They both knew who had actually sent the gift. Brandon was in France, and though he was still not wed to Lady Lisle, and thus was as yet an acceptable potential suitor for many women at court, Bess knew it was not her favor he sought. The furtive glances between him and Princess Mary long ago had confirmed all that for her.
Bess’s eyes met the king’s once again. Like a lovesick fool, she could see nothing else but him. Yes, she would sing another tune with him, no matter who might disapprove—including her own family. She was absolutely powerless to deny the king anything he asked of her now, or anything he might ask in the future. Of that she was certain.
As the king and Mistress Blount sang, Thomas Wolsey watched Gil. The poor, foolish boy was in love with the girl. He had seen the signs before. But he also knew the king, and what doubtlessly lay ahead for the girl in the next year. Thomas knew Henry’s type almost better than Henry knew it himself, since the cleric had helped to extricate him from more than a few liaisons over the years.
Henry found no harm in a brief and discreet dalliance here and there when the queen was pregnant, but his conscience, or his interest level, seemed to preclude anything of the heart from ever developing. That these doe-eyed girls allowed themselves to be used for a man’s pleasure, even if some did not have much of a choice, made them unsuitable for Gil, who deserved someone untainted, Wolsey determined with a proprietary little huff. Mistress Blount had just joined those ranks.
Amid the warmth of the flaming torches and the crackling fire, Gil twisted the little pearl and ruby pendant between his thumb and forefinger. Seeing him fling it to the floor in a rage once Bess had joined the king, Wolsey himself had silently retrieved it, exchanging only a small, sympathetic glance with the boy as he did. Although Gil believed otherwise, it was actually Wolsey who had given the little token to Gil’s mother when he was young, lovesick, and equally as foolish as Gil was now. He had been conflicted in those days. Wolsey remembered his fascination with the Lincolnshire country girl, but he also remembered his own ambitious path to the Church, which had led him away from her. He knew offspring were a risk of any dalliance, and there had been other women and there were children he had sired along the way, but what he had not bargained for was coming to care for one of them—as he had for Gilbert. That lunatic father to whom the boy had been given over had brought out every paternal instinct Thomas had. Long after he had stopped loving Gil’s mother, Elizabeth, he had provided comfortably for her, for the boy’s sake, and he had promised himself then that he would protect any child of his however he could. When Thomas Wolsey came to court, the boy came with him. If it seemed more coldhearted to the Tailbois family, so be it.
Thomas shifted now in the stiff dining chair and pressed the pendant into the folds of his long coat as he watched Mistress Blount curtsy to the king, then make her way back to her seat. He saw the king watch her walk away and the crowd around him whisper about her ripening beauty. Yes, her path into Henry’s life was as predestined as his own, Wolsey thought. And while poor Gilbert may already have made the mistake of falling in love with her, he would not be allowed to waste his life, or his heart, on a girl destined to become the king’s whore—and thus the queen’s rival.
Not if he could help it.
Chapter Seven
December 1514
Eltham Palace, Kent
A few days before the yuletide festivities were to begin, the court trekked on horseback and carts across the cold winter landscape through vast woodlands, used in spring for hunting, to Greenwich, where the king liked to pass the holy days. Bess was excited because Elizabeth and her new husband were at last returning to court after their wedding trip. She had missed the camaraderie with her friend, and it felt like ages since she’d had anyone to confide in or share her secrets with.
When they arrived, Bess looked at the luxurious blue velvet dress that had been brought for her, laid out meticulously on her bed in the little chamber she had been assigned to share with Jane Poppincourt. The identical dress had been laid out on Jane’s bed. The style was the height of fashion, the Savoy velvet accented with gold cloth. Beside each was an intricately designed gold mask decorated with pearls and tiny jewels. Bess pressed a finger against her lips and with her other hand touched the sumptuous velvet of the dress. Tonight she and Jane were both invited by the king to perform in a masque in the queen’s chamber.
“We are to dance a tourdion for the queen,” Jane announced. “There will be only four of us, along with four men. Since the queen is with child, she prefers her entertainment on a smaller scale. Pray that she can give the king a living child at last, and, by God’s grace, a son so there can be a bit more merriment here when she returns to us.”
There was a distinct note of displeasure, or condescension, in her words—something Bess could not quite identify. She turned back to the silent servants who were in the midst of transforming her from a country adolescent into an elegant, courtly beauty. She sat very still for the application of creams, perfumes, pins and stays. But no matter how she dressed, or what jewels adorned her, she would always be Bessie Blount from Kinlet, a simple girl who loved her family, books, and dreams of romance. It was something she had not fully known about herself before coming to court, but she was growing increasingly proud of her commitment to her values, especially when she was in the company of worldly girls like Jane Poppincourt or Elizabeth Carew.
After they had been properly dressed, their hair collected up into matching blue velvet French hoods, Bess and Jane donned their masks, then went out into the corridor to meet the other two girls, both pretty, young maids of honor as well, who would join them. Joan Champernowne and Anne Stanhope, dressed in the same gowns and masks, were already waiting. Their backs to Bess, they were gossiping rapidly.
“I cannot see how she continues to take such a prominent place with the king. She is the most inconsequential girl at court,” the ivory-skinned Anne Stanhope remarked snidely as her mahogany eyes glittered.
“But she does have her mother’s beauty,” pale, freckle-faced Joan Champernowne observed with a smile.
“Blount’s beauty is country beauty. If the king pays court to her, we will all know why.”
“Did you never hear that gossip makes you ugly, Mistress Stan-hope?” Jane suddenly intoned, to Bess’s surprise.
“And have you never heard, Mistress Poppincourt, that it is dangerous to defend the indefensible?” Joan Champernowne icily returned.
“Perhaps that is why your lover abandoned you rather than take you back to France with him,” Anne Stanhope said cruelly, her button nose and dark eyes trained on Bess all the while.
The accusation stopped Jane in her tracks. Bess saw the color drain from her smooth, porcelain face. Bess had heard the gossip that Jane’s relationship with the married de Longueville had been a tempestuous one. His return to France had altered her life, no doubt. Bess had begun to imagine the pain of loving another woman’s husband, and knowing a future could never be. One must show compassion for that, if not approval.
“Shall you not defend your friend, Mistress Blount, as she has sought to defend you? Or is that beyond the acumen of a country waif?” Joan Champernowne asked with a cold little smile, as if she had read Bess’s mind.
“In the country, mistress, we are taught forbearance.”
“Oh, dear, is such naïveté actually attractive to men?” Anne Stanhope laughed cruelly. “We did not intend for you to answer, Mistress Blount, since you have absolutely nothing of value to say. Remember that, will you?”
Bess was absolutely stunned. Both of the women, young maids of honor with her since she had arrived at court, had always been outwardly cordial to her. She was forced now to wonder if all of the other maids felt the same condescension. She had tried so bravely for more than a year to fit in. But even after all this time, it was very clear that she was nothing more to them than an overreaching country girl.
“I will indeed remember everything,” Bess replied without inflec
tion, not for an instant breaking her gaze from Anne Stanhope, who she had always believed before now had the most innocent of smiles.
They were joined at that moment by four tall, muscular young men in blue velvet doublets and jeweled velvet masks to match their own. Each bore a flaming silver torch. The light around them danced, casting enough shadows that identifying any of them was difficult. One of the young men paired himself with Jane, another with Anne Stanhope, and a third with Joan Champernowne. The final tall, well-built young man drew near her, stood beside her, and silently took up her hand. His grip was so firmly possessive that Bess felt her heart start to beat very fast beneath the long, tight plastron of her dress as two court musicians in tunics and hose, one with a flute, the other with a tambourine, drew up behind them. They were playing a tune as they led the way to the queen’s apartments.
The mysterious partner beside Bess began a lively tourdion with a skip, then a practiced step, as they entered the apartments. She was glad once again that she had paid attention at home when their father had insisted they learn proper dances, even as George and Robert had complained. She bit back a little smile and wished George had not had to return home. She missed him. She would always miss him.
As they danced blithely into the presence chamber, flaming torches in hand lighting their faces, the queen was seated with her Spanish companion, Maria de Salinas, beside a roaring fire in the massive stone hearth. Bess thought the queen did not yet appear pregnant, but Katherine was noticeably heavier now than she had been when Bess had first come to court. Although a maid of honor in the queen’s household, Bess had seen little of Henry’s wife since her last miscarriage. She kept mainly to her privy chamber, still comfortable in the companionship of only Maria and Mountjoy’s Spanish wife, Agnes de Venegas. But now that the queen was newly pregnant, there was renewed excitement, and many of her English ladies had been brought back to attend her.
As Bess and the other masked revelers danced, she saw Lady Hastings, Lady Fitzwalter, the Countesses of Oxford and Derby, along with Elizabeth Carew and her own mother, seated elegantly around the queen. Bess was relieved that they were all smiling, whispering, and pointing as they wondered who was behind each of the masks, which was a great part of the game.
The group danced a second dance, and Bess remained partnered with the same masked courtier, who moved faultlessly beside her. She liked the constant and firm grip of his hand and his smooth, perfectly timed steps that matched her own. The twirl and swish of skirts in the glitter of torchlights in time to the sweet music made it magical. Since the queen tapped her finger on her knee and seemed pleased with the performance, Bess felt herself breathe more deeply and smile, allowing her to enjoy the experience, even after what had happened out in the corridor.
When the dance was over, the queen and her ladies applauded as the masked dancers all dipped into deep curtsies or swept into formal bows. Then, to Bess’s surprise, the gentleman still gripping her hand drew off his mask to gasps of delight from the queen and her ladies. She’d had no idea her partner had been the king. Following his lead, everyone else then drew off their masks, bowing again as each identity was revealed. Jane had danced with the king’s friend and the Chief Gentleman of the Bedchamber, William Compton. Joan Champernowne had been partnered with the king’s friend and gentleman waiter, Henry Norris. Nicholas Carew, the newlywed, had joined Anne Stanhope. Only Bess’s presence, she quickly realized, seemed a revelation and brought an expression of panic from her own mother, since the king still had not let go of her hand.
Bess felt her face flush with an embarrassment so fierce that she could no longer look at the queen. Her husband was devoted and wonderful, having organized this for Her Highness’s pleasure, yet Bess was keenly aware of how it must have appeared. In the instant after seeing her mother’s expression, she instinctively wrenched her hand from the king’s grip and lowered her eyes. Her bright smile fell. She had been warned repeatedly that court was a dangerous place where she walked a fine line. Tonight she was a witness to just how true that was.
As the king went to the queen, Bess turned and fell into Elizabeth’s embrace. She hugged her back tightly, relieved to see the face of someone who was truly happy to see her.
“I have been dreadfully bored without you!” Elizabeth whispered as she drew Bess even closer. “You must tell me everything that has happened while I was away.”
Bess tried to smile. “I shall.”
Yet true honesty was impossible.
What she felt for the king was wrong, absolutely adolescent and foolish, not to mention dangerous. And to make more of his attentions than mere courtesy allowed would have been to avoid the inevitable. Bess could never be anything more to the King of England than an amusing little dance or singing partner, she repeatedly told herself. He already had a queen, a wife . . . a soul mate in Katherine of Aragon. She must stop the infernal fantasies and someday find a soul mate of her own. She was determined to make that her goal . . . after tonight.
No hay mal que por bien no venga. . . . There is no bad from which some good does not come. That wise saying always came to her mind, and to her heart, when she saw it happening again. Katherine was not a fool. She loved her husband with every fiber of her being, but Queen Isabella had made her daughter not only a warrior for the things in which she believed, but a pragmatist as well. It was always easier to battle a known enemy, and Katherine’s primary rival was not one particular girl but rather the elusive enemy of infidelity.
Katherine knew that, in his way, Henry loved her. He whispered too sweetly in the darkness, and mourned too deeply with her each time she lost a child. But he was a man, not only a king, and one with desires that went well beyond her ability to keep him to herself. Katherine knew he had held that pretty Blount girl up tonight as proof of that. She also knew perfectly well, as did the rest of the court, about his dalliances with Lady Hastings, Mistress Poppincourt, and Mistress Carew. Whatever he felt now for Mistress Blount was certainly nothing new.
The only way to vanquish an enemy, her mother had always said, was to acknowledge and understand it. Only then could the key weakness be found. She had been advised that Mistress Carew and Mistress Blount were friends. That could be a useful tool, Katherine thought, as Henry came near to her after the dance, wearing a broad smile. She nodded to her husband, forcing herself to match his smile as ideas skittered across her mind, forming into a rough plan.
“My queen,” Henry said, taking her hand. “Pray, tell me, did our little entertainment please you?”
“It is always pleasing to me when I see my husband enjoying himself.”
“I wish you would dance with me,” he said flatteringly.
“Yet you know I must do absolutely nothing to endanger our child. The journey to Greenwich was already taxing enough.”
And she knew it herself. Katherine was determined to sit like a bird on a nest for the next two months if that was the requirement for giving Henry the son he craved. Then perhaps, if she was not pregnant for a while, he would cease with his attentions toward the other women. Perhaps then, pray God, she could be enough for the man she adored. . . .
No hay mal que por bien venga.
Maria de Salinas stood, then bowed silently to the two of them, freeing her chair for Henry, who had been standing beside his wife. He sank into it and took up his wife’s hand.
“How are you feeling?”
“I am well, as is our child,” she replied in her heavy Castellón accent.
“Splendid. You know that I worry.”
“I do know that, Hal,” Katherine said softly, needing his reassurance this time more than before. “And I miss you.”
They both knew what she meant.
“It shall not be long till I may return to you,” Henry reassured her in a soft and surprisingly tender tone.
“It seems like an eternity to me, as it always does.”
She saw his eyes darken. His tone hardened as swiftly as it had softened a moment before. ?
??I need a living son, Katherine.”
And I need my husband just as much, she thought. But she did not dare say that.
Katherine followed his gaze across the room to where the collection of young girls stood laughing and gossiping, their bodies still slim, healthy, and untouched by repeated pregnancies—their faces full of too much innocence and optimism for her taste now. They have not a care in the world, Katherine thought bitterly.
If this child within her did not survive, she was not certain what would become of her. There had already been rampant gossip and murmured rumblings about the young king’s political frustrations with Spain, and by extension, with her. Agnes de Venegas and her husband, Lord Mountjoy, had loyally warned Katherine that the Spanish ambassador was being forced almost daily to defend England’s alliance with his country. Since Henry would not visit her bed while she was pregnant, she could do almost nothing to protect her marriage or to defend the now-fragile tie between her two countries.
Suddenly, Henry stood and bowed to her. The tenderness was gone and the move was perfunctory. “You will excuse me?”
“Certainly.” She nodded compliantly. Te quiero con toda mi alma, she was thinking. And Katherine of Aragon did love her husband with her whole soul, for all the good it would do her if she could not produce a living heir, she thought, as he turned and walked away.
Very late that evening, after a banquet and more dancing, Gil, Elizabeth, and Nicholas Carew accompanied Bess to her own little room above the queen’s apartments. They were laughing and joking, their moods light. It was so good to have her back, Bess thought. Elizabeth even seemed a bit softened now to her marriage with Nicholas Carew, defined by little flirtatious exchanges and quiet laughs between them, where once there was frosty compliance. And Bess was glad of it, since she did not want to think of her dear friend so unhappily married as both of them had thought she would be.