The Jewels of Warwick

by Diana Rubino

  "Aye, it sounds grand." Making music with the King again—she believed something like this happened only once in a lifetime, not twice! "I shall be there, Your Majesty." She curtseyed.

  "Very well, I shall see you then."

  Then she remembered. "Oh, but my lute has not yet arrived with my baggage, your grace."

  "Never you mind, Lady Amethyst," the King replied, touching her cheek with his fingertips ever so gently. She shivered at the unexpected meeting of their flesh. "All the necessary instruments will be provided."

  She curtseyed again and he stepped away. As she walked away from him, the King watched her hair tumbling down her back like spun gold, the way her erect shoulders squared off and her softly rounded buttocks swayed under the shiny satin of her gown as she strode out of the great hall.

  Oh, we shall make music together, my sweet Lady Amethyst , he thought, tongue moistening his lips, his mouth watering with a desire bordering on possessiveness. We shall, my innocent, young maiden of Warwickshire. Sweet music will be ours, to resonate in a thundering crescendo.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The King was not present in the great hall the next morning where she breakfasted with a few members of the King's Musick. She was hoping they would invite her to join their practice session this morning, so she would be well-rehearsed when it was time for the private duet with Henry.

  She sat quietly nibbling on a slice of honeyed bread, listening to the musicians' idle chatter.

  "Is Bessie out of the King's good favor again?" Mark Smeaton, a young musician, asked around the table distractedly as he dug into another slab of plum cake.

  "Aye, she has been in and out for the last fortnight..." Ned, the citternist, replied.

  "You mean the King has been in and out..." Mark quipped, and a conspiratorial laughter echoed round the table.

  "She saw Catherine and went running like she'd been shot from a longbow."

  "Aye, she keeps her distance from Catherine!" giggled John, the pipe player.

  Amethyst had heard Bessie Blount's name more times than any other since arriving at court, even among the servitors, and always in a tittering way.

  "Why, they were together the day after he married the Queen, but I was not here yet. This is just what I hear," Mark declared.

  "Aye, I was here," George the organist affirmed. "'Twas not the day after the wedding, though. 'Twas the day after the honeymoon ended. All Catherine has to do is turn her back to go to the privy, and he takes the opportunity for a romp with Bessie."

  "Bessie hasn't been his only play toy," Mark added. "He had that Mary Boleyn for a time."

  "He had 'er, all right," John joked, a lusty smirk crossing his adolescent features.

  They all broke into laughter, and Amethyst sat expressionless, not wanting to participate in this conversation in any way. All this prattle about the King and his dalliances was chipping away at her appetite. She forced down the last of what she was chewing.

  "If you mind it not..." her voice, firm but pleasant, rose above the others, "I would be honored if you would let me sit in on your practice session today," she intoned, desperately wanting to change the subject. She did not mention the King's invitation to his private apartments; after hearing the way these courtiers gossiped, she didn't dare.

  "Aye, we would be pleased," the older gentleman said, and the others nodded. "What instrument do you play?"

  "Which one would you like me to play? I play them all...lute, virginals, flute, harp."

  "Stop right there!" Mark Smeaton interrupted, obviously impressed, for he finally put down the tankard of ale he'd been so relishing. "It looks as if we have a virtuoso on our hands!"

  The others smiled warmly, and her smile blended right in, as a rush of true belonging warmed her heart.

  After a delightful practice session, the group dispersed and she headed for her apartments. Now a page was guiding her into the King's inner chamber, where she took a velvet-cushioned seat. The oak-paneled walls intimidated her with their dark and imposing regality.

  She got up again and circled the room a few times, taking gulps of air, trying to calm her breathing. The rapid thump of her heart reverberated through her entire body. It was another private audience with the King–she hoped he didn't expect too much. After all, she was nowhere as accomplished a musician as he.

  The Yeomen of the Guard opened the heavy wooden doors and the King entered the chamber, illuminating its atmosphere with his royal presence. He was a burst of radiance in his waistcoat of cloth of silver, quilted with black silk, the sleeves puffed with wavy slashes at the wrists, his breeches drawn out with taffeta, his stockings a dark red, tucked comfortably into a pair of black velvet shoes. He approached Amethyst and took her hand. "Come, Lady Amethyst."

  He turned and she followed. Through a short-paneled corridor they walked, a row of flambeaux glowing along the walls. Their feet padded over an exquisite Oriental tapestry threaded with gold, which she never would dream of using as a carpet on the floor. They stopped at a heavy oak door which Henry opened with a key he'd pulled from his belt, and he stood aside to let her enter the chamber.

  The leaded glass windows were pushed outward to grant access to the gentle whistling of the birds in the tree outside. She could hear voices and the neighing of horses in the courtyard below. The cool evening breeze washed over her refreshingly as she inhaled. A row of paintings in gilded frames covered one paneled wall surrounding a fireplace before which sat two overstuffed chairs. An intricately carved table running the length of the opposite wall was covered with writing paper, quills, and inkwells.

  The fading sunlight threw lacy shadows on the floor through the delicate artistry of the table legs. Around the corner she glimpsed the massive bed, its curtains open to the velvet covers and plush pillows. A pallet lay crosswise at the foot of the bed. Dear God, he'd invited her into his bed chamber!

  Snatches of the musicians' conversation ran through her head..."All Catherine has to do is go to the privy, and he takes the opportunity for a romp with Bessie...Bessie hasn't been his only play toy…" She stiffened. She had to get out of his bed chamber before the entire kingdom began tattling behind her back—oh, God, how it would hurt her family.

  "Your Majesty, I mustn't..." She twirled to face him and nearly fell into his arms. He gently guided her over to one of the chairs before the fireplace and they both sat.

  "Be calm, Lady Amethyst, I do not bite."

  She gathered her skirts and took a deep breath. He reached into a velvet-lined box and lifted out a gold rope on which was suspended a teardrop pearl. The chain glimmered as it caught the firelight, and the pearl radiated a milky white glow like a midsummer's moon.

  He walked around her and fastened it behind her neck. The pearl nestled perfectly between her breasts. The hairs on her neck stood on end and she quivered delightedly as his fingers brushed her skin.

  "A welcome gift. Welcome to court."

  The shimmery gold felt like silk against her skin. She lifted the pearl and upon close inspection she could see it gave off a rainbow of glimmers as it rolled delicately between her fingertips.

  "This is lovely, sire. Thank you ever so much."

  "Just a token. A groom will be in shortly with some wine."

  He must have sensed her apprehension because he moved his chair back a trifle before sitting. "Amethyst, you are a lovely woman. There are so few of your kind here at court."

  "So few lovely women, or women in general, Your Majesty?"

  "Both. You know your Aunt Margaret Pole is the Princess Mary's governess. She tells me she misses her family deeply and would like if one of her nieces could join her. Amethyst, I would like you to come to court. To be a court musician, just as your mother was when you were but a child. You were no doubt too young to remember, but I recall several state banquets at which your mother played her lute and sang for us. I was quite young myself, but I remember her serene voice and how her fingers made the strings dance."

  That word
, serene. Her mother's voice was serene. She'd been looking for that word all her life to describe her mother's lilting voice, with rich tones of melancholy shaping every phrase.

  Then his unexpected invitation finally registered in her mind, and it all converged on her at once—the glitter of court pageantry, the sumptuous banquets, the lavish surroundings, but with that came closeness to the King, the reputed womanizer... But of course she would accept; she wouldn't dare refuse.

  "Aye, I would love to join my dear Aunt Margaret and even get to know the Queen and even Princess Mary!" she blurted out. "But you would invite me to be part of the King's Musick, Your Majesty? Only having heard me play but once?"

  His eyes had darkened again. "Oh, I've never forgotten that day in your conservatory at Warwick. You didn't merely play, my dear. That instrument became a part of you; you gave it a life of its own. There is a place at court for as long as your love for music prevails. You may take a journey back home to bid your family farewell, then I shall expect you back in a fortnight."

  He commanded her so gently, she suddenly realized what made these wenches swoon under his spell. Who would dare refuse such a charming man!

  "Why, that sounds lovely, Your Majesty. I would be honored to take the position."

  Just then a groom entered with a pitcher and two goblets on a tray, and headed for the table behind them. He started to pour, but the King, in a barely visible gesture, waved him away. He rose and poured them each a gobletful himself.

  She took a small, cautious sip, for she'd never had unwatered wine before. She knew wine was a respectable, elegant drink, meant to complement meals, enhance the taste of meats and fish, and create a heady glow. But this wine was not merely strong, it was downright pungent, burning a column of fire through her body, making her cheeks flush with its swelling warmth.

  "Port, from Portugal. The very best." He sipped his slowly, luxuriating in its aroma and verve, and she could see his tongue rolling languorously around his mouth. He was surely a man who enjoyed life's sensual pleasures and took his time to let each of his senses revel in the stimulus of the moment.

  Before she realized it, he was refilling her goblet and she was taking larger sips, warming the sweet liquid in her mouth, letting it burnish her gums and tongue before slipping down her throat, where it seemed to linger before spreading through her insides.

  She began to smile at the comfort and warmth she felt, at the beauty of the man before her, of the raw maleness he exuded, awakening the woman entrapped inside her like the bud of a rose.

  Her inhibitions banished by the warm alcohol inside her, she began searching his eyes to see if indeed she could detect any elusive force behind his gaze, which began to match hers with the same growing fervor.

  Maybe those chips of golden ice floating in the amber orbs were picking up her every thought, because he moved closer, put down his goblet and crooked a finger under her chin. She responded to his touch the way her body was responding to the wine, invitingly, openly. She welcomed his mouth upon hers, as he parted her lips with his tongue and thrust it inside, slowly, and she tasted his warmth mingled with the wine's perfumey essence.

  He clasped her shoulders and she rose, her fingers intertwining through his lustrous hair, their mouths still playfully exploring, not yet having demanded that crushing possession. She knew not where she was going, but she no longer cared; he was the King and she was thoroughly at his command.

  The wine had dulled nothing; on the contrary, it had awakened her senses, making her more receptive to him. Their embrace tightened, and his fiery touch caused a moan to escape the depths of her throat, as his hands wandered and lingered.

  "Why has not a beautiful creature like you been wed?"

  Not giving her a chance to reply, his tongue tickled her earlobe and his whispered words came just as hotly: "You are by far the loveliest woman at court. All the others look like tarnished silver in comparison."

  She wondered if that comparison included the Queen. "Why, thank you, sire," was all she could think of to say, flattered and embarrassed at the same time, with a trickle of fear now teasing her.

  "I would possess you as my very own, lest any other man lay eyes on you, and enjoy your beauty as I do."

  She construed his choice of words. Mark's words 'play toy' whipped through her head. "Do you propose to lock me up with the rest of the royal treasury, my lord?" she forced a playful lilt into her voice.

  "Nay, I shall let you come up for air occasionally," he quipped, pouring them more wine, which she didn't make a move to touch. "But now that you are here, I don't believe I can bear to let you out of my reach." He sat and pulled her down onto his lap.

  "I can't sit by your side on the throne with you, sire."

  "But you can sit by me during private moments...like these." His lips, moist and hot with wine, nibbled at her neck. She fought the growing arousal churning inside her.

  "I thought we were going to play music, sire."

  "Ah, music. I love my music, but the music of lovemaking brings me rapture that a mere instrument never could. I make my best music with the body of a beautiful woman, making her my instrument, creating exquisite harmony with my own. Let me put you to music, Amethyst." His voice dripped with innuendo, but she ignored his suggestive tone.

  "I'm not feeling very...musical right now, my lord. 'Tis a trait peculiar to all artists, as you must know... The mood must be upon me."

  Her attempt to slide off his lap intensified his swelling passion. "I have within me strings that are vibrating strongly enough to create an outburst of sound, a duet of which you have never seen...or heard. We shall be within the throes of a fantasia you never knew existed outside a conservatory!"

  "Nay, Your Majesty, I can't! This just isn't right; 'tis so unexpected, just please... Please let me go."

  She could see him dismissing her angrily, and in the same breath calling for Bessie, or whomever he fancied at the moment.

  He seemed too startled to retain her and she nearly fell out of his lap in a scramble to compose herself and stand dizzily on her feet. "I must preserve my honor."

  "Well, then, who better to honor you than your King? What better sword for your sheath than a royal one?" The twinkle in his eyes returned with the melodic tone of his voice, as he reached for his wine and once again, partook of its pleasure almost as fervently as he'd done her.

  "Please, sire, give me...give me more time. This came as such a...surprise!"

  "Very well. I shall wait. I am a king, and patience is my greatest virtue. But I am also a man, and patience wears thin, so I don't expect you'll torment me again."

  "Nay, sire, I've no wish to torment you. It's just, well, I am untouched and unschooled in the musical arts to which you are, er, commanding me."

  "I see."

  "I hope you do, sire," she said with a blush.

  "I have no wish to command any subject against their will."

  "Thank you. I am not saying it is against my will, only that it is so great an honor that I can scarcely grasp what is being asked of me. What it might mean to me and my whole family to become so, er, intimate with your inner circle and the King's Musick."

  "I understand."

  "I hope you do. I may only be from the country and not brought up at court but I know only too well what it means to have a poor reputation.

  "I do understand, truly. As I said, I have no wish to force you."

  "Thank you for giving me time."

  "Then you will return at my next invitation?"

  She blushed. "Aye, sire." She found herself curtsying, nodding, eagerly anticipating their next meeting, but dreading it just the same.

  Later in her own retiring chamber, she thrilled at the feel of his mouth against hers, almost ashamed of the way she'd responded. Then she thought of her family and her honor.

  She shook her head and sighed. No, as much as she wanted to be with him as a woman would be with the man she loved, she could not become one in a string of the King's mistre
sses.

  She hurried back to her chamber. If she was fleet of foot, she could be back on the road in no time and intercept her luggage before it ever arrived. She would head back to Warwickshire by the fastest means possible and that would be the end of the King's mild interest in her, of that she was sure.

  She suppressed a small twinge of regret and ran for her cloak.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Warwick Castle, July, 1521