“She is sly,” Simon Renard, the Imperial ambassador, said. “Not to be trusted.”
Mary nodded reluctantly, her misgivings visible in the stiffness of her response.
I had no business eavesdropping on the queen and the Empire’s ambassador, but I took the opportunity that had dropped into my lap. I’d entered an antechamber of the queen’s rooms to visit Jane Dormer, who’d sent word that she had messages and gifts for me from my mother. Jane visited her far more frequently than did I—I’d had little to do with my mother since entering Aunt Kat’s guardianship.
When Jane had departed to fetch the items, I’d remained seated on a stool behind a screen in the little room, out of the drafts. Before Jane could return, Mary and Ambassador Renard had strolled inside for a private chat.
I stilled, peering through slits in the ornate wooden screen, but it was clear they did not see me. Renard, the imprudent man, began speaking before he ascertained whether the room was clear.
“I do not trust her,” Mary said with hesitation.
I could hear in her voice that this declaration made her unhappy. Lonely Mary, who wanted a happy family, was having to acknowledge that becoming queen had not ended all hardship in her life.
“She has wriggled out of mass for nearly a month,” Renard went on. “And she has not made use of the books you sent her. I hear she laughs with her ladies about them and openly defies you.”
My skin prickled with anger. It was not true that Elizabeth openly defied Mary, but ignoring the books could be taken as such. Damn Renard for interpreting her actions so.
“I open Parliament tomorrow.” Mary put her stubby fingers to her lips, her many rings flashing. “Where the old religion will be restored, and my mother’s marriage to my father reinstated as lawful.”
“A perfect time to remind others that your father’s marriage to the Boleyn woman was never valid.” Renard almost purred with his satisfaction. He had a large nose below wide, rather intense dark eyes, ones that might have made him attractive if they weren’t so cooly calculating.
“It was not, was it?” Mary’s voice took on a note of eagerness. “My mother was England’s true queen, as am I. My father’s second wife was … inappropriate.” Pious Mary could not bring herself to say the word whore, which was what Anne Boleyn’s detractors had always called her. “I have ever wondered, you know, whether my sister was born my father’s daughter at all. She bears resemblance to that musician from her mother’s court, Mark Smeaton, who was condemned to death for having improper relations with the Boleyn woman.” Mary rocked on her feet as she warmed to the subject. “I imagine that it is true, that Smeaton is Elizabeth’s father. Why should such a person be heir apparent to my throne?”
The words shocked me all the way through, and I knew them for a lie.
I had never known Mark Smeaton, being a tiny girl when he’d died, days before Anne herself was executed. But I remembered Henry, and I had seen Henry and Elizabeth together.
Elizabeth had Henry’s red hair, his flashing eyes, his mercurial moods, his temper. When Elizabeth worked herself into a rage, her expressions and her movements were all Henry’s.
But I knew enough of court machinations by now to realize that the truth did not always matter. If Mary convinced enough people to speculate on Elizabeth’s legitimacy, to cast doubt on her possessing any Tudor blood at all, she could effectively bar Elizabeth from the throne forever.
“I will speak to my council about it,” Mary continued, her conviction growing. “You are correct that my supposed sister is crafty. Her blatant disregard of my wishes over her conversion sets a dangerous precedent. I am willing to forgive those who have strayed from the church, but not Elizabeth, if she is so obstinate.” Mary’s voice rose as she began to pace, the light from a brazier catching on the pearls of her hood. “She will not have the throne. She will remain in the country or be married off abroad, but she will not rule. Never. That is my wish.”
Renard sent her an assessing glance. “As we talk of marriage, dear lady, the earl—Courtenay—he is too frivolous for you. A wiser, steadier gentleman is what you deserve, one who will love you and help you rule in your best interest.”
Mary plopped down on the room’s one armchair in a rush, color flooding her face. “Courtenay is too fond of worldly pleasures, I agree. I had already decided that.”
From the rise and fall of her bosom and her easy dismissal of Courtenay, I guessed that she’d already entertained the notion of another. Courtenay was to be disappointed, if he thought he’d be king.
“I believe we are of one mind, Your Grace,” Renard said, approval in his voice.
“Indeed.”
The pair fell silent, and for a moment I thought they would depart without revealing the name of this sainted man Mary would woo, but then Renard chuckled.
“We speak of Philip, the son of Charles, our Emperor, do we not?” he asked. “A perfect match. I believe your affection lies in that direction?”
Mary smiled, her blush almost girlish. “I am a woman.”
A silly one, I thought vehemently. I knew nothing about this Philip, but I gleaned that a marriage to anyone connected to the Empire would be a mistake. Courtenay, for his faults, was at least from these isles.
Mary sprang up on light feet. “I believe Philip and I will deal well together. I now have another proposition to put before Parliament.”
She shared a smile with Renard, then Renard bowed as she turned and walked from the room, leaving the ambassador behind.
I tried very hard not to move or make a sound, but perhaps a breath escaped my lips. Renard turned sharply as he prepared to follow his queen out and surveyed the room.
At that moment, the shutter of an open window high above creaked in a sharp breeze. Renard glanced at the window, relaxed, and padded out of the chamber.
