by Diane Haeger
True to his word after the victory at Thérouanne and Tournai, Henry VIII made plans to conquer all of France. Until he learned that his allies—the queen’s own father, Ferdinand, and the Emperor Maximilian—had deserted him and signed a peace treaty with their enemy, the French King Louis XII. Only Wolsey’s words seemed to temper Henry’s anger, advising him to form some sort of alliance with the French monarch in order to rescue his world reputation. Henry’s desire for war did not help the royal marriage, and it set into motion a series of events that would change the lives of everyone at court.
“I trusted the queen’s father most of all!” Henry raged. “I should have been able to rely on his daughter’s loyalty as well!”
“The queen has been most loyal, Your Highness,” Wolsey cautiously countered. “She cannot be made to pay for the actions of King Ferdinand, so far away in Spain.”
“Having her father betray me, nevertheless, is like my own wife betraying me. Foolish woman, if she were not already carrying my child, I would divorce her! Perhaps I should look into that as a matter of course, anyway.”
Wearing a long velvet coat edged in gold, Henry stalked back and forth the full length of his shadowy private gallery, his pride pierced and his mind swimming with thoughts of revenge. Wolsey sat on an ornately carved bench, his legs crossed, and waited for the rage to quiet. At the age of twenty-two, Henry was still largely untested as a ruler and often more full of fantasy than sense. Wolsey’s job, as he saw it, was to channel those fantasies into useful actions.
“I do not believe that will be necessary, sire,” Wolsey calmly replied, fingering the large ruby ring set in gold on his chunky forefinger—a recent gift from the king. “If you vanquish them at their own game.”
Henry stopped beside a large map of the Netherlands fixed to the limestone wall. His expression was one of incredulity. “And how would you propose I do that, Wolsey, when that triumvirate has already indisputably damaged my reputation, making me appear a complete fool?”
“You do have something none of them has—a beautiful, desirable sister to offer up, one who could make you and Louis not only allies but brothers.”
“I cannot consign Mary to an ancient lizard like the French king!” Henry bellowed.
“Can you go on without doing so?” Wolsey pointedly asked as the king stopped in his tracks, the folds from his rich velvet coat swinging at his knees before he pivoted back.
Wolsey knew it was a risk even to propose such a thing. Henry loved no one like his sister. The death of their brother, Arthur, had forged the bond that the loss of their parents had sealed. But a beautiful young princess was still a bargaining chip like no other, especially lovely Mary, with her chaste reputation. Due to a failed betrothal to Charles of Castile, it was a stroke of good fortune that she was now free to utilize.
But Wolsey saw the glances exchanged between her and that ambitious prig, Brandon, just as he had seen Gil’s interest in the Blount girl, because he made it a point to look for such things. Now that Brandon, newly raised by Henry to the peerage as Duke of Suffolk, was amassing power and great fortune at an alarming rate, it would not surprise Wolsey at all if Brandon still had designs on the king’s sister. In spite of his betrothal to young Lady Lisle, for which he had earlier received the title of Lord Lisle, though their marriage had never been formally executed, Charles Brandon’s appetite for grandeur knew no bounds. Additionally, Brandon had never let a little thing like rules or the law stand in his way before, so it was unlikely he would do so now if Mary was what he desired. It would serve Brandon right if at least that one door to his ambitions, and such an alluring one, was forever closed. Pleased with himself, Wolsey bit back a smile and waited patiently for Henry to adopt the idea as his own.
“It would not be completely unexpected to her. Mary has, after all, been raised, as I was, to know her duty.”
“Indeed, sire.”
“Very well, Wolsey. Look into it then.” The long sleeve fell away from Henry’s hand as he flicked his wrist with the directive. “I am late as it is for the hunt, which is why we came to Eltham in the first place. Brandon, Carew, and I have some pretty young ladies to impress before they grow tired of waiting.”
Young was right, thought Wolsey petulantly, even as he bowed to the king. The word characterized most of the new crop of naive contenders who were unsuspecting candidates for the plucking.
Bess was shocked, yet excited, to have been invited.
Henry would be a magnificent hunter to watch as they galloped through the woods, all thundering hooves, clattering harnesses, glittering jewels, and carefree laughter. The Duke of Suffolk was always witty, and Master Carew could never quite take his eyes off Elizabeth Bryan. Not that she ever noticed, for she and Bess watched the king’s every move with pure adolescent devotion. When Henry spoke to either one of them, they would chatter on about nothing else for days.
Wolsey usually joined them, but everyone knew there was increasing tension between the cleric and Brandon, so Wolsey declined this hunt. As a result, Gil did not come downstairs to see them off. It was just as well, Bess secretly thought. He was a good friend, but Gil could become moody and quiet when she and Elizabeth giggled over the king, and she had to admit it did rather ruin their fun.
The little hunting party collected now in the courtyard, a light spring breeze swirling around the young ladies of the queen’s household, including Bess; Elizabeth; Margaret, Elizabeth’s older sister, Lady Guildford; Princess Mary; and Mary Stafford, Lady Bergavenny, daughter of the Duke of Buckingham. Also included were Anne Stanhope and Joan Champernowne, two other maids of honor. Conspicuously absent, once again, was Jane Poppincourt, whose prominence of place beside the king had steadily diminished.
Henry strode through the tall carved doors a moment later in elegant green velvet ornamented with gold cord, and a jaunty matching cap plumed with an ostrich feather. He was with Charles Brandon, Nicholas Carew, Henry Guildford, Henry Norris, and William Compton. They were laughing at some great unheard joke told by Sir Guildford, whose responsibility, as Master of the Revels, it often was to set the mood.
When the men looked their way, Bess felt the heat deepen in her cheeks and she lowered her eyes, still not entirely comfortable with attention from a group of handsome noblemen. Elizabeth did not suffer the same weakness, and, when Bess looked up, she saw that Elizabeth and the king were smiling at each other. Bess looked back and forth. The gaze between them was now an open flirtation. Clearly, it was the same look she once had seen between the sovereign and Jane. Even though the court was full of these games, and everyone seemed to play them, her next thought, as it had been the last time, was of the pregnant queen upstairs. But, surprisingly, it did not prevent her from wishing that she, rather than Elizabeth, had caught the king’s eye as a part of this little intrigue, and she looked enviously from Henry and Elizabeth.
“Are we ready, my ladies?” Charles Brandon asked with an affable wink and grin as he donned his tooled leather riding gloves.
Brandon wore the very same plumed green velvet hat as the king, which made them, with their copper hair, look like brothers. Yet even that was not a coincidence; clothing to mirror the king signaled one’s position and power. Then Bess saw Brandon and Princess Mary exchange the same unmistakable look and smile as she had seen before. Such open flirtation, she thought to herself. They all seemed such experts. The only one who ever smiled like that at her was Gilbert Tailbois, and Bess had long ago decided he did not count—not for that, anyway.
When the horses were brought from the stables, Bess was helped by one of the young liveried grooms onto a sleek gray mare saddled in gilded Spanish leather. Elizabeth was assisted by the king himself, as Mary was by Brandon. Bess wondered if either man fully realized the impression they had on young girls. Their handsome smiles, witty jokes, and carefree confidence would have been enough even without the seductive power swirling around them. She could not imagine why the queen wished so rarely to be in his company.
If I were queen to Henry the Eighth, she thought fancifully as the royal party passed the guard tower, then crossed over an emerald rise behind the palace, I do not believe I would ever let him out of my sight.
Enviously again, she watched Henry lean over in his own gilded saddle and murmur something to Elizabeth, who laughed with kittenish delight. Bess marveled at how easy it seemed for her friend to converse with the King of England as if he were just like anyone else. All afternoon she watched them, daring in her most private thoughts to increasingly imagine herself in Elizabeth’s place. When she did, she would laugh out loud, mocking her own foolish hubris. Even though the king addressed her from time to time, he did it in the most perfunctory of ways—casually, blandly. She was simply another maid of honor to him, another inconsequential adolescent girl at a vast, fast-paced court with more beautiful—and mature—women than she could count.
After a stag was impressively cornered, then killed by the king himself deep inside the lush forest, the royal hunting party retired to a little wooded glade, carpeted with pine needles. There, an army of servants had laid a spectacular feast on long tables, complete with linen, tapestry cloths, gleaming silver plates, and jeweled goblets. As the custom had become, Bess and Elizabeth were seated beneath a lacy bower of shade trees beside the king and Charles Brandon. Even Princess Mary was not so well placed to dine. That struck Bess as curious, but she was too enamored of her own steadily growing good fortune to do anything but sit and enjoy it.
The king was still whispering to Elizabeth Bryan, both of them laughing at some private little joke as Bess bit into a moist piece of grilled venison.
“So then, Mistress Blount, how did you find our little adventure?” Brandon casually asked her as a servant once again filled the wine goblet he had already drained.
“I found it fast paced and exciting, Your Grace.”
“As all things at my court should be,” the king interjected suddenly from the other side.
Devilish glances were exchanged between the two men. “If it were any more fast paced, we would both be dead, certainly,” Brandon returned.
“The killing was not too gruesome for such a demure young lady as yourself?” the king asked her.
To Bess’s surprise, his glittering green-eyed gaze had descended fully on her, and his mouth was still turned up in a handsome smile as he waited for her reply. In spite of herself, her heart began to race as it always did when he looked at her, and she felt herself begin to blush. Bess said a silent prayer that he would not notice, because she knew it made her seem like a silly child, certainly not the clever young woman like the others she longed one day to be.
“Mistress Bryan and I are the same age, and it does not seem to affect her,” Bess replied, careful to modulate her tone so her voice did not quaver as it always did around these worldly men.
“Mistress Bryan has a bit more experience than you do, Mistress Blount.” Brandon chuckled.
“At the hunt, you mean,” the king added with an odd little wink.
“Yet it is Mistress Poppincourt who trumps us all in experience,” Elizabeth interjected tartly.
Bess’s gaze darted among the three of them, looking to gauge their reactions. Then she forced herself to laugh blithely along with them, as though she were a part of the great private joke that had been made at Jane’s expense, although she did not understand it at all.
“If it is true what they are saying about Jane and the duc de Longueville, that resourceful girl will find a way to return to France with him once he is released,” Brandon said.
Bess longed to ask him precisely what that meant, but she held her tongue because everyone else apparently knew and she could not bear to go on looking naive.
“Of course it is true, Charles,” said the king. “They have been secret lovers for weeks now. You think I do not know what goes on in my own court, especially with a noble prisoner, who is more guest in my court than any sort of captive, yet one I personally took on the battlefield in France?”
“Our Jane certainly does not hesitate to try new things!” Brandon affably joked.
Once again the two men laughed, and then suddenly, as the king looked at Elizabeth, Bess saw his hand drop down to Elizabeth’s knee, disappearing beneath the table cover. She felt a jolt of shock; then something else caught her attention from the corner of her eye. It was another glance exchanged across the table between Charles Brandon and Princess Mary. At first, Bess was amazed that the king did not notice the exchange, for it was the most open of glances and lasted longer than was appropriate, but he was whispering something so closely to Elizabeth’s ear that he was almost grazing her neck.
“So, Mistress Blount, do tell us all something interesting about yourself that we do not already know,” the king suddenly bid her. “You are definitely the most quiet of the girls in the queen’s household.”
“Does Your Highness no longer find mystery enticing?” Elizabeth cleverly interjected.
“Unraveling a mystery can be as tiresome as hunting if the right prey is not captured. I must know whether it is worth my time.”
Brandon chuckled, as did the king. “Is there not some juicy little detail you will share with us, Mistress Blount?” Brandon echoed. “Mistress Bryan is an open book to us now, so we must look elsewhere for something new.”
Bess’s heart beat like a bird’s wings against her ribs, because she knew she must think of something on the spot. This was her moment to please them and show, like all of the other girls around her, how clever she could be, but it had come too suddenly, and she was unprepared.
“I am not certain I want to be captured,” she said in a soft and careful tone.
The king bit back his smile. “I have a large enough collection of exotic creatures at Greenwich, Mistress Blount. I think you are quite safe from capture. I shall have to show them to you one day.”
“I shall look forward to that, sire.”
“Indeed you would be wise to. As I will look forward to your great secret when you decide to reveal it. Suddenly, I have a feeling it shall be worth the wait,” the king remarked, just before he turned his attention back to Elizabeth Bryan, whose bright and clever smile had dimmed.
Gil was waiting for them when they returned. He was outside Elizabeth’s small room, and he followed them inside, closing the door behind them.
“Tell me everything,” he bid Elizabeth and Bess, “and spare not a single detail.”
The girls exchanged a glance, then smiled at each other. “There is really nothing to tell. Just the usual; kill a stag, then dine and dance and laugh for hours. Merriment is so exhausting,” Elizabeth replied tauntingly, since she knew how badly he had wanted to join them. “Still, the king could not be more handsome, which makes up for everything else.”
“Or more clever,” Bess added, as they both began predictably to giggle.
They had been there only moments when a knock sounded at the door. Gil went to open it.
“Mistress Blount, you are to come with me,” declared a young page dressed formally in Tudor livery of green Bruges satin with gold buttons. His words held an ominous note. He did not smile or even bow to her. Suddenly she feared the worst, that she had somehow displeased the king with her first, adolescent attempt at clever evasion. Her heart began to pound again, and her throat went very dry at the possibility.
“May I ask why I have been summoned?”
“I was told only to bring you, mistress. Not the reason.”
Elizabeth clasped her hand for a moment in silent support and then smiled. Bess’s expression was stricken as she followed the page from the room.
“You are very transparent, you know,” Elizabeth said once they were alone.
Gil came back and stood beside her. “Am I?”
“Quite. She really has no idea how you feel about her. I shall keep your secret, though, if you will keep mine. I am dying to tell someone.”
“I thought Bess was your confidante.”
“Not
with this.” There was an awkward silence for a moment as Elizabeth Bryan attempted to summon her courage. It was one thing to want to confide in Gilbert Tailbois, whom she had known most of her life, but it was quite another, she found, to actually speak the words aloud, giving validity to them.
“You were right all along. I am hopelessly in love with the king.”
Gil unlatched the little leaded glass window beside the bed and opened it. “Is not every young girl at court?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Perhaps. But I have actually been his lover, so I suspect that makes my affection a bit above par.”
She watched his expression carefully as he came to sit beside her. There was strained silence between them as a bee droned just outside the open window and footsteps passed by out in the corridor beyond the closed door.
“The gossip was that he was bedding Mistress Poppincourt.”
“That was true until last spring,” she said simply.
“Why have you not told Bess instead of me?”
She straightened her back and primly fluffed the folds of her burgundy and gold skirts. “Bess Blount believes in the image of the king and queen, their happy marriage, and equates everything she sees here with the romantic tale of Lancelot. She looks at our king as a legend and a fantasy, not a man. Who am I to ruin that for her?”
“And you are afraid she will learn from you, as you learned from Mistress Poppincourt, how to catch the king’s eye herself.”
She frowned at that. “I really do love him, Gilly.”
“As futile an exercise as whistling in the wind.”
“And yet did you not tell me yourself just this morning that he told Bishop Wolsey he was considering a divorce?”
“Angry men say many foolish things.”
“Even powerful kings?”
“When you were gone, Wolsey told me the king might consider his suggestion to allow the French king to marry his sister. In that case, all anger would be forgotten between Henry and Ferdinand, and divorce would not be necessary.”
