He was tall, young—magnificent. He was stunningly prepossessed for someone his age, as he held his gloves in one hand, glancing at the Tailbois coat of arms on the wall beside the door and thus giving her an instant more to take in the details of his extraordinary face. He was twenty, perhaps younger, but he exuded such command that age was irrelevant. His square face, dominated by sleepy, seductive ice blue eyes, was framed by strong brows and tamed waves of wheat-colored hair, which she watched him casually rake back from a broad, smooth forehead as he waited. He had a slight whisper of a beard at his chin, and, below his nose, only enough of a mustache to show he could grow one. When he glanced up and saw her, Bess had reached the bottom step and paused, gripping tightly the polished banister with the hand that still wore her wedding band. She felt not entirely connected to her own body. It was as if she were viewing herself and this man from an outside perspective. And then, seeing her, he smiled. The gesture was refined, small, with just a slight turn upward of his lips. Bess saw a spark of impishness in it, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.
He bowed crisply to her then, linking his hands behind his back as he did. “My Lady Tailbois, I am Edward Fiennes, Lord Clinton, your neighbor to the south.”
“I had no idea I possessed a noble neighbor to the south,” she said, not certain at all the moment she spoke them what words she had actually said. He made her feel more foolish and girl-like than she had ever felt before, even with the King of England.
“Our lands adjoin each other’s, although it is at a rather great distance. I often dealt with your husband on border issues.”
The mention of Gil reminded her of too many things she did not wish to think about at this moment, and she saw by the sudden slight frown on his face that he sensed that.
“I am most sorry for your loss last year, my lady. Please accept my condolences. Lord Tailbois was a fine and great man.”
“He was indeed. Thank you.” She moved down the final step and faced him. He was tall, but not in Henry’s imposing way. This man—this Edward—seemed to her perfectly proportioned, as if a sculptor had fashioned him, knowing to what a widowed woman, with no prospects of passion, would be drawn.
“Would you like to come in, take a cup of wine perhaps, and rest after your ride?” she asked him, struggling with the words and feeling instantly awkward. She had not been a young, uncertain girl for a very long time. And yet there was a sense of destiny in her question, like nothing she had ever felt in her life—as if she had known him, or been meant to know him, all along.
“Thank you,” he replied, moving forward with her. “Several of the sheep that graze out on your pastureland have in recent days wandered onto my adjoining property, which is much closer to that thick stretch of deep woodland than yours is.” He shifted his weight casually from one leg to another, but he did not take his eyes, his sleepy, piercing, exquisite eyes, from her. “I am afraid several of your sheep have been killed on my land. But just this morning, my man and I caught the fox red-handed and took him down.”
“Thank you,” Bess said softly, still trying to process his claim.
“I cannot say, of course, if there is more danger to your animals, so perhaps we might consider some sort of barrier along that far pastureland.”
“Perhaps I should ride out and take a look at it myself,” Bess said.
His eyes met hers. There was still that tiny upturn of the lips she saw even then. It was not so much a smile, she realized now, but rather a spark of satisfied self-possession. “Under the circumstances, it would be much wiser for my servants and me to accompany you, if you mean to do so.”
“Lord Clinton, I have my own servants, and we have only just this moment met,” Bess demurely said, knowing that she sounded like a child, rather than the confident mother of four children she had become.
Edward Fiennes’s smile widened at that, and the crinkles beside his sleepy crystal blue eyes deepened, making her feel, for a moment, utterly foolish for the way she knew she was staring at him. “That much is true,” he concurred. “However, if you and your children were to agree to accompany your good neighbor to the May Day celebration in the village next week, we would be strangers no longer.”
It had been more of a statement of logic than a proposal, and Bess felt powerless to contest. It was so logical, in fact, that she laughed.
“May I take that as your acceptance, Lady Tailbois?” he asked, arching a brow as his crooked smile deepened.
It was not brash arrogance that he showed, she thought, but simply utter self-confidence. She had not felt anything like this, the pull of a smile, and her heart beating swiftly, for a very long time—not since she met the king for the first time, all those years ago.
Anne Boleyn was playing a game with his heart better than a game had ever been played, and Henry did not like it at all. He craved her, he dreamed of her, he fought for her, and he was willing to surrender everything for her, if she would only surrender just a small bit of herself in return. But even that she continued to withhold as the great lure.
Henry stood now at the edge of his grand tennis courts at Richmond Palace, dressed in an elegant russet-colored doublet accented with heavy slashed sleeves, a grand sable collar, and a gold medallion. He was every bit the elegant ruler, yet always a man underneath. He was watching his son compete against the boy’s older and stronger uncle, the thirty-three-year-old George Blount, who, in spite of the difference in age, had remained Richmond’s most faithful companion. Harry was growing into such a magnificently strong and handsome boy that it startled Henry sometimes to see him like this, tall, athletic, and healthy, because it kindled hope.
And it kept his memories, and questions, of Bess alive.
The pope in Rome had continued flatly to refuse Henry’s call for the annulment no matter what threat he dangled, and as he waited to be with Anne fully, Henry could not help continuing to consider Bess—and the possibility of making her his bride instead. She had not come to court for the May Day celebration after all, but she had sent him a gift of local Lincolnshire wine like the kind they had shared on his April visit following Gilbert Tailbois’s death, along with a letter, which had pleased and enticed him. Bess was still such an alluring and beautiful woman. And unlike Katherine, Bess had produced three healthy sons and a daughter as well. His mind played at the scenarios daily. Could he, after all this time, marry his son’s mother and make her queen?
Thomas Cromwell stood calmly beside him. Every bit as ambitious as Wolsey had been to maintain his power base, and slightly more ruthless, he was a fat-faced man with dark, snake eyes, a long nose, and small pursed lips.
“Richmond is playing well today,” Henry quietly observed.
“He plays like his father,” Cromwell noted, touching his blunt-cut sable-colored hair to see that it had stayed in place with the breeze.
“Has there been any further word from Parliament on the question of Lady Tailbois?” the king asked without taking his eyes from the game.
Cromwell rubbed his smooth, hairless jaw between two fat fingers. “Once the annulment question is settled in Rome, or within a new church here in England, based on the premise that your marriage to Katherine was never valid in the first place, then His Grace, the Duke of Richmond, would automatically be legitimized and, thus, become your heir. If you were to marry his mother, that is.”
“England would have an heir, and the succession would be made secure with the presence of a healthy son to follow me.”
“But you would need to sacrifice Mistress Boleyn to do it.”
Such a thing as Cromwell suggested was unthinkable . . . or was it?
The challenge of Anne excited him still. It also exhausted him, and most days he was a man driven by unfulfilled passion, not intellect or reason at all. He raked both hands through his now-short copper hair as he continued to watch his son and to consider the grand, life-changing choice before him, one that had presented itself more prominently since Tailbois’s death. A king must
be wise, calm, and thoughtful to rule a country, and most days now, Henry felt more like a wild dog going after a bitch in heat. It was not good for his country, and it was even worse for his soul.
“Has there been any word back from Lady Tailbois as to whether she favored my return gift to her?”
He had sent her a jewel-encrusted gold chalice. While Anne withheld her body from him as part of her game, Henry played his own match. He could recall only too well the passionate nights, and afternoons, with Bess—her small, perfect body open to him, along with her heart. He felt himself harden at the memory.
“I am afraid there has yet been no word from Lincolnshire, sire.”
Henry let out a heavy sigh. He felt as if he were holding the weight of the world with the decision before him, and he did not want to make a second matrimonial mistake. “How would you counsel me, Cromwell? Could I actually marry Bess? Could I be happy? It would solve so many things if I could be.”
“Your heart alone knows the answer, sire,” he calmly replied. “There is, of course, that other path still to be considered.”
No matter how patiently Cromwell laid it out each time, or how many times he tried to consider it as a way to protect the succession and his country, the prospect always made him slightly ill.
“The boy will need a powerful alliance at some point, you know.” Cromwell pressed the issue, seeing how the king’s expression had so swiftly hardened against it.
“True, but a marriage with his own sister? Thomas, that is far worse, by any biblical standard, than what I did with Katherine.”
“Still, canon law does approve of such a unique match, sire. The position from Rome is such that if you drop the issue of your own divorce and annulment, and stop threatening to leave the Church, Pope Clement could well honor such a request on behalf of your son. And after all, the Princess Mary is only Richmond’s half sister.”
Henry shifted his weight from one leg to the other, feeling weakened even by the thought. The other option currently on the table was also from the pope who had proposed his own young niece, Caterina de Medici, as a bride for Harry.
“If you arranged a marriage between your daughter, Mary, and Richmond, it would ensure a Tudor heir, from either vantage point. You would certainly need never worry again about any foreign claim to the throne, and your need for another male heir would be voided, and thus your need for a divorce,” Cromwell said, carefully pressing the issue until Henry sharply cut him off.
“But I am not prepared to agree that my marriage to Katherine was ever legal, much less valid in the eyes of God! You know well the same passage I do.”
“If a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing . . . and they shall be childless,” Cromwell dourly repeated, knowing the passage as well as anyone else who dealt with the king and took a side on the great debate.
Harry came off the court then, flushed, smiling, and triumphant, bringing the debate for now to an end. Henry embraced his son. “You played splendidly, just as you were taught to, my boy.”
“I was slow in the third round, and he nearly had me,” Harry panted, bright-eyed and perspiring.
“But he did not. That is what matters,” Henry reminded him.
“Your Highness.” George Blount, dressed in a white lawn shirt with leather laces, dun-colored hose, and a brown belt, just as Harry was, swept into a deep and proper bow.
“You gave the Duke of Richmond a good turn, Master Blount,” Henry praised.
“Not so good as he gave me, sire,” George returned, wiping the perspiration from his temple with the back of his hand.
They were alike, especially around the eyes, and with that same strong essence, Henry thought as he looked at Bess’s brother. Sweet Bess. . . These constant thoughts and memories of her only made his decision more difficult. In the beginning, it had seemed unfathomable that he might actually marry his son’s mother. But now a way seemed more clearly paved, and thus two distinct paths were still tauntingly before him.
They began to walk with one another then, George and the others following behind, and Henry draped an arm across Harry’s still-slim shoulder. Just as he himself had; just as Arthur might have, if God had given his brother that chance, Harry would grow into his bones, Henry thought with pride of his increasingly tall and lanky son.
“I have had a letter from my mother today,” the boy revealed with a tentative smile.
Henry glanced at him. “Splendid. Any great news from Lincolnshire to share with me?” he asked nonchalantly, yet finding as he did that he did truly wish to know.
“As it happens, there is. Surprising news, actually. My mother, it seems, is going to ask for your approval of her marriage.”
For an odd, impossible moment, Henry thought that Harry had meant a marriage to him. He had not expected to feel the strong wave of bitterness he did when he realized that was not at all what Harry had meant, but the bitter wave swiftly followed anyway.
“Who in heaven’s name would she marry?” he growled.
As he glanced over again, he saw his son’s reaction. His tone had been needlessly harsh.
“He is Lord Clinton, sir. I know little else of him.”
“Of course. Her neighbor.” Henry nodded gruffly, patting the boy’s shoulder as they walked.
“Will Your Highness give it then?”
“What?”
“Your approval of her marriage. My mother has been widowed for a year now.”
When one door closed another might well open, Henry thought, but it was the door that remained closed that would ever tantalize him. Yet Bess was not to blame. He had not gone after her. He had never made a stand. It was only hindsight and perspective that had finally brought the thought to meet and match the desire. He should be ashamed of himself. He deserved this. She had let Harry go for his sake. Now if Bess truly wanted this, he must make a sacrifice in the same way and do this in return for her.
“Yes, of course I shall approve it,” Henry said with a tone of resignation he did not feel. “There are few people in all the world who more deserve happiness than she.”
PART VII
Step. . . .
Wait for that wisest of all counselors, Time.
—PERICLES
Chapter Nineteen
November 1533
Kyme Castle, Lincolnshire
Bess read the letter again, taking in every word, each detail of the event she had missed. Harry’s wedding to Mary Howard, the young daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, held at Hampton Court, had been a small affair attended by only a few guests. It had not really been a proper wedding anyway since Harry had not yet reached the age of fifteen. But the king and his wife, Anne Boleyn, had attended to sanction the match. The new queen was said to be a ragingly jealous woman, which had precluded inviting former mistresses to court, even if they were the mother of the bridegroom.
Harry did not like Anne any more now than he had in the beginning, and it caused him to keep his distance, touring his own estates much of the year, and visiting Lincolnshire, rather than remaining at court to be badgered by the queen and the new royal heir—a daughter they had chosen to call Elizabeth.
Bess folded the letter again, and Edward studied her. He was lying beside her in their bed, a grand canopied structure draped with heavily fringed crimson velvet and gold ties. In the early-morning autumnal light, her husband resembled a god, Bess thought; scandalously young and dangerously handsome he was. It still amazed her, after two years, that her long-fallow body had come so alive again beneath his passionate touch, and she loved Edward Fiennes with a focus and intensity that rivaled anything she believed she had felt for Henry or Gil.
“I’m sorry we could not be there, my love,” Edward said, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “I know it would have meant something to the boy.”
“Moreover, it would have been a reason for the new queen to make a scene, and that was Harry’s day.”
“And also, we have to protect our own little investme
nt,” he returned, smiling that devilish smile that could still melt her even now as he pressed his hand down against the hard little knot at her belly, the beginnings of their growing child.
Neither of them spoke about it being a youthful power alliance between the king’s son and the Duke of Norfolk’s daughter, not a true marriage. Harry and the girl, one of Anne Boleyn’s favorite maids of honor, had barely met when she was selected to become his bride. And based on his youth, it would be some time before he was allowed to reap the full carnal benefits of marriage either.
Edward tenderly kissed his wife, then drew her nearer. “What is it that is really bothering you?” he asked, his voice full of tender concern.
“Harry has changed. He is no longer my gentle little boy who I would carry through the meadow with me, smelling all of the flowers. Nor even the one who came here after Gil died. Now, the tone in his letters is more clipped, more formal than when last we met. He speaks with an air of entitlement now about how bored he is with this or that. After all, my son is a duke.”
“Second most powerful personage in all of England, no matter his age,” Edward unnecessarily reminded her. There was no one in England allowed to forget who Harry was.
Bess sighed. “I suppose he is simply growing into his role as the son of a king. I should have known life at court would change him. I know not why I expected anything different.”
“Because you are his mother, and even from afar you will always love him for the child he was,” Edward tenderly answered. “And a part of you will forever be tied to his father.”
“After the annulment question was finally made moot by the king’s marriage to Anne Boleyn, and the commencement of his own church, so it was no longer necessary for Harry to be married off to the Princess Mary. I suppose I just expected the king to make a better match for his only son.”