Free Tarnish by Katherine Longshore Page A

said.
    But only if I win the bet.
    “Hardly,” I tell Jane. “I think women in general are his muse, so he doesn’t need a lot of prompting.”
    “Oh.” Jane appears to ponder this. “Well, he certainly seems . . . interested.”
    “As I said, Wyatt is interested in anything in a skirt. And I know where my boundaries are.”
    “You must admit it though. He is delicious.”
    Her face is lit with mischief. But her expression alters in an instant as she spies something over my shoulder. I have to force myself not to look.
    “Mind you, that one is striking as well.”
    I turn. Henry Percy. His stillness is the complete opposite of Wyatt’s and seems to emanate from a deep discomfort. But Jane is right. Definitely striking. I look away before I can be accused of staring.
    “The duchess says that he’s supposed to marry the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter,” Jane whispers. “But they hate each other.”
    “Poor boy,” I mutter. The court is full of such stories. My own included.
    “Hardly,” Jane scoffs. “He’ll be the Earl of Northumberland soon and will run the Scottish borders and half the country.”
    I glance up again at Henry Percy—destined to be one of the most powerful nobles in the country. Destined from birth to be a member of the royal circle. A captive in Cardinal Wolsey’s household. So free, and yet still tethered.
    He is an enigma.
    And he’s watching me.

12

    I ALMOST ASK W YATT TO INVITE P ERCY TO PARTICIPATE IN HIS poetic interlude. But then I look at Wyatt’s profile, head bent over parchment and ink. The set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. And somehow, I can’t.
    So instead, I stake everything on one night. On the hope that someone watching will see me and save me from my fate, like in a romantic ballad. Because I can’t think of another way to save myself.
    The interlude is a lovely little joke of a play based on the myth of Atalanta. No set. Simple Greek-inspired costumes wrapped over pale gowns and doublets. We will be the only entertainment of the evening. Except for the dancing.
    Wyatt casts me as Atalanta and Jane as my companion. Mary is Aphrodite. I can’t complain, because Mary does nothing but stand on a dais and look beautiful. I get to lead the chase.
    Wyatt will play Hippomenes—the man who catches Atalanta through cunning rather than fleetness of foot. He dresses in golden sandals and a sky-blue tunic that reflects the periwinkle of my gown, giving the appearance that we are meant to be together. George, Norris, and my cousin Bryan round out the cast of men who lust after Atalanta enough to risk death for a chance at her. I find it a bit perverse that George plays a potential lover, but say not a word. This is Wyatt’s show, and I’m following instructions.
    I’m grateful for the distraction, because the king has decided to call Parliament to raise funds for the war against France. The galleries and gardens of Richmond are full of the news. Full of men bloated on the thought of war. There is more tension in the court. More rivalry. Less chivalry. And the endless clamor of backslapping and chest-thumping.
    The afternoon before the performance, I go to the orchards to smell the blossoms and avoid the heady musk of martial fervor. Unfortunately, the Duchess of Suffolk has had the same idea. I see her gown of deep lake blue, the red of her hair beneath her gable, and realize we are on an intersecting course that I cannot avoid.
    She is followed by her confederacy. I’m disappointed to see Jane among them.
    “Mistress Boleyn.” The duchess’s voice carries the same tenor as her brother’s.
    “Your Grace.” She rarely speaks to me. It is rumored that her husband will lead the English troops into France in the summer, and I can’t help thinking of it as she slips her arm through mine and turns me to walk with her.
    People shuffle and bow out of her way. It is as if she has a giant bubble around her, one that cannot be punctured. One that I, miraculously,