by Diane Haeger
Tonight he would dance with her, and he would watch her eyes when he asked how she liked the gift. Of course, he knew the answer already, because Henry had learned at a very young age never to ask a question to which he did not already know the answer. Bess looked at him with the same blushing awe as the others, yet there was something more about her. He had still to determine precisely what it was, but Bess stood out from the rest. There was never a day or an evening she was present that he did not notice her or find himself watching her. He delighted in her smile, her laugh, the shy turn of her head, and her body that, in the time she had been at court, had quickly ripened from the flat, long lines of a girl, to the willowy curves of a desirable young woman.
“What of her family, Wolsey?” he asked as they paused at a long window that faced onto the beautifully intricate knot garden below.
“John Blount remains a loyal servant, recovered well from his injuries, and returned fully to service, Your Highness,” the recently appointed cardinal replied as he stood behind the king, steepling his fat hands over his new scarlet vestments.
Henry framed the window with his hands and gazed out across the landscape. “Yes, but would they welcome it as a flattering, and potentially lucrative, show of attention to the Blount family from their great sovereign lord, or merely tolerate it as duty?”
“That can only be supposed, of course. And yet perhaps”—he paused for effect—“if Master Blount were to receive an elevation in position, it is likely that his wife’s gratitude, as well as his own, would know few bounds.”
Henry pivoted toward Wolsey. His deep green eyes glittered in the sunlight. “Have you something in mind?”
“There is one position available as Esquire of the Body in your household, with Sir Thomas Hall gone back to his estates in Cornwall last month. Sir John would suit the position nicely,” he dutifully replied.
“Indeed he would.” Henry smiled, making his eyes glitter all the more. “Do it then.”
“It is done, Your Highness,” the cardinal said with a reverent nod, clearly knowing from experience what would come next and what he was meant silently to support.
Later, Wolsey accompanied the king down a wide flight of creaking oak stairs toward another endlessly long corridor leading to the banquet. There they were met by the usual smiling throng of nobles and ambassadors who crowded the doorway. Tiresome, Wolsey thought with great condescension. None of them would ever be able to take his place. He was a cardinal and powerful Lord High Chancellor as well. His face and form had grown fat from more food than prayer, and more women than common sense allowed. The king understood that, and tolerated it, so Wolsey did what he could for the king, particularly where women were concerned, even if at times it felt uncomfortably like procuring them. And besides, if he did not accommodate the sovereign, someone else most definitely would.
As the trumpet fanfare blared and they moved through the carved open doors of Hampton Court, a home he still marveled at possessing, Wolsey silently took stock of the guests. He checked to be sure they were seated in their proper places, making certain that no one important had been slighted. Wolsey quickly discerned who was missing.
The queen, proudly pregnant again, stout, and full faced, sat at the head of the vast, gleaming banquet hall beside the king’s larger, still-vacant chair. Wolsey saw with surprise that she was attired stylishly this evening. Instead of one of her usual unadorned black ensembles, Katherine was clothed in an intricately sewn gown of rich ruby velvet, with wide sleeves, a miniver collar, and a band of jewels set in gold mounts. Her usually unadorned fingers flashed with gems as well.
Wolsey felt himself stifle a smile. So, the little queen knew a real rival when she saw one and planned to rise to the challenge. Katherine was not a stupid woman, and she had keen advisers who, of course, would warn her of perceived threats. He was quite certain it explained why, among the ladies gathered around the queen, Bess Blount was nowhere to be seen.
Wolsey finally picked out the king, who was taken up by Don Luis Caroz, the Spanish ambassador, and then by the Duke of Buckingham. Henry did not seem yet to notice Bess’s absence. So many brocade- and velvet-clad courtiers and ladies in their jewels, gowns, and pearl-studded headdresses pressed toward him, bowing and curtsying, that it must have been difficult for even so tall a king as Henry to survey all of his subjects. At least Wolsey stood above the crowd, and above the noxious, mingling fragrances of ambergris, musk, rose-water, and lavender, which masked the true scent of unwashed flesh. He lifted the silver pomander hanging from a chain at his round waist and pressed it to his nose. The fresher scent of dried orange blossom quickly restored him as he proceeded to the king’s side.
Just as Henry was craning his neck finally to glance around the room, Doña Elvira, the queen’s companion, came up on the king’s other side and pressed her fingers gently into his forearm in a way both familiar and cordial.
“The queen anxiously awaits your company, sire,” Wolsey heard her say in her accented English. Elvira was three years older than the queen, yet there was a matronly quality about her—pallid skin, deep-set dark eyes, and a long nose that made her appear much older. “Her Highness fears she may quickly grow weary and need to retire.”
“Of course,” Henry said a bit dismissively as he glanced down at her. But then Wolsey noted the king’s attempt at a compassionate expression. Wolsey knew what that meant. No doubt, he would retire with her for the evening. At least for now, the queen had won, as she always would when there was the promise of an heir to inspire Henry, once again, to hope.
Hope—that was all any of them really had here at court.
And yet it did spring eternal, thought Wolsey, and it fueled ambitions, desires, and deceits.
He wondered if that was true for Mistress Blount, who was most likely performing whatever mindless duty she had been given in the queen’s apartments—a strategy no doubt meant to keep her from the king.
PART III
Step again. . . .
Thrice toss three oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair;
Then thrice tie up this truelover’s knot,
And murmur soft: “She will, or will she not.”
—THOMAS CAMPION
Chapter Nine
September 1517
Greenwich Palace, Kent
The child born in February of the previous year was a girl, but a strong, living child, who easily survived her first year—an heir at last. Henry and Katherine named her Mary after the king’s favorite sister, finally forgiven by Henry and allowed to return home to England with her new husband, Charles Brandon.
For a time, Katherine felt the full weight of her power as mother of the king’s child. That was until, once again, Henry began to long for a son. To that end, he doted on his wife exclusively after the birth of the Princess Mary. The queen was now thirty-two years old, and if Henry had hope of a male heir, all the country knew she must become pregnant again quickly.
Bess saw little of the king through that year due to the queen’s intervention, preventing her from appearing at most events, which had become commonplace for her. There were the occasional banquets or hunting parties to which she was invited, and where she might catch a random glimpse of him, but beyond that, the flirtation and plays at courtly love he had begun with her fell to obligation and duty.
As the months passed, Bess spent her time, when she was not attending the queen, in the company of Elizabeth, Nicholas, and Gil, as always. They had a comfortable camaraderie after several years of friendship, and Bess missed Kinlet less and less. She wrote to her brother George regularly, and he wrote back with details of life there. Yet even with these descriptions, the images in her mind of the lush and emerald green Shropshire country hills of her girlhood slipped farther and farther away as she ripened more fully into a polished queen’s attendant, one who loved life at court and who knew better each day how to navigate it with the dignity and grace of those who came befor
e her.
Gil stood with Nicholas and watched Bess walk down the sloping lawn beside Elizabeth toward a shallow lake across which white swans moved. The sky above them was the color of pewter, and the autumn air was crisply cold, but the long hours of monotonous service were best broken by idle time. The vast gardens at Greenwich were spotted, even on cool autumn days, with more than a few courtiers.
The court was at Greenwich to escape what seemed like a coming epidemic of the deadly sweating sickness. England had not been plagued since the outbreak that had killed the king’s elder brother, Arthur. Yet because of that, concern over its return, and whom it might claim next, was never far from Henry’s mind.
Wolsey had fallen ill in September, his stout body giving way to both the fever and rash. But within the anticipated twenty-four hours, when one customarily either recovered or died, the cardinal was once again able to say Mass in the king’s private chapel. Now, as winter neared, everyone looked at one another with a combination of fear and dread at the first sign of a cough. It was better to be outside, they all believed, amid the restorative air. And so they all walked.
Gil paused for a moment, and raked a hand through his touseled dark hair. He pushed back the pain of his headache and the growing wave of nausea he secretly felt. Surely it was nothing but the copious amount of wine he had drunk last night catching up with him now. Bess wore a gown of rose red brocade with a standing collar that accentuated her graceful neck. The crescent-shaped French hood sat back on her head just enough to show her smooth blond hair above her forehead. Gil tried to concentrate on her to steady himself as Nicholas turned to him in a stylish gray velvet cloak.
“She reads from that volume nearly every day, does she not?” Nicholas asked Gil of the small red leather book of Skelton’s work Bess carried with her like a prayer missal.
“Irritatingly so, yes.”
He bit back a little smile. “I suspect you would not say it like that if it were your gift and not the king’s she carried everywhere. Pity you surrendered yours to the flames before she was ever able to make a choice.”
“Between me and the king, there will never be a choice. She is in love with him, just as every other doe-eyed girl at this court. Just as your own wife once was.”
Nicholas Carew’s affable smile fell. “You need not be caustic. I know how you feel far better than you think.”
Gil turned to him, feeling his head throb. “Do you?”
“Once he was finished with her, he forced her to marry me.”
“The king? I thought your and Elizabeth’s families arranged the matter.”
“Your Wolsey organized it, but it was at the king’s bidding. I am surprised you did not know.”
“There are many things the cardinal and I have never discussed,” Gil said, thinking about the details of his own conception, only little bits of which he knew for certain.
He wondered sometimes if anyone else knew about Wolsey’s paternity. But Gil doubted it since Thomas Wolsey’s image and authority were more important to him than anything else in the world.
“I thought you loved her,” Gil finally said. “You certainly always look upon her with great affection.”
“I have come to love her, but it is difficult to give your heart to one who can never fully give you hers in return. Elizabeth tolerates me, mainly.”
“I had no idea,” Gil said honestly.
“It would be a pity if that happened to you one day. Trust me, my friend, it is no way to live.”
“I believe it may be too late for that,” Gil replied as they looked at the two young women they loved, neither of whom could feel for them what they felt. And for both women this was because of the same man. Gil sighed, and they were silent for a moment.
“Do you believe he has any idea how many hearts he has claimed?”
“I believe he has yet to give his own heart over to anyone, so I imagine His Highness is quite clueless to those sorts of details,” Nicholas said.
The wind stirred suddenly, and a carpet of red-gold leaves blew across the darkening landscape before them. Even though it was cold, Gil felt as if he were burning up. He ran a hand behind his neck and forced himself to ignore the growing fever as he continued to watch Bess. Suddenly, she and Elizabeth turned back as if they had heard something. They were both smiling. Both were young, both were so beautiful, and both were so entirely unaware of how their commitment to another man, the king, had affected every one of their lives. As it always did when she looked at him, Gil felt his heart stir, then the familiar ache take its place. Their eyes met as she drew near. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and her blue eyes were glittering, even in the flat afternoon light. She reached out and took his hands.
“Let’s go exploring inside,” Bess said with a note of mischief he knew well, for he had been the one to ignite it four years earlier. “As we did that first time I came here.”
“You went into the king’s rooms when you first came here. That was not a wise plan,” he said, chuckling in response, “and still would not be, if we were to do it again.”
“Of course not, silly. That would not be wise at all. But Elizabeth has just told me that the queen leaves on the hour for a pilgrimage to Walsingham with the Countesses of Oxford and Derby to pray for another pregnancy.”
“Did she not just return from there last spring?” Gil asked. Everyone at court knew how increasingly devout and evermore serious the queen had become, particularly after the birth of her daughter.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes for a moment. “The poor queen knows time is of the essence at her age, and only God can give her a son now.”
“I have heard that the king’s sister brought the Boleyn sisters from France with her,” Gil said. The four of them began to walk back up the winding brick path toward the stone palace sprawled out like a great sleeping giant before them.
“The Duke of Suffolk has done nothing since they returned but drone on about their unparalleled beauty,” Nicholas added, rolling his eyes. “If they were to catch the eye of the king, one or both of them quite likely will be mothering royal bastards before May Day.”
“I believe you misunderstand His Highness, as well as insult him, Master Carew,” Bess said, sharply, suddenly defensive.
It was still difficult for Gil to remember that, despite Bess’s years at court, she continued to be hopelessly romantic, particularly regarding the motivations of men. She was willing to believe the best in everyone, even when faced with the most incriminating of evidence. While it was one of the many things he loved about her, it was also the thing that caused him to fear for her the most. As much as he wanted her to know the truth about the king and his penchant for women, Gil simply could not be the one to tell her. And neither, apparently, could Nicholas nor Elizabeth.
Pray God, someone, somewhere, would tell her, though, before it was too late.
Gil had been behaving oddly all day, Bess thought as she lowered her head against the wind and walked with Elizabeth ahead of Gil and Nicholas. He could be so funny and sweet one minute, then moody and temperamental the next, and all seemingly without reason.
She hated to think what she privately thought—that perhaps his father’s increasing dementia was an illness to which he might one day be susceptible. Everyone who had known Sir George Tailbois, a king’s Knight of the Body, said that his illness had begun to manifest itself in bouts of depression and sullenness, quite like Gil’s present condition. Even so, Bess was always angry with herself when the thought came to her. It felt like a betrayal. But she knew well that she was not alone at court in such unkind conclusions. People had been whispering about it for months.
Her dress swept along the pathway, soft-soled shoes crunching gravel, as she and Elizabeth linked arms. Both of them prattled on and giggled wickedly about which young Boleyn girl overdid her French accent the more, and which possessed the greater air of entitlement from their time spent abroad. Both agreed it was Anne, the fourteen-year-old younger sister with the wicked
ly brilliant green eyes.
The girls walked together, with the boys trailing behind, down one long corridor, then another, and up a twisted flight of stairs to a floor they rarely visited ornamented with massive tapestries. Bess waited until the two of them were entirely alone before breaking into a sudden full run. Among the things Bess valued most in her dignified life at court were moments like this when she was not required to be so proper. Skirts sailing out behind her, she ran ahead of the others now, with a childlike spirit, bidding them to catch her, or at least keep up as she had done with her siblings back home in Kinlet. Bess passed carved door after door. She was far ahead of the others when she came to an open door, through which she paused to peer.
At first she did not recognize him. He sat on the floor, head in his hands, beside the grand canopy bed—a royal bed. Yes, it was the same one she had seen four years earlier. But he did not look very royal at the moment, hunched over, clinging tightly to something. In this light, as she lingered beneath the doorway, there was the essence of a child about him, a vulnerability she had never seen past all of the puffed velvet, rich brocade, and glittering cascade of gems.
“Today is his birthday. He would have been thirty-one,” Henry said gravely. The heavy medallion and chain at his chest glittered like his startling green eyes in the pale light.
At first Bess had no idea whom he meant. Then she realized that the fabric he was clutching was the delicately embroidered cradle blanket she once had taken from this very place.
“My brother would have found you a remarkable beauty,” he said, as if seeing her for the first time as he glanced up at her with glazed eyes and a wounded expression.
Bess closed the door, moved across the room then, and sank onto the floor beside him. She could smell the wine on his breath. She felt a twinge of guilt looking at the precious little keepsake she already knew well. A part of another person’s heart should never have been open to her like that without an invitation.