The King’s Mistress. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ does not have to look at the keys. That is something I am working on as yet. He regards me with a carefree smile. His eyes, those strange, violet-tinged eyes, sparkle. I feel a bubble of laughter catch in my chest.

      “It needs a bit of work, though,” he says. “I haven’t any words to it yet. Tell me what you envision when you hear it.”

      I close my eyes, allowing the melody to envelop me. “The sea. Rolling waves, a calm blue sky … a ship … it is a lovely scene but sort of melancholy. It is good-bye. A man has left his maid …” I bow my head and know from the heat of my face I am flushing furiously.

      “Why did you stop?” Cedric asks.

      I avert my head, unable to meet his eyes. “Mayhap it is a little … I’m not sure …”

      “Mistress Howard, please. Continue,” he urges.

      I raise my eyes to him to find his head is bowed toward the keys. His eyes are closed and he weaves subtly in time with the tune. He is a musician in complete harmony with his song.

      “I—I see the maiden. She stands alone on shore, bidding her lover good-bye.” I swallow. I am caught up in my scene. “Somehow she knows his voyage is perilous. She will not see him again.”

      “Tragic,” says Cedric. “But beautiful, as tragic love tends to be. Leaves you blissfully unsatisfied, yet somehow there is a perverse pleasure in the agony of it all.”

      I never thought of it like that. Perhaps I have witnessed too much agony to find it pleasurable. Or I have not witnessed the right kind.

      “Will you sing for me, Mistress Howard?” he asks. “Put verse to your story. Breathe life into my song.”

      “I can’t—”

      “Come now.” He chuckles. “You’re not afraid.”

      “Yes,” I admit. “My voice might grate on you.”

      “It might,” he says. “But I promise I will tell you.”

      I giggle. “I am not good at verse on the spot.”

      “Not many people are, save your brother, I hear.”

      “Henry?” I arch an eyebrow.

      “I had the privilege of keeping company with him and the Duke of Richmond of late. Your Lord Surrey is a wonderful poet— a hot-tempered boy, but a gifted writer with a great deal of heart,” he tells me.

      “Boy!” I cry.

      “He’s no older than you!”

      “He’s a boy,” he says.

      “And you’re not?” I tease.

      “That’s for you to learn.”

      “Master Dane!” I cry, scandalized.

      “Forgive me, Mistress Howard,” he says. “I grow too comfortable in your charming company.” He clears his throat and continues playing. “Now. Do enlighten me with a few verses.”

      I pause a long while, allowing images and words to whirl in my mind and take form. It is a creation in itself, writing verse, and I envisage the Psalmists feeling a similar exuberance when composing God’s Word. I am tingling with inspiration. Slowly but in a clear, low voice, I begin.

      “O happy dames … that may embrace the fruit of your delight.” Tears fill my eyes. “Help to bewail the woeful case and eke the heavy plight …” I take in a breath. “Of me, that wonted to rejoice the fortune of my pleasant choice: good ladies! Help to fill my mourning voice …”

      I trail off, unable to continue. Cedric stops playing. He is staring at me.

      “Where did that come from?”

      Embarrassed, I avoid his eyes. “I—I don’t know.”

      He rises, approaching me. “You are more gifted than I could ever have imagined. You compose from your innermost being, from your soul, your heart … You are an artist.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “Tell me you will write that down and finish it for me.”

      I nod.

      He sits on the bench once more. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the vacant space so near to him. I sit. I have never been so close to a man outside of my family before. His presence, his warmth cause me to shiver all over. Gooseflesh dots my arms and I’m grateful my sleeves cover it.

      “Your voice is beautiful, fraught with emotion.” At my dubious expression, he goes on. “It is not mere flattery, Mistress Howard. I don’t waste my time with empty obsequiousness. I leave that to the courtiers,” he adds with a wink.

      “Thank you,” I whisper.

      “Thank you.” He nods toward the keyboard. “Will you play for me as well?”

      I place my hands on the smooth keys. They are at home here. I close my eyes. I find I cannot do anything but his bidding. I want to elongate this moment forever. I begin to play one of my own compositions. Unlike his bittersweet melody, mine is violent and dark, with a heavy bass hand and strong minor chords. As I play, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. When I finish I stare at my stilled hands. Blue veins are raised against the fair skin like a surging network of rivers from my efforts. My breathing comes quick and shallow.

      Cedric is silent. “You have a talent.” He pauses as though considering. “Where does all that darkness and passion come from? I should think a girl your age would be composing light, frilly little songs.”

      I bow my head. I cannot say where it comes from, only that it emerges from some depth of my soul and cannot be ignored. When my fingers touch the keyboard they are commanded by something else, something illogical and not of this world.

      I say nothing. I cannot speak past my emotion.

      He seems to perceive this so clears his throat, changing the subject. “Are you—are you excited about Mistress Anne’s elevation ceremony?”

      I nod, relieved. “I am carrying her robes,” I say with pride.

      “Quite an honor,” he says. “Your family is steeped in honors, I think.”

      “Yes,” I agree, then realize I should take offense. “What’s wrong with that?”

      “Nothing,” he says. “Such is the way with the king’s favorites. The blessings spill over. I’m certain Mistress Anne isn’t the only one benefiting from her match.”

      I rise from the bench. “You mean my father?” I cry. “Every honor that is bestowed upon him is earned. He is a man to be feared by all—”

      “Odd that should be the attribute you mention first,” Cedric observes in soft tones. He arches a well-defined black brow. “Do you fear him, Mistress Howard?”

      My words catch in my throat. I see my bruised mother. I feel the pain in my scalp. I recall the humiliation of being made to wipe my puppy’s mess with my red velvet wrap. I blink back tears. СКАЧАТЬ