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Authors: D. L. Bogdan
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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mockery. I whisper his name to myself over and over. Cedric. Cedric. Cedric Dane …Never have I felt this way. I know what occurs between a man and a maid, and that I am expected to make a marriage soon. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that there was talk about my betrothal to Lord Bulbeck, son of the Earl of Oxford, but whether that will ever come to fruition I have no idea. Marriage—my marriage at least—is the farthest thing from my mind. But romance…This court, not to mention my own father, are all shining examples that you do not need to have marriage to have romance. My heart leaps at the naughty thought, sinking just as quickly as I realize where, almost against my will, I am now headed.
My father’s liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.
He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.
“It’s been a lovely night, Father,” I tell him. “I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good.”
“Who are you to tell me what is good for me?” he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. “How goes it with Anne?”
“She is well,” I say, though I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.
“I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very…affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”
“Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.
“I…read to the king and Anne,” I say against the nausea in my throat. “A poem of mine…They liked it.” Why this sudden weakness? I bring a hand to my forehead. I want to tear off my hood, but do not have the strength. A vision of Cedric swirls before me. I can’t wait to get back to the maidens’ chamber to tell Madge about him; then rethink it, as most likely she would gossip about it to Anne, who would mock me in turn.
Thoughts of my cousins and the musician are chased from my mind as I struggle to keep my balance. I want to cry out but cannot. I try to focus on my father, who is coming toward me. His mouth is moving, but I cannot hear…
Then there is nothing.
The King’s Great Matter
I awaken, forcing heavy lids open to find that I am not in the maidens’ chamber. I am in a great four-poster bed with a soft feather mattress that smells of lavender. There is naught but a single candle to illuminate the room. My body aches. I cannot will myself to move.
Someone in nightclothes and bare feet is kneeling by a prie-dieu, shoulders shaking.
I drift back into dreamless sleep. At intervals my eyes flutter open to find the figure still there, like
My father’s liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.
He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.
“It’s been a lovely night, Father,” I tell him. “I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good.”
“Who are you to tell me what is good for me?” he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. “How goes it with Anne?”
“She is well,” I say, though I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.
“I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very…affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”
“Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.
“I…read to the king and Anne,” I say against the nausea in my throat. “A poem of mine…They liked it.” Why this sudden weakness? I bring a hand to my forehead. I want to tear off my hood, but do not have the strength. A vision of Cedric swirls before me. I can’t wait to get back to the maidens’ chamber to tell Madge about him; then rethink it, as most likely she would gossip about it to Anne, who would mock me in turn.
Thoughts of my cousins and the musician are chased from my mind as I struggle to keep my balance. I want to cry out but cannot. I try to focus on my father, who is coming toward me. His mouth is moving, but I cannot hear…
Then there is nothing.
The King’s Great Matter
I awaken, forcing heavy lids open to find that I am not in the maidens’ chamber. I am in a great four-poster bed with a soft feather mattress that smells of lavender. There is naught but a single candle to illuminate the room. My body aches. I cannot will myself to move.
Someone in nightclothes and bare feet is kneeling by a prie-dieu, shoulders shaking.
I drift back into dreamless sleep. At intervals my eyes flutter open to find the figure still there, like
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