Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  “Pain is the price of beauty, Elizabeth,” she would say. “But, of course, how would you know that?”

  So as the original symptoms of the disease disappeared, Mary had seemed to become as healthy as any other young woman of her age. But for Elizabeth, the most pleasing miracle of all had been that Jaime was born free of the pox.

  Soon after the disappointment of finding that it had been a daughter that she’d borne and not a son, Mary had given up her foolish dream of returning to Henry’s court in triumph. Faced with few options, she set her mind to make the most of their life in Florence and to enjoy her freedom.

  Dragging a second chest alongside the first, Elizabeth sighed. She had sorted out Mary’s wardrobe, and the one chest they would be taking contained only the finest, but most appropriate dresses.

  She thought back over the steadily increasing amount of clothing that had been accumulating over the past few years. It amazed her that they’d been able to keep themselves afloat. She could no longer count the times she’d put her foot down and brought Mary to her senses—for however short a period. Somehow, however, Elizabeth had managed to keep up with the money she required the reluctant Joseph and Erne to take from them. That had been Elizabeth’s condition from day one. She would only accept the gracious hospitality of these generous people if, and only if, they would accept some pittance of rent for the space the sisters occupied. But Elizabeth knew better than anybody else that even though the Bardis had accepted her terms, the couple spent ten times the amount she gave them on their young charges.

  “How did Mary take the news?”

  Elizabeth looked up in surprise. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she’d totally forgotten Jaime and Ernesta.

  “It’s been so quiet up here.” Ernesta continued, not waiting for the young woman’s answer. “I would have thought that she’d have at least one good crying fit over your decision.”

  Elizabeth had never thought it safe to tell the truth about the circumstances that had driven them to Florence and to the Bardis. And as if they understood, the subject had never been brought up. Last week, after her discussion with Pico, Elizabeth had confronted Mary about the details of what had taken place. That had been when a teary-eyed Mary had at last confessed to her older sister the news of her encounter with an Englishman from Henry’s court. Upon hearing the story, Elizabeth had known that it was time to run. Mary, shortsighted as she was, had spent a great deal of time flaunting the story of her past liaison with king of England. After all, she’d wanted to impress the young nobleman. The man, knowing Sir Thomas Boleyn and hearing of his daughters’ disappearance years back, had taken a keen interest, asking the woman more questions. That had been when Mary had recognized her error and had fled.

  For the past four years, the two sisters had been faceless, nameless—women lost in a time when war and change threatened to unhinge the entire world. No one, not even their own father, had any knowledge of their whereabouts or even their existence. For four years they had been safe. But on the other side, Joseph had kept Elizabeth apprised of the news of England. She had even overheard a conversation between two English merchants once, about the power that Sir Peter Garnesche had lately acquired in the shifting sands of English court politics. When Mary had told her of being so foolishly discovered, Elizabeth feared it was only a matter of time before Garnesche would hear the news of them. And to protect the power and position he now held, he would come after her—or send some assassin to do his dirty work.

  “It must be really bad, child, if you don’t even want to talk about it.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in response. “She wants to go. She really does.”

  “Oh? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I could never understand her, anyway.” Ernesta stood up and took the little child by the hand. “We’ll go down to the garden and give you time to finish up. Joseph said his men will be over bright and early in the morning to pick up the trunks. I wish we didn’t have to go to the farewell party at Condivi’s tonight. But we won’t stay long. We all need to get our rest tonight. We’ll be on the road for over a month.”

  “I still think you two are going too far to watch over us.”

  Ernesta clucked her tongue in response. “We would not have it any other way. You should know by now that Joseph and I will not let you three just go off into the wilderness.”

  “But you have a business to run. You should not just throw everything over just for us.”

  “Nonsense. You heard Joseph. We’re going on this trip not just to see you safely ensconced there, it’s good for us, too. The wool that has been coming out of Scotland in the last couple of years has been constantly improving. We have to go. With this trip and the one we’ll take when we bring you back, we could build enough contacts to begin trading. Who knows, it could mean a fortune.”

  “I’m sure that’s the only thing on your mind,” Elizabeth said skeptically. “Erne, do you know if Joseph has gotten any response from Queen Margaret’s envoy?”

  “You know he wasn’t planning on hearing any. But I don’t think we need to worry. From what I hear, the Baron of Roxburgh’s mission in Rome has nothing to do with us, so I’m certain he’ll be glad to know we decided not to wait for him. He would have thought us a nuisance, anyway. You know these nobles—talking, feasting, God knows what else. It’ll be fine. We’ll be in Scotland before he even leaves Rome.”

  Chapter 14

  The ground shook from the thunder of two massive horses pounding side by side through the gathering dusk.

  Ambrose Macpherson, Baron of Roxburgh, stared ahead at the lights of the torches that set the city of Florence aglow even in the midst of the growing darkness. He looked over at his friend, Sir Gavin Kerr. From the giant warrior’s expression, as black as the thick mane that ruffled in the wind, Ambrose could tell that the knight was still angry with him for setting them on the road before they’d planned. Gavin, newly arrived from Venice, had been ready to enjoy a brief but leisurely stay in Rome before the two started their long journey back to Scotland. But yesterday, as Ambrose finished his talks with the Pope, the painter’s message had arrived.

  So, before he could even get enough information to talk his friend out of any hasty decisions, Gavin had found himself on the road to Florence.

  Ambrose Macpherson knew he was in no position to divulge to Gavin all that he’d been privy to in these sensitive discussions in Paris, Florence, and Rome. But he had to act. Ambrose knew if they did not stop the painter from traveling north, then the unsuspecting artist was certain to encounter the advancing armies of Charles as the Holy Roman Emperor moved south. And having such a small number of men in his company on this trip, Ambrose was in no mood to confront any larger forces just to save the stubborn hide of an impulsive artist.

  Ambrose turned and shouted to his companion. “I have a shilling says you can’t beat me to church at the top of the next rise, you gruesome son of a goatherd.”

  “Goatherd?” the giant roared. “I’ll bury your ugly face in the dust of this horse before that rise.”

  Ambrose laughed and urged his steed a half length ahead.

  The message from Phillipe de Anjou had said that he could wait no longer—he was leaving for Scotland. What’s the rush? Ambrose thought with annoyance. Worse, his plan was to go north to the Rhine River, to Cologne, and across to Antwerp for passage to Scotland. Right into the middle of a probable battle between Francis and Charles, Ambrose cursed. In the painter’s message, he had mentioned the name of a Florentine merchant—Bardi or something, a man obviously as empty-headed as the artist himself—who was going to escort him to his destination. So there was no need for Ambrose’s service. Well, that was true enough. Taking that route, they’d all be dead in few days, the Highlander thought.

  They had ridden hard since yesterday, stopping only to change horses, following the old Roman road from the sprawling congestion of the hill city northward. Through the moonlit night and the dusty, sun-drenched da
y, the two had ridden through a blur of towns and villages. Now the sun was low as Ambrose and Gavin crossed into Florentine lands. Driving themselves to reach the city before its heavy gates were closed for the night, Ambrose peered ahead through the dusky light as they neared the serpentine Arno.

  “Do you think we can make it?” Gavin yelled, spurring his breathless steed ahead still faster.

  “Just hide your ugly face, my friend,” Ambrose returned, peering over at the giant. “I don’t want you to scare them into closing the gates before it’s time.”

  “You scurvy Highland blackguard. It’s usually just one look at your scarred dog’s face that makes people pass out.”

  “That’s not passing out, you hideous beast. That’s called swooning,” Ambrose shouted with a grin as they made the last bend in the road before the straight run toward the gates. “And women like to languish at my feet. After all, I do have a remedy for their affliction.”

  Gavin shook his head. “One of these days, Ambrose Macpherson. One of these days.”

  Florence’s ancient walls rose before them, and Ambrose and Gavin swept across the wide stone bridge and into the city as the company of armed men prepared to close the heavy gates.

  Reining in his horse, Ambrose turned and eyed his dust-covered friend. “You do look like the devil, Gavin.”

  “Of course I do. It makes me all the more endearing. But you can sit here and talk all night. This handsome devil is going to find food and a bed.”

  “Very well. I’ll go find the painter, and we’ll meet at that inn you like—the Vista del Rosa—down by the cathedral.”

  “Aye, the Rosa.” Gavin sighed. “I can see that bonny lass Pia right now, pouring me that bowl of wine. But how will you convince the painter to come with you? That is, if he’s still in Florence.”

  “Well, his message said they were departing tomorrow, so he’d better be here. And as for convincing, the man has no choice. We are here, aren’t we?”

  Gavin looked around at the town, alive with people who appeared dressed for a feast day. Nightlife in Florence was far different than nightlife anywhere else in Europe. “Aye, we’re here. But our men are not. They’re still a day’s ride behind us. And this Phillipe fellow seems to be in a bit of a rush. How do you plan to convince our impatient artist to wait around for a couple of days?”

  “I’ll talk to him first. But if that doesn’t work, I may just tie and gag him.”

  “But Ambrose, you always tell me that’s my style, not yours.”

  “True.” The nobleman shook his head. “I have to get away from you. You are clearly a bad influence on me.”

  “Flatter me all you want, Ambrose. You still owe me that shilling.”

  With only a scowl for an answer, the Baron of Roxburgh turned his steed around and headed across town.

  Elizabeth quietly tiptoed away from Jaime’s bed. The child had at last fallen sleep. Elizabeth was hardly surprised, though. With all the excitement and the tumultuous goings-on surrounding the upcoming journey, the painter was amazed she’d even been able to coax the little girl into closing her eyes.

  “Are you quite certain you don’t want to go?” Mary called.

  Elizabeth placed her fingers to her lips and moved closer to the center of the room. A wooden dividing screen, ornately decorated with birds and flowers, separated the private changing area from the rest of the large room. Mary peered over the top, watching her sister advance. At the last moment Mary stepped around the end of the screen and whirled about in front of her sister.

  “So what do you think?”

  Elizabeth gazed at the maroon satin dress, the bodice hugging the young woman’s figure and the neckline cut low enough for a generous display of Mary’s ample bosom. Stepping back to get a better look, Elizabeth could not avoid tripping over one of the piles of clothing lying about. “For God’s sake, Mary! I already packed all this once!”

  “I know, I know. But I couldn’t decide what to wear.” The young woman grabbed a black silk shawl from a nearby bench and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I was just trying to follow your advice. It would have been much easier to just go and have a new dress made for tonight, but you keep complaining about...well, it doesn’t matter. Because after all, there wasn’t really enough time to have something nice made. And...oh, well. I’m off.”

  “Don’t forget, we are leaving at sunrise.”

  Mary turned her pouting face on her sister. “How could I forget? Joseph and Ernesta will be there at Condivi’s house. I know the way they are—they’ll be watching my every move. And Erne already told me right out that I will be coming home with them tonight. Really...as if I were a child! Oh, well. Ciao!”

  Elizabeth watched in silence as Mary turned on her heel and disappeared through the doorway. Even now, Elizabeth found it difficult to blame her sister. Mary’s life had certainly not turned out the way she’d expected.

  Gazing about her at the mess, she sank onto the edge of a trunk. Life was nothing like she’d hoped it would be, either. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head into her hands. She had never imagined herself so unhappy, so unsatisfied.

  This is foolishness, she chided herself, forcing her eyes open. Don’t pity yourself for choices you made. For the things you yourself wanted.

  The tub she’d carefully filled with water from the kitchen seemed to beckon to her from its spot by the open window.

  Elizabeth stood and crossed the room to it. This was surely to be the last bath before they reached Scotland. Closing the double shutter slightly, she backed away and pulled her work smock over her head. Unlacing the tight leather corset she’d devised that bound her chest tightly, she sighed deeply as the familiar pressure on her breasts eased. Slipping out of the rest of her men’s clothes, Elizabeth picked up the silk dressing gown her sister had carelessly discarded and held it to her lips. The smooth, slippery texture of the material felt so good, and yet so foreign to her skin. Even the faint scent of rose water struck her as exotic. Pulling the robe on, she walked to the looking glass behind the screen and gazed at the somber creature standing there. With her short hair and fiery red scar, she looked like a man. But the soft curves that showed beneath the silk told another story.

  Oh, God! Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror. In the reflected light a glint of metal flickered from the dark valley between her breasts. Taking the great emerald ring in her hand, she gazed down at the rich green of the stone, at the gleaming gold. Just like her own identity, her own true self that lay hidden beneath layers of false shields, after all these years, she still carried, hidden close to her heart, the precious gift. Of course, it was not the ring, but the memory that went with it that Elizabeth cherished. She thought of him quite often—the man who had been the first and the last to make her feel as a woman should feel.

  How odd that now she should be going to Scotland. Elizabeth wondered if she would see Ambrose Macpherson there. She’d recognize him, but he could never recognize her.

  With a sigh Elizabeth slipped off the leather thong that held the emerald ring over her head and hung it on the dividing screen.

  The sound of people noisily making their way along the street wafted in the open windows and tugged her attention away. Yes, she had tried to pretend—to fool herself—into believing she was happy. She wandered to the window and peered past one of the shutters. The crowd of revelers was just turning the corner at the end of the street. Above the darkened villa across the small street, a million stars glimmered like diamonds on the black satin fabric of night.

  Elizabeth shook off the nonsense that cluttered her mind. She had reason to be proud. That, at least, was true. It had taken her four long years to achieve the status she enjoyed today—status many men worked their whole lives to achieve...often without success. But she had talent. She knew that. She’d worked hard to establish herself, to display her gift while keeping secret the lie beneath it all. So in the process, Elizabeth Boleyn had fooled everyone, including herself.
>
  Four years ago she had set her mind to do the impossible, to achieve something no other woman had ever done before. And she had done it. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Mary blabbing her true identity and her past connection to Henry VIII to an English knight a week ago, they would still all be staying in Florence for a good long while. But even with Mary’s public admission, tomorrow she would be traveling to the court of Scotland to paint the portraits of the royal family.

  But now, standing alone in the dim light of her room—the same familiar ache settling in her chest—Elizabeth looked up into star-studded sky and thought of the price she had paid. She could never bask in the warm glow of her successes. Not as a painter, nor as a woman. Never. But that had been her choice.

  Impulsively, Elizabeth strode quickly to her sister’s chest and rooted through it. Pulling out a small bottle, she turned to the tub and uncorked the vial.

  With an air that was almost triumphant, Elizabeth poured out the rosewater into the bath. “Tonight, at least, you can be a woman!” she whispered, slipping the robe from her shoulders and lowering herself into the fragrant warmth.

  Ambrose tied his horse by the small piazza and walked toward the front door. Peering up at the darkened house, he wondered if his friend Gavin had been right about the artist already being on the road to Scotland. But then, seeing a shadow pass by the partially open window on the top floor, the warrior stepped up and knocked at the door.

  Ambrose hadn’t run into any difficulty locating the place. Although those he passed had not known of a resident by the name of Phillipe de Anjou, they all had seemed to know where the merchant Bardi lived. Now, standing before the entryway, Ambrose looked back at a boisterous group passing by. One of the men paused long enough to shout in rather bawdy terms a specific offer for some female living within the walls. But then, seeing the huge Highlander standing on the steps, the man hushed his words and continued on hurriedly. Ambrose knocked at the door once again, but this time less patiently. This Bardi houses some interesting people under his roof, Ambrose mused.