Free The Tapestry by Nancy Bilyeau

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, though whether in comfort or warning I did not know.
    Catherine’s brother, Charles, fled from the seat at the head of the table and Norfolk hurtled into it. There was a flurry in the corner as servants piled food on a plate and filled a tankard to the brim with ale. My hope was that if I didn’t move or speak, he wouldn’t notice me. Catherine sat nearer to him; perhaps he’d not look past her.
    The plate heaped high was put before him. The duke swept it off the table, and said, “God’s wounds.”
    “What is the matter, Your Grace?” asked one brave nephew.
    The duke glared at him for a full moment. The rest of us held our breath, not daring to speak. The only sound was that of his dogs devouring the food thrown on the floor.
    “The matter is that last month a fool fell off his horse and died,” Norfolk snarled. “Henry Bouchier broke his damn neck and who does the king give his earldom to? Not one of his relations, and Bouchier was descended from Edward III, connected by blood to most every peer in the realm. No, he gives the earldom of Essex to Cromwell .”
    Norfolk drained his tankard of ale and then slammed it back on the table.
    “A brewer’s boy from Putney is made earl—he is an earl,” said Norfolk, the word choking him. “And now Cromwell is in council with the king, him alone, no one else, for hours. They finally sent outCulpepper to tell us to leave. He’s never ranked higher in the king’s esteem than now. My God, how happy that bastard must be.”
    I thought of the man who buried his face in his hands at Westminster, who groaned “No” with such dread. Thomas Cromwell was not a happy man, I was sure of that.
    The duke continued: “And tomorrow, His Majesty dines with the queen. Just the two of them.” He paused, those furious black eyes settling on me. “And you, Joanna Stafford.”
    He hadn’t seemed to notice me when he swept into the room, nor did he show any surprise at all to see me now. My stomach turned over as I realized that not only had he been told I would dine with the king and queen tomorrow but also that I supped with his clan tonight. Cromwell, Gardiner, Norfolk—they had spies everywhere, watching and whispering and running along these corridors and courtyards.
    “Why did he choose you?” demanded Norfolk.
    “The invitation came to me through Master Thomas Culpepper, but without a reason, Your Grace,” I said, trying to answer him without provoking.
    Norfolk leaned across the table, pointing at me. The others at the table shrank back, but I did not. Neither did Catherine, to my surprise.
    “You will remember that you are a member of one of the old families—a S tafford ,” he said.
    “I never forget it,” I said.
    “No?” His glare suddenly transformed into a filthy smirk. “I can think of a few times you’ve forgotten.”
    All the men in the room studied me with