by D. L. Bogdan
He pauses, considering me a long moment. His eyes affix themselves to my face and I bow my head, flushing. Perhaps I have been too bold.
“That sounds very nice,” he tells me. “Let yourself in when you are finished.”
I curtsy and scurry to the still room where I make up my little potion, then hasten back to his chambers. He is seated on his bed, a small smile playing on his lips.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks me.
I offer a nervous giggle. “Well, I suppose you should remove your shirt if you are comfortable . . . that way I can apply it. Unless of course you wish to apply it yourself,” I add quickly.
“No, methinks I should entrust myself to your skilled hands,” he says with a smile, removing the velvet doublet and unlacing his shirt before pulling it up over his head to reveal a slim, well-muscled torso. I turn my head away. My cheeks burn. Somewhere inside I realize he is married and it may not be right, I alone in his rooms, about to rub salve on his body. But I think, really, what could be wrong? I am a servant and I am just helping ease his pain. I’m not making after him. I’ll just rub the salve on him and be gone.
“Now?” he asks, his tone very soft.
“Uh . . . lie down on your belly,” I tell him.
He laughs, then follows the order, leaning his head on his folded arms. His long hair grazes his shoulders and he appears either a god or the very devil, lying there like that. Most likely a devil—but such a handsome devil! Oh, I must get these thoughts out of my mind!
I sit beside him and dip my hand in the salve, then rub my palms together. They tingle. The smell of lavender and mint assails my nostrils as I dare to massage the oil onto his back. He quivers beneath my touch as I work the knots out of his taut muscles. He begins to relax, heaving a deep sigh of contentment as I rub his shoulders and upper arms.
“Your hands are like velvet,” he comments.
“Does it help, Your Grace?” I ask.
“Mmmhmmm,” he answers lazily, turning his head so he can see me. “Now if you could only cure my legs . . .”
I shudder. “Would . . . would you like some applied to your legs, too, Your Grace?”
He nods.
I turn away so he can remove his hose and cover himself with the blanket so that only his fine, lean legs are revealed. I am trembling in terror. There is nothing separating me from the nakedness of the greatest peer in the realm but a flimsy blanket. I try to force naughty thoughts away as I begin to rub the salve on his thighs, then his well-defined calves.
“Hallelujah, that’s good!” he murmurs with another throaty laugh.
When my ministrations are complete, he rolls onto his back. The blanket still covers him, but I am forced to admire his chest. He brings his hands up to cup my face. They are warm against my cheeks.
“Bess Holland, you have a goddess’s touch,” he tells me in an urgent voice, and I shudder at the intensity in his black eyes.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I say in breathless tones.
He brings my face toward his and at once I find that our lips have met. Hungrily he devours my mouth and I cannot help but yield to it. Oh, I am a wanton! But he is so handsome! And what if I did say no? I would risk my father’s position. And his kisses do feel nice. . . .
“Lie with me, Bess,” he whispers, pulling me on top of him and working at the laces of my dress with nimble fingers. “I must have you,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek, my jawline, my throat. “I must make you mine.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I respond as I wriggle out of my gown and crawl underneath the covers, marveling at the fact that my bare skin is touching that of this great man.
“I must make you mine. . . .” he says again. He cups my face, gazing into it with adoration and lust.
And with that I am made his. Me, a lowly servant girl, is made the lover of a real live duke!
We remove to Kenninghall and it truly is shaped like an H! It is the grandest palace I have ever seen. I have never really seen anything but Hever, so I don’t have much to compare it to. But perhaps it is because it belongs to His Grace that I love it all the more.
It is the most resplendent place on earth, with its stables, deer park, sprawling gardens, and mews filled with the finest falcons in England. The duke says he will take me hawking one day and that I can ride any horse I want. When he learns my family forgot my fifteenth birthday, he promises me pretty gowns and a different jewel for every day of the week. Never will my birthday be forgotten again.
“I shall cover your fingers with rings,” he tells me one evening as he kisses each fingertip. “And your throat will be encircled with diamonds.”
“Diamonds!” I cry. “Real diamonds?” Such a thing is beyond my reckoning—me, poor uneducated Bess Holland, wearing actual diamonds!
“You wouldn’t expect fake ones, would you?” he asks me, tugging one of my ringlets.
“Oh, Your Grace, you are good to me!” I cry, wrapping my arms about his neck and kissing him on the cheek.
But at Kenninghall the guilt of my secret liaison with the duke assaults me in full as I meet his wife, Duchess Elizabeth.
I had imagined her as sort of homely and haggish, which to me would justify the straying of His Grace to my bed, but to my disappointment, I find her to be of extraordinary youth and beauty, with her chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. Her lips are wide and full and her figure is trim and delicate, whereas mine is full and round. Perhaps that is why the duke likes me; I am her exact opposite. I am blond, she is dark. My breasts are large and hers are average at best.
But it must be more than physical. She must not make him happy anymore. They’ve been married for years and I’m told men grow weary of their wives after some time.
She assesses me with those keen blue eyes and I tremble before her. She is not dumb at all, that much is plain, and I fear for myself and for her. It is not good to be so perceptive and as she looks at me, I am convinced that she knows what the duke and I have been about.
But she says nothing.
I am introduced to the children. The eldest, Cathy, is two years younger than me and is a haughty little girl, a replica of her mother in carriage and demeanor. But the others are eager for my company and I am delighted to play with Henry and Mary and to hold Little Thomas whenever I get the chance.
Though my age makes it an impossibility for them to be mine, I pretend it is so anyway. I pretend they are mine and the duke’s.
Thomas Howard
I did not hire John Holland because I found him to be anything beyond competent. He is not an exceptional human being; nothing about him stands out. Some kind of madness overtook me the moment I set eyes on his daughter, the delectable morsel Bess, and his employment was secured. Ah, but she is beautiful. Sensual yet innocent . . . I admit it is more than mere lust. I’ve the strange need to protect her, offer her a life she never could have had otherwise.
And how I am rewarded! With her, there are no complications; she is not clever, she is complacent. Willing. So willing . . . Her little button mouth forms all the right answers. “Yes, yes, and yes, Your Grace.”
Nor does she haunt my mind in the fashion others do with their strange resemblances. . . . No, I will not think on that.
She is just the distraction I need, so pretty and round and young. What man in his right mind would deny himself a little dalliance with her? And I am no longer just a man. I am a duke with the needs of a duke.
It is wrong, I know, to install her here. I must try to show some restraint and not dangle the girl before Elizabeth. Everything must be kept in separate worlds. If this is done right, everyone can be happy.
Elizabeth Howard
I don’t know what kind of fool he takes me for, but I have overestimated my husband in every way possible. Overestimated what little respect I thought he had for me, overestimated his capacity to be an upright, moral Catholic man . . . oh, everything. The knave!
He is the king’s man in every way and has allowed himself to be infl
uenced by his boundless appetite for things not his to take! Scoundrel!
I will not have it. Others may look the other way and play the willing fool but not me. I have not suffered this long and waited all these years for my family life to begin, to have it all thwarted by a silly, stupid fifteen-year-old girl.
At first I am quiet. I must play this right. I watch and wait for my moment. I take the girl and show her about our home. Together we make candles and weave, and I show her the kitchens, which she exclaims over in wide-eyed awe. She is a pretty little girl—a little girl! Oh, how ashamed of my Thomas I am!
She is placed in the nursery as a washer, and I watch her play with my children. Her affection for them seems genuine enough but it does not change a thing. That she can meet my eyes is an endless source of wonder to me.
Thomas comes to me less and less. He avoids my eyes.
And Bess wears quite expensive jewelry for a washerwoman. Where does she get the funds?
Oh, the pain of it, far worse than any beating. I do not know how much of this I can stand.
Bess Holland
I am very wrong. I know I am wrong. I am worse than the Whore of Babylon and I know Jesus must be very disappointed in me. But I cannot say no. I cannot deny him. What’s more, I do not want to, and that is by far the most grievous of my increasing sin list.
Duchess Elizabeth watches me with guarded eyes. She knows. Oh, I know she knows! She keeps me at her side and through her silence antagonizes me. Doesn’t she know she has won no matter what my relationship with His Grace? She has his ring, his children, and his name. I have but a few nights of his company. Soon he will tire of me, I imagine, and this whole thing will be but a strange, bittersweet memory for us.
At night the duke creeps into my chambers or sometimes invites me to his luxurious apartments. He praises my every move, worships my body, and decorates me with gifts, elegant night shifts, and beautiful day gowns appropriate for my station, which he promises to elevate. He cannot get enough of me nor me of him.
“Will you stay with me all night?” I ask him one evening as he holds me after our lovemaking. “Sleep beside me as though I’m your wife?”
He kisses my cheek. “Fall asleep in my arms if it pleases you,” he tells me.
I close my eyes. “Thank you, Thomas,” I say, daring to use his Christian name for the first time.
He stiffens.
“You must not call me that,” he says in a tone I’ve not heard him use before. It is hard, icy. Frightening.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just thought, knowing each other as we do that—I’m sorry. What should I call you?”
He pauses, stroking my bare shoulder. “You may call me Your Grace or simply Norfolk if it pleases you.”
It does not please me at all, but what can I do? “Yes, Your Grace,” I say because I can’t bear to call him the name of a stupid county.
I suppose it is a breach in his strange world of etiquette to call him by his Christian name.
That is another right she owns.
Elizabeth Howard
If he will not come to me, then I will go to him. I will remind him of what he has been missing. He has no reason to do this to me. I have been a good wife; I’ve given him five children and I am a lover without equal. There is no reason, no reason at all. I will drive her from his mind and his bed if it kills me in the process.
I stand outside his apartments, listening to the giggling and playing inside, knowing what is going on, knowing I should make for my own chambers and wait till he is alone. But I am his wife. I have every right to enter his suite and I shall, no matter who he is entertaining.
I will shame him into ending this.
I open the door.
He is there with the girl, fully engaged in his romp. They lie with the bedclothes twisted about their writhing naked forms and I am struck dumb. I did not think I would react this way. I had thought to throw myself atop the girl and pull her from him by the hair. I had thought to be uttering a thousand curses at the illicit couple, curses that would cause their immediate repentance.
But I can do no such thing. I just stare.
It is Bess who sees me first. Her wide brown eyes register shock, then horror, then fill with tears as she wraps her arms about my husband’s neck and whispers, “Your Grace,” very quietly.
Thomas turns his head.
“Get out,” he says in a low voice.
I stand, rendered helpless by sadness and anger and a sense of betrayal that surges through me like a raging fever.
“Get out!” he cries, reaching over to throw a little velvet cushion at me. It has very little effect. I am still rooted in place. At last I tear my eyes from them and gaze at the hand that bears his signet ring. The lion with the arrow piercing its tongue. At once I am that lion, my tongue immobilized by the arrow of his infidelity and disrespect.
I pull it off my finger and hurl it at the couple with all my strength.
This gesture gives me the needed strength to quit the room.
I lie alone in my apartments that night staring, staring up at the canopy of my bed, recalling our wedding night, the births of our children, save Mary, and all of our conversations, words that meant so much but now seem so empty.
What happened? is all I can think. Over and over the question torments me. What happened?
The door creaks open and I turn to see Thomas standing with a candle in hand. He lingers in the doorway a moment before entering. I do not scream for him to get out. I am mildly interested in what he has to say.
“My lady,” he says in soft tones.
“My lord,” I answer, my voice breaking.
“You should not have interfered today,” he says.
I sit up, my cheeks burning in fury. “I should not have interfered is right! I suppose I ruined your afternoon! My apologies for interrupting!”
“Elizabeth, this is the way of the world,” he goes on in his calm voice. “You must accept it. The faster you accept it, the happier we can all be.”
“The happier you can be, you mean,” I correct him. “Who do you think I am that you can dare treat me this way? Am I not at twenty-seven young and fair enough for you? Have I meant nothing to you all these years?” I add in a voice soft with tears. “I have borne your five children. I have been faithful and devoted—”
“Devoted?” Thomas cries. “Yes, you demonstrated that when you left me in Ireland to run after your traitor-father! Devoted? I think not. You proved to me then that you did not put me first, that you never put me first. Before me comes the Staffords and, of course, Her Grace the queen. And before them, before us all, your mighty principles. I can’t compete with that, Elizabeth. I won’t even try. So don’t blame me for seeking out someone who isn’t going to fight me at every turn.”
There is nothing I can say to this. I bow my head and try to mute the onset of sobs. I do not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me reduced to such agony.
“If ever I’ve fought you, my lord,” I say in soft tones, “it is only in the desire to guide you toward right, just as the Lord commands. I have tried to be a good wife to you. I swear by all that is holy that nothing you or that churl’s daughter can do will ever stop me from being a Christian wife. I will never, ever cease in trying to steer you toward good. I will not stray from my principles as easily as you can stray from our marriage bed. It is not in me. If this drives a wedge between us, then I am sorry.”
“That’s it, then,” Thomas says. “There’s nothing more to say or do. You are there and I am here, as always.” He rises. “Good night, my lady.”
“My lord,” I say.
As he moves to quit the room, I whisper, “Did you ever love me, even a little?”
He stops walking. His shoulders slump. “I don’t know,” he confesses at last.
“No, I expect not,” I say. “I expect you don’t love Bess Holland, either. I expect you don’t know what it is to love at all.”
He turns a stricken face to me a mo
ment, parts his lips to say something, then turns on his heel and leaves me alone, slamming the door behind him.
He is there and I am here.
As always.
Bess Holland
“Oh, I am a bad girl!” I sob in the duke’s arms when he returns to me that night. “I should never have come between you and your lady wife!”
His Grace rocks me back and forth, stroking my hair and making little shushing noises. “Drivel, Bess, you’ve done nothing wrong. Happiness is rarely found and we must seize it when it is made available to us. And you are my happiness. I need you.”
He needs me. Does that make it right? But he is a duke, and dukes are much wiser than servant girls. Perhaps I should just listen to him. . . . It would make living with this far easier.
“What of the duchess?” I ask, fearing the woman with the cunning blue eyes.
“The duchess has her own life and will be compensated,” he assures me. He pulls away, cupping my face in the fashion I have come to love so well. “Bess. Listen to me. Whatever sin there is in this is on my head, do you see?”
“How can you absolve me?” I ask him. “You’re not God.”
“Trust me, Bess,” he says after a moment’s pause, as though he was considering the possibility of having the power of God.
“I trust you, Your Grace,” I say at last. “I trust you with my very life.”
“Oh, Bess,” he murmurs, drawing me against his chest. “Oh, my sweet little Bess . . .”
And he makes it right.
Being with him makes everything right.
The light of day reveals another story, however. Duchess Elizabeth is in a fury and has lost all subtlety.
“You are a churl’s daughter, worse than the lowest harlot,” she seethes as we pour candle wax into molds. Her voice is so low I have to strain my ears to listen. To see us together, one would think we were the best of friends, our heads close together as we carry out this mundane chore.
