The Tudor Witch Book 1 Mistress

1524 Greenwich Palace (Edited)

It does not take long for Anne to seek me out once I am settled at Greenwich Palace. She knocks loudly before I can call her inside. She lets herself in, embracing me swiftly—squeezing me tightly in her strong embrace.

"Bonjour, Madame." She rolls the french of her tongue elegantly.

"Bonjour, Madame," I reply. My French sounds unusual, even to my own ears.

Breaking apart, she looks upon me. There is no scrutiny in her look; she appears as though she only wants to refresh her memory.

"It feels like it has been too long," I say, reverting back to English.

She frowns in jest. "I thought I could continue speaking French with you. It sounds more beautiful. Makes me appear more intriguing, do you not think?" she asks.

I laugh. "It is a beautiful language, but I fear if we speak it between ourselves, people will believe we are conspiring. You know how the Queen hates the French."

"I thought she did not like the French because her husband appears to have taken up with a French mistress," she quips.

"Rumours in the courts of Europe are like winter storms. The king has no mistress except your sister, who is as English as they come." I do not break my gaze.

She holds my gaze for a moment before breaking into laughter. "I would not judge you if the rumors were true. However, if you say it is just gossip, then I believe you, Kat."

We spend the next few hours busying ourselves in gossip and talk. Anne, although sent away in disgrace, has grown during her time away at the French court. She now holds herself strong, surer of her place in the world. She has adopted a French style to her wardrobe: long silk sleeves, a square-cut bodice and the most daring: a thin hood adorned with jewels—a bold outfit that, at the same time, is in compliance with the rules of modesty.

"Your mother says you do not write." Anne hands me a parchment.

I take it slowly. It is true; we do not converse, but she has not written to me either, until now. "You should read it later, then burn it," she whispers.

I glance at the parchment in my hand. If she means me to destroy it, then it must contain dangerous, damning words.

"Do you know what is written?" I ask.

"Yes and no. Your mother did not trust a normal page to deliver this to you without reading the content," she whispers.

"But she trusted you?" I ask, shocked.

"I can be very charming, Mistress Champernowne!" she says with a grin.

"Charming, I am sure, for my mother trusts no one," I reply.

"Well, she trusts me. I have so much to tell you about the French court," she exclaims.

"I guess things will have changed," I say half-heartedly.

"Read your letter tonight, then find me tomorrow at the wedding. I must talk to my brother George before his big day."

She embraces me once more before leaving me with the parchment in my hand.

* * *

Wringing my hands together, I sit impatiently at the back of the chapel. I can still smell the lingering, potent incense used in the morning mass. I feel uncomfortable—almost suffocated. I do not belong here, in their god's home, and I feel like everyone present can sense my discomfort.

It is only early morning and already my day has been consumed in this chapel, first with mass, then in wait for the wedding. My thoughts have been out of place, and my mother's scrawled script has been constantly flashing behind my closed eyes. I almost failed to look at the raised host, nearly forgetting to say the timely pronounced Amens with which the devout Catholics show their pious devotion.