Gigi Sinclair

If he was honest with himself---and William tried in all things to be honest---when he seduced Thomas in the cellars, he had not expected it to last long. It never did. William had dallied with boys before and, unlike women, they usually wanted a few weeks of amusement and no ill will when they left. Women, William had generally found, at least pretended to be interested in lasting love, and usually put on a convincing show of tragic loss and bitter disappointment, even as they packed up their things and moved on to someone else.

From the beginning, William knew he felt more for Thomas than he had for anyone previous, man or woman, but he didn't expect that to alter the outcome. Thomas had been vague and distracted from the moment they met, and half the time William didn't know if he was even aware there was someone else in the room. He seemed to enjoy it when they lay together; he didn't refuse at any rate and often he participated with what, for him, was eager engagement, but William could recognize the signs. When he brought Thomas to Wynates, he knew their days were numbered. When William saw him off on his journey to France, he strongly suspected Thomas would not return. Not because he would find someone else, or even because he would wish to dedicate himself more fully to his work, but because in his absence, whatever impact William had made on Thomas's near-impregnable consciousness was bound to evaporate. Thomas would forget about him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

***

William remembered very little about the sickness. He remembered the days leading up to it, going back to London and being depressed and unsettled at having to watch Henry cavort with his mistress. He remembered returning to Wynates and feeling ill, not just heartsick but physically unwell, as he arrived home. He told Anne he was going to bed, she had made an uncharacteristically caustic remark about it being very quiet now there was no music to fill it, and that was all.

This void in his life, the blackness of lost days, intrigued and worried William in equal measures. If he thought hard, he could conjure dim memories of lying in pain, surrounded by unbearable heat, but the recollections were fleeting and he could not hold onto them. The next strong memory he had, after Anne's unworthy remark and his retiring to bed, was waking up in that same bed with a man kneeling beside him.

William knew where he was, of course, but not how long he had been there. It was light outside, which led him to believe it had been a short time, maybe an hour or two. The man, William thought, had to be a new servant Anne had sent up to fetch him for supper.

"I'm not hungry," he muttered, and the man looked up.

It was Thomas, his eyes red and tears shining on his cheeks. William felt a deep uneasiness, although he did not know why. "You're in France." Perhaps, William thought, this was a dream.

"I'm back," Thomas said. He kissed William's cheek, then his forehead, then his nose, and onwards until William's face was wet from kisses and transferred tears.

If it was a dream, William thought, he would try to stay asleep for as long as possible.

"You've been ill," Thomas finally said. "Your whole household has been."

William shook his head, and was rewarded by profound dizziness. "That's impossible. I just saw them. Anne is downstairs, and the servants should be preparing supper."

Thomas sighed deeply. "I'm so sorry, William." He pressed William's hand to his lips, then to his cheek. "Lady Hastings is dead."

While he was enjoying this new, demonstrative Thomas, the dream had gone on long enough. "That's impossible," he repeated. "I'm going to see her." He cast aside the blankets and tried to stand.

Thomas got up. "You should stay here."

"I'm fine." He wasn't. His feet had barely touched the floor when the room began to spin. He reached out and Thomas, more solid than any dream figure, held him tightly and lowered him back into bed.

"I thought I had lost you," he said, and the desperate relief in his voice hit William hard. It was true. How he would live with it, he didn't know.

Thomas had never been one for mindless diversions or filling time, but now, he scarcely left William's bedside. He sat for hours, playing cards or reading poetry or telling William anecdotes from the trip to France, from his early days at court, even from his life in the country before he'd come to London. If William got up for any reason, Thomas wanted to know why, and insisted on accompanying him wherever he wanted to go. If William wanted to sit out in the garden, Thomas brought him shawls and furs and blankets until he was crushed beneath a mountain of them and so hot he had to go back inside again.

As William's health improved, Thomas began to look like he was working, sitting at a desk with manuscript paper and quill, but William soon learned this was dissimulation. As soon as William stood, or stirred, or coughed, Thomas was back at his side, feeling his forehead and telling him to go back to bed.

Before all this, when Thomas had been ever-preoccupied by his music and thoughtless towards him, William had often wondered what it would be like to be the focus of his amazing mind, to be Thomas's only concern, to have all that inestimable energy directed towards him. It was, William quickly discovered, more exhausting than pleasurable.

At last, he had enough. "My love," William said one morning, as Thomas seemed about to again insist he stay in bed even though he felt perfectly well, "While I am deeply touched at your concern for my well-being, you are not my physician, my nursemaid or my mother. You must stop."

Thomas looked at him as if the words had stung him, and William almost felt guilty. "I thought you knew," Thomas finally said, his voice unsteady, "Because I let you do," he hesitated, "Everything, I thought we understood each other. But you didn't understand, and I never said anything, and if you had died, you would never have known."

His eyes were wide, and William thought back to the night of the banquet, before the tournament where Anthony had been injured. He'd never looked twice at Thomas before that, but when he'd passed this beautiful boy gazing at him like he was Adonis returned, William's heart had melted instantly and he knew he wanted him, at least for a little while.

He wanted Thomas still, and, instead of waning with familiarity like it usually did, the desire seemed to increase all the time. He reached out a hand to touch Thomas's cheek. Thomas took a deep breath and said: "I love you."

William understood the gravity of the words. Thomas was not Henry, who would declare his undying love for a tree if it offered him shade on a summer's day, nor was he Charles, who thought of "love" as a seducer's tool to get any recalcitrant woman into bed. From Thomas, the words were a precious and meaningful gift. He didn't care Thomas ever brought himself to utter them again; hearing them once would be enough, William knew, to carry him through a lifetime.

He was rarely at a loss for words, but he couldn't think of any response worthy of such an offering. He pulled Thomas down beside him and kissed him. When Thomas laughed, a wonderful sound, William said: "I feel much better."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"But," he continued, "There are ways you can convince me to stay in bed."

Thomas laughed again, and William thought about what he had almost lost. He gathered Thomas to him and thanked God for giving him this second chance.

Not everyone was so lucky. A letter from the king arrived three days later, saying that London was besieged by the illness and recommending William stay away until further notice. Of course, we are most grateful to hear you have survived your bout with this terrible malady, the letter went on, and you have our most sincere condolences on the passing of your unfortunate lady. She was a worthy woman and a perfectly matched companion for you. Henry, William thought, had clearly forgotten he'd had his own designs on Lady Hastings at one time. That, or he was merely being polite, but William believed it was more likely the former.

"We're banished," William said, going over to where Thomas was sitting with his music and his lute. He passed the letter over, and Thomas looked at it.

"How unfortunate," he said, but William could tell he felt as sincere about that as William himself.

It was a honeymoon without a wedding, like it had been in the early days with Anne. William had only to look out the window at the smoke from dozens of fires to be reminded how close he had come to death, and he planned on taking the greatest possible advantage of his reprieve.

Thomas, too, had changed. Instead of a lovely ghost forever gazing into the distance, there in body but somewhere else in spirit, he was suddenly present. When William looked at him, Thomas looked back, and not merely as if William were an obstacle to be stared through. When he smiled, William knew it was for him, and not for some unheard melody, and when William put his arms around him, Thomas didn't merely endure it, but returned the embrace warmly and happily.

Sex, too, was different, in ways William could not have begun to fathom if he had not experienced them. Sex with the old, distracted Thomas had been better than anything he could remember; sex with the new, interested Thomas was better, William was sure, than anything that had ever existed.

It was bliss, but it couldn't last forever, and, sure enough, several weeks later another letter came from the king, this one saying the contagion had passed and hoping he would soon return to court, so Henry could share his sympathies in person. William had to go, but there was something he needed to do first.

"I want to say good-bye to Anne," he told Thomas, as they were preparing to leave. He'd been putting it off, but there was no more time for that, and he had to do it before they went back to London.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

William nodded. He didn't know if he'd manage otherwise.

Anne's grave was plain, like all those around it, marked only by a simple wooden cross. William smiled when he saw the name "Lady Compton" painted on it in shaky white letters. Clearly, he thought, it had been placed there by one of the more delusional and conservative villagers, of which there were many.

"Her family hated me," he said, as he and Thomas stood before the grave. He remembered the girl who had come to him, years ago, and said: "They won't let me marry you, so let's not get married." It had been a temporary measure, at first, but the more time passed, the more William found he liked living without marriage. He, and she, could do as they pleased, could sleep with others if they wanted, but they always came home to each other. Marriage meant nothing. The Church had never done William any favours, and he had been just as happy not to let it interfere in his love life.

"I can't imagine why," Thomas replied, quietly.

William shook his head. "She didn't care. Married or not, she knew no one could replace her in my heart." No one ever would. He loved Thomas, but he was not Anne, as she was not he. Even if Anne had lived, William would have loved them both, equally and differently.

He didn't know if Thomas understood that, and he hoped one day he'd have the words to explain it properly. It was Thomas who laid the flower on the grave, a big white rose resting against that ridiculous little cross, and, after a time, it was Thomas who led him away.

London seemed quieter than when William had left. There were a few carts still in the streets, hauling away the bodies of the unfortunate, and the whole city seemed subdued and grieving. The king, on the other hand, was overjoyed to see him, embracing William warmly and kissing his cheek. "Our closest friend and our most dearly beloved are both returned to us," he cried happily, grinning at Lady Anne Boleyn who was sitting quietly by the fire. "We are truly blessed by God."

"I am sorry about your wife, Sir William," Anne said, simply. William nodded politely and noticed the crown-like ornament she was already wearing on her hair.

Thomas had his own chamber, a dank cell William wouldn't have given to a dog, but within a few days of their return, he noticed Thomas's belongings slowly migrating over. William came back one evening to see virtually every surface in his chambers covered by music, instruments and Thomas's clothes. For a man with few possessions, he took up a great deal of room.

"If anyone asks," William said, "I'll just say I've developed a taste for music." Thomas didn't laugh and, while that would have been perfectly usual a few weeks earlier, it seemed odd now. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Thomas gave him a weak smile. "I learned I have lost a friend to the sickness."

"Who? Another musician?"

He shook his head. "A woman."

William felt a twinge of jealousy, which he knew was irrational. That didn't make it disappear. "A sweetheart?" Thomas hadn't talked about previous lovers, and William had long ago made it a policy not to ask. He had assumed there were few, but he should have known he would not have been the only one at court to fall for Thomas's charms.

"An admirer," Thomas replied. "I'm afraid I was not very gracious to her. She and her sister wished to..." He blushed a little. "Engage me in private discussions, shall we say. But I always refused them."

"Why?" William knew the answer he was hoping for, but he also knew that, before he met Thomas, he would have gladly accepted any sisters offering "private discussions." He knew few men who wouldn't.

Thomas, though, was obviously one of these few. "I was too nervous," he said. "Then I saw you and I didn't want anyone else."

"You refused me, at first." With anyone else, William would have assumed it was part of the game, and at the time, he had treated it as such. Thomas didn't play those games, but William was glad he hadn't known that then.

Thomas looked at him. "They were not as persistent as you. But I will miss seeing her. Both of them." He went over to one of the tables, where he had stacked his music. "I have a new piece," he held it up. "A requiem. The king has asked the choir to perform it at a memorial service."

"You should dedicate it to your friend," William suggested. She was, he told himself firmly, dead after all, and she hadn't even succeeded with Thomas when she was alive. If anything, William should pity her.

"And to Lady Hastings," Thomas replied.

It was the kind of music Anne would have loved. William thought of her as he sat in the chapel, the king weeping in front of him and the queen looking on sympathetically. Tears of relief, William assumed, and he didn't think any of them were for him.

There were few dry eyes in the chapel, though, and William himself felt a tear escape more than once during the service. He wondered if Thomas would have written something for him, if Fate had played a different hand, and decided he was glad not to know the answer.

If the sickness had changed London, it had also changed the king. He began to push more forcefully than ever for the divorce, going to great lengths to hasten it. William chose not to be involved. He did not attend the trial, as half of London seemed to, and if the king mentioned it in his presence, he listened politely and changed the subject. He busied himself with his own life, with his friends and his pursuits and his love, paying no attention to the other goings-on at court. It was Thomas, of all people, who had to tell him what a laughingstock the king was making of himself.

"The people admire the queen because she holds herself above it all," Thomas told him, as they lay in bed. "They think the king a fool, ensnared by Boleyn and his cronies."

"The king must know of this feeling." Although William wasn't so sure. In the past, Henry had proved remarkably insular when it came to getting what he wanted.

Thomas shrugged. "I have heard he sits there day after day, listening to people swear that his brother successfully slept with his wife. There is even talk of bringing in the sheets to prove it."

"Good Lord." William winced. "I will speak to him about it." The idea gave William a feeling of deep discomfort, but if the king's closest friends couldn't tell him he was making a mistake, then who could?

The answer, William should have known, was no one. He broached the subject casually, as they finished a card game one afternoon. He even let the king win, to soften the upcoming blow, but it was not enough.

"If you truly believe you and Catherine should never have married," William began, thoughtfully, "Then you must divorce. But you must do it properly."

Henry scowled and gathered his winnings. "That's what I'm doing."

"You are trying to rush things. The people must see this is the will of God, or they will lose respect." William smiled. "Why not make Anne your accredited mistress, if she means so much to you? You don't need to jump into marrying her."

"Do not presume to lecture me on marriage, sir," Henry's voice was icy and his eyes hard. "Not when you lacked the decency to marry your own lady."

William owed everything he had to the king. Henry had brought him out of nowhere, loved him like the brother he had lost, given him a new life. His house, his lands, his title, every luxury he possessed, all had come to him through Henry's kindness. He thought of this, and of the many good times he and the king had shared, and he persevered. "I know it is difficult for you to hear, your Majesty, but if Lady Anne is so insistent on a speedy marriage, then perhaps she desires to be queen more than she desires you."

Henry swept an arm across the table, and the pitcher of wine, the plate of fruit and the goblets clattered to the floor. A guard in the corner flinched, and within moments, a servant came scuttling in, beetle-like, to clean up the mess. Henry waved her away angrily. "Perhaps you have forgotten your place, Sir William. Or has fucking Wolsey's pet canary addled your brains?"

William let too much surprise show, and Henry, of course, jumped on it. "Don't think you have secrets from me. Your actions go further against God than mine ever have. Although I'm sure it's far too enjoyable to give up just because it's unnatural."

William willed himself to stay calm. "Your Majesty..."

"Some say," Henry lowered his voice with false confidentiality, his eyes wide. "He sings so beautifully because he spent his youth as a castrated harem boy to a Spanish Moor. Surely you are well-placed to verify such a rumour?"

King or no, William was certain Charles would have hit him. But that had always been the way between Henry and Charles: bosom friends one day, mortal enemies the next, and back again before you had time to blink. William was more reasonable and level-headed.

He was proud of his reserve when he said: "I conduct my affairs with dignity and respect, Your Majesty. When you can say the same, I will be honoured to call you my friend." William knew it could lose him his position at court, not to mention his head, but that didn't stop him. For the first time ever, he turned his back on the king and walked away.

He fully expected the guards to follow him to his chambers and arrest him. When they didn't, William sat, his heart pounding, and waited for them. When the door finally opened, what seemed like hours later, William stood up to face his fate.

Instead, he faced Thomas.

William sat back down. "I thought you had a choir practice."

"I heard you quarrelled with the king."

William laughed. "It does not take long for news to travel."

"Too many people living in too small a space," Thomas replied, coming to stand beside him. "Gossip doesn't have room to lose its way." Thomas put a hand on his shoulder and said what he already knew. "You shouldn't have done it."

"He insulted you."

"Me? What did he say?"

William told him. Thomas considered this and, to William's surprise, laughed. "I have heard nothing but praise for the musical skills of eunuchs."

"Tom." It was not funny, and he would have expected Thomas of all people to understand that.

"I am not a lady, William, and it is useless for you to risk your life to defend my honour. I would much rather have you alive." Thomas looked at him. "But thank you." In that instant, William knew it was worth it. He would take punishment, exile, even the Tower, and that look in Thomas's eyes would make it worthwhile.

Thomas kissed him, softly and gently, and William could have stayed there forever. After too brief a moment, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Thomas squeezed his hand and, steeling himself, William went and opened it.

"Are you mad?" Anthony Knivert demanded, pushing past William into the room. "God's wounds, William, I would expect it from Charles, but I thought you had more sense."

"The king has lost all reason. He doesn't want to hear anything against his precious Anne."

"Then why in God's name did you say it?"

"Because I thought someone had to." Now, though, William didn't care if the king ruined his reputation and destroyed the goodwill of his people. Let him. He was out of his mind, and William washed his hands of him.

Anthony shook his head ruefully. "You've known him as long as I have. You should have known better."

"Perhaps, my lord," Thomas said, "Sir William thought it worth the risk."

Anthony glanced at him, and then back at William, a blush coming to his cheeks. William wondered if all his friends knew about him and Thomas, and if it was really so shocking that not even his best friends had said anything. "You should go to the country," Anthony suggested. "For a while. He'll start missing you after a few days, and by the end of a week he won't remember why he was angry in the first place."

William wasn't so sure about that, but if being in the country meant he didn't have to watch Henry further embarrass himself over Anne Boleyn and her conniving family, then that was where he wanted to be. "I will do that. Thomas," he looked over, ignoring Anthony's awkward cough. "Will you join me?"

"I can't." That was not the answer William had expected. "I'm busy with the choir. We've got the Easter mass coming, we need to start preparing." Thomas blinked. "I'm sorry, William, but this is important."

"Of course." William tried not to sound as if he was hurt. "Then you will join me when you have time."

"Yes."

William turned to Anthony. They were the best of friends, as close as brothers for years now, and if William couldn't trust him, then there was no one he could trust. "Tom doesn't need protection," he said, because he knew Thomas would get upset if he put it any other way, "But I assume you will let me know if the king turns his anger with me towards him?" Anthony's blush deepened, but he nodded.

Later that same day, William said good-bye to Thomas and went back to Wynates.

It was empty and desolate. William tried to occupy himself, to fill the endless lonely hours with riding and books and anything else that crossed his mind, but it didn't take long for him to become resentful. Resentful of the king, whose selfishness was tarnishing his crown and turning him against his once-beloved friends. Resentful of Anne Boleyn and her self-serving men folk, resentful of Wolsey and the others who encouraged this nonsense with their lies and sycophancy. Resentful of Thomas who, even after all his newfound affection and his recent, effusive declarations of devotion, had still chosen his music over William.

Thomas had yet to come to Warwickshire, but he wrote often. He told William of the continued debacle of the divorce trial, of his struggles to get the choir ready for Easter, and, most infuriating to William, of "Sir Anthony's" kindness.

Since you left, he has been most generous with his time and his confidences, and I know he has advocated on my behalf to the king. This is why, I am certain, I remain employed even as Wolsey falls from favour.

William cast the letter angrily into the fire, then immediately regretted it. That was the king's behaviour, seeing rivals where there were none and thinking everyone was waiting for a chance to steal his treasure from him. Anthony was being chivalrous, that was all, overcoming what had obviously been his natural aversion to Thomas to show him kindness for William's sake.

A little less kindness, though, would not have hurt William too deeply.

It was Brandon, of all people, who finally came to visit, nearly three weeks after William's self-imposed exile. He had not, William soon found out, come merely to express sympathy.

"Margaret is dead," was his greeting. "I was with another woman when it happened. She didn't even tell me she was unwell. Tell me how to live with that, Compton, because I sure as hell don't know."

William could offer no advice. "How is the king taking it?"

"The way he takes everything these days. He's angry." Charles smiled grimly. "He even went so far as to suggest I join you here, so he might have the convenience of knowing all his former friends are rotting in the same beautiful prison."

William took this as a sign the time was not yet right for his return to court.

***

Easter arrived with a minimum of excitement, even by William's usual standards. When Anne was alive, they had usually gone to Mass two or three times. This year, William went to the village church once, on Easter Sunday. He noticed there were many fewer celebrants than when he'd been there at Christmas. He listened to the croaking choir that fell far below Thomas's standards and left the church as soon as he could.

It was late afternoon when William saw the horse approaching the house. He was proud of his self-restraint; he didn't run out to meet it, but stayed inside until Thomas handed the reins to a groom and joined him.

It seemed like years since they had been together. William embraced him tightly, and, as he drew away, Thomas said: "Sir Anthony sends his love."

William smiled to hide the grinding of his teeth. "Not too directly, I hope."

Thomas looked at him evenly. "Oh, Sir Anthony and I are highly desirous of one another." William knew this was an example of Thomas's sense of humour. He was still immediately ready to ride to London and run Anthony through. "Indeed," Thomas continued, "As we speak, he is applying for a papal dispensation that will allow us to marry."

William laughed at his own ridiculousness as much as at Thomas's joke. "Then I wish you the best of luck in your quest."

"Thank you," Thomas cracked a smile. "We shall be sure to invite you to the wedding."

William had eaten hours earlier, in silence and staring at the wall as usual. But he had ordered the food kept as warm as possible, and Thomas fell on it ravenously, devouring meat and fish and biscuits as if he had not eaten a decent meal in days. Which, William thought, knowing Thomas, he possibly hadn't.

"How was the Mass?" He asked, when Thomas paused to drink.

"A fine farewell performance, if so it turns out to be."

"What do you mean?"

Thomas lay down his knife. "My friend Wyatt tells me More is burning heretics like dry leaves. He says Cromwell will not stand for it much longer." Of all the targets for his irrational jealousy, William knew Thomas Wyatt should be the greatest. He was an artist like Thomas; they shared confidences and Wyatt had lost his beloved Anne to the king, something that could turn a man off women for life. But, strangely, William had never felt anything but grateful to him for being a good friend to Thomas, who had few.

Love, William thought, was the ultimate unsolvable mystery.

"Wyatt and I fear the Reformation will come, and the king will not wish to stop it."

"That would be a tragedy for England," William agreed. He had little time for the Catholic Church, but it was England's Church, with centuries of tradition behind it. That should, he thought, count for something.

"And for me," Thomas said. "The Lutherans don't appreciate my kind of music."

"You'll be all right," William assured him, quickly. "You can write ballads to beautiful ladies and travel the country as a minstrel."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "And you will be my wealthy and admiring patron?"

"Always admiring." How wealthy, though, and for how much longer, William didn't care to guess.

For a moment, he thought of Thomas's joke, and of Henry's determination to marry Anne at any cost. He wondered just how far he would go if Thomas was in a position to ask for marriage, and he was in a position to do anything to grant the request.

But those thoughts were meaningless, and led nowhere. Instead, William watched Thomas eat like a sporting man who'd been out hunting all day, and felt more content than he ever had before.