A moment later, one of the queen’s stewards bent down behind Mary. After he whispered something to her, she pressed back her chair, stood, and went alone in a swish of velvet skirts into the presence chamber next door.
Bess glanced at Elizabeth. “What is happening?” she whispered.
“I heard this morning that the Scottish are attempting to use the king’s absence as an opportunity to attack England in the north. The troops are collecting there, and the queen is planning to lead them herself against King James.”
“But the queen is with child!” Bess exclaimed, stunned by such a possibility.
“That is what’s causing everyone’s concern now. Her Highness waited until Wolsey left for France with his report of her health for the king. Now she wishes to go into battle like her mother, the warrior Queen Isabella.”
“Will she go, do you think?” Bess asked with wide-eyed surprise.
“Her aides as well as her ladies are trying to counsel her against it. But the queen is a stubborn woman once she sets her mind to something. And she believes having had the king name her regent in his absence, before he left, is a great honor that should not go untested.”
“She seems so mild mannered.”
Elizabeth smiled. “She does, does she not? But the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella is not someone I would wish to go up against.”
“I shall take that as a warning.”
“You would be wise to do so,” Elizabeth Bryan concurred, glancing back at the open door. They could still hear arguments back and forth in both Spanish and English.
“Will she go, do you think, even risking the royal child?” Bess asked again.
“I believe it is likely that her warrior side will trump her maternal side for now.”
Each girl went back to the banner she was sewing, trying to eavesdrop on a conversation all of England would soon be privy to if Queen Katherine got her way. From that moment, Bess had new respect for the proud Spanish queen, a seemingly plain and understated woman. She had much to learn, Bess thought as a warm summer wind blew through the open windows, ushering in the scent of wisteria and wildflowers from the garden.
The next morning, the women and young girls of the queen’s house-hold peered out open windows and collected in the courtyard below. They watched as Henry VIII’s wife, four months pregnant, was helped onto a proud Spanish Jennet, which waited, elegantly draped in red velvet with gilded stirrups, at the head of a uniformed contingent of the king’s guard.
Bess turned around to see Gil, who stood towering above her beside Elizabeth.
“The king would not let her go if he knew, would he?” Bess asked.
“Unfathomable. He wants a son. Yet she wishes to be a part of her Spanish legacy. Wolsey always says that. I think it was the biggest reason he returned,” Gil said.
Bess came away from the window, and he followed her. “The king does not trust her?”
“I think it is more that he understands the circumstances,” Gil replied.
“So shall we have a bit of fun, finally?” Elizabeth proposed, wrapping an arm over Bess’s shoulder as the trio moved toward the door.
“While the cat’s away?” Gil said with a chuckle.
“Of course,” Elizabeth countered blithely, and Bess was happy to be included in whatever sudden merriment the two might conjure, even if she did not quite trust either of them yet.
Running down a brick pathway, her dress flying out like a sail behind her, Bess laughed as she struggled to keep up with Gil and Elizabeth, who knew well their way. In the queen’s absence, the three of them were free to explore the vast palace grounds in the still, balmy air of late summer.
One pathway led to another, and Bess was quickly lost among the fountains, trees, and hedgerows, but even that was better than the monotony of the queen’s household and the silent drudgery there. They ran until the brick became gravel paths, bordered by daylilies and wild marigolds. Near a flint wall covered with clematis, they tumbled onto a spongy bed of clover, laughing and out of breath. Bess gazed up at the broad blue sky, the thick billowing clouds moving quickly by as she tried to make shapes from each of them.
“What do you dream?” Elizabeth asked of neither of them in particular, and Bess was uncertain of how to answer.
“I dream I shall one day be a duke,” Gil said fancifully. “And I’ll have no walls or fences to keep anyone out or in. I shall eat my supper at midnight, only because I can, and I shall never wake up before dawn for anyone’s prayers!”
Elizabeth giggled, but Bess was afraid to show amusement because she had been warned she must never say or do anything to jeopardize her family’s standing. Secretly, however, she daydreamed of a life like Guinevere’s, full of romance, excitement, and even a bit of danger. Ah, that she might find her own King Arthur, as she dreamed at home in quiet Kinlet.
“I dream of being kissed on the lips very slowly by Master Brandon,” Elizabeth finally revealed.
Gil spit out a laugh and sat up. “Charles Brandon? The most notorious jackanapes at court?”
“That title would belong to the king, by your leave,” Elizabeth responded, parrying the question with a false little sniff of indignation.
“Brandon has eyes only for the king’s sister; everyone says that,” Gil teased. “So you dream of being second choice?”
“As long as I was chosen.”
“For a kiss?” Gil asked.
“For anything,” Elizabeth replied.
They began to chuckle naughtily at that, and, in spite of herself, Bess joined them.
“So, now you, Mistress Blount,” said Gil. “What do you dream of?”
She drew in a breath, then exhaled. “I dream of my father being well again and of both my parents being here at court with me.”
Everyone was silent; the only sound was that of geese overhead. “A noble, if less than creative response,” he remarked.
“Come now, Bess,” said Elizabeth. “Surely you can do better than that.”
“No, truly. That is what I dream of. My father was wounded at Calais.”
“And yet if he were here, then your mother would be here with him, and you would not be,” Gil observed. “And I, for one, do not at all fancy the prospect of that.”
“Truly, Gilly.” Elizabeth chuckled. “Your flirtations are clumsier than a farmer wrestling his pig in the mud.”
“Thank you very much indeed,” Gil said haughtily, his face flushed with indignation. “Being pleasant does not have to mean flirtation, you know.”
“It does not have to mean that,” Elizabeth quipped, “but in your case it does.”
Bess watched his pale cheeks grow even more crimson as the friends exchanged a little glance.
“Tell us whom you really would not mind kissing then, if you fancy embarrassing me,” Gil pressed.
“That was just harmless, personal fantasy,” Elizabeth defended, her smile and blithe tone quickly fading.
“By my troth, no matter what she says of Master Brandon, our dear Mistress Bryan dreamed more than once of kissing the king,” Gil revealed in order to match her cruelty. “The married young king, I might add.”
“Yes, as if we did not know that. Well, he is incredibly handsome and dynamic. What more need I say?” Elizabeth defended. “If you were a girl, you would dream about him, too. He is humorous and clever, and those eyes of his pierce you right to the core if you are fortunate enough, even for a moment, to have them gaze upon you,” she said dreamily.
Gil laughed. “I do wonder what our warrior queen might be driven to do if she heard you speaking like that of her husband.”
“He may be her husband, but he is my king, and I most certainly would serve him any way he pleased.”
Gil and Bess exchanged glances, smiling. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners above a long, relaxed jawline. There was an innocence about him, not unlike her own. He was different than the others. She could see that.
“Go ahead and laugh, the two of you
,” Elizabeth said. “But you shall see what I mean about the king when the men are home from France. Believe me, you will see.”
By the time Katherine of Aragon arrived near the border of England and Scotland, the Battle of Flodden was over, the English troops were victorious, and the Scots’ King James already lay dead of his war wounds. The price Katherine had paid for her dedication to England and her young husband was the miscarriage of another royal child. To convalesce and to mourn, she did not return to court, but instead went to Windsor. Only her ladies to whom she was closest were summoned there to attend her. Bess, Jane, Elizabeth, and Princess Mary were to go on to Richmond Palace with the others to await the triumphant return of the king and his collection of soldier-courtiers, all of whom Bess had heard about but could not begin to imagine. That, however, would come soon enough.
Chapter Three
October 1513
Richmond Palace, Surrey
He led the three of them blindfolded, holding hands and giggling beneath a little vine-covered trellis. The aromas were a delicious mix of late-blooming roses and the burning of raked leaves coming from the great fields beyond. Bess was the first to remove her blindfold, Jane and Elizabeth following suit, so that they all saw the feast of sweets at nearly the same time. Before them on a small table, covered in white linen, was a cornucopia of gingerbread, marzipan, and crystal dishes full of jam and plump berries. There were chargers, ewers, goblets, and finger bowls. It was quite a display; one fit for a king. The girls gasped with delight, then began to giggle again when they realized he had done this especially for them.
“However did you pull this off? It is magnificent; definitely one of your better ones, Gilly,” Elizabeth exclaimed, clearly impressed.
Bess watched them closely to see if she could detect anything romantic between them; a glance, a smile, or a flirtation. But Gil looked at Bess instead.
“Did it surprise you?” he asked her.
“Completely,” she replied, smiling with the same delight as the other girls. She had only ever tasted marzipan once at home two years earlier when Lord Mountjoy had paid them a visit.
“Gilly does things like this for us all the time,” Jane remarked, nonplussed. “The king, of course, would have laid it all out on silver.”
“Obviously, I am not the king,” Gil replied, and Bess could hear the disappointment in his voice.
“Well, since I have no idea what the king would design, I think it is glorious. May we try some?” Bess asked. She watched his smile return.
“Try the gingerbread first while it is still warm.” He grinned as a greedy bee droned beyond the trellis. “I had Agnes prepare that especially for you.”
Elizabeth and Jane sat down on the little iron garden bench behind the table, and each took up one of the confections.
“Agnes?” Bess asked, letting Gil lead her to one of two little stools he had placed on the opposite side of the table.
“The king’s favorite baker. She has been at court, she says, since he was a child, and she likes to spoil him.”
“And you?” Bess supposed, once again surveying the impressive display spread out carefully in bowls, dishes, and plates.
“I suppose you could say she fancies me a bit as well.”
“Nonsense,” Elizabeth put in uncharitably as she took a rather unladylike mouthful of gingerbread. “In true court fashion, Gilly flirts with anyone and everyone to get what he wants.”
“Untrue.” He smiled slyly. “But I do study diligently from our good king.”
A moment later, everyone began to laugh, and realizing now that this casual banter was simply the way they were with one another, Bess relaxed and felt free to delight in the first taste of warm gingerbread in the crisp autumn air.
“So what other surprises have you managed, Master Tailbois?” she asked with a smile as Jane and Elizabeth began to chatter excitedly about the king’s imminent return. “Since it was your idea that I steal into the king’s private chambers, I imagine they are all quite creative.”
“I do what I can to be noticed by comely girls. Believe me, it is not always easy with the stiff competition here. So, if you don’t mind, I shall guard my ideas.”
“I could simply ask the two of them,” Bess said, indicating Jane and Elizabeth.
“You could,” he countered, plucking a small piece of marzipan from the dish for himself. “Or you could wait and see what might be in store, which would be much more fun.”
In spite of herself, she laughed. Bess was not drawn to Gil Tailbois romantically, but he was sweet, kind, and even a little clever, she thought.
A fanfare of trumpets announcing the king’s return suddenly broke their carefree idyll, and both Jane and Elizabeth excitedly sprang to their feet.
“They’ve returned!” Jane gasped. “Pinch your cheeks, Elizabeth. I imagine that Master Carew shall be riding out front beside the king.”
“Nicholas Carew does not know I even exist,” she replied, straightening her gown. “Nor would I care if a coxcomb like him ever did.”
“Well, one as pretty as you could certainly change that,” Jane countered, and they began to giggle to themselves in a way Bess envied. “Come, we must be there when they arrive in the courtyard!” Then Jane pivoted back with an afterthought.
“Thank you for this, Gilly. As always, your little surprise was delightful.”
The two girls ran ahead down the gravel path as Bess stood with Gil, his disappointment obvious. “Shall I help you collect everything?” Bess asked.
“Thank you, but I shall have someone sent down to do it. Perhaps you could keep me company while I organize it a bit, though?”
The moment after that became awkward as they stood alone in silence beneath the trellis, very near to each other. The thunder of horses’ hooves from the king’s massive cortege in the distance grew louder.
“Well, thank you, Master Tailbois, truly. It was such a lovely surprise, and the gingerbread was delicious. May we do it again sometime? I really would like that.”
From the gravel path beyond a low-hanging evergreen, Elizabeth Bryan called to her, “Are you coming, Bess? ’Tisn’t every day you get to see the King of England for the first time!”
When Bess looked back at him, Gil only shrugged. “Go on ahead,” he said. “I suspect there will be a lot of ‘firsts’ ahead of you from now on. But I shall be around.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Bess felt a little spark of guilt for turning away just then, yet she was too excited for what lay ahead to stop herself from joining them.
Covered in dust, his black leather boots caked with mud, King Henry leapt from his great warrior bay, lurched into the open arms of Mary, his younger sister, and claimed her in a broad and powerful embrace.
“I’ve missed you, Hal. ’Tis never the same without you,” she said against his bare, sweaty neck as she began to chuckle. “Yet adore you though I do, you are surely in need of a bath.”
“And you, sweeting, are a sight for very sore eyes.”
They laughed together as he pulled her more closely into his embrace. “Are you well?” she asked.
“Only tired, but other than that, I am right as rain. There is zest in victory.”
“I can imagine.” Mary smiled up at him with that same sweet smile their mother once possessed—one in which Henry had always found great comfort. That was, until he saw the little glance she exchanged with his best friend, Charles Brandon, who had come up beside him. Bull pizzle! He had believed that little dalliance of theirs would have run its course while they were in France. It was a blessed thing that it could not amount to anything more since Brandon was already betrothed to his own little ward, the wealthy Elizabeth Grey. Perhaps this thing before him was just a court flirtation. Of course, that was it. . . . He was just being foolish, thinking it could actually be more. Charles was a notorious scoundrel and dreadful flirt, as he himself was. There was nothing to worry about.
As Henry walked across the cobbled co
urtyard with Mary, he slung his other arm over Brandon’s shoulder. If he could have chosen a brother after Arthur, Brandon surely would have been it. They were close. They had total trust in each other. It was a rare gift for the king to bestow on anyone, save Wolsey. But the bond with his cleric was a very different thing.
“I am surprised you did not go to Windsor with the queen,” Henry said as they walked beneath a carved wooden portico and into the first cavernous hall with its oak-beamed ceilings painted in blue, red, and green.
“She wished only for Maria de Salinas and Doña Elvira to attend her,” Mary replied.
“Well, she should not have gone, endangering the child like that,” he scoffed.
“She went to Scotland for you,” Mary reminded her brother, who still wore a field costume, a brocade tunic with hanging sleeves, padded gauntlets, padded hose, a dagger, and tall, black leather boots.
“Wolsey came here himself and told her not to go. Now she is still a childless queen, and I am an angry king because of it.”
“You both are young, Hal. There will be others. That was an act of loyalty.”
“It was an act of stupidity! Perhaps I should have listened to those who warned me against marrying my brother’s wife in the first place,” he petulantly declared, beginning to stalk rather than walk.
“Our brother’s widow, Hal. Katherine is a good wife to you.”
“I shall be the judge of who is good for me,” he said peevishly, glad all of a sudden that young Mistress Poppincourt had not gone to Windsor with the queen either.
Bess stood breathless in the courtyard, her heart still racing, as the stewards and esquires unloaded trunks and supplies, and the liveried equerries began to lead the vast collection of horses away to the royal stables. She was stunned, so that for a moment she almost could not move. The king was absolutely magnificent. He was everything they said he was, like Lancelot come to life. Henry VIII was very tall and muscular, his shoulders impressively broad and his calves as sturdy as the trunks of two trees. In the sunlight, his tousled copper hair looked like silk crowning a chiseled, square face that held her gaze riveted to him as he had leapt from his horse, greeted his sister with a broad embrace, and walked toward the open palace doors. Katherine of Aragon was the most fortunate woman alive, Bess thought, since that human god, their king, belonged to her and her alone. Bess’s adolescent heart soared with the images of what Katherine’s life must be like; the riches, the jewels, the private attentions of a man like that.