Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  “M’lord, I am not certain if anyone has brought this to your attention, but this is Joseph Bardi’s villa. As the rules of etiquette provide, it is discourteous to throw a man out of his own study.”

  The baron’s boot slammed to the floor. “Into the light, you.”

  “I believe you came here to speak with me.” Elizabeth tried to deepen her voice. “Not to order me and my friend about.”

  “I asked to see the painter.”

  Elizabeth clenched her hands into fists. Again. So many times during the past four years, people had only seen the frail build in their first encounter with her, and nothing else. And so many times, she had to give her sermon, as Pico called it, and lose her temper before they were convinced.

  “I am the painter.”

  He disregarded what she said. “Do as you are told. Get the painter.”

  Angrily, she took a step closer to the man, her clenched jaw grinding. “Before we get started on this journey to your homeland, I have to make one thing clear. If you have any desire to arrive in one piece, then you’d better change that disdainful tone of yours. Now, you demanded to see me at this godawful hour of the night. So here I am. What is it you want?”

  “In one piece?” Ambrose studied her anger. Elizabeth’s face was now shining in the light of the candle. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Take it as you wish.”

  “You are too puny for such swaggering.”

  “I have been known to split a man’s head with my words and twist his body into a crawling, earthbound snake with my brush.”

  “And you think this strikes fear?”

  Her hands were tight fists at her sides.

  “Push all you want. But be aware the next time you walk inside some chapel or cathedral. As you stand looking up, admiring the scene as so many others do, don’t be surprised when you see your own face looking back at you. In fact, everyone will see your features gracing the face of a devil.” Elizabeth showed no sign of mirth. “And you can be assured, it will be a very lowly and very ugly devil.”

  Elizabeth waited for a response. But there was silence. An eerie, awkward silence.

  “You are the painter.”

  Elizabeth watched him straighten in the chair. She wished she could see his face. “I am Phillipe de Anjou.” As often as she’d said it before, the words still felt odd leaving her mouth. She saw him stand up, and her blood ran cold. Though his face was still shadowed in the darkness of the room, she knew. From his full height, from the way he stood. And then she glimpsed the colors of his tartan.

  Not being able to control the gasp that escaped her lips, Elizabeth turned and ran for the door. But he was there before her, blocking her exit. She turned again and tried to run to one of the shuttered windows, but he grabbed her roughly from behind and swung her around to face him.

  Elizabeth felt the pressure of his strong fingers crushing her arms. She would not scream or complain. She had no choice but to make him understand. She looked up into his eyes. They were cold, angry. Nothing like what she had seen in the past.

  “Talk.”

  Elizabeth tried to shrug off his hands, but he would not let go. Suddenly the icy coldness of panic coursed through her. This was not the gentle and caring nobleman she had met before. This man was more judge and executioner, demanding to hear her final testimony. For all these years she had tried never to be overly concerned about the possible consequences of her life—of her work—in the studio. But now the truth, the ugly truth, was about to catch up to her. The Baron of Roxburgh, Ambrose Macpherson, was a close friend to Giovanni de Medici. If he spoke out, if he revealed her secret, she would be hung and then burned by the leaders of the Florentine guild. For, as a woman, she had lied and betrayed all the artists in the profession. She would be found guilty. She was a woman working as a man. This was a crime far worse than any they could ever pardon.

  “What are you planning to do?” she asked quietly. She was working hard to hide the shiver that raced through her body.

  Ambrose had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her. That would have been so easy to do. She was afraid. Afraid of him, he could tell.

  But he was angry. He had been taken for a fool by a mere woman. He’d never suspected it. She had not given even the smallest hint that Phillipe and she were one and the same. And then he’d seen the child’s portrait. The softness, the love shown in the picture—this had disturbed him. For the few moments before she’d come down, he’d been confused. And then the painter had walked into the study. Not the man he’d been ready to challenge, but Elizabeth.

  And now he didn’t know what his next step should be. Not yet.

  Elizabeth lowered her eyes from his intense blue gaze and stared at his broach. She could not take this long silence. He hadn’t answered her. He would surely hand her over. She would never say good-bye to Jaime.

  “Start explaining.”

  “Isn’t it all too obvious?” she whispered. “And does it really matter? Is there anything I could say that would change your mind?”

  “You think my mind is made up.”

  She looked down at the rough hold of his fingers on her arms.

  “Isn’t it?” she asked. “If I were to pour out my soul and speak the truth, would you give me a chance? Or are you just going to hand me over to be hung?”

  He eased the pressure of his grip. “I am giving you a few moments to present your case. But for a change, I need to hear the truth. And only the truth,” Ambrose backed her to a chair and pushed her into it. “Start from beginning, from the Field of Cloth of Gold.”

  Elizabeth looked up from where she sat. He towered over her. Once again his face was a dark silhouette of shadows and dying firelight. She wondered for a moment what “truth” he wanted to hear. Sitting there in the darkened room, she dared not even hope that this meant he intended to give her a chance.

  “Silence will not work to reprieve your present situation,” Ambrose growled ominously. “Do I have to remind you what your punishment would be for lying, for pretending to be what you are not, for delving into the secrets that your guild brothers protect so religiously? Do you know what these Florentines would do to you? To start, they would proclaim you evil—an abomination. Do you want me to just give you over to them?”

  She looked down and shook her head.

  “Then speak. I need to know when and for what reason you came up with this perverse idea.”

  “But...it is not perverse.” She could no longer hold back her tongue. “I am not evil. I have never acted in any way that might bring indignity to anyone. If, as I have pretended, I really were a man, I would continue to be praised...rewarded...for my talent and my hard work. But now, being discovered, I am suddenly a demon. I am some unnatural denizen of hell simply because I have a God-given talent that I have chosen to employ. Simply because I needed to work to feed my family, to care for them.”

  Ambrose watched her blazing face, her power. It was obvious that she believed every word she spoke. “But you had a family. You had a place in society, a home. Why did you leave it?”

  Elizabeth paused. She could not tell him everything. There was nothing that told her she should trust him. No, Elizabeth thought, there was no reason to trust him. After all, even if she had not been totally forthright, she was certainly not alone. Look at him. When he’d arrived in her bedchamber earlier, he had not been completely candid. The Baron of Roxburgh, indeed.

  “I’m having a hard time believing you, Elizabeth, because you are saying so little.” Ambrose watched as her face reflected some inner struggle. Finally she peered through the darkness and shrugged her shoulders.

  “I had to run away from my father.”

  “Sir Thomas Boleyn?”

  Elizabeth nodded slowly. “I don’t believe he’s ever considered me a true daughter. Not that it matters. But I had to get away.”

  Ambrose watched her shoulders drop in resignation. Well, she was willing to talk. This was a start.
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  “Why did you have to get away? I’m certain that your father’s feelings for you were not an overnight revelation.”

  Elizabeth watched as he moved away and sat in a chair by the desk. He was keeping a distance between them. This woman is poison, she could almost see him thinking. Don’t get too close to her.

  But then, how could she blame him?

  “It’s true,” she whispered, shuddering at the memory of all that had taken place that day. “But he’d never in the past tried to...dispose of me the way he was planning to the night before I ran.”

  “Dispose of you?”

  “He was sending me to his master’s bed,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She watched as his eyes shot up to hers. “The King of England happened to take a fancy to me the last day of the tournament, so the disgusting, pox-infected blackguard summoned my father. Henry wanted me for his bed.”

  Ambrose thought back to the day. To how beautiful she looked in the grandstands. To the attention he’d paid to her after accepting from Francis the English king’s lost wager. His face darkened.

  “Aye, I was ordered to go. By my own kin.”

  “The bastard!” Ambrose cursed under his breath. The joust. He hadn’t known who Elizabeth was when he spoke to her after the joust. But it was so typical of King Henry’s viciousness. No Scot would make public advances to the daughter of one his men without someone paying the price. Henry could not punish Ambrose for his attentions to Elizabeth. And Boleyn had his uses. But the daughter, beautiful as she was, would make a pretty plaything. And she would be made to suffer for Ambrose’s advances—before he discarded her.

  “Did you go?” He asked the question through clenched teeth. Elizabeth was not the one to blame—he was.

  “No. I would have died before going to him.” Elizabeth gazed at the single candle sitting on the worktable. A moth fluttered about the light. “I told my father that.”

  “Was he the one who beat you?”

  “Aye. Both times.” She turned her gaze back to him. “As you can imagine, he was not at all pleased with my answer. That was when I knew I had to leave his house. He provided for me in Paris. As long as I stayed in his household, I belonged to him. Like a dog or a sword or a piece of furniture. He could trade me, barter my body.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “I would have preferred death to such a life. I value myself more than to allow anyone to use me as he planned.”

  Mixed feelings for this woman pounded at Ambrose’s brain. He couldn’t tell what was worse, the guilt that was nagging his conscience that something he had done may have set all this in motion or the simple concern that was tugging at his insides. He shook his head. “Tell me, lass. How did I fit into your plans? Why did you come to me that night?”

  Elizabeth looked down at her hands. She was not willing to admit to him the truth about her plan to lose her virtue. “You are a hero. Handsome, chivalrous, sensual. And you showed interest in me. Would you believe if I told you that...well, curiosity was the primary reason?”

  “Nay.” Ambrose suppressed his smile. “But if I did believe you, then I suppose I have to assume it was disappointment that drove you out.” He watched a slow smile tugging at her lips.

  “Quite to the contrary, m’lord.” She could feel the heat of his gaze on her face. “Truthfully...I got scared. Scared of myself and my reaction to you. It was all so much at once. I knew I had to leave France, my family, everything I ever held dear. I could not accept any more complications in my life.”

  “You didn’t have to run. I remember offering you protection.”

  You offered me your bed, she thought.

  “It would have been wrong to impose myself on you or on anyone. I knew that I could take care of myself. I knew I had a talent,” Elizabeth continued. “I had already sold some of my paintings, so I knew I could do it. It was my fate, my destiny to live by my own means, by my talent. I could feel it. That was my moment to try. If I didn’t try it then, my chance would be gone forever.”

  Ambrose watched her entwined fingers on her lap. She was good. In fact, she was more than good. She was an exceptionally talented artist. From what he’d seen of her paintings at Giovanni de Medici’s palace, from what he’d seen in this villa tonight, and from the one piece that he had himself, Ambrose knew without question that Elizabeth Boleyn was indeed a gifted artist.

  But what the hell am I going to do with her? he thought. He knew he couldn’t expose the truth. After all, he himself was probably more responsible for the situation she was in today than anyone else. Henry had just wanted to use her and even a score—Ambrose understood the politics of court life. But could he take her to Scotland and present her to the queen? No, of course he couldn’t. The men in Florence might be completely blind to a beautiful woman, but Ambrose knew that her ruse would never work in Scotland. She would be discovered before she stepped ten paces on Scottish soil. Perhaps even before—Gavin Kerr would probably spot her as a fake. Perhaps the best thing for him to do was simply to walk away and ask Giovanni for a different artist. He could tell the duke that he’d never seen this Phillipe fellow. She had hidden her identity for this long, she could continue indefinitely. Perhaps that was the best answer.

  “Please take me with you.”

  Ambrose started at the request. He wondered, briefly, what she was asking. The possibility of her taking his offer, even after four years, still raised a stirring in him. And that was damn startling, considering.

  “Please take me to Scotland. I won’t disappoint you. I give you my word.” The hesitation Elizabeth had seen in the nobleman in the past few moments had nearly unnerved her. She feared the silent argument that the man was having with himself. She could not let Ambrose Macpherson leave them behind. She had to talk him into taking them to his queen. There was not much time left. “I will agree to whatever conditions you set.”

  Ambrose watched her in silence. This was fear speaking. He had been involved with enough negotiations to know when desperation and fear had taken over. Elizabeth was not even trying to cover her fear. She was willing to throw herself into his bed in order to save her pretty neck. As much as the idea of having this woman for a short while appealed to him, this was not the way he wanted it to happen.

  “I know your queen has been waiting for a long time for a painter of some quality. Michelangelo told me that she had asked him to go to Scotland ten years ago to paint the royal portrait. But he’d been in the middle of a massive sculpting project for Pope Julius’s memorial and used that as an excuse not to go. With the terrible troubles that Scotland had in that time, he said no painter he knew was willing to travel there.” Elizabeth continued to talk fast. She needed to win him over. “The stories of the war between England and Scotland were dreadful—I remember when Flodden happened and you lost your king. Michelangelo said he even heard your queen blaming him for the death of her husband. It was rumored that she said if he had gone to paint them in the summer of 1513, the king might not have gone to war. The maestro says he heard she’s become obsessed with the idea. I can remedy that.”

  Ambrose listened quietly to her words. He was certainly glad that he’d not spoken earlier. He would have had to swallow his words. She was not giving herself to him. She wanted him to help her with her masquerade. And everybody knew of Queen Margaret’s superstitious ideas. They were no secret. She was more superstitious than the Florentines, and they were the most credulous people in Europe.

  But more importantly, Ambrose did not believe a word Elizabeth said about why she wanted to go. There was something else.

  “Please, no one needs to know the truth. I can do the job to your queen’s satisfaction.” Elizabeth wished he would say something. “It will only be for a short while. I promise not to be a nuisance, and I will stay out of your way. Please, give me the chance and let me try.”

  Ambrose had to admit this was much more to his liking. If she were throwing herself at him, he’d pass on the opportunity. But this had promise.
It presented the possibility of challenge, of the charms of seduction.

  “Nay, lass. She’ll have my head on a pike over Stirling Castle if she finds out I’ve brought a woman to paint the royal family.”

  “She doesn’t need to find out! She won’t find out!”

  Ambrose continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Did I hear you mention something about being agreeable to my conditions?” He stood and walked to the fireplace. Leaning his broad back against it, he watched her confused expression.

  “It all depends on what they are, m’lord.” Elizabeth said, suddenly fearful of what was hidden in his words.

  “The first condition of taking you with me is that you accept these terms.”

  “Are they many?”

  “Possibly only a few.” He crossed his arms. “It all depends on my mood during the journey.”

  “How could you expect me to accept them when I don’t know what they are?” Elizabeth protested weakly.

  “I am certain if I approached Don Giovanni with—”

  “Agreed,” Elizabeth broke in. “I’ll accept your conditions so long as you accept one of mine.”

  Ambrose frowned at her. “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “I am in the position to ask.”

  “What is it?” he ordered. “What is your request?”

  Elizabeth stood as well and pushed the chair aside. “My family goes with me. To Scotland.”

  “Your family is in England. I’ll not go there to get them.”

  “You don’t have to.” She leaned against the desk and stretched her legs.

  Ambrose watched her shapely legs showing attractively through the thin hose. These Florentines are blind, he thought.

  “Mary and Jaime are with me here. I am responsible for them, so they have to go with us.”

  “Mary is your sister,” Ambrose remembered. “She disappeared when you did.”

  “You searched me out!” Elizabeth stated with surprise in her voice. The idea that this nobleman might have tried to find out about her whereabouts after they separated four years ago had never occurred to her.