Free The Tapestry by Nancy Bilyeau

lip.
    â€œThis would appear an admirable place for you to reside until the King’s Majesty makes his pleasure known, Mistress Stafford,” said Culpepper with a farewell bow.
    Catherine glanced up. “I am so pleased that Master Culpepper approves,” she said, her voice hard.
    The two of them, Catherine and Culpepper, locked eyes.
    â€œEnjoy your cake, Mistress Howard,” he said finally, and was gone.
    I had never heard Catherine speak like that to another. Nothing he had done or said warranted her reaction. With his angelic features and quick grace, he seemed like the last man worthy of spite.
    â€œWhat is wrong?” I asked.
    But she shrugged with a little laugh and did not answer. Perhaps this was court banter, the sort of man-and-woman byplay I’d never learned—never wanted to learn. I thought no more of her odd reaction to Culpepper, for there was much to do. I wrote a message to the servant of Master Gwinn, the poor man doubtlessstill standing in the King Street outside Whitehall all these hours later. There was another message, to Agatha Gwinn, emphasizing that I’d found safe harbor with a friend and that, once my business at court was concluded, I’d write to Dartford. I hoped it would assuage her fears.
    Catherine insisted I change into one of the dresses sent by the king, so that my own “lamentable” garments could be cleaned and mended. It was distasteful to accept gifts from King Henry. But I couldn’t see a way to refuse, so I donned the kirtle and bodice of the least ostentatious one, a dark blue damask with a tight waist and billowing sleeves.
    â€œMy, oh my, you are so slim, Joanna,” Catherine said. “This fits perfectly, which means the lady it was made for was astoundingly slim. I wonder who that could have been.”
    â€œAre these dresses borrowed?” I asked. “I must thank that person, and be sure she knows they will be returned.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. No one lends dresses like these, certainly not by way of the king. His Majesty has come into possession of them; it would be best not to inquire.”
    How nonchalantly she said it. Catherine was untroubled by the turpitude of the court. That troubled me .
    But my mounting concerns for Catherine were once again pushed aside. She dragged me with her to supper with the Howards. Just as Catherine did not serve Queen Anne alongside the other maids of honor, she didn’t eat with them. The Howards had lodgings at court. She explained as we went how they served a late supper there for the whole family. The duke himself rarely joined them, for he needed to attend the king until late into the night.
    As I listened to Catherine along the way, I could not help noticing how much attention we drew. Every man we passed stared at us, eyes flicking back and forth. Perhaps it was because we were dissimilar, like two opposing chess pieces, white and black. My diminutive friend was so fair, while I, taller and thinner, resembled my Spanish mother in coloring: black hair, brown eyes flecked with green, and olive skin.
    We were the only women in the private dining chamber, Catherine and I. There were five Howard cousins at the table, one of whom I remembered from my time with this fractious clan. I met Catherine’s brother, Charles, as handsome as she was pretty. My presence at the dinner was accepted without curiosity. I was grateful that, at the age of twenty-nine, I was too old to provoke the interest of young courtiers.
    We were halfway through our meal when the dogs came.
    Two huge hounds bounded in, one grizzled with age and one younger. These were not aloof white greyhounds but dark, noisome beasts with long, red panting tongues. My appetite vanished. It wasn’t the presence of the dogs that disturbed me as much as what they foretold. For in strode Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, followed by a trio of family retainers. Under the table Catherine squeezed my hand,