B009RYSCAU EBOK

by Gillian Bagwell

  On Christmas Day, Bess recalled the excitement and gaiety of the previous Christmas. That seemed a lifetime ago. It was hard to imagine that she would ever feel joyful again, when death and terror hung so heavy in the air.

  The New Year brought no joy, but only the reconvening of Parliament, which took up the matter of the bill of attainder against Catherine Howard. Sir George was daily at the palace and reported what was said of Cat.

  “She is calm now,” he reported. “Now that she has accepted she will die, she wants to die well and leave a good impression in the minds of the people.”

  Lizzie was called to the palace to attend a banquet with the king and sixty other ladies. She dressed in her best finery, but the vivid colors only emphasized the pallor of her face.

  “I felt like a lamb in a pen with the rest of the flock, hoping that his eye should light on someone else,” she told Bess and Doll, shuddering. “And from what I could tell, the others felt the same.”

  A few days later Sir George strode into Lady Zouche’s chamber looking more angry and distressed than Bess had ever seen him.

  “What is it, my love?” Lady Zouche went to him in alarm.

  “When the council members arrived at Syon and told the queen that she would be taken to the Tower, she would not go, and was at last grappled into the barge by main force.” He thrust Lady Zouche away from him and paced, running his hands through his hair distractedly. “Oh, God, the thought of it. Poor girl. She is a silly thing but has not deserved this fate.”

  Lizzie clutched Bess’s hand so tightly that Bess thought her fingers would break.

  “Is she to be burned?” Lady Zouche cried.

  Bess’s stomach rose in nausea and terror. Oh, please, God, no.

  “No,” Sir George said. “He will spare her that. It will be the headsman, and on Tower Green, not on Tower Hill, for all to see.”

  Lizzie let out a strangled cry. Bess felt her knees turn to water beneath her and she slumped to the cold stone of the floor. Only the axe, thank God. But—the axe. She thought of what Cat must be feeling, locked away in the Tower, knowing that she would emerge only to mount the scaffold.

  Late on the night of Sunday, the twelfth of February, Bess heard the terrible sound of a man weeping. She crept on bare feet to the door of Lady Zouche’s chamber. Sir George was huddled on the bed, his head on Lady Zouche’s lap.

  “She asked that the block be brought to her chamber,” he sobbed. “So that she might practice laying her head upon it so she would not falter and look foolish as she goes to her death.”

  Bess felt her heart rend and stifled a cry of horror.

  “She dies tomorrow then?” Lady Zouche asked, cradling her husband.

  “Yes, God save her.”

  What was Cat doing at this very moment? Bess wondered. She recalled that Queen Anne was said to have chattered and laughed on the night before she died. Was Cat trying to banish her fears in such a way? Was she weeping again, distraught and terrified? Perhaps she was praying. Bess hoped she was praying, and that the prayers brought her comfort and courage.

  The next morning Bess stared out the window, looking east toward the Tower. A bitter wind whipped the leafless trees, and a silver frost covered the ground. She started as a cannon boomed in the distance. Cat was dead.

  I will never marry, she swore silently. I will never put myself at the mercy of a man. Better by far to die in poverty, to join a nunnery, to go back to Hardwick in shame. But I will never marry.

  Part Two

  WIFE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seventeenth of December, 1542—London

  GIRLS, SUCH WONDERFUL NEWS!”

  Lady Zouche swept into her bedchamber, her eyes alight, and Bess and the other girls looked up from their sewing. Bess was surprised but pleased to see her mistress so happy.

  “The king has invited us to the masque at court on New Year’s Day! This promises a happy start to next year!”

  “I hope so,” Doll muttered to Bess. “It would be hard to have a year start more dismally than this one did.”

  “His Majesty’s spirits must be improving,” Audrey said, bringing a cup of spiced wine to Lady Zouche’s seat by the fireside.

  “Yes, indeed.” Lady Zouche’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “Of course he was much pleased at the defeat of the Scots at Solway—not even three weeks ago—and now we learn that the Scottish king has died, leaving a newborn girl as queen.”

  “How can a baby girl rule Scotland?” Doll wondered.

  “That’s just the point; she can’t!” Lady Zouche exclaimed. “Her mother, Mary of Guise, will serve as regent, but she will have much to do to contend with the nobles, who will be fighting like a pack of wolves to see who shall wield real power. Scotland has been dealt a blow.” She set down her goblet and jumped to her feet. “Now, what can we give the king for a New Year’s gift?”

  “Jewels?” Lizzie suggested.

  “Perhaps. But the gift must be more than sumptuous. It must be unusual; it must delight him.”

  “What about a dwarf?” Doll cried. After a moment of astonished silence, Bess and the other girls hooted with laughter.

  “Well, what’s wrong with a dwarf?” Doll asked, flushing.

  “Nothing, dear heart, it’s an excellent idea,” Lady Zouche soothed her. “But His Majesty already has that fool—what’s his name?”

  “Will,” Bess said. “Will Somers.”

  “Yes, Somers. And besides, a gift like that would only give the king another mouth to feed and another body needing lodging.”

  “Not a very big lodging,” Doll sniffed.

  “No, perhaps not.” Lady Zouche smiled.

  Bess’s mind was churning. She had been enchanted by a table she had seen at Dorset House when she had accompanied Lady Zouche there on a recent visit to Frances Grey, the Marchioness of Dorset.

  “Lady Dorset has a most wonderful table,” she ventured. “Inlaid with wood in different colors, in a pattern of knots and rings. There was a chessboard on top of it.”

  Lady Zouche frowned and Bess wished she had not spoken. Of course a mere table would not be a grand enough present for the king.

  “I noted it, too; it is exquisite,” Lady Zouche said, and Bess’s hopes rose. “And what if it were not just any table? For you have given me such an idea, Bess! A tabletop with two sides, one with some pattern—birds and flowers, perhaps, with the king’s initials worked among them—and the other a chessboard!”

  “And the table could open to hold the pieces!” Bess cried.

  Lady Zouche clapped her hands in delight. “You have hit upon it! A chess set in a table!”

  “And perhaps,” Bess ventured, wondering if her new idea was too silly, “perhaps the pieces could be Englishmen and Scots? With His Majesty as the English king, and the baby Queen of Scots on the other side?”

  Lady Zouche practically whooped with laughter, and Bess grinned in delight that her idea had proved so good.

  “Yes! His Majesty as the fair-haired king, and as the dark queen, little Mary, Queen of Scots!” Her face suddenly became somber. “But New Year’s Day is only a fortnight away. Could such a thing be made in that time? It must be, that is all. Ah, my dear Bess, you are a marvel of inspiration!”

  * * *

  LONDON WAS BITTER COLD, AND COUGHS AND CATARRHS SPREAD rapidly through the court. As the light faded on Christmas Eve, Bess sat at the bedside of a boy named Robbie Barlow as he sipped a warm posset. He had joined the Zouche household a few weeks earlier as a page, and since he had grown up not far from Hardwick and was desperately homesick, he had sought Bess’s companionship. He was shivering, though he was weighed down by quilts and coverlets, and her heart ached for the sad expression on his pale face.

  “Do you know, I think I might have met you when you were still in petticoats,” she told him, smiling. “For I was with my family at the fair at Chesterfield and I recall my father greeting yours, and your mother standing by with a sweet little boy.”


  Robbie sniffled and flushed. “You needn’t make out you were a grown girl. You are not much older than I.”

  “Two years,” Bess said, pulling playfully on his foot, which was peeking out from the covers. “Not much of a difference now that you are a great boy of thirteen, but all the world when I was six and you were four.”

  “That’s so,” Robbie conceded, apparently mollified by her words. “Do you think I will be able to eat Christmas dinner?”

  “If you’re feeling well enough, I’m sure you’ll be allowed.”

  The thought of Christmas made her think of her family, so far away. It had been three years since she left home, and she missed them intensely. Letters brought news and assurances of love, but were not the same as being able to feel her mother’s arms around her. She thought Robbie was beginning to look a little tearful, and tried to shake off her own longing for home.

  “Come,” she said. “Tell me what you like best to eat at Christmas.”

  “Mince pies,” he said without hesitation. “And Twelfth Night cake, and wassail to go with it.”

  “Mm, me, too! And marchpane, and Christmas pudding, and a nice fat goose.”

  “Will they have those here, too?” Robbie queried.

  “All those and more,” Bess assured him. “For Sir George and Lady Zouche will entertain many of their friends from now until Twelfth Night.”

  “I’m glad there are twelve days to Christmas,” Robbie sighed, putting aside his empty cup. “Surely I will be well enough to have fun on some of them.”

  * * *

  ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, AS THE ZOUCHES AND THEIR ATTENDANTS made their way to the presence chamber of Hampton Court, Bess was very excited. For on this day the king would be presented with his gift—the splendid table and chess pieces, which had been completed in time and had traveled from London swaddled in layers of wool.

  The mood at court was lighter and happier than at any time Bess could recall. Anne of Cleves was present, companionably chatting with King Henry, and the shadow of Catherine Howard was almost dispelled by the warmth and light from the hundreds of candles, which made the air redolent of honey. A band of musicians played jaunty dance tunes, and the walls were hung with garlands of holly and ivy. Near the king, a table was stacked with gifts of such magnificence that it staggered Bess. Golden goblets, engraved silver coffers, books in richly ornamented bindings, jeweled collars and belts, furs of deep and gleaming pile, which she longed to touch. But nothing like the chess table the Zouches had brought.

  Rich pastries and savory morsels were piled on platters, and great bowls of punch perfumed the air with their steam. The room rang with laughter and chatter. Bess, Lizzie, and Doll took up a position near the door where they could watch each new arrival while Audrey trailed Lady Zouche as she made her way around the room greeting her friends.

  “There’s Anne Basset,” Doll said. “I like her. She always makes me laugh.”

  “Lady Latimer is looking very pretty, don’t you think?” Bess asked, eyeing the lady’s emerald silk gown with envy. She didn’t recognize the handsome dark-haired man next to her, but knew it was not Lord Latimer. “Her husband must be too ill to be here.”

  “Small wonder, as old as he is,” Doll whispered. “That’s Sir Thomas Seymour with her.”

  Bess looked more closely at the gentleman. “The brother of the late Queen Jane? So it is.”

  “Yes,” Doll said. “People say that he’s already wooing Lady Latimer.”

  “Have you seen her brother, William Parr?” Lizzie asked in an excited whisper. “Look, there he is, over by that table.”

  Bess looked and saw a tall young man with vivid blue eyes and a russet beard. He was handsome, she thought, but there was something a trifle arrogant about him that she didn’t like.

  “Oh, I’d like to dance with him!” Lizzie giggled. “And do more than that, too!”

  “Lizzie!” Doll cried, shocked. “He’s married!”

  “Barely! His wife ran off with a church prior and has borne him a bastard!”

  “And from what I’ve heard,” Doll said, “he’s been working his way through the maids of honor at court since then.”

  “Sounds like one to avoid,” Bess said. “Heartbreak is all he’d bring.”

  Lizzie tossed her head, dislodging a dark curl from her cap. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve heard that the king might let him divorce his wife. And he’s to be made Earl of Essex.”

  Doll raised her eyebrows at Bess. Yes, Bess thought, Lizzie certainly seemed to be quite smitten with the comely William Parr. And as beautiful as she was, especially this evening, her full breasts barely contained by her bodice, her rosy skin glowing in the candlelight, she would no doubt succeed in capturing his attention, if she wished to.

  Soon the dancing began. Bess was wearing a new gown of a deep blue that made her eyes sparkle and set off her fair complexion. She had been rigorously following Lady Zouche’s instructions about caring for her skin, keeping her face and bosom shadowed from the sun, bathing them in milk, and applying a rich cream of honey and almonds at night. Now her freckles had faded and her skin was a glowing alabaster. Catching sight of herself in a mirror, with the flicker of candles behind her, she thought with satisfaction that she looked very pretty. Though she could never look as lovely as Lizzie, she thought with a sigh.

  “Mistress, would you honor me with a dance?”

  Bess’s head snapped around to find a handsome fair-haired gentleman smiling down at her. His glinting eyes seemed the same color as his dark green velvet doublet. He was probably not yet thirty, but he was a man, no boy. And he was treating her as a lady, not as a little girl. She felt caught off guard and felt a surge of self-doubt, such as she had experienced when first she had arrived at Codnor Castle. She shook off her nerves. How silly—all he wanted was a dance, after all, and she was quite a good dancer now.

  “I shall be most pleased, sir,” she said, placing her hand in his upturned palm and smiling a farewell to Lizzie and Doll.

  He led her to the center of the floor where other couples were forming sets. Bess caught a glimpse of Lady Zouche with a knot of other ladies and noted her approving smile. The music began—a lively galliard. Bess knew she was dancing well and was glad of the dancing lessons she and the other girls had been having.

  “I am Christopher Winters,” her partner said, leaning close to her as he swayed in the steps of the dance.

  “And I’m Bess Hardwick.”

  “I know who you are. I wasted no time in finding out as soon as I saw you.”

  His eyes were bright and Bess felt herself blushing. She found it difficult to catch her breath while they danced, but decided it was better not to talk much, anyway. The dancers were at the center of attention and she felt conspicuous. If she could just smile and dance she would not make too much a fool of herself.

  The dance finished and Christopher led her back to where Doll still stood. “I thank you, Mistress Bess.”

  “I thank you, sir.” Bess sank into a curtsy as he bowed his farewell.

  “He’s lovely,” Doll breathed as he disappeared into the throng. “And he looked smitten with you. Never took his eyes off you once.”

  “Well, what was he supposed to do?” Bess said. “It would have been quite rude to be staring around the room while we danced, wouldn’t it?”

  Doll laughed. “You are funny. Do you not know how pretty you are? It won’t be long afore you’ve a husband and are set up in a house of your own. And what will I do then?” She pouted playfully.

  “Silly goose,” Bess said. But her thoughts were whirling. She felt intoxicated by the attention from the young man, which seemed to hold the promise of excitement beyond anything she had felt before. But with romance came marriage, and with it danger. Could she not just enjoy an evening’s dancing, without being trapped?

  No, not and fulfill her duty, spoke a voice at the back of her head. Her mother had sent her to the Zouches so that she might find a suitable husb
and, and by a good marriage she would help her family. And the beginning of any match was sure to be very like that dance. No action she took was without consequence. She wanted to ask what Lizzie had thought of Christopher Winters but didn’t see her.

  “Where’s Lizzie?” she asked.

  “Dancing,” Doll said. “With William Parr.” She nodded her head toward the center of the room. Lizzie was hand in hand with Parr, gazing up into his face with adoration.

  “Oh, of all loves,” Bess sighed. “I hope she hasn’t got into deeper waters than she can navigate.”

  Bess danced with many others, but Christopher Winters returned to her twice more, and she felt his eyes on her throughout the evening, and his gaze made her recall the feel of his hands on hers, the scent of his hair, the sound of his laughter. His attention was intoxicating.

  Late in the evening it was time for the gifts, and the entire glittering company gathered to watch as the king admired each new offering. He was very pleased with his table.

  “What a cunning thing!” he exclaimed, flipping the table top back and forth. “Look at this, madam—is it not beautifully wrought?”

  It was Lady Latimer to whom he spoke, and she left Thomas Seymour’s side to hasten to the king and curtsy swiftly before running a hand over the elaborate inlay.

  “It is most fine, Your Majesty. So smooth. Like satin.”

  “This is undoubtedly the most splendid gift I could have asked for!” the king exclaimed. He held up the white king, his own face and figure carved in pale maple wood.

  “George, Lady Zouche, I compliment you on your most excellent taste and judgment.”

  Lady Zouche beamed as she curtsied deeply to the king.

  It was my idea, Bess thought, gratified that the king had been so pleased with the gift that had been her inspiration. Even as she thought it, Lady Zouche turned to her with a smile, took her by the hand, and drew her forward.