The Queen's Rival

by Diane Haeger

  The gallery in the east wing led to a wide-open loggia in the Italian style, with a view down to the king’s intricate knot garden, ornamented with fountains, benches, topiaries, and stone statuary much like the courtyard. It was almost too much to take in so quickly, and Bess was not even sure where to look. Kinlet was elegant, but this was grandeur on a massive scale.

  The walls of the gallery around her had the fragrance of fresh lime wash and were decorated with torches and vast Flemish tapestries on heavy black iron rods. The tile floors on which they walked were laid out in a beautifully intricate mosaic that resembled, almost perfectly, the shape of the knot garden below. The soaring beamed ceiling above was painted in a brilliant azure and decorated with the same crowns and Tudor roses as the servants’ livery.

  Just as they were turning toward a prominent, sweeping staircase, a young girl about her own age and a boy, dark curls spilling onto his forehead, came stumbling down the stairs, laughing and chattering. Quickly and without missing a beat, the girl made a proper curtsy and the boy dipped into a bow, their laughter ceasing only as long as it took to honor Lady Fitzwalter and Lady Hastings before dashing past.

  “Typical,” Lady Fitzwalter grumbled, rolling her eyes.

  “If that empty-headed churl’s father were not one of the king’s closest friends, I do believe she would have been ousted long ago.”

  “Who was that?” Bess asked, biting back a smile at the very last thing she expected to see amid the seemingly structured and rule-dictated court.

  “’Twas Elizabeth Bryan. Her father is Sir Thomas Bryan and her mother, Lady Margaret, is one of us. It was a foregone conclusion that their little terror of a daughter should be placed as a maid of honor. But personally, I believe the child needs a sound flogging,” Lady Hastings declared.

  “And the boy?” Bess dared to ask.

  “Gilbert Tailbois,” Lady Fitzwalter said with a sniff as if his name alone were objectionable. “The wastrel boy lives by some mysterious connection to Thomas Wolsey. Appointed to the cleric’s household at the king’s pleasure, the frightful little urchin nevertheless seems free to roam the halls of court, disturbing whatever he wishes whenever he pleases.”

  “His father is not of sound mind. You know that, Sister,” Lady Hastings amended as they began to climb the same staircase the youths had only just descended.

  “See that you do not model their behavior, Mistress Blount. The queen has no fondness for folly,” Lady Fitzwalter warned.

  “Nor patience for it,” added Lady Hastings.

  “I shall keep that in my mind always,” Bess dutifully replied in the way she knew she was meant to.

  At the end of a second tiled gallery, hung with portraits of various ancient dukes, lords, and kings, they came to what Bess realized must be the queen’s apartments. A collection of elegantly dressed ladies was gathered beyond the open double doors in the watching chamber and in the presence chamber beyond. Her heart quickened again, so near to the absolute pinnacle of England’s power and importance. At last, she thought as they moved into the queen’s actual privy chamber. Before her lay the glamour, the music, the excitement of the queen’s world . . . and by some miracle, she was about to be a part of it!

  Bess moved more tentatively, however, behind Lady Hastings and Lady Fitzwalter. She was mindful of her mother’s warning, even though she was secretly relieved to have seen at least one other noble maid, Elizabeth Bryan, with her same sense of spirit. If God favored it, perhaps they could one day become friends.

  The queen’s privy chamber, like the rest of the palace, was impressively vast, with one whole wall of windows, ornamented by cornices and columns, facing the gardens below. The other wall was lined with massive hunting scene tapestries and paintings hung in heavy gold frames. Beneath them were carved chairs cushioned with red velvet and gold fringe. Chairs of the same style were also placed in the center of the room, grouped at small carved tables where many of the queen’s ladies sat sewing. But the thing beyond all else that struck Bess, as they moved inside the chamber, was the absolute silence surrounding her. There was no singing, no laughing, and no music. The occasional softly spoken word or whisper in Spanish was the only sound.

  His eyes always glittered with excitement when her father told her stories of the gaiety of the king’s apartments. There were endless card games, dice, and laughter, and the sovereign was never without music—a lute player, pipe, dulcimer, tabor, or a performance on the virginals by one of the royal musicians. Bess tried to press back the surprise and disappointment of reality as two more women approached. Both had dark hair and darker complexions, and their dresses were ornamented only by prominent silver cross medallions hanging from heavy chains. Lady Fitzwalter introduced them.

  “Mistress Blount, this is Doña Maria de Salinas. She is Her Royal Highness’s senior-most lady, as well as her dearest friend. It is to her authority you must answer above all others.”

  Bess dipped into an especially solicitous curtsy and remembered to keep her eyes lowered properly as she rose.

  “And I am Doña Agnes de Venegas. My husband is Lord Mount-joy, your father’s uncle and chamberlain over this entire enterprise,” the other dark-haired woman said in an accent heavily laden with her Castellón roots. “It is by his favor that you are here. Remember that.”

  Again Bess curtsied. When she rose, she wisely did not smile. While both were young, they were sour-faced, serious women who set the tone for the queen’s household, which clearly Bess was meant to adopt. Her romantic fantasy faded a little bit more.

  “I have informed my husband that you have arrived, and he hopes to find time to meet you later. If not today, tomorrow.”

  A flurry of other introductions followed with names she struggled in vain to keep straight: Lady Percy, Lady Bergavenny, the Countess of Oxford, the Countess of Derby. Few of them smiled and fewer still acknowledged Bess in return. Even the flat-faced, plain Marchioness of Exeter, the daughter of Agnes Venegas and Lord Mountjoy, and thus her own cousin, seemed unimpressed by her arrival. It was not hostility Bess felt as she followed Lady Hastings from the room, but definite antipathy. In spite of all her dreams and hopes, Bess was apparently just another girl to fill out the queen’s suite. And unlike the others, Bess did not even bear a title. She was merely plain Mistress Blount, an unimpressive maiden whose moderately connected father had called in a favor with a well-placed, distant relative. Everyone knew it, and there was no doubt that she was meant to know it as well.

  Bess had not expected the overwhelming wave of homesickness to hit her, or so swiftly. She could not remember a time when she had not longed to come to court. She had dreamed of it and planned for it as if she had known it was the one wish in her life that would come true. Now, washed and changed from the long journey into a new gown and fresh headdress, she walked slowly and full of hesitation, back toward the queen’s vast apartments.

  Her dress was a suitably modest one of scarlet velvet with tight sleeves and white embroidery at the square collar. From the girdle at her waist, an enamel rosary hung. Her honey blond hair was swept up into a small, proper gold mesh caul. She was the picture of sweet elegance. Again, the silence in the queen’s apartments startled her. Although the rooms were filled with court ladies all sewing or reading as before, they did so without laughter and with only a minimum of conversation. Bess did not realize it until then, as she stood at the fringes of the activity, that the ladies were sewing banners and copy after copy of the Royal Standard. Clearly, they were to be sent as encouragement to the English troops at war in France. It was a noble, if slightly dreary task that surprised Bess nevertheless. Even though she knew the king had named Queen Katherine as regent in his absence, Bess had expected Her Highness to be engaged in far more entertaining pastimes than those strictly of duty, like this, and prayer. Upon seeing the girl called Elizabeth Bryan, who, seated at one of the tables near the warmth of a charcoal brazier, was sewing a standard with another young maid, Bess felt safe enough to
approach.

  “May I sit with you?” she cautiously asked. When they both glanced up, Bess said, “I am Elizabeth Blount, but I am called Bess.”

  “Splendid. Because I am Elizabeth Bryan, and there can only ever be one of me.” The declaration had been flippantly delivered, but it was followed by a sweet smile. “Yes, do sit with us. We could use some fresh conversation. This is Jane Poppincourt. She is friends with the king’s sister, the Princess Mary. But occasionally Mistress Poppincourt deigns to entertain herself with less important maidens such as I.”

  They both giggled softly then, and Jane put her finger modestly to her lips. She was pretty with pale hair, gentle eyes, and a kind smile. Neither girl seemed to possess the same haughty demeanor of the other court women, and Bess was glad of that.

  “Your uncle is Lord Mountjoy?” Jane asked as she handed Bess a needle and some red thread. Her accent was thickly French, but her voice was soft and appealing. There was none of the condescension she had heard earlier from the others.

  “My father’s uncle,” Bess clarified. “Apparently the Lord Chamberlain took pity on my family since my father was wounded fighting alongside the king.”

  “We are all here as a favor to someone,” Elizabeth observed. “Most of the queen’s ladies do not fancy me at all, but my father and the king are inseparable, so, alas, they are forced to tolerate me, poor things.” Elizabeth Bryan smiled a bit more broadly, clearly proud of herself and the place she had made.

  “I saw you coming down the stairs when I first arrived.”

  “So you did. With Gilly. I am being punished by Lady Hastings for that bit of fun with no supper. Never mind, though, he is entertaining enough to be worth it.”

  “Are you and he—”

  “Gilbert Tailbois and I?” She giggled at the notion and cut a glance at Jane who lowered her eyes with a shy giggle of her own. “Great heavens, no. He is just entertainment in this dreary place.”

  “My father always told me such stories of the dancing and the music here, the great and clever jests, and all of the magnificent banquets,” Bess said a little dreamily.

  “That is the king’s merriment, not the queen’s. When Her Highness is with child, as she is now, we must put aside all fun. So we sit silently, murmuring prayers for a living son this time, and we sew flag after flag to be sent for the men to take into battle,” Elizabeth calmly replied.

  It seemed a dangerous way for her to speak in the queen’s chamber, and yet it felt deliciously brave as well. Clearly, Elizabeth Bryan was not in the least intimidated by her royal mistress. Nor was Jane Poppincourt, who stifled another soft giggle with the back of her hand. In spite of herself, Bess smiled, too, and the homesick sensation began to wane just a bit in the glow of the first small spark of excitement at making friends.

  “So, how is it that Lady Hastings can scold you if your father is so powerful?” Bess asked.

  “’ Tis not power my father wields so much as a subtle influence,” Elizabeth corrected. “The king wisely leaves the maintenance of the queen’s household to the queen. Doña de Salinas worries after Her Grace, and Lady Hastings worries after all the rest of us.”

  “Because the king fancied her,” Jane said in her soft voice.

  “And because the Duke of Buckingham, her brother, is his most powerful minister?” Bess asked.

  “Power wound and knotted like a fine skein of yarn,” Elizabeth replied in agreement. “Lady Hastings played the game particularly well, and at the end kept a wealthy husband along with the admiration of her former royal lover. We all could learn from her.”

  Bess did not hide her surprise. “So the gossip was true about her and the king?”

  Elizabeth leaned forward across the table, lowering her voice to a gossipy tone. “Well, naturally we cannot say for certain.” She glanced furtively around the room. “But what I can say is that after spending a great deal of time in the king’s company, Buckingham gained enough power to have his sister sent to a nunnery over the rumors. But she was quickly and quietly returned to court, to his dismay, and her position is even greater now. So naturally the rumors continue.”

  “Surely the queen has heard them; yet she tolerates a rival in her own household?” Bess asked.

  “That, Mistress Blount, is the importance of power and influence. By some means or other she has won the king’s favor, and no one, not even the queen, dares go against that.”

  Bess had never considered that a woman might be more influential than the queen, and it surprised her to imagine the prospect now. She picked up two pieces of fabric and began to sew them skillfully together, but her mind was far from the task. It seemed to her a dangerous thing to go against the very person in whose household one lived. But Lady Hastings certainly had a haughty-enough spirit for Bess to believe she was doing just that, and gaining power, riches, and influence along the way.

  Admiration for her spirit and ambition mixed with pity inside Bess for Katherine of Aragon as she contemplated the poor pregnant young queen who had to tolerate the daily presence of a beautiful rival. Just as the thought moved across her mind, everyone in the chamber stood suddenly and fell into deep, silent curtsies to the swish of stiff silk and heavy petticoats near the door. As Bess mirrored their movements, she saw entering the room a young pregnant woman dressed in dun-colored satin, with a heavy gold cross ornamenting her square neckline bordered in gold thread. Doña de Salinas was on one side of her; a pretty, fashionably dressed young woman on the other.

  The queen was not what Bess had expected. Although her Spanish olive skin was smooth, her face was plain and square, and her dark eyes were wide and bulging, especially with her hair entirely hidden beneath her tight, stiffly gabled hood. As she approached, Bess properly lowered her eyes and remained in her curtsy.

  “You are Mistress Blount,” the young queen said in English deeply laced with a Spanish accent.

  Slowly, Bess rose and faced the woman whom two English kings had taken as their queen. She seemed to Bess an uninspiring choice. “I am, Your Royal Highness.”

  “I see by your expression that I am not what you expected.”

  “Your Highness is far more than I expected.”

  “You lie like Mountjoy.” The queen sniffed. “While it is less difficult to tolerate in one so young and obviously inexperienced, see that you do not make a habit of it. I do not suffer falseness gladly.”

  “I shall, Your Highness.”

  “Now then, are you suitably settled in?”

  “Very well, thank you, Your Highness.”

  The queen had a small mole on her chin and hairs growing out of it, and she smelled thickly of musk. It was the scent of a man, not of a woman, and least of all of a queen. She was not at all like Guinevere in the romance Lancelot, which most powerfully had guided her to this place. Bess tried her best not to stare, but the mole was distracting.

  “Then you shall attend me now at prayer.”

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Bess had been told that the queen attended matins each day upon rising, then returned to the chapel at midday. Did she truly mean to pray a third time in one day?

  “Yes, Your Highness,” she responded as dutifully as she could manage for every other thought swirling around in her mind.

  Silent sewing. Repeated prayer. An absence of gaiety. Duty without pleasure. This was not at all the court Bess had envisioned, or the life. Perhaps things would be different once the king returned to England. Please let them be different, Bess found herself praying.

  Anne, Lady Hastings watched the Blount girl follow the queen and the other young maids back to the chapel. Good, she thought as she asked for a cup of wine and received it from one of the queen’s esquires. A few blissful moments to myself without having to fawn over Henry’s bland wife, she thought as she lowered herself onto a carved oak armchair at one of the unoccupied tables heaped with flag fabric, as yet unsewn, left beneath a window. It was only a moment more before her sister joined her. The chatter that always
rose up when the queen was gone now made their conversation inaudible to others.

  “She is a pretty little thing, is she not?” Elizabeth, Lady Fitzwalter observed as she picked up a half-sewn banner and absently examined it with no intention of sewing any longer.

  “If one values doe-eyed youth, I suppose she is.”

  “Half of the king’s men do value just that, if not King Henry himself.”

  “His Highness seemed fairly pleased with my skills before he left for Calais.”

  “Brother always says beauty is power. When mixed with youth, it is generally a far more lethal combination than any that maturity could provide.”

  Anne frowned at her. “On whose side precisely are you, Sister?”

  “The winning side, Sister. As any good courtier would be. You taught me that.”

  “Then you would do well not to antagonize me. His Highness shall return to court soon, and, when he does, I fully plan to return to his heart, my maturity not withstanding.”

  Lady Fitzwalter chuckled. “I do not think his heart was the part of him you captivated.”

  “Well, whatever it was, it gained Sir George and me a lovely country house, and this ruby that is the envy of all.”

  She proudly touched the huge stone in the center of a medallion accented with four shimmering pearls that lay against her tight silk plastron.

  “Payment for your body makes you no better than a Smithfield whore,” Elizabeth parried.

  “You are only jealous the king never wanted you,” Anne sniped.

  “Are you so certain he will still want you? They say King Henry values most the thrill of the chase. You were hunted and caught long ago,” her sister tauntingly reminded her.

  “Your analogy bores me.”