by Diane Haeger
“Mary will never agree to that,” she scoffed. “She is in love with the Duke of Suffolk, and he with her. Everyone knows it.”
“Love has nothing to do with marriage, Elizabeth. You would be wise to remember that. Bess would tell you the very same thing.”
“Well, you must not breathe a word about any of this, especially to her. Promise me, Gilly. At least not until I know for certain where I stand with the king.”
He lowered his eyes judgmentally upon her. “You have no intention of stopping, do you?”
“Not for as long as he will have me. I cannot. It might be as futile for me as things with Bess are for you, but you know neither of us is going to give up,” she said. He did not answer, because he could not disagree. He was only sixteen, but Gil Tailbois knew it was true. He was hopelessly in love with Bess Blount.
Bess was led silently by the page down a twisted flight of stone stairs and along a corridor to a chamber concealed by carved double doors. Her heart was pounding with dread as she waited for the boy to knock. What she did not expect was whom she saw on the other side once the door was opened. Bess gave a little shriek of surprise, engulfed by the warm, familiar scent of her father, John Blount, as he drew her into a hearty embrace.
“Why did you not write to me that you were returning?” she sputtered, tears blurring her eyes as she laid her head against his noticeably slimmer chest. He felt more fragile, still weakened, she thought. Yet he was here. The post of Royal Spear, bodyguard to the king, was a demanding one, so he must be returned to good health.
“And miss that expression on your sweet face?” he said with a chuckle.
“We wanted to surprise you.”
The voice behind them, sweet, gentle, and female, belonged to her mother. Bess gasped in disbelief at Catherine Blount, who stood in a pretty topaz satin and beadwork dress with delicate lace at the square neckline and sleeves, her face framed by a smile. She was slimmer as well. Bess did not need to embrace her to see that; yet still she did so, and heartily. She went to her mother’s open arms with all the love of a child who had lost her way, and only now had found home.
“Apparently the surprise pleases our beautiful daughter.” Catherine Blount smiled serenely. “Just look at how you have grown in a year’s time. And we have heard much about you from Lady Hastings.”
“I do not think she likes me very well,” Bess confessed as they stood together in the center of a room with a high ceiling ornamented with heavy beams and two tall windows filled with colored glass.
“The Duke of Buckingham’s sister likes you well enough to write to us that you have been elevated to an impressively prominent place at the king’s table when he dines in public.”
“That is only because I am friends with Mistress Bryan, whom the king favors most especially as a dining companion. She is, after all, very clever and beautiful.”
Her parents exchanged a glance. “Sir Thomas’s little daughter?” her father asked, but it was not really a question. “Bollocks! He has boasted for years about parading her out before the king the very moment she was old enough to be matched, not caring for the consequences. I always thought he was joking. Unseemly, is what it is.”
“She certainly deserves a proper match. I always thought she was such a pretty girl,” said her mother.
Bess studied each of her parents, much aged in the last year by her father’s convalescence and her mother’s constant care of him. Both looked a little less elegant than she remembered, yet it was so wonderful to have them back here with her. She did not want to dwell on Elizabeth any longer.
“How are you truly, Father?” she asked, gazing into eyes that were more deeply sunken than a year before. “Are you certain you are strong enough?”
“Fit as ever, dear one. Not to worry. Returning to my post will be the perfect medicine for me.”
They were both smiling at her so happily that Bess had no choice but to believe them.
“Does the queen know you have returned?” she asked her mother. “She calls for me very little these days.”
“I went to her first, of course. As you know, she is most uncomfortable at this stage of her pregnancy, and she finds it a comfort, she says, to be in the company only of women who have endured the same process. It also cannot be easy to know that such pretty young girls as you and Mistress Bryan keep her husband’s company while she cannot.”
“We are not to refuse His Highness’s invitations. You and Father told me so yourselves that he and his friends enjoy the social company of pretty girls. Be always at the ready to obey the king and queen, was what you said,” Bess defended, remembering the king’s gaze upon her during the hunt earlier that day, but refusing even now to think of it as anything more than a game.
“You have done what is right, child,” said her father, calmly intervening. “The act of balancing the varying motives and ambitions here is difficult at best, and we are enormously proud of you.”
She felt a small sliver of relief, which made her smile.
“Only take care that nothing you do insults the queen, since it is our family connection to her household, through Mountjoy, that allows you and your mother to attend at court in the first place,” said John.
“I love the queen. It is always my honor to serve her,” Bess returned, meaning it. What she did not say was how greatly she envied Katherine of Aragon for the man she had captured and would have, forever.
After their reunion, Bess returned to her room as her parents went to get settled in. Bess still had not changed her costume from the hunt, and she could not go into the queen’s apartments wearing dusty shoes or a riding hood. She half expected to see Gil still there with Elizabeth when she returned. Because of his connection to Wolsey, he was such a fixture in these chambers and corridors whenever she and Elizabeth were there. And secretly she did enjoy his company. Although she never quite knew what it was, there was something different about him from the other young gentlemen at court, and she liked that. She would have liked it better, she told herself as she removed her own shoes, if she knew how to identify her feelings for him. They were certainly nothing like what Guinevere felt for Lancelot, or Isolde for Tristan. That much she knew.
Only when she sat down on the edge of her small bed did she see them. A little bouquet of primroses lay on her pillow, bound by a strip of green silk ribbon. There was no note, no hint of who had left them. As she picked them up, Bess felt herself smile. Her mind raced back to the hunt that day, and to anyone who had paid even the slightest attention to her and might have left them, besides the king. However, he seemed a highly unlikely source, she thought, laughing sheepishly at herself for even considering such a preposterous thing.
It was late, and she had been asked to accompany Lady Hastings and her sister, Lady Fitzwalter, at prayer for the queen. While Bess had seen very little of the powerful Duke of Buckingham at court, she had learned well that his two sisters were not women she would want to defy. Quickly, she changed her shoes and donned a prettier cap, making certain her hair was properly tucked beneath the lacy fall. She pinched her cheeks, glanced in the little mirror on the table beside her bed, then dashed out of the room. She left the flowers lying beneath her riding hood and gloves, as forgotten as the question of who had left them there, or exactly what it was that drew her to entirely trust Gil Tailbois.
PART II
Step. . . .
Alas, alas, if you only knew, I am sure you would never allow me without interference to be led away a step.
—GUINEVERE, LANCELOT
Chapter Five
August 1514
Greenwich Palace, Kent
“I must be rid of Mistress Bryan,” Henry announced to Wolsey matter-of-factly as they stood together on the archery field, a warm summer wind ruffling the plume of his cap and the edges of Wolsey’s black cassock. The field was far behind the palace, just beyond the apple orchard, where Henry knew no one would hear them. They were alone but for pages and stewards who waited at a dista
nce with wine and perfumed, dry cloths, to attend him when they were finished.
“She pleases Your Highness no longer?” the stout prelate dared to ask.
“She pleases me a little too much. But I am bored with the girl, Wolsey,” he grumbled. “She is always lurking about, always laughing too loudly at my jokes, always smiling and flirting and waiting for me to call for her.”
“Forgive me, sire, but that is bad precisely how?”
“It is desperation, Wolsey, a most unappealing quality in a woman, even one so young and pretty as Elizabeth Bryan.” He set down his bow. “Things with her have run their course. Katherine will deliver me a son soon enough, and I have a need to be ready to get her with another as soon as possible afterward. But I cannot risk insulting the girl’s father. I am not a fool to this sort of thing. Sir Thomas is one of my dearest friends, and I know he has turned a blind eye to this dalliance for months out of deference to me.”
Henry ran a hand behind his neck, feeling the heat from the late-summer sun as heavily upon him as his conscience.
“That may be a problem,” Wolsey observed. “He could make an issue of it, unless Your Highness provides an appealing alternative for his daughter.”
“A marriage?” Henry asked as he signaled for the waiting steward to bring them each a goblet of wine.
“Why not? The girl is fifteen already.”
“Have you anyone to propose to me, Wolsey? You know I trust your judgment in all things.”
The bishop with the full cheeks and small eyes took a long swallow of wine before he replied. “Brandon, whom you trust equally, might advise you differently, but Master Carew is the right age, nearly eighteen, and unmarried. I used to see the little glances between them. I am certain, due to his standing with you, Sir Thomas and his wife would approve.”
“Nicholas Carew is quite a rake now. There are few girls at my court with whom he has not dallied.”
“Which makes him eminently suitable to accept the less-than-virginal Mistress Bryan, does it not?” He arched a brow and waited for Henry to consider it fully as he placed his empty goblet back onto a silver tray the steward held beside them.
Marriages really were the most prudent way to solve a multitude of complications, Henry thought as he picked up his bow once again and drew an arrow from the tooled leather quiver across his back. The old French king Louis XII had happily agreed to marry his sister Mary, a month earlier, easing England away from the need to return to war with France that summer, as he had thought to do. By the alliance, he was also saving face after Ferdinand and Maximilian, behind Henry’s back, had brokered their own deals with Louis XII. That betrayal still stung.
If he thought about it too long, Henry felt guilty about giving someone so young and beautiful as Mary to an ailing widower like Louis XII. But his advisers had told him Louis was too ill to survive a vibrant young queen for long, so she would have the opportunity to find love in the next marriage he arranged for her. Infuriating as the circumstances were, one must not be stymied by such details but always be open to all options, he had resolved.
Tonight was the banquet celebrating Mary’s marriage by proxy. His noble prisoner, the duc de Longueville, a guest really, was to stand in for the French king, who was not well enough to travel to claim his own bride. All of the players were as intricately woven together as a fine Flemish tapestry, he thought as he drew back the arrow and steadied his arm. He knew all about de Longueville’s secret encounters with Jane Poppincourt, and he had kept quiet about them for the same reason he found himself considering Carew for Elizabeth Bryan. Women were always less of a problem when they were not cast aside outright. In time, when he found someone new upon whom to grant his favor, and Elizabeth was well married, perhaps they would even be friends. The fact that there was no one right now who interested him was of little consequence to Henry. There would be someone soon enough—certainly the next time the queen was with child, he thought as the arrow jettisoned directly toward the bull’s-eye, shaking the target.
Even though she was pregnant, the queen had decided to attend the banquet that evening to celebrate Mary’s proxy marriage, so all of her ladies and young maids of honor were called upon to attend her. Bess had seen little of the queen in the past month as Katherine still preferred the company of her older companions just now, so Bess knew how important it must be for her to leave her intimate surroundings.
Along with Jane, Elizabeth, and Gertrude, her cousin, Bess was to attend the important ceremony but stand well behind the queen; Maria de Salinas; Agnes de Venagas, who was Mountjoy’s wife; and Bess’s mother, Catherine. Two of the youngest maids of honor, both new to court, were invited as well. Mary and Anne Boleyn, the daughters of Sir Thomas Boleyn, passed in front of Bess, whispering and giggling inappropriately. Instinctively, Bess did not like or trust either of them. Both girls were as impudent as they were pretty, and she intended to stay well out of their way.
It was rare for a queen visibly with child to attend such a public function, but Bess saw how Katherine wore her devotion to the king on her sleeve, and in every expression on her face. Bess had been too young to recall much about her own mother’s pregnancies, but now the process fascinated her as the culmination of great love, like the one between the king and queen, or even between her own parents. She could not quite fathom loving anyone enough to happily bring that upon her own body, yet Bess secretly hoped she would wish it one day, and out of love rather than duty.
After the solemn and formal ceremony, and a Nuptial Mass, there was a celebration in the great banquet hall. Beneath plastered beams, the walls were hung with cloth of gold embroidered with the arms of France and England. The warm summer breeze through open windows made the candles and lanterns shimmer as everyone danced. Bess sat beside Gil and Elizabeth. She felt suitably elegant in a formal gown of mauve-colored velvet with turned-back sleeves and a small pearl-dotted coif.
Beside the king sat a gouty man with a clipped little gray beard whom Bess did not know. She had seen him infrequently at court, but then only at a distance. When Gil saw her staring at him, he casually said, “That is the Duke of Buckingham, just returned from his estates. Wolsey and he do not like each other. It is always like a great chess match when Buckingham returns between the duke, Brandon, and Wolsey to see who will have the most influence with the king.”
“Tonight it would appear to be the duke,” Bess observed.
“I certainly will hear all about it later before I retire.” Gil rolled his eyes and smiled.
“The bishop confides in you to that extent?” Bess asked, letting the note of surprise in her voice come through.
“Only from time to time, if there is no one else about.”
“Oh, do tell her the truth,” Elizabeth interjected from beside them. “Bishop Wolsey dotes on you as if you were his own son.”
“’Tis true enough that he is fond of me,” Gil quickly responded. “Quite likely, it is only because he is unable to have a family of his own.”
“You do look a bit like him,” Bess observed, noticing the resemblance for the first time. Elizabeth returned her gaze once again across the vast room to the king, who was laughing at something the Duke of Buckingham had said. Bess watched with surprise as Elizabeth lowered her eyes and smiled flirtatiously, clearly trying to get the king’s attention.
“What if the queen notices her doing that?” Bess leaned nearer to Gil to ask.
“I would imagine Her Highness is accustomed to it by now. There have been girls doing it for as long as I have been at court.”
Bess was embarrassed to admit to herself that she was secretly one of them, one of many silly little girls nursing childish fantasies. It made it all the more pathetic to see the king turn then and gently brush the back of his hand along the line of his wife’s jaw in what looked like a show of concern. All of it was nothing more than a courtly game, she thought.
“Mistress Bryan, would you join me in a dance?”
Bess saw Elizabeth
glance perfunctorily at the handsome young man who had asked the question before she said, “I do not like the tourdion, Master Carew. Perhaps Mistress Blount would be a more fitting partner since she dances so brilliantly.”
Nicholas Carew, dressed in a fashionable gray doublet with silver silk slashings, gave a strange little pause before he replied. “The king wished me to request a dance on his behalf from Mistress Blount at the same time, since I meant to come over here to ask you, Mistress Bryan.”
Bess felt the surprise blossom on her face in a warm rush. “But what of the queen?” she asked.
“Her Highness cannot dance in her present circumstance, and she plans to retire for the evening soon anyway. She does not begrudge the king a bit of fun when she is unable to give it herself,” Carew added. The sting of rejection made his words sound sharp.
When Bess glanced back, she saw the king nod to her in acknowledgment, then smile as a page drew back his chair for him, and he stood. In response, Elizabeth shot Bess an oddly angry look, tipped up her chin, then stood as well.
“Come, Bess. One mustn’t keep the King of England waiting. Especially not when he wants something—or someone,” she said tartly.
Elizabeth then curtsied to Carew, her pale blue dress pooling around her, before she rose again.
“What did I do?” Bess whispered in a panic to Gil, who had time only to shrug his shoulders as Elizabeth reached back, clutched her by the wrist, and drew her along to the place where King Henry stood waiting.
“Good evening, Mistress Blount,” Henry said with a little nod and a slightly twisted smile that made her forget to breathe as she stepped into the dancing area. “So tell me, how does your tourdion fair?”
“Tolerably, Your Highness.”
“Shall I be the judge?”
“I shall pray you do not judge me too harshly.”
“Such beauty would make that impossible.”
Elizabeth gave a sudden little grunt at the exchange as she brushed past the king, and Nicholas followed her.
