand and climbed out of bed, allowing a rush of cold air into the empty space. ‘It will take us an hour to ride to Greenwich from here, I think. If we go now, I can present you to the queen before she disappears off hunting.’

   Cecily turned over and gave a lazy sigh. ‘I wish we could stay here a bit longer.’

   Francis smiled and pulled on his freshly laundered shirt. ‘Me too, sweetheart.’

Chapter Ten

Greenwich Palace

‘Why do you look so sad?’

   Anne’s question was greeted with silence. She smiled wryly. Even the musician was ignoring her now. He stood in profile by the round window, gazing into the middle distance. His lips were pursed, cheekbones twitching as he chewed the inside of his mouth.

   Mark Smeaton. Such a beautiful, sulky child.