“Then he had better become fond of a sporting life, if he does.”
Even Wolsey chuckled at that.
They found the baby asleep in a cradle in Bess’s bedchamber and Catherine Blount reading from a prayer book as she sat in a chair beside the cradle. Seeing Wolsey, Bess’s mother immediately stood, then dipped into a reverent curtsy.
“It was good of Your Grace to make the journey here.”
The prelate advanced, then hovered over the sleeping infant for a moment. “He is indeed the very image of the king.”
“It is a disappointment that His Highness has not come here to see that for himself,” George put in.
His mother swatted at him, and yet the words could not be unspoken.
“His Highness is very busy presently, especially with planning the upcoming summit with France to solidify the peace.”
“Yet it is said that he finds time for Mistress Boleyn,” George persisted.
The cardinal frowned at him, and there was a sudden awkward silence. “What is your name, young master?”
“I am George Blount, Your Grace. Bess is my sister.”
“Then you have defended her honorably. See only that you do not overstep your bounds with your ambition to sound clever.”
George had no choice but to acquiesce with a silent and deferential bow. Wolsey went downstairs, with Catherine and George following behind him, and Gil remained behind. He was happily transfixed, it seemed, by the infant whose deep, beautiful Tudor eyes had opened and seemed strangely trained upon Gil.
“May I hold him?” Gil asked.
“I am surprised you would want to do that. He is another man’s son, after all.”
“But you are his mother, and that shall always be what makes him special to me.”
She felt a twinge of guilt, just as she always did, knowing that he felt emotions for her that she could never return. Still, he was her dear friend, and he had come out here when Henry had not, she reminded herself again. She owed him some gratitude for that.
Gently, she drew the docile child from his cradle and handed him to Gil.
“Pray God, I do not break him!” Gil smiled in awe as he carefully cradled the infant in his gangly velvet-sleeved arms.
“You’ll not. You are far too gentle a soul to ever hurt anyone,” Bess said sincerely.
She watched him more closely than she had intended to as he pressed his thumb across the baby’s cheek.
“Marry me, Bess.”
He had blurted it out so suddenly that she was certain at first that he had not meant to say it, and she felt a burst of pity for him. But then he turned his earnest gaze upon her.
“I would be a good father to the boy, and I would try with all my heart to make you happy. Although I know it is doubtful that you could ever actually love me, in time, you might find, as Nicholas and Elizabeth do, that—”
“Oh, dear.” Her lower lip turned out a little, and she struggled not to frown or do anything that would make him feel rejected. He was making her such a wonderful offer, but her heart still wanted Henry so badly that she could not allow herself even to consider accepting it.
“Gilly, my friend, my dearest friend, please understand that I cannot.”
It would never be an ideal situation. She knew that. Bess was not a fool or an innocent any longer. But she did not quite believe that Mary Boleyn had fully replaced her. There was still enough of the romantic child left in her to believe in him and his past declaration of love. Until the day came that she learned otherwise, if it ever did, it would not be fair to Gil to use him that way.
“Very well,” Gil said with a sad smile, as if he had expected it. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I thank you, more than you know.”
He handed the child back to her then, and after she had returned him to his cradle, Gil drew a small velvet pouch from his doublet.
“If you would not mind, I would like to give you something anyway.”
Bess glanced up at him, uncertain of what to say. His kindness made the guilt of rejecting him that much worse. “Please. I want you to have it,” he urged, handing her the pouch. “It belonged to my mother, given to her many years ago by a suitor she did not marry either.”
Hesitantly, Bess drew out a delicate ruby and pearl pendant. It was so exquisite, so delicate, that she actually gasped. It was far too detailed and valuable to have been given by any country squire to a lady. There had to be an extraordinary story behind it.
“I cannot accept this, Gilly. It is too precious.”
“I have waited years for the right time to give it to you. I tried once, long ago, but I lost my courage about it, so Wolsey has kept it for me since,” he said with a chuckle, and she could tell that he was trying to put her at ease. Still, she could see his devotion to her behind the easygoing smile, and there was something incredibly heroic in it. “It was to be your betrothal gift, if you accepted me. But I think now it shall make an even better remembrance for the birth of your son.”
Bess wiped away the tears in her eyes, despising herself a little for not being able to love him the way someone so honorable very richly deserved to be loved.
“Try it on?” he urged, moving the drape of her cap and clasping it at the nape of her neck. “Ah, there. Exquisite, you see? Just as I knew it would be.”
“You really are too good to me.”
“True,” Gil returned with a sly little crooked smile that made her chuckle.
It was much later that day when Cardinal Wolsey called for Bess to come and speak with him in the apartments he had set up in the Priory of St. Lawrence with the monks. Going to him was, of course, designed to give him the advantage. She had learned that much from her years around the powerful prelate, but now she was in no position to contest his demands.
She was shown alone into a room, stark by contrast to what she knew him to inhabit at the various other royal palaces. Wolsey was sitting in an imposing, straight-back black oak chair beneath a forbidding tapestry depicting David slaying Goliath, hung on a heavy black iron rod. Wolsey was reading from a prayer book, bound in crimson leather, a color that matched his cassock exactly. At first he did not look up despite the swishing sound of her heavy silk dress.
“Your Grace,” she finally said, dipping low into a curtsy.
It was another moment before he granted her the favor of glancing up.
“Ah, yes. Mistress Blount.” He said her name in a perfunctory tone as he casually set down his book. “How are you faring these days?”
“I am quite well, Your Grace.”
“It seems childbirth agrees with you.”
“As motherhood does.”
“That is certainly a far bigger role, one best overseen by a child’s father.”
Bess narrowed her eyes at him, feeling a new yet strong maternal flicker of suspicion.
“I intend to be a devoted mother to my son, Your Grace, in spite of who his father is.”
“I am told you have refused a wet nurse.”
“It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to feed my son myself.”
She could tell she had surprised him, because he paused for longer than he ever had in speaking to her. Thomas Wolsey was certainly not known for ever being at a loss for words.
“Very well then. We shall take it all a day at a time, for now. As I am certain you know, the boy needs a name.”
“I am waiting for the king to decide that,” she countered in a brittle tone.
“And indeed he has, Mistress Blount. I have been sent to see to the child’s christening. Your mother has called to court for Lady Exeter, your cousin, to come and stand as godmother. I have been appointed by His Highness as godfather.”
“When will the king be arriving?”
Wolsey’s lips tightened as if he were forcing back a smile. It was, she thought, an oddly cruel reaction as he balanced his chin on a jeweled finger. “I’m sorry, Mistress Blount, but His Highness will be unable to attend t
he christening, as he is quite occupied right now in dealings with complications over the betrothal of his daughter, the Princess Mary.”
Bess felt her own lip quiver, fending off tears. The king was giving in to the very world from which he had always sought to escape with Bess. As Wolsey stared unblinkingly at her in the echo of his announcement, she thought he was almost daring her to cry. But she was too proud.
“And the name the king has chosen for our son?” she asked, steadying her voice by squeezing her hands into fists hidden by the folds of her skirts.
“He is to be christened Lord Henry Fitzroy.”
She knew that Fitzroy meant “son of the king,” and Bess felt herself confused by the contradiction. Henry was going to bestow that dignity on their child, yet he could not be bothered to attend the christening to see his son, or her?
Anger, hurt, disappointment—all of the emotions wound themselves tightly around her heart then, squeezing tightly. Did Henry actually mean never to see this son he had so longed for? Was this grand honor given only in order to allay his sense of guilt?
“I see.” She struggled to respond, feeling that if she said more, the cardinal would actually see her heart breaking.
It was her own fault. She had been a fool. Bess knew that. She had meant to try to become a rival to a queen. This now, apparently, was her punishment—or at least a part of it. She could not bear just then to imagine what more might be in store for her.
Her family stood around her in the nave of the Chapel of St. Lawrence, a show of great support for a young woman who was weakened and wounded. But, for her son’s sake, she must not let it show. For him, she must learn swiftly how to survive this and thrive.
The vaulted nave was drafty even for July, and Bess felt herself shiver. She watched silently then, feeling helpless as Wolsey took the baby and held him gently over the baptismal font so that the prior could pour the warm oil on his head.
“In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti . . .”
The chanted words echoed through the vaulted nave as she felt tears behind her eyes once again aching to fall. You should be here, she urged silently, angrily, to her son’s father. You may not owe me anything, but you do owe him that.
Bess glanced over at Gil who stood beside Wolsey. Her friend was the second godfather to the king’s son. She studied him more intensely in that bittersweet moment than she had in a very long time. It surprised her to see pride so well-worn into his once-youthful expression, maturing his face, as he looked down at the child, silent, precious, and full of innocence in Wolsey’s arms. Bess had not understood it before this moment. She had never taken the time to see it. But Gil’s love for another man’s child was unconditional. The moment she realized it, she felt light-headed, as though she had been struck. It set her off balance, and for a moment she could think of nothing else.
After the service they went outside, and Bess was quickly warmed by the summer sun, and by the reassuring feel of her child back in her arms. This little boy was her lifeline no matter what else happened. He would keep her strong and make her heart safe again. She had every intention of doing the same for him. Bess gently brushed a finger across his cheek. In response, he opened his eyes, yawned, then looked up at her. He had impossibly wide, trusting eyes. From pain and disappointment, she thought, came enormous joy, and that would be enough.
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
The passage from John ran through her mind then, because she knew the baby, whom she intended to call Harry, was an example of absolute perfect love. She would protect that, and him, no matter the risk.
As Wolsey introduced George and their parents to the prior, Bess went to Gil who was standing alone near a splashing white stone fountain. It struck her symbolically as it had in the chapel that he was here once again for her, while Henry was not. This time the realization was even more profound than the last, and she felt everything shift. It was the right thing to do. She knew that now.
“Hold him?” she asked with a tentative little smile.
Without hesitating, Gil drew the baby back into his long arms and cradled him expertly within the reassuring folds of his puffed slashed silk and velvet sleeves. When he looked down at Bess, she said very softly and simply, “If there is still an offer, I would be honored to accept and to marry you.”
She would grow to love him in time, she told herself even as he gazed down at her with an easy, confident smile, as if he had known this was meant to happen all along. A real, secure, and loving family as she’d had was what was best for Harry—what was best for her as well. It was even what was best for the queen, who did not deserve an unfair advantage from the mother of the king’s son. It was best for Henry, too, that she bow out of his life.
At least, that was what she told herself as Gil pressed a tender kiss onto her cheek and smiled. “I thought you would never ask,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
June 1520
Windsor Castle, Berkshire
Henry ultimately lost his bid to become Holy Roman Emperor. Like the legitimate heir he had so craved, this was the loss of yet another thing he desired but could not have. Instead of England’s king, in June of 1519 it was the queen’s own Spanish nephew, Charles, who was elected. The ruling powers that threatened England were now this new emperor, Charles V, and the new French king, François I. François had previously turned away from attempts at an exclusive English-French alliance, even the betrothal of their children, in favor of an alliance with this new young Spanish emperor.
Wolsey had convinced Henry that making peace with France or Spain now in order to keep England safe was more important than ever. Because he could not bear the thought of the rival who had beaten him, Henry chose to try once again to align himself with François. The cardinal’s intense negotiations at last led to a planned meeting between the two young rulers to be held near Calais. Henry’s bravado got in the way nearly as much as François’s did. For months, like two peacocks in a yard, the two sides leaked details about the grandeur they each planned to display to impress the other. In addition to vast pavilions and tents to house the events that would take place, the English court even brought a temporary palace constructed of timber and canvas. No amount of opulence was to be spared. But no matter how much Henry planned to spend on great lengths of costly gold cloth, jewels, jousts, and lavish banquets, the one thing he did not have was an heir to match the two that François and his queen had already produced. Adding insult to the injury of being rejected as Holy Roman Emperor the year before, Henry had been given the honor of being godfather to the French king’s second son.
It seemed to him a taunt that François had even named the boy Henry.
“But Your Highness does have a son,” Wolsey reminded him.
“For all the good the boy does for me, out there in the Lincolnshire countryside with Bess and that lad of yours she married.”
“Surely Your Highness recalls that the Tailbois family is a venerable one. A sound match was made for your son’s mother.”
“And what advantage does that bear me, given that I have never even seen the boy? How old is he now?”
“Lord Fitzroy is a year old next month, sire,” Wolsey answered calmly as the king’s agitation grew.
Henry cast down the pen with which he had been signing documents all morning, as a warming gold sun streamed in through the diamond-shaped panes of window glass, one ornamented prominently with a red Tudor rose. “I should see the boy,” he declared suddenly.
“Your Highness chose not to do so in the past, in order to give Lady Tailbois time and distance to settle into her new circumstances.”
Hearing the reminder, Henry laid his head back against the chair and sighed as he looked at the cardinal. “How is she, Thomas? How is she truly?”
“Gilbert writes to me that she is well, and expecting a second child.”
He tried not to feel the little wave of jealousy again, but, for a moment, it was impossibl
e to press back. He had let her go, fully and completely, more than a year ago now, but that had not stopped him from missing her or thinking about her nearly every day since. Bess had always deserved better than what he could give her, and so he had forced himself to let her go and he would keep to that. Their son was another matter. The approaching summit made that more pressing at the moment.
Among the hundreds already slated to accompany the French king, no doubt François meant to parade his heir, and the son who bore his name, to Calais in order to taunt him. All along, Henry had planned for Katherine and Mary, his own sister, as well as Brandon and Wolsey, to join him, so why not his son? He had acknowledged the boy, named him, and dared to begin hoping a son of his might actually grow to manhood.
Little Henry might not be the queen’s progeny, he silently reasoned as he sat slump shouldered at his writing table, but he was a natural child, a boy, to hold up to François in less than a month’s time.
“I want to take him with me to Calais,” Henry firmly announced.
Wolsey paused, and for a moment it did not seem he was going to answer. “She and the boy are close, sire. I visit often, and I can see that she has been an extraordinarily devoted mother to him.”
“Then it is my turn to be a father to him.”
“But Your Highness, the queen and her retinue are to attend you in Calais.”
“My wife knows I have a son, Wolsey,” he said with an irritated snap.
“If you will forgive me, sire, oftentimes ’tis one thing to know something and quite another to be faced with it head-on.”
“Well, unlike the others, this son of mine is meant to survive, and the queen seems to be unable to produce any sort of competition, so I intend to bring my son into my life, and honor him as the rightful and acknowledged son of the king.”
“You would tear such a small boy away from his mother, sire?”
Henry rolled his eyes peevishly. “For a cleric, you have such an overly dramatic way of stating your case, Wolsey. . . . No, I do not intend that. At least not initially. The boy may return to Lincolnshire after Calais. Besides, from what you say, his mother is soon to be taken up with the birth of her next child. I would be granting Lord and Lady Tailbois a favor by giving them time with their child once it arrives.”