Gilt by Katherine Longshore Page A

buried itself in the thick, textured luxury of it. My tongue found his, and I lost myself in the brilliantly faceted sunlight and shadow of his touch.

I SLIPPED IN THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR OF THE HOUSE, ONE HAND TO lips that felt green and renascent, like spring itself. The entrance hall dozed, languid, in the afternoon heat, buzzing with the hum of a single fly.
    And voices. From the duchess’s little withdrawing room.
    I tried to slip past, but was caught by the sound of my name.
    “Katherine?” the duchess said. “You try telling that snip of a girl what to do. I’ve tried for years now, and she still does whatever pleases her.”
    A shot of fear passed through me that someone had seen me with William. That the duchess disapproved not of my choice but of me making it.
    “Perhaps that is why she is so headstrong,” came the duke’s voice. “She has never been punished for it.”
    “Are you trying to tell me how to run my own household, sir?” the duchess cried.
    “I would never do such a thing, my lady. Though others might wish to if they discover the laxity of your control. Especially in the past.”
    “No one will ever learn Katherine’s secrets.”
    Secrets? I had none. At least none the duchess knew. Or so I thought.
    “Which is exactly why we must fill her chambers with those allegiant to the house of Howard. And one in particular who will be willing to tell us everything. What is said and by whom. Who is in favor and who is out. When they consummate the marriage. How often and how vigorously.”
    I realized which Catherine they discussed. And why.
    “We will need to know every detail of her monthly courses,” the duchess agreed.
    “God forbid that she have them,” the duke interrupted. “For what we really need is a Howard heir in the royal cradle.”
    The duchess murmured her agreement. I started to creep away, having no desire to be privy to the rest of their conversation. But the duke’s next words stopped me.
    “We will need help. Someone close to her. Someone we can trust, but whom she must trust as well. A sister?”
    The duchess let out a condescending laugh.
    “She hates her sisters,” she said. “No, it will have to be someone closer than that.”
    “Someone loyal,” the duke reminded her.
    “I know just the person,” the duchess said. “Loyal to the grave.”

I T WAS WHAT THE DUCHESS HAD CALLED ME, MANY MONTHS BEFORE .
Loyal to the grave.
Closer than a sister. When Cat fulfilled her promise to bring me to court, would I be expected to tell all her secrets to the duke?
    On July 28, Thomas Cromwell, who had engineered the marriage to Anne of Cleves, lost his head for his singular lack of judgment.
    Cat married King Henry the same day.
    Cat followed instructions and appointed great ladies to her household. She kept Jane Boleyn, the Lady Rochford, widowed sister-in-law to the first Queen Anne. And she selected several candidates from amongst her family members. Cat’s half-sister Lady Isabel Baynton, thirty years older and infinitely more tiresome, and Cat’s stepmother, Lady Howard, retained the positions they’d had in Anne of Cleves’s household. Cat’s aunt, the pale Countess of Bridgewater, and Lady Arundel, another half-sister, rounded out the Howard retinue.
    And then Cat appointed the dowager duchess herself.
    Cat finally had them all where she wanted them. She wielded more power than her stepmother. More influence than heraunt. More status than her grandmother. Cat had won. Finally.
    But she didn’t have us. As the long, hot summer stretched on, we received no word. The duchess packed up her house. Dismissed her servants.
    Wrote letters to the parents of the girls in her care.
    We waited as the summer scorched the earth. Into the dry autumn when the leaves dropped from sheer exhaustion. The wheat withered in the fields before it could be harvested. Cows and sheep and men and women battled starvation.
    Joan started to cry.
    “Don’t worry, Joan,” I said, barely able