The Jewels of Warwick

by Diana Rubino

  "Sire, how is the Princess Mary?" Amethyst asked that night as they dismounted and the grooms led the horses away.

  "I have not spoken or written to her in some time," he replied, as they headed towards the garden for a quiet stroll before the evening meal.

  His voice betrayed a hint of remorse, as if he hadn't even thought of her before Amethyst mentioned the Princess' name.

  "Does she know anything of your great matter?" she asked.

  "I doubt not that Catherine has been writing her, telling her all kinds of prattle. God only knows what kinds of ideas she has put in the girl's innocent head since I admitted my intention to annul the match."

  "I would very much like to meet Mary," Amethyst continued, as they followed the winding garden path, and she plucked a red rose from one of the many bushes. They headed for the marble fountain, three small birds streaming water out of their bills, and sat at the edge.

  "She is with your Aunt Margaret at Ludlow Castle at the moment," Henry said. "I sent her there to keep her away from Catherine, and to begin her duties as Princess of Wales."

  "May we go visit her some time? I should like to see my aunt again, too."

  "I think we might," he answered noncommittally, making it obvious that a visit with his daughter was not on his immediate agenda.

  "When?"

  He looked at her, cocked his head, and tugged at an end of his cloak which had fallen into the fountain. "Whenever you wish."

  "How about tomorrow?"

  He laughed, wringing out his cloak on the marble edge of the fountain, watching the stream of water run back into the pool. "Amethyst, I cannot go visiting round at whim. My appointments have to be carefully planned. I have a full itinerary these next few days that precludes any social calls. You may go and acquaint yourself with Mary, visit with your Aunt Margaret. You have my blessing."

  "Very well. I am most eager to meet her. Is there any message you wish to convey to Mary?"

  "Nay," he replied without thinking. "There will be plenty of time for that when she is a bit older. Then I shall tell her everything."

  She couldn't help but wonder what 'everything' was. She kissed him on the cheek and began to head for her chambers to pack.

  "Hurry back, little one. You know I have great need of you."

  "And I of you," she admitted, earning herself a warm look from his rare eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  She travelled to Ludlow in the royal carriage with gifts of silk cloth for Mary and her Aunt Margaret, and an eager heart. Mary would be eleven now, she figured, and in light of the conflict between her parents, very much on the defensive. She had to explain to the child that she was a trusted friend, and meant no harm to the Queen or to Mary.

  Amethyst entered the formal gardens among flower beds spilling over with lavender, rosemary and thyme. She walked down a narrow path between two marble fountains to where Margaret sat doing her needlepoint.

  Next to her sat a young girl, her hair pulled back and tucked under a white head-dress, her face strained with deep concentration on her needlework. They both looked up as Amethyst approached. Margaret dropped her work to her lap in surprise, and Mary looked up curiously, her face showing a pleasant but guarded expression.

  "Aunt Margaret, 'tis so good to see you!"

  Amethyst and her aunt embraced. As usual, Margaret was exquisitely dressed and jeweled, her gown a light blue adorned with pearls and gathered tightly to show off her trim waist. Mary rose, and she and Amethyst curtsied to each other.

  "So this is the Princess Mary," she said, beaming at the girl who, nearly at eye level with Amethyst, was tall and carried a mature countenance for her age. She could see Catherine's determined scrutiny mixed with Henry's jovial vitality in her eyes and in her smile.

  "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Amethyst. Please join us."

  Amethyst sat on the marble bench next to Mary, wanting so badly to let the girl know she was there as a friend, to help her through these difficult times, wanting to share her own troubled childhood, to let her know that all would work out well and she would indeed be queen someday. Then realizing that would be too overwhelming for an eleven-year-old to absorb in a first meeting, she decided to ask Mary about herself.

  "I am betrothed to a French prince, but I like it not," was the first revelation about herself to Amethyst. "I want to marry a prince of my own choosing."

  How much like Topaz she sounded, Amethyst thought. Mary's words sent her soaring back to their childhood.

  "I have two nephews about your age," Amethyst said, knowing they would never meet, feeling that sad pang for the lads who were living Topaz's mad ideals. "Edward is thirteen and Richard is nine."

  "That makes us all exactly two years apart!" Mary said, her exhilaration immediately giving way to a look of sadness, as Amethyst realized the girl had virtually no one of her own age with whom to socialize.

  She then asked a question that took Amethyst totally by surprise. "Have you seen my mother?"

  Amethyst in fact hadn't seen Catherine more than a few times in her life. She was still at court but quite isolated, keeping to her chambers and attending her many daily Masses.

  "Nay, Mary, I do not see her much. I am a court musician, a very loyal subject of your father's, but I haven't the chance to talk with the Queen much at all. Have you not heard from her?"

  Margaret was sitting and listening carefully to the conversation, not interfering.

  "She writes to me, and I write to her, but her letters are sorrowful. She says father is trying to end their marriage. He no longer loves her."

  "Oh, nay, Mary, he still loves her, very much." That could not have been a lie; Amethyst knew Henry still bore feelings for Catherine, but not the way a man loved a woman—the way he now loved her.

  "You see, she is simply past the age that she can bear children, and you know the King thinks he needs a male heir to carry on the royal line. 'Tis a complicated matter, a matter I myself do not fully understand, but I am sure everything will work out."

  "He thinks a wench cannot rule. He does not read his history books. There was Queen Matilda, and Queen Eleanor, and even my grandmother Queen Isabella. So why not I?"

  "Some people think differently, but I have a feeling things will change, Mary. Would you like to be queen some day?"

  Mary's eyes brightened and she smiled, showing young straight teeth, just a bit big for her face, which would certainly fill out to more even proportions. "Oh, aye, I wish to do all the things my mother cannot do!"

  "Then perhaps you will someday," she said, hoping all the while that Mary would get her rightful wish.

  After dinner in the quiet but cheerful great hall, Mary retired to her solar to study, and Amethyst was able to spend some time alone with her aunt.

  "How are Topaz and the lads?" was the first thing Margaret wanted to know. "Is she behaving herself?"

  "So far. She has been all talk up to this point."

  "She can put your life in serious danger if you continue there at court, Amethyst. The King may turn on you at any time," her aunt warned.

  "Henry would never do such a thing. He cares for me a great deal, as I do him. He knows about Topaz. I am the one who told him. I told him, hoping he would pardon her out of consideration for me. He was not a bit disturbed. So concerned is he with his great matter, Topaz is but a joke to him."

  "Lord knows I and my lads are in enough danger, being the only living rightful heirs to the throne," Margaret said. "Not that we would ever try to rebel against Henry...especially since I am like a mother to Mary. But that can work against me, too, in light of his problems with Catherine."

  "I believe Catherine will break down and give him his divorce," Amethyst replied. "I know that Catherine's relation to her nephew the Emperor Charles is not as strong as Henry's hold over the entire realm. Catherine is virtually powerless. 'Tis a shame, especially since he considers himself the victim, cursed for not being blessed with male heirs."

  "Poor
Mary, she tries so hard to be strong," Margaret said, buffing her ruby ring on her satin robe. "I do hope she will not grow old and bitter like Catherine."

  "I am sure she will marry a man who will love her dearly," Amethyst said.

  "We can only hope. Our Plantagenet line ended tragically enough. Who knows which way the Tudor line will go."

  Upon ending their visit, Amethyst promised Mary that they would correspond, and offered any help she could give the girl. She had a troubled life ahead of her, but she certainly was better off here on the Welsh border than anywhere near court. Once Amethyst was married to Henry, she'd be a devoted and loving stepmother.

  Amethyst returned and made so bold as to join the King on the dais in the great hall on the night of her arrival. At first she'd begged off, not wanting to appear as if she were displacing Catherine, but the King insisted.

  As the Queen's seat had become conspicuously empty for longer and longer periods of time, Amethyst felt that Henry wanted her up there not so much to honor her, or to dangle another enticement over her head, but out of plain loneliness. For the King to be sitting alone at the high table among two hundred families at court, wasn't the most presentable–or comfortable–situation.

  After the mumming and music, during which she insisted on joining the King's Musick in the gallery despite his protests that she rest for the evening, she waited the respectable amount of time for the courtiers to settle into their chambers, then agreed to join him in his sanctuary.

  She had donned her fine satin underclothes, the chemise pure white, soft and buttery to the touch. She'd never worn it before. She brushed her hair until it shone like spun gold, then pinned it up with the ornate ivory combs she'd received from the King upon her arrival at court.

  She dabbed Topaz's rose petal oil from a delicate glass bottle directly onto her pulse points, then on a plucky impulse, lifted her skirts and dabbed the scent on her inner thighs. She walked slowly so as not to let her skirts rustle too much, sweeping through the hallways, up the staircase, past the erect guards, and through Henry's private apartments to his inner chamber.

  He was waiting for her, and took her in a soft but demanding embrace, as if he'd been waiting a long time.

  "Do you not want to know how Mary is?" she asked as he began to undress her.

  "And how is Mary?"

  "She asked me if I'd seen her mother."

  "None of us has. Catherine is more secluded than the abbey monks."

  "She is a strong-willed lass and I believe she will come through this just fine. I made it clear to her that I am not the reason for her parents' divorce."

  "Oh, hell's bells, she knows that. With your auntie there as governess, I'm sure she is getting the truth. I am worried not about Mary. She is on the brink of womanhood. She will soon understand that a woman cannot bear children past a certain age."

  "Oh, that she understands, sire."

  "She will also understand why I need a male heir."

  She stroked his cheek. "That I am not so sure of. She is Catherine's daughter, you know."

  "Which is precisely why I must keep them apart. I do not want Catherine putting ideas into her head."

  "You must not alienate Mary, my lord," she warned. "She is your only living legitimate heir."

  "I shall have sons, many sons, before I depart this earth. While I still have any life in me, I am going to give this kingdom a male heir. Oh, Amethyst, darling girl..." he breathed, his hands moving up to the combs just like she knew they would, pulling them from her hair, tossing them on the rug as her tresses tumbled down around her shoulders.

  He took her face in his palms and claimed her lips, wordlessly, for there was no need to speak any further. They slowly glided to the bed, its velvet curtains open to the plump pillows and satiny coverlets, the pallet empty. They were alone, their bodies prolonging a desperate embrace, and he lowered her to the feathery mattress.

  She wanted to melt away and consume his patient passion for her. She reached up and ran her hand through his hair. She detected a lingering musky scent as their kiss came to an end and she ran her lips lightly over his neck as he lay beside her, his scent lingering, blending with the warm glow of the candles around them that she felt even with her eyes closed.

  She reached out and he was there—right next to her. His arms were around her, and she ran her hands over the smooth satin of his nightshirt. Her fingers found the buttons clasping the shirt together and started to undo them, one by one, until she reached the bottom button, slipping her hand inside his garments.

  He moved closer and she felt his body against hers, warm, hard, impatient. Her hands explored, caressed, felt his swelling desire. He quickly, gently, removed her gown and her chemise, slipping it over her head. His hands slid over her curves. He rolled away for a second and when he came to hold her again, she melted into the warmth of his bare skin, his breath hot and demanding as his lips crushed hers, his tongue seeking her mouth's every crevice, savoring her taste, her essence.

  They kissed and explored and stroked, her arms urgently pulling him closer, closer, until he was all hers, in her, with her, hers in every sense of their being. She gasped in sweet agony and together they soared and drifted, the only sounds being those of their desperate need for each other and the peaceful lapping of the river way below them. Finally, when she felt as if both their bodies would burst, she screamed, she cried, caught up in the most blissful rapture she'd ever felt.

  Afterward, she reclined in his arms, drifting on tiny wavelets of pleasure, on that magic cloud on which they both lay.

  She stroked the damp hair away from his eyes. Bathed in the warm golden light, he was the picture of peace, yet still so regal and majestic.

  She was beyond speaking, still caught up in that magical trance during which the very world had exploded around their bodies. She smiled, closed her eyes, and once again, they floated away together.

  He placed upon her finger a magnificent ruby ring, sending out deep red bursts of light from its richly faceted depths, set in a delicate gold band. "This is an exact replica of the Regal of France," he said, holding up his thumb, a perfect likeness of her ring glittering in the candlelight. "Thomas a Becket wore it, I wear it, now you and I have matching rings."

  "How magnificent it is, sire."

  "Will wedding bands be next?" he asked.

  "That is not entirely up to me," she said.

  "Neither is it up to me, alas," he whispered.

  When she opened her eyes again, the candles were out, the only light being the silver-blue of the moon cascading through the windows, diffusing like diamond dust on the tapestry rug. She could feel him looking at her, sensing the warmth of his gaze enveloping her.

  "Do you love me, sire?" she asked him through sleepy, dream-clouded eyes.

  "Like the bees love the flowers, my lady. I can hardly keep away. You are the very essence of life to me."

  "As you are to me, Henry, my love."

  His eyes lit with joy and he gathered her tightly to him once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The next evening, as Amethyst entered the King's outer chamber, she could detect an ominous buzz that did not speak of an ordinary pleasant evening in the palace. She caught snippets of sentences, the words "Rome" and "The Pope" prevalent among them. It had to have something to do with Catherine. The attendants did not turn to her as she entered; no one greeted her. She took one of the King's gentleman ushers aside.

  "What is amiss?"

  Half expecting to see an enraged Catherine storm out of the King's privy chamber in a swirl of satins, crucifixes and tears, she kept her eyes riveted to the door, ready to jump into the shadows at a moment's notice.

  "Rome has been sacked, Lady Amethyst. Charles the Fifth's troops have taken Rome and imprisoned the Pope," he told her in a horrified whisper.

  "God Jesu!" She looked past the usher at the Flemish tapestry on the far wall. All thoughts of Catherine vanished. "Where is the King now?"

  "Wit
h Cardinal Wolsey and the Council in the Council chambers."

  She left the King's chambers and returned to her own. She immediately began writing a letter to Matthew. Her writings to him had begun to take the form of a journal; she recorded any reactions she had to the events of the day, and related her feelings about daily life at court, and the courtiers around her; the sincere friends of the King as well as the obvious opportunists.

  Now all she could write was that Rome had been sacked by Catherine's nephew. She could write no more until she saw the King. Her heart sank with dread at the thought of all the suffering the Imperial forces had caused, and what it would mean for England now.