Traitor's Kiss by Pauline Francis

come alive like this piglet boy. She lies not far from here in an old arrow chest, because they forgot to order a coffin for her.” I strengthened my voice. “I could not help her in her hour of need. I was only a baby. But I am a woman now…” A whistle cut the air and stopped abruptly. “…and one day I might be your Queen. So I command you not to speak of her in my presence, unless you have something good to say about her, because I shall never forget those who mock her tonight. If you do not know what to give up for Lent, then let it be mockery.” I stopped, my heartbeat booming in my ears. Anne Seymour’s newly-hung emeralds gleamed at me and gave me the courage to carry on. “One day soon, I shall learn the truth about her and so shall you.”
    I finished, proud that I had defended my mother in public, proud that I had made my promise for all to hear. There was no lightning, no thunderbolt as I left the dais, only a rush of blood to my head. Some hissed. Some cheered. But all stood aside to let me pass. Some of the women curtsied. Some of the men bowed and doffed their caps. Thomas Seymour did neither. He stood, mouth gaping. It was the first time I had seen him lost for words.
    Only Anne Seymour whispered as I passed, “We know the truth about your mother and you would do well to accept it quietly.”
    Promises made in public have even greater power than those made in private.
    The truth, I thought. Now I am bound for Bedlam soon. There is no turning back.
    Under the starlit sky, I removed the perfume box from my bodice, inhaling the faint fragrance that still lingered there, for I had used up all the cream. I knelt. It was the first time I had done so outside the safety of my bedchamber – except in church. I never kneel in public, for I remember how my mother died. I would never give any swordsman the chance to steal up behind me and take off my head. “No more mockery, mother,” I whispered. “Pray that Francis speaks the truth. Pray that Alys can tell me the truth.”
    Jane was the only one who came to comfort me, but she startled me badly, creeping up behind me. “He didn’t really lose his head,” she whispered. She rubbed her neck again and again. “Ellie says this is only bull’s blood.”
    â€œYou little fool!” I snapped. “Of course I know it isn’t real. Don’t you understand? They rubbed my face in the dirt of my past, in public, like you rub a puppy’s nose in its own filth so that it will never foul in the same place again.”
    Her mouth trembled. “I would not dare make such a speech,” she said. “My mother would beat me for it.”
    â€œThank God that you have a mother,” I shouted. “Better a cruel mother than a dead one.”
    Her thin shoulders heaved. She ran inside. I did not see her again that night. She left early with Mistress Ellen and Lady Catherine.
    It was late when our barge returned for us. Guests still ate and drank, grasping the last moments before their fast. The sky was as black as ink, and extra lanterns had been lit on the barge. Thomas Seymour went to look for Kat, but he came back alone and told the oarsmen to start rowing. We left the water steps so quickly that I had no time to get out.
    I shrank back into the shadows of the cushions and my furs. To be seen alone in a barge with a man – even my stepfather – would cause gossip.
    In the bedchamber, I could run away or call for Kat. But in a barge, there was no escape, except into the murky Thames.
    Seymour, silly with drink, shadowed me. When I moved away, he moved towards me. When I sat opposite him, he came to join me. “A performance as good as Salomé’s,” he said. He kissed my hand, eyes brimming with open admiration, and placed his hand on my knee, beneath my furs. I pushed it away, repelled by him.
    â€œI heard you scoff at my mother’s death,” I cried.