“Do they not make a handsome couple?” asked the king.
“A couple, sire?”
“Mistress Bryan and Master Carew. They are a great deal alike,” Henry said, taking her hand and leading her toward the other dancers. “Both spoiled, willful, and full of expectation. They might make a good match, if they do not kill each other first.”
“My father always says that a healthy challenge brings the best reward.”
As Henry laughed, his green eyes crinkled at the corners, and suddenly Bess could see nothing else. God, but he was handsome, and so remarkably clever. “I always did like your father. How is he?”
“Returned to your service, sire.”
Henry paused for a moment just after he had taken her hand. The feel of it was warm and full of power. “I was not told. I shall have someone punished.” His tone bordered so close to seriousness that Bess could not discern if he meant it, and she felt a shiver of panic.
“Oh, please, my lord, do not!”
He leveled his eyes on her again as the music for the tourdion began in the gallery above, and dancers began to move around them, swirling silk and layers of velvet, along with the heavy scent of mingling perfumes. “What shall you give me, young Bess, if I grant you your wish?”
He was toying with her, like a cat with a mouse—she could feel it now. And she knew that some witty retort was what he was after, just like the last time when she had left him wanting. But, to her horror, Bess was still too inexperienced to know what might please or insult him.
This was a game for adults, and she was not quite sixteen.
The king must have seen in her eyes what she was thinking, because suddenly his smile faded and his eyes filled with sincerity.
“You are lovely indeed when you smile,” he said, taking her hand again and leading her to the very center of the other dancers.
“I am honored Your Highness would find me so,” she replied, lowering her eyes demurely.
“A man would have to be blind not to find you so, Mistress Blount. The man who one day wins your heart shall be heaven blessed indeed.”
They turned in time with the music and with the other dancers, linked hands, then turned back the other way.
“What sort of man do you believe you shall fancy?”
A man exactly like you, she thought foolishly. “My father always warned me I shall have little choice in the matter of my husband, so I have not given it much thought.”
Henry arched a brow. “That is true in marriage, but not in love. No one can control your heart, Mistress Blount. Remember that.”
She realized for the first time that little Bess Blount from Kinlet was keeping up with the King of England, and he was still smiling at her as if he were enjoying it. He always danced eventually with the various ladies of his court, young and old, Gertrude once told her. No doubt he saw it as his duty. Whatever his reason, Bess thought, just as the song came to an end, this definitely was the most wonderful moment of her life, one she would never forget for as long as she lived. At last, it had been her turn.
“Would you do me the honor of joining me at my table for a while, Mistress Blount? Your friend Mistress Bryan seems occupied just now, the queen is about to retire for the evening, and I will be frightfully bored if you do not. You may take her seat if it pleases you.”
If it pleases me? She looked across the dance floor and saw Bishop Wolsey speaking with Elizabeth and Nicholas Carew and exiting the banquet hall. Across the room, the queen and Maria de Salinas stood. Those around her stood as well and bowed or curtsied to her. Bess saw her cast a glance back at the king, stiffen, then turn to depart just as the king himself had predicted.
“Does Her Highness mind that you danced with me?” Bess asked.
“My wife understands well that a king’s burden is a heavy one. She is pleased when I enjoy myself. Come now, soon we shall take Princess Mary and her proxy husband to the bedchamber to consummate their union, but sit with me until then.”
Bess longed to ask if that meant the duc de Longueville was required to actually bed with the French king’s new wife. But no matter what the answer was, she knew having someone so handsome and powerful speak of intimacies to her would be difficult to endure without entirely embarrassing herself.
The dukes of Buckingham and Suffolk both stood then and acknowledged her as she approached. Suffolk smiled; Buckingham did not.
“You look lovely this evening, Mistress Blount,” said Suffolk, though she still thought of him as Charles Brandon. He was always so kind to her, but tonight he seemed distracted. It did not take long to realize that he was preoccupied with looking, once again, at the king’s newly married sister. Yet he had been at court long enough to be charming before everything else. “The color of your gown is most becoming against your skin.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. ’Twas a gift from my parents.”
“Your family has excellent taste.”
She felt herself blush, marveling at the believable tone in his courtly flattery.
“Buckingham, you know Mistress Blount,” said the king as they all sat down and the music for a new dance began. A silver ewer of wine was brought and a goblet was poured for each of them.
“We have not had the pleasure of an introduction, sire, although she and Mistress Bryan do make themselves well-known to all,” he smoothly replied.
Buckingham, the small, brittle-looking man, wore more jewels than the king, had a more neatly cropped beard, and was certainly more intimidating. His tone, so different from Brandon’s, was clipped. The pitch of his voice was higher than most men’s, Bess thought, sharp and more nasal in quality, which made him seem even more formal than his slim, stiff bearing suggested. He was a powerful man, she knew from her parents, and he was not friends with either Brandon or Wolsey. Rather, they were polite, relentless competitors for power and royal favor, which was obvious to her now. Gil always said it was best, if possible, to stay well out of their way. She did not like Buckingham. He frightened her.
“So tell me, Mistress Blount,” said Brandon, “will you be sailing with us for France in the wedding party?”
“She and Mistress Bryan are to remain at court,” Henry answered for her. “I know not what I would do without such jolly company and two such lovely faces, of which I am quickly growing quite fond. Nor would the queen,” he said as an afterthought.
Bess saw that he was looking at her again as he spoke, and with an increasingly intense gaze. But of course she was imagining it. Her own secret daydreams of the young sovereign were becoming embarrassing fantasies. Suddenly she missed Elizabeth and Gil and the comfort and reassurance they brought. When she glanced back across the room, Bess saw Gil sitting stone still, in the same place she had left him. His eyes were rooted upon her, and he was most definitely not smiling. For a moment, seeing his expression shook her so that she, at first, did not hear the ribald laughter or the jokes between the men around her. Certainly Gil was not happy.
Then suddenly a trumpet fanfare peeled through the vaulted hall, announcing the king and Buckingham, who bowed to each other with courtly formality and smiles. Each then drew off his formal beaded coat, and led the court in an impromptu country dance, wearing their more casual doublets and hose, as the crowd raucously cheered. Her concern for Gil vanished as Bess was transfixed by the dance. Henry’s long legs beneath his hose had the muscles of a warrior, yet he moved with grace and skill to the music. She could not take her eyes from him. More of the court men joined the king, but Charles Brandon remained beside her.
“You are a sweet, gentle girl, Bess Blount. Take care while I am gone, will you?” he said oddly.
When she looked at him this time, she saw that Brandon’s expression was no longer clever and easy but full of a strange sincerity.
“You sound as if you are trying to warn me of something.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“Perhaps you would be better off with me simply coming out and saying it. I am not as clever or exper
ienced as some of the other girls here.”
“Precisely why one might wish to warn you,” said Brandon as they watched the king and Buckingham continue to show off for the rest of the court. “You are always with Mistress Bryan, I see.”
“Much of the time, when we are not serving the queen, ’tis true.”
“And does she speak to you familiarly?”
His tone made it obvious that he was trying to get at something, but she had no idea what. “We speak as most young girls do, Your Grace, with some degree of familiarity, yet I would not claim to know her heart, nor she mine.”
Brandon leaned back in his chair, fingering his goblet. He seemed to have discovered what he wished to know, since his expression eased. He glanced over at the king’s sister once again, then back at Bess.
“You are different, Mistress Blount, not like the other girls of the queen’s household. There is a gentle spirit about you that might be mistaken for naïveté. But I do not think you are naive so much as inexperienced.”
“Are they not one and the same?” she asked.
His studied nonchalance began to fade beneath a stronger air of sincerity. “One can become experienced in an instant. Knowing which experiences are good for you or which are dangerous requires strong instinct. I believe you have that.”
“You have faith in someone you barely know?” she asked him.
“Ah, well, I am neither naive nor inexperienced. My own instincts tell me when I am in the presence of someone I should help to protect if I can. I wish I was not going away just now, or that you were joining us in France, for I fear I know only too well what will happen while I am away.”
“I wish Your Grace could be more specific,” Bess said, feeling the rise of frustration at his vagueness more than any fear his warning might bring.
“I wish I could as well. But I value my place, and my instincts tell me not to threaten that just now, especially when I have my own challenges ahead of me,” Charles Brandon replied as he finally caught the eye of the king’s newly married sister, who met his gaze with what Bess thought was a strangely sad smile.
Gil did his best to comfort her, but it was a pointless exercise. Elizabeth wept in his arms, her body racked with childlike sobs. The plaintive wail of disappointment and betrayal coming from her seared his soul, yet there was nothing either of them could do. The choice, quite obviously, had been made by the king himself. Gil had seen something like this coming from the moment she confided in him, but there was nothing he could have done to convince her to stop. He had been as powerless then as he was now, because Elizabeth Bryan believed she was in love with a married man—a king.
A soft rap sounded at the door then. A moment later came the voice they both knew well. “’Tis Bess. Are you all right? May I come in?”
“Please do not tell her of it!” Elizabeth begged Gil in an urgent whisper.
“But she is our friend. Does she not deserve to know? Besides, is she not likely to hear about it anyway?”
“That will only be gossip. You were my friend first, Gilly. Pray, have you not some loyalty for that?”
Elizabeth straightened herself on the edge of the bed and wiped away her tears with the palms of her hands, but her nose was red from her weeping, and she still could not quite catch her breath. Her body was still trembling as Bess opened the door and came inside.
Beautiful as a painting, Gil thought as she drew near. He noted the remarkable angles of her face and the widest cornflower blue eyes he had ever seen. Yes, her eyes still stunned him. Her small, soft mouth was one he had dreamed of kissing more than once. She was, quite simply, perfection. He had thought that from the first moment, and in her year at court, his opinion had gone unchanged. Unfortunately, it seemed fairly clear to him that Bess Blount did not return his affection.
“What has happened?” Bess asked him, concern spiking in her eyes and causing the words to come quickly as she sank onto the bed beside the two of them. It was close enough for Gil to smell the scent of lavender on her skin. Controlling the physical reaction he always had to her was a challenge. He drew in a breath to steady himself before he explained.
“She is betrothed to marry Nicholas Carew. She was told of it only tonight.”
“Told, not asked, by Master Carew?” Bess wanted to know.
“Informed by Bishop Wolsey and Sir Thomas Bryan of the decision already agreed to by their families.”
Bess tipped her head, and Gil saw she was trying to decide what to say. “Well, he is very handsome indeed, and he seems a nice enough sort; clever, witty. . . .”
“Nicholas Carew is an incorrigible rake,” Gil gently amended. “Women have been playthings for him since the moment he realized his effect on them.”
“I do not love him, nor will I ever love him!” Elizabeth hotly declared. “Even if I am forced to become his wife!”
“This seems so sudden,” Bess said, looking from one to the other of them as they all sat on the same edge of her small bed in the shadowy little room.
The leaded window before them was open, ushering in warm summer-night air and the chirp of crickets in the hedgerow below. For a time, that was the only sound.
“It does seem an honor, since Master Carew is one of the king’s closest friends,” Bess cautiously observed, trying to be helpful.
“I’ve absolutely no choice in it, so I might as well try to see it that way. My father certainly does.” Elizabeth looked at Bess then, tears still rolling down her cheeks in ribbons made bright by the candlelight. “It was just something of a surprise.” She sniffled, trying in vain to collect herself.
“At least you have the duration of your betrothal to know him better,” Bess offered hopefully.
“The king has commanded that we marry before his sister departs for France. My father wants the new French queen still here in England to add importance to the union.”
“You do not believe that is the reason for haste?” Bess asked with a little tip of her head and a glance at Gil that was so gentle and innocent, it made him shudder.
“What I believe is just as unimportant, Bess, as what I desire. I just did not realize how unimportant until tonight.”
“Is there someone you would rather marry? Has that upset you the more?”
Elizabeth shot Gil a little warning glance, urging him not to reveal anything about her affair with the king. But she need not have done that. She knew he was a young man of honor. Gil had given her his word, and he meant to keep it. Whatever Bess found out about the workings of this court and this king, she would do so on her own.
Chapter Six
August 1514
Dover, Kent
Bess could not quite believe the honor she had received. She was to attend the new French queen in the royal party that would see her from Greenwich to Dover, then bid her farewell at the dock amid a grand procession. She did not mind at all that the honor would end there and that she would not be continuing on to France. That seemed a strange land anyway, with a language she had never learned to speak well. Better to leave that journey to a few of the older, more experienced women of the court—and to Mary and Anne Boleyn. Those churlish little sisters boasted daily about how brilliantly sweet their French sounded because the tutor their ambitious father had retained for them was actually French. Besides, Bess thought as they stood gathered where the banks of the bay met the dock and nine great French galleons were anchored, Elizabeth Bryan would need her as confidante when she returned from her wedding trip.
Poor Elizabeth; the prospect of marriage had changed her from the carefree, clever beauty who had challenged her to steal into the king’s bedchamber, and Bess missed their camaraderie. At least there still would be Gil, sweet, dependable Gil, she thought, as she felt the salt air move through the fabric drape behind her neck. She was grateful to have it cool her. The brocade dress she had chosen for today was her most elegant, but it was too heavy for August, and she regretted wearing it.
As the king and his sister walked alon
e out onto the long dock to where the great royal ship sat bobbing at anchor, Bess turned back to Charles Brandon. His expression said absolutely everything. All Bess had suspected was never more true than it was on his face at this moment. It was indeed far more than a harmless courtly flirtation between them. He was deeply in love with Mary.
But with the realization came pity.
How pointless it was to fall in love with someone promised to a rival with whom one could not hope to compete—a waste of not only a life, but a heart.
It really was no different, she thought, than with Jane and the duc de Longueville, the noble battlefield prisoner who was now being released and allowed to return home to his obligations in France, but returned without his far less noble mistress. Looking around her, there was enough misery to make Bess vow that she would never be so foolish with her own heart. Unlike Elizabeth and Jane, and so many others around her, she would wait with her maidenhead intact for her father to choose a suitable husband for her. He would choose wisely, she knew.
Bess had no intention of ever wearing the same bereft expression she had seen on the faces of Jane Poppincourt and Charles Brandon.
That evening after the ship had set sail for the shore at Calais, the royal party that had remained was welcomed at Dover Castle, the great twelfth-century fortress perched on the vast white cliffs. The massive castle, wrought of ancient gray stone, with a drawbridge entrance, fortress wall, and great square Norman tower, was lovely and welcoming inside. It held massive, warming fireplaces, tapestries, and a sweeping view of the sea. Bess had never seen an ocean, or taken in the pungent salt air as she did now, standing alone at the edge of the jagged, rocky cliff. The wind blew so strongly that she removed her hood and let her long blond hair dance in ribbons around her face. The early-evening wind was warm and the sensation was so freeing, she could not help the small indulgence.
“I miss her already.”