Gigi Sinclair

When he was quite young, Thomas's mother had told him there were two kinds of men in the world, men who were liked by men and men who were liked by women. "You'll be liked by women, my dear," she'd continued. "You may never be rich, but you will always be happy."

So far, she had proven to be mostly correct. He could see it when he was performing with the choir in the chapel. The women, almost uniformly, watched him with interest. The men, unless they were members of the clergy or trying to impress the king with their piety, were usually staring at the ceiling or at the women around them.

Except for Sir William. He always watched, so intently that, when Thomas realized it, he jerked his eyes away at once. When he moved them back a moment later, Sir William was still looking. William winked and Thomas missed his next note by a mile.

Thomas had no doubt what Sir William wanted from him. Despite his mother's prediction, there had been men who liked him, sometimes to an unseemly degree. Usually, they backed down when Thomas proved to be much less compliant than they expected. Occasionally, they required a more direct response. There was a parish priest with a permanently broken nose thanks to an unwilling 16-year-old Thomas and a reticence to be discouraged.

Sir William, though, wasn't an aged priest with bad breath, and Thomas was no longer an adolescent. The next time he caught Sir William looking at him, at a banquet where he was trying to finish his latest composition, Thomas looked back, and he could tell from the expression in William's eyes that in his mind, the game was on.

Thomas waited, wondering when Sir William would come to him. Sure enough, William showed up a few days later as Thomas was practicing in the chapel.

"You have such a talent. Orpheus himself would be jealous, I think." It was empty flattery designed for personal gain. As a courtier, Thomas was sure Sir William was very skilled at it. Even knowing this, Thomas was flattered. He felt his cheeks grow warm and his stomach flipped as he avoided William's gaze. Clearly, he thought, Sir William was more than merely skilled; he was an expert.

Thomas was more flattered when a servant delivered a sealed letter to him later, after choir practice. He chased away the few dawdling choirboys and broke the wax seal.

To our modern-day Orpheus, Or perhaps I should say, to our intriguing English Ganymede. As you know I am a greatly impressed by your work. I would like very much to arrange a private recital for the near future.

If you would be so kind to meet me in the cellars at midnight this evening, we can discuss the details of the arrangement. I sincerely hope you will be amenable to my request.

Your ardent admirer,

Sir William Compton.

It took courage to write something like that, but Sir William clearly did not lack courage. The majority was innocent-sounding enough, but the meeting place, and the reference to Ganymede, made it obvious--if nothing else had--that his intentions were not strictly musical.

Thomas folded the letter quickly and slipped it into his pocket. He knew he would go. He was no Orpheus or Ganymede, but nor was he a saint.

He knew it was impossible, but as he made his way down to the cellars late that evening, Thomas felt as though everyone knew what he was doing. The ladies giggling in a corner were laughing at him. The courtiers who passed him in the hallway would tell everyone about it. The knight who gave him a courteous smile knew Thomas's proclivities and was planning on being next.

Thomas never did anything without thinking things through. He had asked, as discreetly as possible, about Sir William after the incident at the banquet. Everyone who knew him said that Sir William's character was above reproach, that he was a gentleman and a favourite of the king's, that he had an impressive estate in Warwickshire and was married to a worthy lady.

The last had given Thomas pause. He was no adulterer, and if Sir William was so obviously planning adultery with him, then his character could not be what the others claimed. But he seemed so kind and respectful that Thomas was sure there must have been some mistake. And, if he was honest with himself, he wanted there to be a mistake, because he wanted William.

The cellar was darker than Thomas had expected, even with the torches. As he rounded a corner, a large rat scurried from one side of the narrow passageway to the other, and Thomas nearly jumped. His heart was pounding, and in that instant, Thomas was convinced he was doing the wrong thing.

Sir William was handsome, courtly and clearly interested in Thomas, but that meant nothing, because he held influence with the king. If Thomas failed to please him, William could easily destroy any favour Thomas had built up in his short time at court. Sir William had only to say the word and the king could send Thomas back to the country in an instant, where no one would ever hear of him again.

Worse still, Thomas thought, if he did please Sir William, William could exert influence the other way. If Thomas did continue to succeed at court, how would he ever know if it was through his own merits, or because he happened to be sleeping---or not---with the king's best friend?

Thomas couldn't let that happen. He knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if one moment of carnal weakness ruined the opportunity he'd worked a lifetime to achieve, and he would never forgive himself if that weakness cast doubt on his own future success. By the time Thomas saw William, his mind was made up. But, since he couldn't explain all that, he stuck to simpler reasons for refusing him.

They were reasons Sir William could hardly argue with. He was married, evidently, and Thomas didn't love him. He knew nothing about him. William was also a lord, although Thomas could tell he didn't understand why this was a problem.

He did, on the other hand, know just what to say to Thomas.

There were few words that could have disarmed Thomas in his current state, but "genius" was one of them. William seemed so sincere and convinced of it that Thomas didn't know how to argue with him. It wasn't something Thomas had ever been called before and, like the flattery in the chapel, it went straight to his heart. It was what Thomas wanted to be. He knew he was talented, but he knew he had a long way to go; looking at William, it didn't seem like an impossible journey.

Thomas felt dazed. His head was spinning and he was suddenly unsure if his reasons for refusing William were sound after all. When William kissed him, Thomas closed his eyes and heard music, joyous and uplifting. He wished he had ink and paper to write it down.

When William pulled away at last, he rested his forehead against Thomas's. Thomas opened his eyes. William was too close and the light was too dim to make out his expression, but he laughed softly and Thomas could feel him smiling. "Is that a yes?"

Thomas kissed him again. He needed to hear the rest of the song.

Thomas's prior experiences in this area were comprised of some furtive fumblings behind a barn with a neighbour's daughter back home, and a brief and unsatisfying few occasions with a young layman at his previous church. This was so different, Thomas could hardly believe it was the same act. It was, he thought, like discovering apples after a lifetime of eating onions. Being with William was so sweet and refreshing that Thomas felt like he could get up and write an entire orchestration before dawn.

William was less active afterwards, but he was much more talkative. He lay collapsed at Thomas's side, murmuring his devotion and endless compliments on Thomas's skills, appearance and general being. The act itself had, for William, included many loud and insistent calls to the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Father, something neither the layman nor the farmer's daughter had found necessary. Thomas, although quieter, could understand them in this case. When William arched his back and said: "Jesus Christ, Tom!" the sentiment was echoed in Thomas's soul.

Now, William looked up at him, grinning. "Look in the bureau drawer."

"What?"

William pointed towards the desk in the corner. Thomas stood up, his feet contracting on the freezing cold floor, and braved the chilly room. In the drawer, he found quills, a bottle of ink and a stack of manuscript paper. Thomas glanced over his shoulder to where William was lying, watching him. "This is yours?"

"It's for you. I thought you might need it."

"Thank you." It seemed like too simple a response for such a thoughtful gesture. William held out his arms and, taking the paper and quill, Thomas returned to his side.

***

Thomas awoke slowly. At first, he thought the warm presence in his bed had to be the remnants of a dream, then the memories came flooding back and Thomas's eyes flew open.

William was lounging beside him, still naked. The translucent bed curtains had been drawn to keep in the warmth, and William was lying on top of the furs and blankets, Thomas's music in his hands.

Thomas, with a propriety he was sure was ridiculous, kept his eyes firmly locked on William's face. "You shouldn't read that yet. It's not finished."

William looked at him and his smile was so large and genuine Thomas felt himself calming. "Good morning, my love." He piled the music neatly and passed it to Thomas. "You needn't worry. I can't read it. I'm afraid I was a very poor music student indeed."

"Then why were you looking at it?" Thomas had no idea if it was good or not. The music that came to him in the middle of the night often wasn't but then, he thought, last night had been particularly inspirational.

"I can still appreciate it."

Thomas sat up. He had no idea what time it was, but he imagined it wasn't early. There was a small window high up in one of the chamber walls, and rays of sunshine were streaming in. "I should go. I have a choir rehearsal this afternoon."

William reached out and brushed the hair from Thomas's face. "I will see you later?"

Thomas hesitated. He had let himself get carried away the night before, there was no doubt about that. It had been very enjoyable, but that didn't mean it would be wise to continue. "You're still married."

He shook his head. "I'm not."

"Last night, you said..."

"Last night," William smiled, "I was in no mood to discuss the details of my other entanglements. I didn't think you were, either." Thomas agreed, privately, but waited for an explanation. "I live with Lady Hastings," William finally continued. "Some of the time. She's usually out in the country. She has a strong dislike for court."

Thomas thought he could understand why. "That's the same as being married."

William shook his head. "Neither Lady Hastings nor I care to give society the right to dictate who we bring into our beds. Or our hearts." He looked pointedly at Thomas, until Thomas had to look away.

"You're still a lord."

William laughed. "If it bothers you that much, I'll tell His Majesty to take the damn thing back. I always got on perfectly well without it."

"You have influence over the king." Thomas hoped William understood what he meant. He didn't want to spell it out.

"Have you heard about Brandon and Princess Margaret?" Thomas nodded. The king's trusted friend marrying the king's newly widowed sister without permission was gossip juicy enough to have made the rounds of the court several times already. "Brandon sent me to break the news to the king, and they ended up banished for life. I could never make His Majesty do anything he hadn't already set his mind to. In any case," William smiled. "He doesn't need me to tell him anything. It would take a deaf man not to know you're the embodiment of perfection." His eyes wandered down Thomas's body. "Or a blind man."

Only God was perfect, as Thomas well knew. He still let William push down the blankets and move on top of him, and he still responded, with an eagerness that embarrassed him later, when William wound his hands in his hair and kissed him.

***

Thomas didn't think being involved with William had changed his day-to-day life in any way noticeable to others. He still worked long hours in the chapel; he still tried, and often failed, remain patient with choirboys who would rather giggle and kick each other than rehearse. After a few days, though, the twins, who had been sighing at him from a corner for quite some time, came forward and said: "You seem much happier these days."

"Do I?" Thomas glanced at them. "I feel this piece is progressing well." It sounded plausible enough.

"We thought you must have found a lady more pleasing to you than we seem to be." One of the sisters, Joan, pouted. Jane restrained herself to merely batting her eyelashes.

"That's not true," Thomas said, because the alternative would be cruel, and the truth was impossible. Then, because they were still simpering at him, he added: "Such a lady could not exist." He was sure William would have had some more flowery compliments to add, but Thomas couldn't think of any.

"You are so kind, Mr. Tallis!" The twins returned to their ubiquitous smiles, and Thomas felt as though he had done a good deed.

***

William still came to Mass, and he still watched Thomas intently, even during Communion. As he came forward to accept the blood and body of Christ one Sunday morning, William looked directly at Thomas, who was standing beside the choir pretending not to be exhausted from their encounter the night before. Thomas tried to look past him, but William smiled and deliberately licked his lips. Thomas, startled, took a step back, directly onto the foot of the nearest choirboy. The boy shrieked and, with all eyes on him, Thomas murmured: "I'm sorry, Johnson," and wished he could disappear into the woodwork.

"You can't do things like that," Thomas said, as soon as they were alone in William's chamber.

"Like what?" William smiled.

Thomas stared at him. "At Communion."

"Oh, that." William nodded gravely. "I believed it would be a sin to accept the body of our Lord and Saviour with dry lips."

Thomas was not amused. "That's blasphemy. And you could have lost me my position." Among other things.

"Do you know," William went on, apparently unconcerned, "If we were in Italy, we could declare our love for each other in poetry and music and it would be perfectly acceptable, as long as we kept our hands to ourselves."

"Yes? And you've been to Italy?" Thomas had no idea what that had to do with him, here.

William nodded. "But I am rather fond of not keeping my hands to myself." He attempted to prove that, but Thomas pushed him away.

"If you will not take me seriously, this cannot continue." That, Thomas noticed with some satisfaction, at least got the smirk off William's face.

"You are too serious, my love. No one knows about us. No one would even suspect."

"People gossip." All the time, everywhere. Thomas tried to stay away from most of it, but even he had often been the unwilling recipient of speculation about who was sleeping with whom, what gains they expected to receive from it, and even the motivations of Lady Anne Boleyn and her family. "We can't give them the slightest reason to."

"If I could," William replied, "I would gladly tell the world about us. It pains me greatly when Henry is rhapsodizing about his beloved Anne and Brandon is telling me about Princess Margaret's sexual skills and I can say nothing, even though you are far more beloved and far more skilful."

Thomas knew that. Not that Princess Margaret was particularly skilled, and that was something he could easily have lived without knowing, but that William loved him and was the kind of person who would like to talk about it. Thomas, on the other hand, was not someone who talked about much, and he still wasn't sure what he felt for William.

"But," William continued, "I understand that circumstances are not in our favour, so I can respect your position in public."

"Thank you."

William came to him again, and this time Thomas let William pull him close. "In private, however..."

"In private," Thomas agreed, "I prefer that you do not keep your hands to yourself."

It was not as though they were never together outside William's chamber. There were a number of places where it was appropriate for them to be seen, and Thomas never worried about that. William was known to be an admirer of his work, so it was acceptable for him to listen to Thomas compose or practice in the chapel. Occasionally, he came to choir rehearsals and sat at the back, watching with a smile as Thomas dealt with the boys. Sometimes, they would contrive to meet "accidentally" in the hallways or the garden and walk for a while together, talking. On all these occasions, William's behaviour was perfectly correct. Only once, when Thomas dropped his hat outside in the courtyard, did William's composure slip. He picked up the hat much too quickly for a mere acquaintance and placed it on Thomas's head, his eyes lingering too long on Thomas's and, more damning, his hand brushing Thomas's cheek as he lowered it.

"Thank you, my lord," Thomas said, drawing away quickly.

"My pleasure, Mr. Tallis," William replied, with a sigh.

They had been doing this for a few weeks when William convinced Thomas to leave court with him, in the guise of a celebration.

"Cardinal Wolsey has indicated again that he appreciates my efforts," Thomas told William, after an evening service in the chapel. "He has hinted I may have increased responsibilities in the future."

"That's good news." William grinned. "No one ever suffered from being favoured by the cardinal."

"I'm..." Thomas considered it. He was a lot of things, most notably: "Very pleased."

"You should be." William stopped walking. The hallway was deserted, but Thomas still looked around nervously. "We should go for a drink."

"You have wine in your chambers." A lot of it, usually.

William shook his head. "We should go out. It would be good for us."

Thomas doubted that. "Hardly good if it causes rumours to spread."

"We'll go somewhere no one knows us. I promise."

"I don't think..."

"Thomas, please." William looked at him with even greater earnestness than usual. "I want to be seen with you, even if it's only by strangers."

Thomas had never been a frequenter of public houses. Even at home, he had only gone half a dozen times, usually during the day, and the Blue Boar had been nothing like the crowded back-alley hovel William brought him to now.

"One drink," William said, when Thomas looked at him skeptically.

The place was crowded and dimly lit, smelling of ale and too many unwashed bodies. The people were dressed much more simply than anyone Thomas had seen in a long time, in coarse brown clothes and cheap shoes, and Thomas wondered if life at court was making him a snob.

That, in turn, made Thomas wonder how the others saw them. Thomas was not dressed poorly, but William looked like a king compared to the huddled masses crowded on stools and around tables. Servant and master, Thomas thought, that was what they would think. Perhaps from the country, in London to conduct business of some description. William could be a wool merchant, or maybe something in textiles.

Thomas was so busy weaving this fantasy that he didn't notice a large man on a stool, and jostled his elbow as he passed. "Hey, boy." The man stood, his face red from drink and his mouth twisted in a scowl. For a moment, Thomas wondered if this was going to be the way he died, in a bar fight before he ever got to realize the potential he knew he had, somewhere.

Then William stepped forward. "I beg your pardon. I can assure you we meant no harm." The man stared at them and, with an obviousness Thomas was sure had to be deliberate, William's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

The man held William's gaze for a long moment, and Thomas could feel the people around them quieten, as if they were anticipating something. At last, the large man looked up and down William, then Thomas, snorted derisively and turned back to his ale.

"For God's sake, watch what you're doing," William took Thomas's sleeve and steered him towards two empty stools.

"Why are we here?"

William didn't answer. He made a vague gesture at a barmaid and, a moment later she was at their table, placing two mugs in front of them.

The ale was thick and tasted, Thomas thought, roughly like what he would expect of horse's urine. He choked down a mug of it, and almost immediately felt an insistent pressure on his own bladder. He looked at William, who was looking back at him and sipping his ale as if they had all the time in the world.

"Can you hurry up?"

William smiled. "I'm enjoying myself." Thomas didn't want to leave William's side, not in this place, but the pressure grew more and more insistent. Finally, he said: "I'll be back," and pushed through the throng.

The alley behind the public house was cold and filthy, strewn with garbage and what appeared to be the contents of a hundred emptied chamber pots. There were moving, grunting silhouettes in a corner that Thomas was reasonably certain were two people having sex, although he couldn't imagine it would be pleasant.

He had never gone so quickly in his life. Still, by the time he made it back inside, a short, wide woman in a very tight dress was beside William, leaning close. Even from the back, it was clear she was no lady, but Thomas still felt an inexplicable twinge in his stomach as the woman said something and William threw his head back, laughing.

Thomas squeezed his way back through the crowd, careful this time not to bump or jostle anyone. The twinge moved to his heart when William saw him and smiled, holding out an arm. Thomas assumed this was merely a friendly gesture, but as soon as he was close enough, William's arm closed around his waist and he yanked Thomas onto his lap. He pressed his lips against Thomas's cheek, and the whore squealed with laughter. Thomas sat staring in surprise as the woman leaned in to him and said: "Tell you what, love, I'll take the both of you, half-price, and you can have first crack at him." She and William roared like it was the funniest thing they'd heard in years.

William's arm squeezed him, and Thomas knew how William expected him to react: like a cloistered, unworldly composer of church music. The kind of man, his mother's thought came back to him, who was liked by women, because he was so genteel, refined and completely spineless.

Well, Thomas thought, William wasn't always right.

"I don't think so, thank you," Thomas said, hoping his voice sounded firmer than it did in his own mind. "He's already run up quite a bill with me." The whore laughed again, clearly enjoying herself. Thomas looked back at William, who raised a surprised eyebrow. Before he lost his nerve, Thomas gave him the quickest and most closed-mouthed kiss in their history.

It was still enough to make William forget his jokes, the public house, and the rest of the ale in his mug. In record time, they were back in William's chambers, unbuckling his sword and pushing off his cloak. Thomas waited until William was naked before stopping and saying, in a voice that he knew was calm and measured: "I'm never doing that again."

"Of course not," William agreed. He pulled Thomas eagerly onto the bed, hands sliding up his sides and moving him into position for what they usually did.

"No." Thomas stilled William's hands and, for a moment, Thomas could see everything in William's eyes. It was even more than he had suspected and, if he had let it, Thomas knew the pressure and the expectation of it would have stopped him dead.

Instead, he took a deep breath and pushed on. "Not this time." He was in uncharted waters, unsure how William would react. The room was still, the only sound a crack from the fire.

At last, William smiled. "Yes." He moved over, lying back on his piles of pillows. It was the response he'd wanted, but Thomas felt as if he was back behind the barn with the farmer's daughter, not knowing quite where to begin.

Then William put his arms around Thomas's shoulders and drew him close, and Thomas found he knew exactly what to do.

***

The next weeks started badly for Thomas and got worse. After struggling for hours with the end of a new composition, Thomas was finally ready to bring it to rehearsal, where the boys found it impossible to master. At last, after long frustrating days of practice, Thomas thought it was ready to perform.

Then, moments before performance, the best soloist's voice broke. That boy was in tears, the others were petrified at the thought of having to step in, and Thomas decided they would present an older orchestration they had done many times before. He thought it had gone well, until the queen, who rarely spoke to him, came up and said: "An old favourite, Mr. Tallis, but you may wish to vary your repertoire. People at this court tire so easily of things, even if they were once well-loved."

As if to prove it, Cardinal Wolsey hadn't looked twice in Thomas's direction for days. The one time Thomas had contrived to make himself obvious, in case Wolsey had anything to say, the cardinal had marched past him as if he were no more than any other peon that should be cowering in his presence.

"He's preoccupied," William had said, when Thomas complained of it later in his chamber. "Well, he's also an ass, but he knows it will be his head if the pope doesn't approve the king's divorce."

"Do you think he will?" Thomas didn't see how the pope could approve it, but nor had he ever heard of any instance in which the king did not get his own way.

William shook his head. "I'm staying out of it. You know my thoughts on marriage." Thomas did, but they didn't help him in this instance. "I was thinking of going out to the country for a bit," William continued. "You should come with me. Get away from here."

"That would look suspicious."

"Why? Knivert and Brandon come all the time."

"They're your friends."

"So are you."

"It's not the same, as you well know."

"You should consider it. You'd like it there. It's very quiet. You can ride out for miles and not see another person."

Thomas smiled. "That doesn't sound like you. You aren't bored?"

"Not in the least. I'm a different man in the country. You'd be quite astonished."

Thomas knew he shouldn't ask it. "Will your wife be there?"

William shrugged, but Thomas noticed he didn't meet his gaze. "I don't know. Lady Hastings doesn't always keep me apprised of her plans." He looked thoughtful. "I think you would get along, though. She's very much like you." Thomas didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know anything about her, he had decided long ago, because the less he knew, the easier it was to pretend she didn't exist.

"If she is there," he asked anyway, "Will you share her bed?" Thomas could envision nothing worse than lying in a cold chamber in some desolate country house, knowing what William and his not-wife were doing a few rooms away.

William looked at him as if he were mad. "Not if you're with me."

Thomas didn't know if that would be any better, sharing a bed with William in the same house with a woman who, presumably, loved him enough to forsake the security of marriage to live in some strange and unorthodox situation. "It all seems very odd to me."

"I know." William sighed. "But that's love."

Indeed. Thomas felt suddenly very tired. Standing, he prepared for bed. A servant had left a bowl of lukewarm water on the sideboard, and he was washing his hands when William said: "Lady Hastings and I have a long shared history."

"I'm sure." Thomas was equally sure he didn't want to hear about any of it.

"We have great affection for each other," William continued anyway, "But we have never expected we would be in each other's lives forever." Thomas looked up into William's luxurious glass mirror, but William was staring at the wall. "If one day, either one of us happened to find someone with whom we thought we could make a more...permanent connection, then it would not require the intervention of the pope to dissolve our union."

Thomas knew what William was saying, and what he wasn't. And it took a great deal of composure to keep from panicking. "I would never make that request of you."

Now, William looked at him. "You wouldn't have to. That decision would be between Lady Hastings and myself."

They had no chance of permanence, and they both knew it. Thomas wasn't even sure he would want it if it were possible. But Thomas knew William was a romantic, prone to grandiose gestures and liable, Thomas worried, to one day get into trouble over it. He turned around to meet William's gaze. "I do not think we should continue this conversation any further. Ever." But William was still looking contemplative. Thomas needed a distraction. "But perhaps I could come away, for a few days only." William smiled, and Thomas knew he was safe, for now.

***

Thomas had known, of course, that William was a wealthy man. At court, though, there were so many who dressed like William, talked like him and acted like him that Thomas had never known exactly how rich William was. Compton Wynates was as good an indication as any that the answer was "very."

Thomas had never seen anything like it. He had been expecting a modest country house, perhaps a little larger than the one that had belonged to the squire back home. Compton Wynates was a palace. As they rode up, Thomas could feel his eyes grow wide and he hoped he sounded worldly and sophisticated as he said: "Is that all?"

William laughed. "It is not Hampton Court, I'm afraid, but it serves my needs."

It could, Thomas thought, have served the needs of a large population. "It is magnificent." A thought struck him. "You're not worried you don't have an heir?" It would have worried Thomas, if he'd possessed a house like this, and the fortune that was implied by it.

William glanced over his shoulder. "That's the king's obsession. I'm not going anywhere."

The interior of the house was as impressive as the exterior. Tapestries hung on the walls, woven not only with cheap millefleurs but with detailed battle scenes William explained represented his family history. A servant had come to meet them and, as William talked with the man, Thomas looked up at the ceiling, nearly high enough to allow a pipe organ in William's foyer.

"Hey." William lay a hand on his shoulder. "Come see the best bit."

Thomas, knowing William, would have expected a lavish bedchamber. Instead, William took him outside. The garden was elegant, with neat hedgerows and carefully contained flowers. Beyond it lay a field, and beyond that, a forest. It seemed to stretch forever, and Thomas believed William's assertion that you could ride for miles and not see anyone.

Thomas squinted and, in the field, before the woods, saw what looked like a lone haystack, sagging unevenly.

"What's that?"

"Ah," William grinned, "Let me show you."

It was a painted wooden target, propped up on the hay. Thomas had known William was skilled at courtly pursuits, like flattery and declarations of love and card games, but it had never occurred to him that William might be also skilled at other things.

He was, for example, an excellent shot. Thomas would never have expected archery to be an aphrodisiac, but as he sat on the long grass watching William put arrow after arrow into the target, Thomas began to feel a now-familiar twist in his stomach, and lower down.

"Want to try?" William offered, holding out the bow.

Thomas shook his head. "That is not my area of expertise." To say the least.

William smiled. "I could teach you."

"That would take much longer than I think either of us would care to invest." William sat beside him, placing the bow on the ground. Because he felt he should say something about it, Thomas added: "I can still appreciate your skills, though." Very much so.

"That's nothing. You should come see me at a tournament some time."

"I think I would be too nervous." Thomas hadn't been to the last tournament, but he knew what had happened. What could easily happen to anyone participating in the joust, including William.

"You don't need to worry," William assured him. "I'm good."

"Does that make a difference?"

William didn't answer. Instead, he said: "All that's just games, anyway. Something to pass the time. The real thing is the hunt." He looked at Thomas earnestly. "Matching wits with a quarry, pursuing it relentlessly at risk to yourself until you finally vanquish it. There's nothing like it."

Thomas had never heard William speak so passionately about anything, apart from, well, passion. He raised an eyebrow. "Nothing at all?"

William laughed and pulled Thomas close. "You, my love, are the greatest quarry, the one that is to be cherished and prized rather than vanquished."

"And you," Thomas countered, feeling bold, "Are like a piece of music that you think is all embellishments and tricks, until you look closer and discover a true and beautiful melody underneath."

William pulled back enough to look at him. "That's good."

Thomas smiled. "I learned from the best."

"I'll have to be careful with you," William said, "You'll turn into a courtier before my very eyes, and then I'll have no hope of keeping you to myself." It was said lightly, but Thomas knew it wasn't a joke. Instead of answering, Thomas pushed him into the grass and kissed him.

***

"Don't be upset."

The weather had grown colder as the day went on. Thomas, who had been daydreaming in front of one of the many large fireplaces, looked up at these ominous words. William was standing in front of him, looking concerned. "About what?"

"Lady Hastings will be dining with us this evening."

Thomas absolutely did not wish to sound like a petulant mistress. So he was quite proud at his even tone when he replied: "Is that so?"

"You will like her," William insisted and Thomas wondered if his plan was to keep saying it until it became true.

"I will try," Thomas replied mildly. William looked so grateful, and embraced him so tightly, that Thomas supposed he had better actually do it.

Meals were strange events for the rich. Thomas had noticed it when he first came to court. Their tables would be laid out with more food than anyone could hope to eat, both in quantity and variety, but they were not expected to eat it. It was there for appearances. The large amounts of leftovers were donated to servants and the poor. Meals at Compton Wynates were no different. When Thomas arrived in the dining hall, the long table already held capons, fish, beef, boar and easily half a dozen other dishes, most of them meat, together with enormous jugs of ale and wine.

William was at the head of the table. The lady was beside him. She was young and pretty, Thomas judged, without the sneer of contempt so many ladies at court affected. He sat down across from her.

"Good evening." He glanced at William, then at his wife. "My lady."

"Mr. Tallis." Lady Hastings smiled quite pleasantly. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I rarely go to court, but I have heard much of your reputation." Thomas wondered if that was true or not. He doubted it.

If she was jealous, or even displeased, she made no sign of it. She passed the nearest flagon of wine to Thomas, and continued: "And William has of course told me so much about your musical gifts. Perhaps you will favour us with a demonstration later?"

"It would my pleasure," Thomas lied.

They ate in silence, until William said: "Thomas is also the king's choirmaster."

Lady Hastings blinked at him earnestly. "Oh, you work with children. How wonderful."

"They can try one's patience," Thomas replied. They could, though, also be disarmingly sweet. In the midst of the tears and voice-breaking debacle, when Thomas had wanted nothing more than to retire to a monastery somewhere to live out his life in complete solitude, one of the boys had come to him and said: "You are the best master ever, sir."

"And Thomas is a very patient man," William added.

Lady Hastings looked at him, and then at Thomas. "He would have to be." Her smirk was small, almost imperceptible, but Thomas knew she was not referring to his work with the choirboys. He laughed, and Lady Hastings looked at him guiltily, as if they shared a naughty secret. Maybe, he thought, William had been right about her after all.

She was certainly no fool. Lady Hastings knew music, and when Thomas performed on the lute after dinner, she could tell him more about the style and the technique than anyone he'd known at court, even more than some of the other musicians. When she retired for the evening, Thomas was almost sorry to see her go.

"I may see you in the morning," she said, pausing to kiss William's cheek, "But then, I may rise before you." There was resignation in her eyes, and for a moment, Thomas felt something he hadn't expected: guilt.

"Thank you." William said, as soon as his wife had gone.

Thomas looked at him. "Do you ever think there may be something wrong with this?" Not wrong according to the Church. Thomas had long since decided that when priests stopped fathering illegitimate children and trying to force themselves on sixteen-year-old organists, they could dictate what he would do in this area. But actually wrong, because William was not being honest about the woman he was supposed to love above all others.

"Love is never wrong," was William's predictable answer.

"That's taking the easy way out." One had only to look at the king, who seemed ready to defy God Himself in the name of love and expect the people to go along with it.

William stood and came to sit next to Thomas, on a low divan by the fire. "Whatever I may wish, Tom, I know I will not keep you forever. You will go on to better things, and I will make amends to my lady. But until then, I will love you." Thomas didn't argue. He just hoped William had no cause to regret it.

***

The message arrived the next morning, just after breakfast. They were to go for a ride, and William was already outside seeing to the horses when a servant handed Thomas the sealed note.

It was not in the cardinal's own hand, of course, but from one of Wolsey's minions, inviting Thomas to accompany the cardinal on his upcoming trip to the French court. It was the chance Thomas had hoped for; the opportunity to remind the cardinal that he existed and that he could fulfil a bigger role than the one he currently held. It was an opportunity for Thomas to advance his career, and possibly to assure his own future, independent of William and his position and money. Thomas knew he was fortunate to be invited, and he didn't want to go in the least.

The minion ended the note with the polite, yet unmistakable, order that Thomas meet the contingent in London in three days' time to prepare for the journey. Three days, Thomas thought. Long enough, surely, to break the news to William.

Thomas expected William to take it badly, and he did. After consideration, Thomas had decided to do it sooner rather than later, and when they had returned from their ride, he sat beneath a tree and waited for William to join him.

He had hoped to keep the conversation easy, teasing William lightly and making it clear he had no choice but to go. Thomas had consideration for William's feelings; how could he not? But when William made his snide remark about Thomas finding other distractions, consideration turned to irritation.

"I should like to meet this mythical person you think will sweep me off my feet, since I have never had cause to believe he exists," Thomas countered. "Or do you merely believe I will be so dazzled by the French court that I will physically lose the ability to say no?"

"I have been there," William sighed. "I know what it is like, and I know that even those with the best of intentions do not always remember them in the moment."

Thomas looked at him. It was fine, he thought, for William to play the martyr, but in what role did that cast him? "You say you do not believe in love bound by doctrine," Thomas said, "But I do not believe in sex without love. Perhaps you should consider that." He stood up and went inside, leaving William behind.

They made up, of course, or Thomas thought they had. They enjoyed their next days together, and, after their evening meal on the final day, Thomas brought William upstairs.

For a man who was not particularly devout, William had once joked, he spent a significant amount of time on his knees. Thomas had never had cause to complain about that. He was lying on William's bed in the dying sunlight, enjoying the sensation of William's beard travelling the length of his body, when abruptly the sensation stopped.

Thomas opened his eyes and saw William moving up beside him. He took William in his arms and kissed him, winding their tongues together in the way that was usually guaranteed to send William mad, but, again, William pulled away.

Thomas sat up. "Is something wrong?"

"I know you're an honourable man," William said, by way of reply. "That doesn't mean I have to be happy you're going."

They could be together for years, Thomas thought, and he would still be surprised at the ways in which William chose to be complicated.

William's body was pitted with scars from various gentlemanly and dangerous pursuits. He had told Thomas the stories one night, and now, Thomas worked his way reverentially down the list, kissing the mark of a jousting lance, caressing the scar from a sword, lightly touching the jagged line that had come from getting too close to a friend's arrow. When he reached his target, Thomas stayed there, putting to use the technique he honed infinitely since he'd been with William. William ran appreciative hands through Thomas's hair, and, when he'd finished, pulled Thomas up to lie beside him.

"My beloved Ganymede." Smiling, William brought Thomas's hand to his lips.

Thomas looked at him. "I promise I'll stay away from eagles."

"It's not the eagles I'm worried about, it's the men," William replied, but he laughed as he said it and Thomas knew things would be all right.

The next morning, he left for London.

***

A few months with William had made Thomas soft, he thought. He wasn't used to living like a servant. The nights in France were the worst, sleeping on a cold stone floor, surrounded by dozens of men who never shut up. Thomas resolved, when he got home, to ask William just when, exactly, he had expected Thomas to carry on these illicit liaisons he'd been so worried about. Thomas hadn't had a moment of privacy since he'd left Warwickshire.

Thomas slept badly throughout the journey, but the night before they were due to head home was the worst. Rather than simply lying awake for hours, Thomas dreamt, more vividly than he usually did even at home. William was trapped in a burning house, not Wynates but a timbered farmhouse that was being rapidly consumed by the flames. Thomas knew there was a ladder, but he couldn't find it, and no one would help him. Instead all of them---the king, the queen, Lady Hastings, even the twins, Jane and Joan---watched impassively as the house was destroyed.

"Tallis." Thomas awoke with a start at the poking in his back. For a brief moment, he expected William, but of course it was Thomas Wyatt, with some urgent poetry to share. Thomas listened, stunned and exhausted, and couldn't wait to get home.

He couldn't have explained why, but Thomas knew something was wrong before Wynates even came into view. It was nothing more than a vague sense of uncertainty, though, until he saw the cart coming from the house, laden with William's belongings. There were many diseases that could strike a household, but only a few required everything in the house to be discarded, and none of those were things you wanted to catch.

Thomas prayed, then pleaded, all the way to the front door. If William is still alive, he promised, I will be kinder to the boys. I will write more music and be more pious. I will never, he swore, so much as think a disrespectful thought about Cardinal Wolsey again.

When Lady Hastings greeted him with a tearstained face and a look of sympathy, as if he were the grieving widow rather than she, Thomas knew it was hopeless.

He followed, numb, as she led him into the room where William had died, the room where he and Thomas had lain together the night before Thomas left. He calmly took the box she wanted him to bring to the king, and heard himself ask about William's grave. It wasn't until he was outside again that Thomas felt something, and then he was angrier than he could ever remember being before.

He had gone against his better judgement to fall in love with William. He had risked a great deal to be with William, more even than William had risked because men of William's status were always given much more leeway in these matters than men of Thomas's. He had believed William's flattery and promises and declarations, and William had known all of this. In return, William had selfishly left him, without even giving Thomas the chance to say goodbye.

Thomas was not prone to fits of temper, but when he smashed the lute on William's grave, it was like an arrow to his soul. The anger was gone as quickly as it had arrived, replaced with sorrow so profound Thomas doubted he'd ever feel anything else. He sat beside William and wept, not caring who saw him or what they might think about it.

The gravediggers and the few others who had braved the contagion to mourn their dead left him alone. Thomas didn't know how long he'd been there, but he assumed it was a long time when an old man, a white cloth tied around his nose and mouth, approached him.

The man's voice was thin and hoarse, although whether this was from his age or the smoke, Thomas didn't know. He looked kindly at Thomas and said: "Take heart, sir. She is with God, and you will see her again."

It didn't matter now, so Thomas corrected: "Him."

The man's eyes didn't change. "There is room for all of us in heaven."

Thomas laughed despite himself, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I hope so." He looked at the rows of wooden crosses and new graves, and heard a stirring of music so faint he had to strain to make out even a note.

"I am sure of it," the man replied. "And it is our duty to live until it is our time to join them."

Thomas nodded and looked back at William's cross, which seemed so plain and unlike him. When he turned to thank the gravedigger, the old man had gone.

***

The music consumed him for days, the way it had before he'd met William. He didn't think of anything else; he scarcely took time to eat, or sleep, or speak to anyone. He did not take joy in this the way he had in the past, though, and that was not only due to the grief of missing William.

Thomas was nearly finished the composition when he realized he was unhappy because he no longer found it joyful to be alone.

He needed someone else. At first, Thomas's thoughts went to finding a man, but he had hardly so much as smiled at a passing courtier when he knew he could never go through that again. It would be too much to bear. That part of his soul, along with all his memories of William, had to be locked in a box and hidden forever if he wanted to stay sane. He needed to be conventional, to do what was expected of him in all aspects of life and to succeed. That would be his saving grace, and that, beyond any memorial or requiem, would be how he would honour William. Their experiences would be sacred, because Thomas would never share them with anyone else. Instead, he would find a woman, a suitable wife, and never look at a man again.

William, Thomas thought, would no doubt be satisfied at that.

In hindsight, it seemed obvious, but Thomas had never considered the twins. Even when they came to him later the same day, he was polite and dismissive, as he always was. It was only by chance that he turned in their direction as they walked away. As they passed through a beam of afternoon sunlight, Joan was surrounded by such a beautiful, iridescent glow that Thomas knew at once it was a message from God.

Or someone else.

Thanking God and his mother that women liked him, and thanking William for giving him the lover's skills and the words that would assure it, Thomas breathed deeply and said: "Wait."