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James Butler. There is no marriage until it is written and signed.”
    “And sealed,” he leers, exposing the gap of a missing tooth next to an overly sharp canine. I suppress a shudder at the thought of his suggestion. Consummation.
    “That will never happen.”
    “Wolsey and the king want this. It will happen.”
    The thought that the king is part of the execution of this contract makes me ill.
    I allow Butler to walk me through Richmond’s crowded rooms and to the covered gallery around the garden. Weak spring sunshine slants over the walls, igniting the gold flame of the cockerels that top the donjon’s cupolas. They point north, into the wind, and for a moment I’m reminded of the Louvre, the striped towers swept clean by rain. And I ache to go back. To be anywhere but here.
    I’m shaken by my desperation to get out of this predicament. To get my arm out of his grasp. To unlink my life from his.
    I stop. Square my shoulders. Take a deep breath.
    “The marriage rests on the settlement of the earldom of Ormond,” I say evenly. “That is yet to be decided.”
    I know George wants the earldom. So does Father. I am nothing but a bargaining chip, a sacrifice to the pretense of capitulation. They’ll fight Butler. Won’t they?
    “The earl had only one son. My father.” Butler’s smile is mocking.
    “His illegitimate son.”
    Butler scowls, but I continue.
    “My grandmother was named as coheiress in the earl’s will.”
    “Women,” Butler says in a voice most people reserve for the stupid and the Irish, “cannot inherit. They don’t know money. Don’t know rules. They squander every groat on baubles.”
    He flicks the A pendant that hangs from a ribbon around my neck.
    “Women,” I counter, grabbing his hand and squeezing it to make a point, “are in every way men’s intellectual equals.”
    He laughs, showing off his teeth.
    “We can grasp languages and texts as easily,” I continue. “Women translate Latin, compose music, even orchestrate war, as Queen Katherine did in Scotland when the king was away playing games in France.”
    “A fluke. Desperation. Look at her now. She can’t produce an heir.”
    “She has a daughter.”
    “Just my point.”
    I could strangle him.
    “Mary will be queen!” I cry. “As the king’s only legitimate child, it’s her birthright. I’m sure she’ll do better than most men, who have lost entire peerages to depravity and gluttony.”
    “And to the wantonness of women.”
    “Wars are waged and death unleashed by men who follow without thought their own ambition and misplaced loyalty,” I pursue.
    “Like your grandfather.”
    My mother’s father, the second Duke of Norfolk, was attainted after fighting on the wrong side of the battle of Bosworth that knocked the crown from Richard III’s head and rolled it to Henry Tudor. The Howards have been weaseling their way back into Tudor court life ever since.
    I’m embarrassed to be related to them.
    “Traitors and pretenders,” Butler growls. “I’m doing you a favor.”
    “How romantic,” I say, wrenching my hand from his.
    “Romance is only in books and music,” he says. “You won’t find any of that in Ireland.”
    I feel myself grow pale. I can’t face a future with no music. All we hear of Ireland are stories of barbaric lords and fiefdoms, as if they continue to live in the Dark Ages. No music. No poetry. No court.
    “Are you threatening me?” I demand, my voice stronger than my heart.
    Butler’s face lights up with wicked mirth and he laughs. I smell the meat on his breath.
    “Yes. With me, you’ll be a countess. Without me, you are nothing.”
    He snaps a smart bow and turns away before I can even curtsy back. Not that I plan to.
    The walls of Richmond press in around me. Ladies whisper as I pass. I keep my face still and pleasant. I don’t rush. I don’t fly through the rooms as my limbs are desperate to do.
    I move slowly, almost regally, to a quiet, disused antechamber at the far