by Diane Haeger
“You said it yourself—Anne Boleyn’s influence over him is strong. Since she will soon be with child again, I suspect his hope for a legitimate heir is all he can think about. All of England knows what he has sacrificed for that opportunity.”
“His faith . . . His conscience . . . His queen . . . Even his dignity,” Bess murmured sadly.
What the king had become was so different from the man, Hal, she had known as a young girl. It was still difficult to believe he had changed so much. Now their son was changing as well, growing into his role in ways she had not expected. But she had permitted that destiny when she let him go to a future that seemed bigger and brighter than any she might have given him here—the son of a woman whose only mark on history was her affair with a married king.
Very gently, Edward took the letter from her and placed it on the carved side table for her. Finally, Bess sat up and flung her legs over the side of the bed. Her long, still-shimmering blond hair fell onto her shoulders as she gazed out the window, wondering exactly where her eldest son, her sweet Harry, was at that very moment and whether he was thinking of his mother, or of the new bride she had yet to meet. There would doubtless be a new, volatile rivalry at court now among the girl’s father, Norfolk, Cromwell, and the queen. Seeing that might almost make the danger of a visit worthwhile, after her own child came, she thought with a smile. Yes, perhaps a visit should be made.
Bess and Edward went together then into the nursery where Robert and George were playing. It was such a sweet scene, she thought, content with the peace she had so unexpectedly found here in the countryside with Edward. Elizabeth, who was thirteen now, came quickly away from the virginal she had been playing in a swish of heavy yellow silk and a happy, adolescent smile to greet them. Gil’s daughter was becoming a beauty, with her mother’s shimmering blond hair, wide blue eyes, and a dusting of freckles over her flawless features.
“It sounded lovely,” Bess said with a smile, one that matched her daughter’s own. “You have entirely worked out that troublesome spot in the center of the piece.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “But may I ask you if you have decided yet?”
Bess knew of course what she meant since it was not the first time her daughter had asked. The invitation for George, her son, to join Harry for the Christmastide holiday at court had gone unanswered for days. Elizabeth, who adored her younger brother, had made it her goal to champion the cause of his going. Edward gave a tepid smile, and Bess shot him a censuring look in response.
“I have made no decision.”
“But court, Mother.” Her eyes glittered dreamily at the prospect. “All of the fine dresses, the jewels, the music, the banquets . . . the gentlemen. Think of it!”
“I need not think of it, child. I remember it well enough.”
“I wish he had invited me instead of Georgie. It would be a dream to walk with the duke, my brother, through the corridors of a great royal palace at Christmas.”
“Court is also a place of great vice, greed, and temptation, so, alas, it shall remain a dream for you since I shall never allow it to tempt you.”
Elizabeth frowned at her mother’s sharp response, and she stiffened her spine stubbornly. “You were tempted there, and now have a life that is better for it. Even Grandmother says so.”
Bess was suddenly angry at the child for bringing up those dark years. “You know nothing of what I endured, or what I am better for.”
“But you are a lady now, though you went to court only as Mistress Blount. Grandmother has told me the entire story, and about your glorious romance with the king as well.”
“After all of her own years there, your grandmother should have learned to hold her tongue.”
“Are we not to know of you, Mother, what the rest of England already does?” Elizabeth pressed, leaning slightly forward in a combative stance, and her eyes mirroring for Bess some of the youthful ambition she, too, once felt.
“Yes, Mother, answer her that,” George seconded as he came up behind them.
And in the echo of her children’s bidding, Bess felt herself cringe. Truthfully, she was not ashamed of her youthful indiscretion, or of the life she had lived at court. But now, at thirty-one, she felt very far away from that world—that love—and from the naive adolescent she once had been.
“You well know the story, both of you. No one here has kept it from either of you,” Edward calmly defended his wife. “Your mother simply chooses not to dwell in the past.”
“Yet did not her past make up our legacy?” Elizabeth asked.
“The king is not your father. Nor George’s either. You have no tie to court,” Bess quickly interceded to defend herself.
“And yet the Duke of Richmond is still our brother, and he has invited me to come to court, and I do so wish to go, Mother; I truly do,” George said with respectful boldness.
For the first time in her life, Bess felt silenced by her children—because they were right. Thoughts, memories, and images of losing Harry moved through her mind with the darkness of a death dance, as they always did at even the mention of his name. But she must do it. She could not ask George to pay for her mistakes or to try to heal her wounds for her. She left the nursery without answering his request, but she knew what she would do.
It was too cold to take the horses out, but Bess still wanted to walk. She needed to be outside to clear her mind with the cold snap of winter air that she knew would instantly surround her. Cloaked in heavy velvet, lined with luxurious sable, she walked alone down the winding brick path blanketed by slick frost, a path through the dormant gardens, as a low-lying fog swirled at her ankles and colored her breath white each time she exhaled. Bracing herself against the clear, bitingly cold winter morning, Bess drew the fur collar up around her neck and shoved her other gloved hand into the pocket of her cloak. She had not worn this for a very long time. Gil had given it to her to celebrate their first year of marriage, and for a long period after his death it had made her sad. But today it had seemed all right. He had been such a grand part of her life, more important to her in many ways than the king. She smiled now, feeling his presence returning strongly with it.
He would have trusted their son.
Bess knew she must do that also. Letting go of things was part of life’s progression—especially letting go of children. They were not a mother’s, but rather they all belonged to God.
Bess glanced up then at a broad, clear winter sky, thinking of Gil somewhere there looking down at her. You would like Edward, she thought. He is young, but a good man. And I do love him. . . though I will never forget all we had together during our years at court, and our long and happy marriage afterward.
She and the king were still, after all of these years, on good terms. He always remembered her at Christmas with a suitably grand gift, and except for recently, since he had married Anne Boleyn, the invitations to court had continued, regularly and sincerely. But Bess preferred the country now. In her youth, court had brought her excitement, but the predictability of her life here brought her peace. And that was enough. She would write to her brother, and also to her uncle Mountjoy, bidding them both to keep watch over George. He would have the same opportunities she once had been given, and the same protections as well. What he made of his chance would be up to him. And secretly Bess envied him that—she envied him a beginning.
Chapter Twenty
June 1536
Greenwich Palace, Kent
Katherine of Aragon had been dead for five months. Anne Boleyn had been executed four months after her death, and eleven days after that there was yet another new Queen of England as Henry continued to look for that elusive thing he had only glimpsed once long ago with Bess Blount.
Jane Seymour was shy, pretty, and very much like Bess. Also like her, Jane had been there, quietly waiting in the wings for her moment. While it was a moment that had never come fully for Bess, Henry knew that their son wrote to his mother, telling her that he liked Jane�
��s gentle sweetness, and he was happy that the boy felt as he did. Harry and his own young bride, Mary, spent a great deal of time now with the royal couple, along with Mary’s increasingly dominant father, the Duke of Norfolk. The balance of power in the English court was shifting again, and the king’s son had grown to become an even more integral part. At seventeen, Harry was called Richmond mainly now; handsome, healthy, well married, and increasingly powerful. The king had done well by the boy, and Harry had not disappointed his investment in him. Landed baron, peer of the realm, Lord High Admiral, privy counselor; the king’s son was all these things, but to his father, he was still Harry—Bess’s little boy who stood so bravely before him that day, resigned to meeting his destiny in France with the king.
Your mother had that same gentle sweetness as Jane, Henry thought as he made his way with an increasingly gruff demeanor toward the long polished Privy Council table. Among the other counselors he saw his son already seated there, clothed in rich velvet, fur, and a jeweled collar. He was leaning back in his chair, confident and completely at ease. Seeing him always brought sweet thoughts of Bess, even though he was content with Jane.
They all stood and bowed as Henry moved on, passing each of them, on the way to his tall leather-covered throne positioned at the head of the massive table. The room was warm, and the press of bodies beneath so much velvet, silk, and heavy jewels, along with the rank odor of flesh, irritated him today more than usual. His council members blathered on about things until Robert, Earl of Sussex, once again took up the familiar debate regarding the line of succession. It was always a topic at the forefront of Henry’s mind, and as much so now that his two daughters had been declared illegitimate when he invalidated his two previous marriages. In fact, he managed to think of little else most days but who would next be king.
Henry suddenly heard Sussex making a declaration. “All that I am saying regarding the matter is that if the queen does bear a male child, then glory be to God, that royal issue would be resolved. However, until that time, it would be wise for our sovereign king to have a safeguard in the line of succession.”
“I quite agree,” said the Duke of Norfolk.
Sharply ambitious and full of cunning, Norfolk was a man who was cleverly and steadily gaining power by solidifying key alliances. Since his daughter’s marriage to Richmond, Norfolk had pushed Cromwell aside easily as overseer of the Duke of Richmond after Wolsey, guiding and encouraging the boy himself in a steady, familial manner.
“Since all three of His Highness’s children are now considered to have been born out of wedlock, the three of them are on an even field, legally speaking,” Sussex continued. “I suggest only that a son would be preferable to daughters when considering succession, if one is able to choose.”
“Here, here,” Norfolk chimed of his friend and supporter who was brave enough to declare what everyone else was thinking. “A wise and prudent observation.”
Only Charles Brandon, whose children, born of the king’s sister, had legitimate Tudor blood, frowned now, shaking his amber-bearded chin. “England need not look to bastards, either female or male, when the king has three undisputed blood relations—two in my own daughters; the third in the niece Your Highness and I share through Margaret, your sister,” he declared in a deep-voiced grumble.
“Still, they are females of the line, and we all sit here at this moment in the very presence of the king’s honored and acknowledged son, the Duke of Richmond. A male of the line. It would seem we need look no further than our own midst,” Norfolk said, lightly pressing the point and letting Sussex take the previously agreed-upon lead in the matter.
Henry listened keenly to the debate. Even knowing beforehand that it was to be brought up, he was still uncertain what to do. The two had spoken for him perfectly, yet a question remained. Harry had certainly been properly groomed, impeccably educated, then strategically if not magnificently married. But if Jane should have a child, and of course in time she would, could he then withdraw from his precious Harry the honor that had been dangled before him since the day he had first come to court as a little boy? Could he take that away from Bess as well, after she had sacrificed him as she had been forced to do?
All of those thoughts worked their way around in his mind, latching on and then falling away as he sat, trying to pretend he had heard every word of the ongoing debate by men whose agendas he knew of course were personal. His neatly bearded chin balanced on his hand, he began to watch Thomas Seymour, Jane’s younger brother, most closely as the others went on debating.
Obviously, the Seymour family would not be in support of naming Harry, as it would be a risk to their own growing power base. But how precisely would Thomas eventually object? Boldly and directly? Or more underhandedly? Seymour most certainly possessed that quality to be underhanded in his dealings. There was something about Jane’s brother he knew instinctively was not trustworthy. Henry scratched his chin and silently waited.
“It seems a rather grand waste of parliamentary time, since my nephew shall next be king,” Thomas Seymour finally said, yet so blandly that it might not have mattered if Henry had not been focusing on him. In the ensuing silence, Thomas exchanged a quick glance with Edward, his older brother.
“Your unborn nephew,” Norfolk icily amended.
“Not born and not yet even conceived,” Sussex chimed in at great risk.
Henry shot them both a glare for the words that had seemed a swipe at Henry’s manhood, but he did nothing more because he knew they were right.
Norfolk lowered his head, but clearly he had no intention of showing more contrition than that. Fortunately for Norfolk, the side he had chosen to champion so boldly was Harry’s.
Henry IX. . . Henry imagined the title, rolling it around in his mind as he regarded his son, a boy who grew more powerfully and surely into manhood each day. Was that why God had not blessed him with another son? Was there meant to be this Henry IX after him?
Before he decided, Henry must see Bess. He had had enough of this stalling. She simply must come to court. She could bring her husband, and she should. That would make it far easier on Jane, but he needed her counsel on the matter. If she approved of putting their son into the line of succession, knowing that he might one day be reduced if Jane bore a child, then he must do it. It had been seventeen years, and if Bess agreed, it was well past time to honor their son in that way.
Elizabeth Carew smiled to herself and walked with a spring in her step up the east-wing steps of Greenwich Palace. She was grateful to be back for a time amid the vibrance of court, thanks to her husband, who, praise God, was still tightly allied with the king. She had missed the activity, the gowns, the energy, and the gossip. The only thing lacking here was Bess, and the echo of her presence upon this place was sorely missed. As she walked gracefully through the halls that she knew well, there was still the outline of the beauty Elizabeth once had been—stunning enough for a little while to capture a king. Her face was flawed by only a few light lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and the strands of gray that wove their way through her thick blond hair were well captured beneath the stylish French hood to match her gown. The years and childbirth had been kind to Elizabeth, and she returned to court each time she was called, her head held high.
And so now Bess was to return for a visit as well. That could be no small thing to have been invited, or for Bess to have finally accepted. She knew through Nicholas that they had always kept up a correspondence and that they had never ceased through the years to exchange gifts at Christmastide. Theirs was a unique and enduring bond, certainly. But this . . . This was something else entirely. Elizabeth Carew could feel it like a coming north wind down to her very core. The king was rarely in London in summer, due to the heat, dust, and the threat of fatal disease. But now he intended to be. Was he actually making that grand concession in order to see Bess?
It clearly had to do with Richmond. The situation, and the king’s lack of a firm stance on the matter of success
ion since the execution of Anne Boleyn, had been the fodder for debate for months.
The court would move from Greenwich to London in four days’ time, and they would all know soon enough.
While they wrote often, it had been several years since she had seen Bess, and she had never met Lord Clinton, so the excitement for Elizabeth was a charged thing. All of those thoughts whirled like a top in her mind as a collection of elegantly dressed men, speaking in low tones, came toward her, crossing the other way down the corridor. She stopped and stepped back behind the drapery. A childhood of games in these halls made the move instinctual.
“What if Jane cannot bear a son and the king tires of her just as he did of Katherine and Anne?” Thomas Seymour, the queen’s brother, was asking. “Where will our family be then?”
“He does seem to intend finally naming Richmond as his heir,” Edward drily confirmed.
Their footfalls were heavy and stalking as they neared her. Elizabeth held her breath.
“You know how the king adores him. Bringing any harm to the boy would be a treasonous crime,” Edward continued.
“True, if a crime were committed,” Thomas Seymour coolly returned. “Yet it is summer, we shall be in London soon, and you know there is always a chance that even a perfectly healthy young man could fall ill very suddenly there.”
“It does happen,” Edward said, voicing his agreement in an oddly callous tone.
Elizabeth saw the men pause to glance at each other. Then their looks cut guiltily away. Her blood ran cold at what was unsaid between them, and the inference there. She shrank back against the heavy velvet drapery, feeling her legs go very weak beneath her. They would not dare. The Seymour brothers could not be that desperate, she thought, her mind a great boiling pot of confusion. What to do? What could she do now in the wake of a circumstance where they had said everything and yet nothing at all?