Blaze Wyndham

by Bertrice Small

  “I did,” replied the king.

  “But she did not tell me why,” protested Mistress Boleyn.

  “You did not ask me,” answered Blaze. “You were too busy, my dear, accusing me of all sorts of naughtiness. I decided that you must have a lesson in good manners.”

  “Good manners?” Mistress Boleyn was outraged. “You stood naked before me and asked me whether I could give the king what you could give him!”

  Henry Tudor burst into laughter, and his great guffaws rumbled all about his privy chamber. The picture Anne’s words evoked were deliciously provocative, and his eyes misted with remembrance. “For shame, my little country girl,” he scolded her. Then he said, “I did not know you had such deviltry in you, Blaze.”

  “I but thought what my sister Bliss would do, sire.”

  He nodded. “Lady FitzHugh was always one for high spirits, as I remember.”

  For a moment there was a short silence between them. Anne Boleyn had slipped back into the king’s embrace, and stood, his arm about her, half-turned toward Blaze. There was a more contented expression on her face now, and the small light of triumph in her eyes.

  “If your majesty has no further need for me then,” said Blaze, breaking the stillness, “I will retire. I am anxious, as you know, to be on my way home to Herefordshire.”

  The king held out his hand to her, and taking it, Blaze kissed it. Then she swept him a graceful curtsy.

  “Farewell, my little country girl,” the king said, “and God speed you safely home to RiversEdge.”

  “Farewell, Hal,” Blaze said, and then she withdrew from the king’s privy chamber, exiting through the private staircase, to the amazement of Mistress Boleyn, who had not known that such an exit existed.

  When the door had closed behind her, Anne Boleyn said, “I want those apartments for myself, Henry.”

  “Not yet, my dear,” he told her. “You have not earned them. Do you know where the door opens above? It opens out into the bedchamber. You are not ready for that yet, Nan, or are you?”

  “Your mistress I will never be, Henry,” Anne Boleyn said boldly, “and your wife I cannot be until you have freed yourself from the Spaniard.”

  “Then,” replied the king, “those apartments above my own cannot be yours, can they, Nan?”

  With a hiss of annoyance she pulled out of his embrace and ran from the room.

  “Methinks you will not win over the lady Anne without a band of gold,” Will Somers said thoughtfully. “Are you willing to pay the price, sire?”

  “Good English stock, Will! She is good English stock, and I need her to get sons for England!” the king answered.

  “Perhaps it is the wrong mare you have set out into another stallion’s pasture, my lord,” observed Will, “but what is done is done. God save England!”

  “He will,” said the king. “Of that I am most assuredly certain, my good friend and confidant. Has God not finally opened my eyes to my great sin with the Princess of Aragon? Time, Will! My little country girl is sensible and wise. It will take time to unravel this coil, but in the end I will have my way, and England will have its princes at long last! God will indeed save England!

  Chapter 17

  Blaze hurried from the king’s presence up the steps of the private staircase that led to her bedchamber.

  “Are we free to go?” Heartha asked as her mistress stepped through the door into the room.

  “Aye! Are my traveling garments ready?”

  Heartha offered her lady a jaundiced look as if to say: When did I not have everything in order when it was needed? Then she helped Blaze from her elegant court gown, and into a simpler traveling gown of mulberry-colored silk with a matching cloak that had a gold-and-garnet closure. As Blaze put the finishing touches on her toilet, her tiring woman finished the packing, and then ordered the palace maidservants to help her get the remaining luggage to her lady’s coach.

  “If you have attended to your own needs, Heartha, await me in the coach. I will be directly there.”

  “Very good, m’lady,” responded Heartha as she herded the others from the apartment with their burdens.

  Blaze walked slowly through the rooms that she had once inhabited as the king’s mistress. There had not been time for a proper farewell when she had been wed to Anthony. Wherever she went, part of her would always be here at Greenwich, here in these rooms where she had shared so many hours with England’s king. She looked out over the Thames River, wide here, and with a view of the royal shipyards across the water on the opposite bank. The Thames was so different from her beautiful and pastoral River Wye. It had a great vibrancy to it. It was the path that led to England’s very heart, the city of London, and up its tidal waters the world sailed to pay its homage to Henry Tudor, the handsomest prince in Christendom.

  She turned from the view with a soft sigh, her glance passing through the open door back into the bedchamber with its enormous bed. How many hours had she spent there entertaining the royal satyr with his voracious appetite for passion? God, how frightened she had been in the beginning, and then she had discovered that ancient truth known to all women since the beginning of time. She had learned that every man is simply a man; a creature with the desperate need for love and tenderness and reassurance. Men might love in different ways, but their need was always the same. Having learned that, she was no longer afraid.

  “Do you relive the scene of your former triumphs, if indeed they may be called that, Lady Wyndham?” came Anne Boleyn’s scornful young voice.

  Blaze turned slowly to see the girl standing there, her graceful flowing sleeves skillfully concealing the sixth finger upon one of her long, beautiful hands. The finger was whispered by some to be a witch’s mark, although no one would say such a thing aloud or publicly. “There is no triumph between lovers, Mistress Boleyn. What is between lovers is something equally shared, but you could not know that, could you, my dear?”

  “I will never give myself lightly as did you and Bessie Blount and my foolish sister, who still weeps, when she thinks no one knows, for her great royal lover,” spat Mistress Boleyn.

  “Dear child—” began Blaze, but Anne Boleyn interrupted her.

  “I am no child! I am nineteen, but two years your junior, my lady Wyndham.”

  “You are a child in the knowledge of love, Mistress Boleyn,” Blaze said, “and you had best listen to what I have to say. I cannot speak for your sister or Lady Tailboys, but understand one thing. I did not give myself lightly to the king. I did not give myself to him at all. Hal has much good in him, but be careful how hard you drive him, for this king can also be a most ruthless man. I shall be blunt with you, Mistress Boleyn. The first time the king had me it was by force, not by consent. Oh, it is true that I had no precious maidenhead to protect, being a widow, but do not think that that will protect you if you push the royal stallion into too great a fit of heat.”

  Anne Boleyn’s sallow complexion had paled. “You speak treason,” she whispered.

  “Nonsense.” Blaze laughed. “I speak the truth, and if you are wise you will heed what I have said to you. Now, let me pass, Mistress Boleyn. My carriage awaits me, and I have a journey of several days before I will reach my beloved husband and children.”

  “When I am queen here,” said Anne Boleyn, recovering her shock at Blaze’s words, “you will not be welcome at court, my lady Wyndham.”

  “Nevertheless, Mistress Boleyn, be advised that I shall come whenever my lord, the king, calls me. I am the king’s most loyal servant first and foremost. So I have told my husband, and so I tell you,” Blaze said quietly. Then, brushing the slender girl aside, she moved past her out into the corridor.

  As she exited the palace out into the courtyard, Heartha came hurrying forward, saying, “I was about to come and seek you, my lady. What has kept you so long? The horses are anxious in their harness. It is as if they know we are going home.”

  “A last-minute good-bye, Heartha,” Blaze said, and climbed into her coach
.

  It was late May. The day was one of perfect and stunning beauty. The sun shone bright, and was warm upon the shining flanks of the horses. There was not a cloud to mar the pristine beauty of the blue sky. They rode with the carriage windows lowered, for although it was fair, the roads had had enough rain that spring not to be dusty yet. Upon the high box the Earl of Langford’s coachman sat with his assistant, handling the reins for the four horses with great skill. They had an escort of ten armed riders, for a total of twelve men in case of an emergency.

  The coach avoided the city of London, taking instead the western road. They traveled at a steady pace, and although Blaze was anxious to reach her home, she insisted that the horses be rested regularly during the day, for they had no extras should an animal be injured. By early afternoon of the first day Blaze was bored with sitting in the bouncing coach, and chose instead to ride her saddle horse, which was tied behind the vehicle. They stopped that night at The Red Rose, an excellent inn of good repute. Blaze was glad that she had so large an armed escort, for despite the inn’s reputation as a safe place for a lady of good family and character to stop, it became necessary for the Countess of Langford’s men to remove a drunken nobleman who, having seen Blaze when she arrived, was so taken by her beauty that he attempted to batter his way into her rooms.

  The poor innkeeper was beside himself with dismay. “My lady, I cannot apologize enough,” he said. “This is a respectable inn. The man was a stranger, and one cannot always tell, despite fine dressing and ready gold in the pocket. Please forgive this terrible incident!”

  Blaze calmed him, more amused than annoyed. It was rather reassuring to one’s ego to elicit that much passion on the part of a stranger with whom one had not even exchanged a single word or glance.

  Heartha was outraged enough for them both. “Respectable inn! So says that fat toad of an innkeeper!” she fumed. “He should have known, for the man was surely drunk before he even arrived here, but our host, I fear, saw the gleam of his gold before he saw the disgraceful condition of that randy lordling who insulted you with his attentions!”

  In midafternoon of the following day one of the carriage horses threw a shoe, and they were forced to slow their pace as they sought a village with a smithy. Heartha was quiet and unusually irritable by turns when they finally stopped. They were fortunate in that the little village in which they found themselves had a small, clean inn. It was only a country place, and rarely, if ever, did it see elegant visitors except in incidents similar to Blaze’s own. It was called The Three Ducks, and indeed there were three ducks swimming in a pond behind the inn.

  The landlord hurried forward on Blaze’s arrival, wiping his worn hands upon his apron, and bowing. “Welcome, m‘lady. ’Tis a simple house I own, and I cannot offer you a private room, for alas, I have none. I’ve no other guests at the moment, the men being in the fields, so ’twill be private-like for your ladyship.”

  Blaze smiled, and the innkeeper was instantly her slave. “Have you some good cider?” she asked him. “I have a taste for cider. As for my men, give them what they wan to ease their thirst. The sun is warm today.” She turned to her tiring woman. “Heartha? What will you have?”

  “Brown ale,” came the reply. “I’ve a terrible thirst, my lady. The coach is stuffy despite the open windows.”

  “Poor Heartha,” Blaze sympathized as the innkeeper hurried off to bring their refreshments. “Knowing how you dislike riding, I did not bring a horse for you.”

  “Just as well,” Heartha muttered. “Traveling offers one little choice when it comes to discomforts. I would as lief stay home, my lady.”

  “I do not think we will be doing much traveling when we return home,” Blaze said with a smile. “I am of a mind to give Nyssa and wee Philip some brothers and sisters.”

  “And about time too,” was Heartha’s opinion.

  The coach horse was reshod, and they were on their way once more. Blaze enjoyed riding in the warm late spring sunshine, for the countryside was particularly lovely. Everything seemed so very green, and although the orchards were past their blossoming now, the fields were bright with poppies and daisies and purple gorse that so resembled bell heather. On the edge of a stand of tall beeches Blaze spotted a clump of graceful pink foxglove with its spotted throat, and near some rocks she was certain she saw bright yellow rock-rose. The lambs in the fields were not quite so babyish-looking now, but there were new calves to be seen here and there, and an occasional colt kicking its heels for the pure joy of being alive.

  Home. She was going home to RiversEdge. Home to Anthony. Home to the man she loved. She wanted to get there as quickly as possible so she might tell him that she loved him. How could she have been so foolish? So blind? So stubborn? She had borne his son, and she had never told him that she loved him. She hadn’t even known it until the king had forced her to face the truth. Or had she? Had she known it deep within her secret heart all along, but just been too obstinate to admit it to herself, too self-willed to admit it to him? She had never thought herself a headstrong person, but then she had learned a great deal about herself over the last few years, and this divulgence was obviously just one more revelation.

  Their stop at the blacksmith’s had put them behind their schedule, and it was necessary to ride until just past dark, when they arrived at The King’s Arms, the inn where they were to spend the night. Blaze dismounted her horse, and walked over to the coach, where one of her men was opening the door for Heartha, but when she did not appear, he looked into the carriage, only to recoil in horror.

  “What is it?” Blaze demanded. “Where is Heartha?”

  The man-at-arms could only point, and going to the coach, Blaze looked in to see her servant crumpled in a heap on the floor. She was alive, however, for Blaze could hear her raspy breathing.

  “Get her out of there,” Blaze commanded her men. “She is ill!”

  “Nay, my lady, I’ll not touch her! She’s got the sweating sickness!” He slowly backed away to where the rest of the men stood.

  “The sweating sickness!” A cold chill ran up Blaze’s spine. “How do you know that? You are no physician!”

  “Everybody knows what the sweating sickness looks like, my lady!’Twas just beginning at Greenwich when we left. Half the kitchen servants was down with it. I thought we got away in time.” He crossed himself.

  At that point the innkeeper came out from the inn to welcome them, but seeing the confusion, he stopped and inquired, “What is wrong?”

  “I am the Countess of Langford,” Blaze said. “You are expecting me. My servant is ill, and I will need to get her inside.”

  “Ill?” The innkeeper shifted from one foot to the other. “Ill with what, my lady? I runs a public house, and must be careful.”

  “She’s got the sweating sickness!” babbled the frightened man-at-arms.

  Blaze shot him a furious look.

  “The sweating sickness?” Now the innkeeper began backing away. “Begging yer pardon, my lady, I cannot allow you on my premises. Yer whole party is suspect. You could infect us all. Get you gone!”

  The captain of the men-at-arms moved swiftly forward and grabbed the innkeeper by his scrawny neck, lifting him up off the ground so that his feet just dangled. “We’ll not trespass upon your inn, you maggot, but you’ll see that her ladyship and the men are fed. That the horses are fed and watered. Only then will we be on our way. Do you understand me, you runt of a weasel?”

  “I’ll need a basin and clean clothes and cold water,” said Blaze, recovering from her initial shock.

  “You heard her ladyship,” snarled the captain ferociously, and he released the innkeeper, who, nodding his head rapidly, ran back into his inn. The captain of the men-at-arms then came forward, and reaching into the coach, lifted the unconscious woman up and laid her out upon a seat. “You should not get too close to her, my lady. The sweating sickness is contagious.”

  “Then I have already been exposed, Captain,” Blaze said. “Wh
o is closer to Heartha than I am? I will nurse her, but how can we get home quickly? No one will allow us to stop and rest, and the horses cannot be run without rest.”

  “I’ll find us shelter, my lady, never fear,” came the strong reply. “In the morning I will send two men to RiversEdge for help. It will take them a day to get there, and it will take another day for help to reach us, but it will.”

  “Send that fool with the loose tongue,” Blaze ordered, “and when we get home, send him back to the fields.”

  The captain nodded. “Indeed, my lady, he did not react well under duress, and I agree with you, for I want no cowards with me in a tight spot.”

  “Just get us to shelter,” said Blaze. “Then you and the others are to stay clear of Heartha and me. I do not want you infected.”

  “There is no cause to fear on my account, my lady. I had the sweating sickness when I was a lad of fourteen. Once you have had it, you do not get it again—if you recover from it,” he told her. “There are certain to be others among the men who have had it and recovered too. Why not let us nurse your tiring woman?”

  “Nay, Captain,” said Blaze. “It is not meant that you nurse a woman, and besides, it is my responsibility as Heartha’s mistress to see her safely through this illness. God and the Blessed Mother will protect me, never fear, for I do not.”

  The captain looked admiringly at her, and nodded his head, acceding to her wishes. His family had been part of Langford since the Wyndhams had been the lords of Langford. He was proud that this woman was his countess. Proud that her sons, who would surely be strong as she was strong, would inherit the lands of Langford.

  The innkeeper’s servants brought them food. Capons hot from the spit, beef, and ham and mutton. They brought bread and cheese, and ale and wine both. There was even a basket of early strawberries for Blaze, a peace offering of sorts from the justifiably frightened host of The King’s Arms, who, nevertheless, regretted having to turn away so prestigious a guest.