Free At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn by Anne Clinard Barnhill

and shall ride with his wife. He is married, you may recall. I’ll have no scandal among my ladies,” the queen said.
    “Your Grace! I have no such ideas about Sir Thomas! He is my friend and that only. But I’d prefer his company to Sir Norris’s—that’s all,” said Madge.
    “And what is wrong with Henry Norris?” said the queen.
    “I like not the way he looks at me. And I like not the way he talks to me. Cate says he visits the bawds at least once every week and I see how he tries to touch the ladies of the court, a sneaky sort of touching,” said Madge. “I like him not!”
    “I know, dear Madge. He is that sort of varlet—you have judged him well enough. But he is the king’s boon companion. You and I must learn to be friendly with him, you more than I. You have caught Sir Norris’s fancy, I fear,” said the queen.
    “What shall I do, Your Grace? I cannot encourage him in his suit. Please intervene for me, my queen,” Madge felt her cheeks burn as she spoke so boldly.
    “I shall do what I can, dear coz. But some things are beyond my power. Let us wait until the little prince is born—I shall be able to ask anything of the king then,” Anne said as she patted her belly and smiled.
    “Thank you, Your Grace. And now, to bed,” said Madge as she pulled out the truckle bed from beneath the queen’s own and covered herself. She tried to ready herself for the long Coronation Day to come, made even longer by her proximity to Sir Henry Norris.
    *   *   *
    “How fortunate for me that His Majesty, in all his wisdom, hath yoked us together, Lady Margaret. You could not be more lovely—much more of a beauty than our new queen,” Sir Norris whispered as he circled his horse close to Madge’s steed. They rode side by side in the queen’s procession into Westminster Abbey.
    “Kind sir, the queen is our sovereign as well as my own dear cousin—say nothing to her detriment, I beg you,” said Madge in what she hoped was a haughty voice. All morning, since they were paired together, Henry Norris had pawed, pinched, and otherwise tried his best to touch Madge in a variety of inappropriate places. Her patience was wearing thin. But there was little she could do or say in such an esteemed company. Almost every important person in England was gathered to celebrate Anne’s coronation, with a few exceptions: Lord Stafford had paid a fine rather than attend; and the marquess of Exeter, the king’s first cousin, was absent primarily because he had been rusticated from court for his support of Queen Catherine. But most of the nobility were present, making it impossible for Madge to cry out or complain just because she couldn’t control a frisky companion of the king’s.
    Of course, Henry Norris was well aware of his opportunity and was not dissuaded by her discomfort at his advances.
    “I did but whisper my appraisal of your beauty, Lady Margaret. I do not believe any could hear but yourself,” Sir Norris said as he reached over, putting his hand upon her knee.
    “Sir, we are supposed to be marching behind the queen in a dignified manner. Do not place your hand on me,” said Madge, trying to dislodge him without making too much of a movement. He disengaged and laughed.
    “I think you like me not, my lady. How have I offended, pray tell?” Norris kept a smirk on his face, a look that told Madge he did not care a fig whether he had offended her or not.
    “I would like you well enough if you did not try to paw me at every point! And if you did not look at me as if to eat me alive! And if you could do more than chatter about my beauty!” said Madge in a huff. She realized she may have gone too far in reprimanding this randy fellow, but she had not been able to stem the tide of words that flowed from her mouth.
    “Ah, you prefer a more subtle approach—wooing with poetry and flowers and declarations of eternal love? Much like our vaunted queen, I suspect. Does that mean you wish me to marry you and