Brazen by Katherine Longshore

him anyway.
    The king’s voice softens. The forest is so quiet—not even the sound of a bird—I think I can hear them breathing. “I remember where you have come from,” he says “The daughter of a knight. Of no one.”
    “I am related to royalty.”
    “In your very distant dreams.” His tone has not altered. It’s the kind someone would use on a skittish horse. “You should be content with what I’ve done for you. And remember I made you what you are.”
    “I am myself!” The queen’s voice is becoming desperate. “I am Anne Boleyn. You have not made me!”
    The stillness that descends over the wood is as cold and thick and immovable as stone.
    Until the king breaks it.
    “I can make you nothing.”
    I don’t know how long I sit against that tree. I hear the king leave, but I do not hear the queen weeping. Mother always cried. Every time Father left us.
    That night, there’s a flurry very late—one barely seen or recognized by those of us who don’t sleep in the queen’s chambers. She spends all the next day in bed—pale and wan, the hair hanging around her face like curtains.
    No one says a word. But no secret at court is very well kept, so surely the news that the queen miscarried can’t stay locked within these walls for long.
    The king doesn’t speak to her. He goes hunting, and comes back late.
    But the next day, they sit beside each other at dinner, fingers touching.
    And when we move to Woodstock, with its cramped cluster of towers, their reconciliation is made painfully public when he visits her bedchamber.
    The queen doesn’t argue when her sister-in-law, Jane Boleyn, is exiled from court for her part in the debacle. And Madge doesn’t say a word.



W HEN WE RETURN FROM TH E PROGRESS , F ITZ IS R ECALLED TO court, and every day that goes by makes me more nervous. We haven’t seen each other in months. We haven’t spoken. Haven’t written.
    Will my list change? Will it matter that he can’t dance?
    Will he remember that he liked my kiss? Or will he, like his father, have found someone else? And if he has, will I be able to fight like Queen Anne did?
    Will I want to?
    At least it is a relief to pause at Hampton Court, despite the king’s endless building works. After months of packing and traveling and cramped quarters, I almost dread our impending move to Greenwich. But a delegation of French diplomats is coming to visit the court in November, and the king wants to entertain them away from the presence of bricklayers and glaziers. I think he especially wants to impress Philippe de Chabot, the admiral of France and one of the highest-ranking officers of the French crown.
    Even with the chaos, Hampton Court feels comfortable and sheltered, though winter seems to have arrived early and a bitter north wind pecks determinedly at the windows.
    As we sew in the queen’s rooms, I watch her. She sits with her head in one hand. Her eyes are trained toward the cloudy sky, but her thoughts are obviously elsewhere. The king’s affair seems to be over, but it has taken its toll on her. Her cheeks are a little more hollow. Her eyes rest deeply in their sockets, the skin around them smudged like a bruise. As I watch, she closes her eyes, presses her lips together. I see her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath.
    She sits up, her back straight, puts her hands in her lap, tilts her head to one side, and gazes about the room. When she finds me watching her, she smiles. Just a tiny bit. I lower my head in deference. When I look up, her eyes have once again trailed to the window.
    Behind me, I hear whispers. They sound like waves approaching the shore and retreating again. Buffeting. With each approach, they grow louder. I turn, and see women speaking behind their hands.
    Whatever the rumor is, it feels malicious, like something crawling from beneath the floorboards and getting ready to pounce. I wonder how this rumor has started in a closed room, with only the servants entering and exiting. Perhaps