Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  But as she strode through the torchlit alley, Elizabeth’s attention was focused inward. Suddenly it was the noise of her own shoes padding along the dirt way that pierced her thoughts.

  Twenty paces from her father’s tent, Elizabeth stopped short. A cold wave washed over her as she considered what lay ahead. For the past quarter hour, she’d been arguing repeatedly with her father and had been able to convince him to rescind his earlier demands. Tomorrow, Elizabeth would return to France with Mary, where she could care for her sister and they would all forget what took place. Looking at the dimly lit tent, Elizabeth felt suddenly limp and tired. The problem was that their productive exchange had taken place only in her head.

  The two reeling knights who now knocked Elizabeth to the ground did not even cast a glance at the toppled woman.

  “Watch where you go, lad,” one of the men growled roughly as they continued on their way.

  Elizabeth peered up at their retreating backs in amazement. Rising, she shook the dust off the Macpherson tartan.

  She stared down at the garment in her hands. At the plaid kilt. At the shapeless shirt draped over her torso. Lad! They thought her a man. She gazed back at the now-deserted alley and then back at her apparel. She’d walked through groups of them and not a soul had said a thing to her. These were the same hungry men who—in their present condition, at least—equated women to meat. Lad!

  Shaking off the thought that was edging into her brain, Elizabeth turned her attention back to the confrontation that lay ahead. Dread flooded through her at what she thought might be her father’s reaction. But what other choice had she left? Elizabeth stared at the attendant nodding beside the open entrance of the tent. The English soldier lifted his head and looked at her blankly. Not finding her stance a threat, the man nodded back to sleep.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and started for the opening. The die was cast; she must carry this through. Noiselessly, she slipped past the guard into the tent.

  Sir Thomas sat at his table, a lamp flickering at his elbow. A few papers were spread before him, but nearly everything else had been packed up and stacked near the door for his departure the next day. Standing in the deep shadows, Elizabeth studied her father for a moment. Whatever her mother had seen in him, those many years ago, nothing remained that Elizabeth could discern. Though he now lacked any semblance of gentleness or feeling, she knew he once must have been different.

  Sir Thomas was the younger son of a wealthy country squire. Hardly noble and in no position to inherit, he learned early that a man needed to use every resource at his disposal to get ahead in life.

  Apparently a man of great knowledge and charm at his younger years, Sir Thomas had used his father’s connections to enter King Henry VIII’s service. Knowledgeable in several languages, Sir Thomas had taken his first diplomatic mission in France, where he’d met and perhaps loved the young and beautiful Catherine Valmont.

  The noble lady’s lineage was long and impressive, and her parents’ horror at the thought of a penniless young Englishman in the family had forced their ultimatum: If she chose to marry him, she would forfeit all claim to her rank and wealth. Catherine had accepted the condition without a moment’s hesitation. After all, she loved him, and that was all that mattered.

  Then, to almost no one’s surprise, Sir Thomas had walked away from Catherine, but not before he had planted his seed.

  Catherine Valmont, cast out by her own family, was left alone, bereft and with child. Nine months later Elizabeth had been born.

  For Sir Thomas, love was a condition that could not be allowed in the way of his own upward mobility. Marriage was a contract that allowed the committed parties the ability to improve their social position. Without her family, Catherine had nothing to offer him. So Thomas caught hold of a daughter in the noble English family of Howard. And by that union he attained the Earldom of Ormonde, a title far above anything he’d ever dreamed possible.

  Marriage had been a joyless state, but it had produced the results Thomas had sought: wealth, position, and power.

  Despite the glamour, Elizabeth knew that her father had paid the price. He had never been loved by his young bride as he’d been loved by Catherine. And after his wife’s death in childbirth, the Howard family had made certain he knew he was an outsider. He didn’t belong.

  From what Elizabeth could gather, it was then that her father had set his course with the king. This grim man standing before her had shut out everything in life besides his mission as a diplomat and a servant to his king. It was all he had left. They were words that defined him, for he never seemed to exist beyond that. Diplomat and servant. Outside of the presence of King Henry, Sir Thomas Boleyn became a hollow, miserable, bad-tempered old man who seemed to take very little pleasure in life.

  Her father’s hands rested flat on the table, his attention focused on a moth fluttering about the base of the lamp. Elizabeth could read no expression on his pale face. His eyes were black and empty.

  Without warning, the man’s hand flashed in the lamplight, and his wide palm smashed down with a thunderous bang on the unsuspecting moth. Lifting the lifeless insect by one shattered wing, Sir Thomas inspected the creature carefully. Then, with an expression of clear disdain, he dropped the moth’s carcass into the flame, watching with renewed interest as it flared and sizzled before crumbling to ash.

  Elizabeth stepped closer to the circle of light.

  Sir Thomas’s eyes darted toward her, and Elizabeth saw him master a quick look of fear that flashed across his face as he peered into the darkness at the Scottish attire.

  For ten years Thomas Boleyn had been working to drive a stake into the heart of the Scottish and French alliance. Learning his craft under the Tudor kings, Sir Thomas had found that the handshakes of diplomacy were rarely effective without the sharp edge of a dagger visible in the other hand. Indeed, his position had often called for duplicity and ruthlessness, and Sir Thomas had long ago proved himself a master of the craft. But as a result, Thomas Boleyn was a man with enemies. Deadly enemies.

  Elizabeth watched his hand go directly to his waist and to the short sword she knew he would be wearing.

  “Who is it, there? And what’s your business with me?” His tone was sharp and commanding, his face now hardened and bloodless.

  “It is I, Father.” Elizabeth watched the confusion muddle his stern expression. “It is Elizabeth.”

  Sir Thomas sat back in his chair and glared across the table.

  “Eliz— Why are you here, girl?” His eyes swept over her. “What are you doing wearing those foul weeds?”

  Elizabeth glanced down at her clothes and hid her trembling hands behind her. Fear shot through her like bolts of lightning, but she needed to go through with this. Now, while she was alone with him, without Madame Exton present. Sir Thomas, despite his crafty ways, hardly knew Elizabeth well enough to question her word. But Madame would know.

  “Speak, girl,” the man roared. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been to the Scot.”

  Sir Thomas sneered in disdain. “You’ve dined with the devil. Hasn’t anyone told you how much I hate their entire race? They are worse than animals. They are mindless scum, cluttering our land.”

  “I’ve done more than dine with him.”

  The man’s voice was cold and deadly. “What the devil have you done?”

  “I’m no longer a virgin.” She looked him straight in the eye. Her words were sharp, quick, and piercing. “No longer.”

  He gasped, staring. “Nay. Don’t lie to me.” Placing his hands on the table to support his weight, Sir Thomas stood. “Do you think me so simple?” Without taking his eyes from her, he shouted for his squire. “John!”

  The young soldier stumbled at once into the tent. His sleepy eyes traveled from his master to the young Scot.

  “Go to Madame Exton. Tell her to come here immediately.” Seeing the boy hesitate and begin to draw a sword on Elizabeth rather than retreat, he shouted. “
Damn it, boy. This is my daughter. And make no pretense of duty now. She passed your sleeping carcass to get in here. Now go!”

  Elizabeth felt panic seep quickly through her body. Her scalp was prickling with fear. There was no time left. She had to convince him of this lie before her cousin’s arrival. The older woman would be able to see the truth. Elizabeth knew Madame Exton all too well. She would stop at nothing. She would probably examine Elizabeth herself before believing her words.

  She watched the squire disappear out the opening of the tent.

  “Look at me,” Elizabeth snapped, scorching her father’s downturned face with her own unrelenting gaze. She waited until the older man’s eyes focused on her, and then she continued. “I’m wearing the clothes of your enemy. I accepted his favor after the joust today. Hundreds witnessed it. You witnessed it. Ambrose Macpherson invited me to his tent. So tonight, I went to him. Your men saw me go. Every man in this Golden Vale saw me go. I went willingly and I slept with him.” Elizabeth paused, making certain that every word left its mark. “I lost my virginity. And I’m glad of it. I enjoyed it. Do you want to see the proof now, or would you care to wait for your dear Sadie’s arrival? We both know she is far more experienced in dealing with your daughters. But perhaps you should see the blood of lost innocence first.”

  Elizabeth reached inside the belt and began to draw out a kerchief.

  “Hold!” Sir Thomas breathed heavily where he stood. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. His fists clenched tight. “How...how could you? No better than a common whore. How could you defy me this way?”

  “Because my purity was not for you to sell. Damn it, I’m not for you to sell!” Elizabeth’s eyes never left his face. As her voice had earlier conveyed a calm and resolute chill, it now bore her full fury. “I did what I had to do. To save myself. Now I am no good to you or your king.”

  “My king?” he stormed, sputtering as he careened around the table toward her. “You—? With a filthy Scot?”

  “Aye,” she said, standing her ground. “I was willing to sleep with your enemy rather than allow you to give me over to that syphilitic goat.”

  With a roar, Sir Thomas lunged at his daughter, grabbing her by a long, thick lock of hair as she turned to evade his attack. Wheeling about, he smashed her face against the sharp edge of the table, and as he yanked her back again, Elizabeth saw her own blood flying in droplets into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

  Sir Thomas turned her around in his rage and glared wildly into her bloodied face. His one hand still held Elizabeth by her mane. “Do you know what happens to those who defy me?” he rasped.

  “Kill me,” she spat, her blood running in rivulets down her face and spreading on the pure white shirt. “No one is going to stop you. Kill me!” She fought back the tears that stung her eyes. “And I tell you now, I welcome this death. But then again, that shouldn’t surprise you. After all, I’m my mother’s daughter. But remember one thing. She preferred death to being away from you. But I...I long for the next world to get away from you.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes teared in anger. Wiping her hand across her bloodied cheek, she smeared it on her father’s doublet as he stared at her. “People said she took away her life with her own hands. The truth is that the stain of her blood, the guilt for her suicide, lies with you. And it has marked you for life. So go ahead. Kill me. Add another chain to the bonds that await you in hell. Go ahead, murderer. Kill me!”

  Repulsed, Sir Thomas shoved Elizabeth away from him. His hands moved up to his temples as he tried to stop the pounding in his head. He still remembered that grim day so long ago when he’d walked away from his beloved Catherine. She’d stopped him by the door, a sword in her hand, and had begged for him to end her life. She loved him truly. Looking into her tearful eyes, he had known that for certain. But he had simply taken the sword from her trembling hand and walked out the door. Three years later, her servant had found her dead in the same room, her wrists slashed. And Thomas Boleyn knew—he had always known—that Catherine Valmont was the only woman who had ever loved him.

  Elizabeth stood a step away. The pain and burning in her face didn’t come close to the hurt and anger that she felt in her heart. “Draw your sword. Kill me where I stand.” Her body shook as she moved toward him, reaching for his sword. “Come, I’ll die with a smile. I welcome death over the future you planned for me.”

  “Get away from me!” he screamed, pushing her away again.

  Elizabeth stumbled, righting herself as she saw the tent flap push open.

  Madame Exton and the soldier stared, astonished by the sight before them. Before they could react, Elizabeth ran past them, pushing her cousin into the stack of boxes by the door.

  Out into the night air she bolted, running blindly as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  “Stop her!” Elizabeth heard the hysteria in her cousin’s shrieking voice. “After her, you fool!”

  Pressing her hand hard against the gash along her cheekbone, Elizabeth raced down the alley. The shout of the squire and Madame Exton’s raging screams rang out behind her, but she never paused as she ran. She could feel the blood running through her fingers, but she dared not stop to tend it. Flying along the torchlit way, Elizabeth glanced back, catching sight of the soldier chasing after her. Turning corner after corner, she raced frantically in the direction of the clusters of French tents.

  She couldn’t let them catch her. Despite all that she had tried to do, Elizabeth knew if she was caught, Madame Exton would make sure Sir Thomas’s plans were carried out. Elizabeth knew, with a certainty that seethed in the pit of her stomach, she would be lying with King Henry before the next sunset. She knew her guardian would see to it.

  Panic swept through her as Elizabeth realized that her father’s squire was gaining on her. A grove of trees beyond the next line of shimmering tents marked the division between the rival countries’ courts, but Elizabeth suddenly felt weak, fearing she wouldn’t make it to the tents beyond. She could hear the soldier’s rasping breaths and pounding footsteps closing in.

  Rounding a sharp bend, Elizabeth ducked between two large pavilions. They were deserted, but both were too well lit with torches to provide a hiding place. Pausing, she listened to her heart pounding so loudly she thought it would surely give her away. At the sound of the pursuer’s footsteps, she held her breath and listened as he passed by. Then, by the light of the rising moon, she worked her way along the back of two more tents until she found herself at the edge of the wooded grove. Stepping into the shadows of the overhanging trees, Elizabeth paused to catch her breath.

  Assessing her situation, she peered down in the dimness at her bloody hands. Her entire body ached. Her lips were puffy and sore, a good match for the swollen cheek her father had given her that afternoon, but what really concerned her was the stinging, throbbing cut that continued to bleed profusely. She would have a scar, she was sure. He’d marked her. Her own father.

  Elizabeth looked up at the moonlit sky. Her problems were just beginning. She needed to get away from this place. But how? Everything she possessed was in the tent that she shared with Mary. All her worldly possessions, she thought, her derisive chuckle turning quickly into a wince of pain. Which meant her paints. But Madame Exton would be waiting for her. Elizabeth was certain of that. The only chance she had was to get a message to Mary. If she could just get her sister to meet her in secret. The ember of an idea was glowing teasingly in the corner of her mind.

  The sound of raised voices somewhere nearby startled Elizabeth, and she crouched low in the covering darkness. Whomever the voices belonged to, they were not far from where she’d taken refuge. Elizabeth’s first thought was to back out of the grove, but then a familiar voice caught her attention. Creeping forward through the underbrush, she soon spotted the flickering beam of a covered lamp. Following the glimmer of light and the murmuring voices, Elizabeth found herself on the edge of a small glade, and in the middle stood two men, one much larger than the other. H
e was speaking, and she recognized him instantly. The lamp shone faintly on them from a nearby stump.

  “How dare you question me now?” Peter Garnesche growled angrily. “After all this time. Years.”

  “Then tell me what was said,” the other man’s voice broke in. “You cannot suddenly begin keeping things from us. We know your king met with the envoys of Charles. I need the details.”

  “I don’t know what was said.”

  “You can find out. Don’t play games with me, Garnesche. We know your tentacles reach into every corner of that English court.”

  “My sources provided nothing. I could find no information.” The man’s voice lowered to a dangerous drawl. “You will just have to accept my word for it.”

  “Your word?” Elizabeth knew that sneering voice. He was a Frenchman. She wracked her brain. From court. Elizabeth remembered. The Lord Constable! The French king’s counselor.

  “You doubt me?” Garnesche scowled. “Do I have to remind you that it is in your best interest to continue relying on me? After all, who else could you find with such a wealth of useful information as I provide?”

  Elizabeth watched as the Lord Constable studied the giant before him.

  “I must admit what you say is true. We have been able to count on you in the past. And yes, we have watched you cut your own countrymen’s throats. Naturally, that has occurred only when it suited you. When it improved your own stature with your king.” The accusation was clear in the man’s tone.

  “I know what you’re referring to.” Garnesche glared menacingly at him. “The Duke of Buckingham was a pompous fool who spoke against me before the king in the Star Chamber. He was going to pay for that anyway. It just happened to be his misfortune that his claim to the throne was as good as Henry’s.”

  “A circumstance that you were delighted to use to put his head on the chopping block.” The Lord Constable’s voice dripped with cynicism.