by D. L. Bogdan
“A shame to think of anything being conducted within doors on such a day as this,” I tell him, expelling my breath. On impulse I give myself over to the childish urge to twirl about. “This must be what paradise smells like.”
He laughs. “It is divine,” he agrees in his thick accent. “Surrounded by roses.” He closes his eyes, sniffing the air. Upon opening them, he smiles at me. “Roses and the beauty of a great lady.”
Another typical courtier, I think, as I recall the suave Fra Diego.
“Why the face you put on?” he asks me, his English so broken I am forced to laugh.
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking of an old acquaintance who used fair words to win fair ladies,” I say as we take to one of the benches.
“Did he succeed?”
I begin to giggle again. “No! He was sent home in disgrace. He was the queen’s own confessor, Fra Diego.”
He joins me in laughter. “Well! Imagine a priest with such unholy designs!”
I wipe a tear of mirth from my eye as I laugh harder. By now everyone knows of Cardinal Wolsey’s many mistresses and I am certain Chapuys is thinking along the same order as he makes the jest.
“Tell me, are the gardens of Spain as beautiful as this?” I ask him.
“As the Spanish envoy, I am obligated to say, ‘No, my lady, they are far more beautiful than this,’ ” he says. “And while they are pretty, I must tell you that I am not in truth from Spain, so my heart does not think upon it as home. I am from Savoy. You know this place?”
I nod, charmed helpless by his musical accent.
“My first languages were actually French, then Italian when I attended the University of Turin,” he tells me. He smiles as though recalling a memory most dear. “And always Spanish, of course, which is now the one I use most. Then there is this English.” He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Well, you can see my English is not so good. English is not, I am thinking, a very pretty language.”
“No,” I agree. “It is as hard and cold as the English people.”
He regards me with soft eyes. “Not all of them,” he says quietly. In cheerful tones he adds, “I am most content to speak my romantic languages. For the rest, I have a good translator.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Some of the things I need to know are not learned by the spoken word. I observe people, their faces and their ways. A lot can be learned just watching.”
I nod. “And what have you learned about me?” I venture, feeling impetuous as a courtier.
He hesitates, regarding me a long moment before saying, “I have learned, Lady Elizabeth, that you are sad.”
I bow my head.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, reaching over to take one of my hands. “I was very bold.”
“Very,” I say.
We are silent a while and then, reaching into the basket, Chapuys removes an orange. “We were speaking of gardens. Do you know oranges grow on trees, Lady Elizabeth? Beautiful trees. Nothing smells as sweet as an orange orchard. Do you favor this fruit, my lady duchess?”
I swallow hard. “I have never tried one.”
“The Spanish queen’s maid and you have never tried an orange!” he exclaims. “Well, you must!” He commences to peel it, concealing the peels in a nearby bush. He breaks the fruit in half, then into sections. The juice runs down his elegant hand as he gives me one. “Here. Try, my lady.”
I take the orange and pop it into my mouth. Juice squirts out, running down my chin, and I emit a little giggle. A burst of tangy sweetness erupts in my mouth and I offer a purr of delight.
“You like this fruit?” he asks me.
I nod, covering my mouth in embarrassment. I have forgotten my handkerchief, which is tantamount to mortal sin for one of my breeding, and am trying to think of a polite way to wipe my chin.
The ambassador chuckles, then lowers my hand, removing his handkerchief from the pocket of his doublet. Slowly he reaches forward, then dabs my chin with the fine linen. When with his other hand he takes the handkerchief away, one hand remains. Gently it seizes my chin, his thumb running over my lips soft as butterfly wings. I shudder somewhere deep within as our eyes lock.
I do not want to break away.
But I do, averting my head.
The moment is lost.
“Thank you for taking the basket to the queen,” he tells me in a whisper. “It means a great deal to us.”
“It means a great deal to me as well, my lord,” I tell him, rising, taking the basket, and turning away.
“Eustace.”
“Eustace,” I say slowly.
I walk away, gripping the basket with white knuckles, all the while trying to force away the images that are assaulting me, images that serve me not well at all.
I must stave off thoughts of this dark man. Each time we meet, it is harder to leave him. We do nothing improper; we do not touch. We talk. He tells me of Europe and the handsome Charles V, of beautiful Turin, and romantic Savoy. He asks me how I feel about things. How do I feel about Anne Boleyn (whom he refers to as The Concubine)? How do I feel about my daughter’s passing? How do I feel about Thomas? I tell him. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I tell him of my shame for the Boleyn woman, my involuntary coldness toward my living children, of the deep sense of mourning for Cathy, and of my mingled love and hatred for Thomas. He listens. He does not judge, save to agree with me about Mistress Boleyn. He listens.
It is dangerous to bare one’s soul so; I know it. But I do it anyway. The gentle nature and compassionate eyes of this beautiful man make it impossible to do otherwise. It would be so easy to yield to my deepest desires, to follow my husband’s example and steal what is not mine. . . .
How ashamed would Her Grace be if she knew of my fancies! The Lord tells us that just to think an adulterous thought is tantamount to committing the sin itself. Based on this standard, I have done it a thousand times over.
I am no better than Thomas.
Thomas . . . my lawful husband. We have not been together in so long.
There is naught to do but go to him. If I have to use him as he uses this Bess woman to get the ambassador out of my mind, I will. Far better to give myself to him than sacrifice my honor. Tears constrict my throat as I think of how much I long to abandon integrity and follow my darkest dreams. But that would make me like them, those of this court who have lost all sense of morality and decency. Those who take the easy path.
Perhaps something good will come of it. Perhaps he’ll realize . . . no use getting caught up in more useless fantasy.
Eventually, I go to my husband’s apartments.
“You were not summoned, my lady,” he tells me when I am permitted entrance.
I close my eyes a long moment. “I had thought perhaps to visit you.”
Thomas laughs. “What do you want, Elizabeth? Surely you don’t desire my company, or is it that you miss our stimulating conversation?”
I swallow my reply and approach him, wrapping my arms about his neck, drawing him close. He is my husband. I must focus on him, for whatever he is. And he is a handsome man, at least to me. Once he was a good man. If I can forget . . .
Thomas is rigid in my embrace. “What’s this, girl?” he asks as he encircles me in his arms. He regards me with bewildered black eyes.
“Thomas, I . . .” I do not know how to go about this. It has been so long. I don’t want to be a harlot. But I need a distraction.
He breaks away and pours himself a cup of claret from the buffet. “My little niece is a bit peeved with you, I think,” he says.
“Who is she to be peeved with me?” I ask, my face heating in anger that the Boleyn whore should be brought up at a moment I had hoped to make tender.
“Most likely she is your future queen,” Thomas tells me. “The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can find some peace. Elizabeth. Stop playing the go-between for the queen and Chapuys.”
My heart lurches.
“God’s body, girl, you are as tra
nsparent as that window,” he tells me, gesturing to the pane behind him. “You think I don’t know? You don’t think it is only a matter of time before the king finds out? I am only playing the innocent to spare you.”
“To spare you, you mean,” I say in short tones.
“My clever girl,” he says, setting the cup down and approaching me once more. “Now, before you and Anne take to fighting like she-cats, I suggest you cease this lunacy and be a good auntie. She is quite useful to us. Because of her . . . influence, the king is considering a match for our little Mary with his son Henry Fitzroy.”
“Fitzroy? The bastard?” I cry.
“Besides me, that ‘bastard’ is the premier duke in the realm,” he snaps. “Don’t you see how perfect it is, what it would mean for us? Mary would be King Henry’s daughter-in-law.”
“Oh, there’s a privilege! We all know how good he is to his family!” I am scandalized. Tears burn my eyes. “So Mary will wed Fitzroy and then what will become of her? She’ll be swallowed up in this world of treachery. She’ll learn how to lie and connive and cheat—”
“High-minded till the end,” Thomas says, shaking his head in disgust. “I’d rather the girl learn to keep up with the best of them than be trodden down by it. This is how it is, Elizabeth. There’s no shame in trying to get the best.”
“And this is the best?” I ask, shaking my head at him. “Do you ever once think of her happiness? She’s our only daughter now, Thomas. Your baby. Don’t you want to protect her?”
Thomas’s expression changes; it softens with a whimsy rarely seen. His eyes mist over. “I am thinking of her, Elizabeth. I know you don’t believe me.” His tone is husky. “But, in addition to the obvious benefits the title will hold for us, this marriage will ensure that she will always be beside me.”
I screw up my face in confusion as I try to sort out this new line of reasoning.
Reading my puzzlement, he continues. “She’ll still be a young girl for quite some time, even after the alliance is made. It won’t be consummated right away. I’ll make certain she doesn’t go to Fitzroy a day before I think she is ready. Till then, she will be mine—er—with us.”
My heart drops in my chest. I begin to back away from him.
“What I’m saying is that beside me, she’ll be safe. I will make certain of it,” he assures me.
“And happy, Thomas? Will she be happy with you?” I ask in soft tones.
“Of course,” he answers, as though he cannot conceive of someone being unhappy with him. “I give the child gifts all the time. She has everything. She has a hundred little friends to play with, a pup she adores, pretty gowns—what more could she desire?”
“You,” I tell him. “Are you kind to her, Thomas?”
He grimaces. “What do you mean? Of course I am!”
“But have you ever—have you ever . . .” I don’t know how to ask. I don’t want to ask.
“Have I taken her in hand?” he finishes. “Only when needed.”
“Ah,” I say as I sit on one of the plush chairs in his privy chamber. “Hence the gifts.” I draw in a wavering breath. “The gifts you give her all the time.” The last three words are deliberate, measured.
“I’m her father,” he says, as though this answer should satisfy me. “And head of this family. It is not for you to question the discipline that is in my right to administer, girl.”
“No,” I sigh. Suddenly I am overcome with exhaustion. “I suppose not.” I don’t want to fight him anymore. I don’t want to think about things I can’t control. Mary is growing up fast enough in this court; what she does not know, she will learn. Thomas seems an eager teacher. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard.
“Now. Returning to the subject at hand. You’ll stop serving as Chapuys’s messenger, thank you very much,” he tells me. Then in thoughtful tones he adds, “And whatever else you do for him. You’ll stop that as well.”
I rise, anger surging through me as hot as wine. “You will withdraw whatever it is you are implying at once, my lord.”
Thomas smiles. “Touchy, lady wife?”
“You know I have been nothing but devoted to you,” I cry.
“Oh, you are devoted,” he remarks. “But not to me. No, I should say the queen has your devotion before any living being. Her cause and whatever you can do to further it. I must admit I am a little surprised. I did not think you’d reduce yourself to such intrigues. . . .”
“Thomas Howard! You know me better than that!” I cannot stop shaking my head. I cannot believe what I’m hearing. “I’m yours! No matter how ill used, no matter how miserable I have been made in your company, I am yours!”
With this I throw my arms about his neck and do what I had intended to do since arriving in his apartments. Strangely, the anger fuels my passion and I cover his face with kisses, then press my lips firmly against his in a frantic show of possessiveness.
“Yours,” I murmur. “Don’t you see?” I begin to remove his doublet. “Yours . . .”
Thomas returns the kisses, translating his own sense of desperation. Together we sink to the rush-strewn floor, meeting in a coupling of such intensity that we are left breathless and sobbing. There are no words that can explain or compensate for what is gained and what is lost in each other’s company.
As with everything concerning Thomas and me, it is expressed through the physical. Right or wrong, good or bad, that is how it is.
Nothing changes.
In the end, I go to my apartments and he remains in his.
I meet with Chapuys. The smell of the sweet citrus fruit that masks the dispatches between ambassador and queen is also the fragrance of my own betrayal in mind and spirit to my husband and his cause. The honor that remains intact is that of my body, which has committed itself to the marriage vows I was forced to take at fifteen years of age.
I carry out my noble charge, despite warnings from Anne Boleyn herself, who taunts me at every turn. I tell myself that serving this high purpose is worth the pain and disregard of Thomas, that in the end some divine reward must come of it. But my resolve grows weaker with each passing day.
The queen will lose this battle. There is no doubt of it. This world is not meant for the pure and the good. It swallows them up, claiming them as one of their own unless they can escape. And the only escape is death.
It is obvious the queen is dying. Her burden is too heavy; the cup of her deteriorating health spills over onto her poor daughter, so overwrought by the stress and pain of her father’s lust for the Boleyn whore that she is tortured by a string of illnesses. This mad king will kill anyone who stands in his way without employ of axe or sword. He will murder them with heartbreak, heaping upon these two pious creatures sorrow after sorrow until, broken, they collapse and yield to the embrace of the angel of death.
And yet this task gives me meaning. I hold fast to it, cherishing it. If I am fighting a losing battle, I will fight nonetheless as I have my life long.
Anne Boleyn, that traitorous slut, has confronted me. No longer satisfied with subtle threats, she comes to my apartments specially to address the matter, all dressed in purple—purple! The color reserved for royals alone! There are no words to capture the hatred that stirs in my breast upon looking at the raven-haired girl whose shrewd, calculating eyes belong to her uncle and whose body belongs to the Whore of Babylon.
Her lips curve up into their courtier’s smile as she enters with a great flourish as though to say, “Make way for the queen!”
She dips into the smallest of curtsies before me, as though it is a favor that she should make any deferential show of respect to me at all.
“I come to visit with my auntie Norfolk,” she tells me. “How are you, my lady?”
“Quite well,” I answer.
“I have had the pleasure of acquainting myself with my cousin, your daughter,” she goes on to say in amicable tones as she runs one long-fingered hand along the cherry wood of my breakfast table. “A beautiful little girl,” s
he comments. “She has a great future ahead of her, Lady Norfolk.” She drums her elegant nails on the tabletop. “With my help, the king and your husband have arranged things quite nicely. Uncle Thomas loves her quite madly, I should think.” She turns, mocking me with her eyes. “Quite madly,” she adds deliberately.
“I don’t see how that is any of your concern,” I say.
“She is my family,” Anne counters. “Naturally, she is my concern. And my concern extends to you as her mother and my aunt.”
I fix her with a hard stare.
Anne raps her hand on the table. “Lady Norfolk, I know all about my uncle. I know how he waves his mistress under your nose; I know how he’s beaten and humiliated you.” She lowers her eyes. “I know how he treats poor little Mary.”
“I’d have thought he would serve as your inspiration,” I say. “Do you really fancy yourself better than Thomas Howard? Than any of them? Are you not just another Bess Holland? How does your treatment of the Princess Mary differ from that of my husband’s treatment of our daughter? Who do you think you are to offer me sympathy and counsel? What do you want from me, Mistress Anne Boleyn?”
Anne’s black eyes flash with anger. “Stop this nonsense with Chapuys! It does not help your case nor that of the queen’s. It makes you all look like fools.”
“Fools?” I cry. “I look the fool? Who is more foolish? The whore who tries to seduce His Majesty from his faithful wife and holy Church with her heresy and wicked French tricks or the woman who has been nothing but loyal to queen, country, and husband? Fool? Fool indeed!”
“You are a fool, Elizabeth Howard!” Anne cries, balling her white hands into fists. “For by supporting that woman, you are throwing away every chance of happiness! You will lose, Lady Norfolk, not I! Your place at court, your husband, your children—everything. And for what? Principle?” Her eyes soften. The pity reflected in them incenses me more than any previous mockery. “I could have been your ally,” she says in quiet tones. “I could have been such a help to you. I still could. One word and Uncle Thomas would be forced to rid himself of that harlot girl.”