The Jewels of Warwick (35 page)

 

 

"Topaz wasn't herself on this visit," Amethyst said, with a worried
frown. "The whole mood was strained and subdued. We exchanged our
gifts, ate and drank as usual, sang, played music...but she was
quite aloof."

 

 

"Thank God she no longer talks of it day and night, I say! Perhaps
she's realized her folly and decided not to carry through with this
absurd charade after all."

 

 

Amethyst looked deeply into the eyes of the man who had been Topaz's
husband for too short a time. What she could tell him about that
woman could fill volumes, all her quirks and moods that he never
could have beheld during a mere few years of marriage.

 

 

It mattered not, because Topaz was no longer his problem. But he did
have the lads to think about, who were being reared and groomed by
Topaz alone, not being sent away to other nobles' homes to be
educated like most boys. She was shaping them her way, and that
bothered both their father and Amethyst.

 

 

"Nay, Matthew, you do not know her the way I do. She only showed you
the side of her that she wanted you to see during the time that you
knew her. I know my sister, and I know her restrained tone this last
week speaks volumes. She is finished talking and is now getting
ready to act."

 

 

He sighed heavily. "I was so glad the lads hadn't spoken of any
rebellion or evil words against the King or Mary, or anyone in so
long, I had begun to believe it was a forgotten issue."

 

 

"The lads do not agree with her, thank God. They've formed their own
beliefs. But Topaz will never change."

 

 

"Have you discussed this any further with the King?" he asked
quietly.

 

 

"Nay," she said with a shake of her head. "I saw no need to mention
it, for I had hopes all was well. And if I had any misgivings of
late, I kept them to myself. He's got his plate full at the moment,
with all the recent deaths, plus Mary being ill, and his disgust
with Anne. You should have heard him talking of executing her. I'd
never seen the King behave like this. He was not the Henry I've come
to know."

 

 

"Perhaps he was just venting his anger," he said, patting her on the
shoulder. "I mean, look at Topaz. Look how worried I was when she
spoke of poisoning the Princess Mary."

 

 

He stopped dead in his tracks and his hand flew to his mouth as his
goblet slipped from his grasp and clanked to the floor, sending a
cascade of wine splattering onto the rug.

 

 

Her eyes rounded in horror. "Oh, no, Matthew, no! It couldn't be—"

 

 

"I would never wish that it could. But mayhap it is."

 

 

"Queen Anne and...Topaz?" she gasped, unable to believe the ambition
of both women.

 

 

Matthew looked pale with shock. "Perhaps Anne is not the only witch
of whom the King speaks, Amethyst."

 

 

Suddenly a fear she'd never known drenched her, and she rushed over
to Matthew, nestling into his embrace, wanting him to hold her, to
comfort her, to envelop her in his warmth, never to relinquish her.

 

 

"Oh, Matthew, the King was so livid, I was so horrified! He's become
someone else, someone I did not know. He's been plagued because of
all this, all these deaths, all these illnesses... He has blamed
Anne for it all! He barely remembers Topaz exists!"

 

 

"Anne has enough reason to rid Henry of his most staunch allies,
since most of them detest her audacity and her manners. If Topaz is
involved with this, she has certainly been more clever than I ever
gave her credit for. And if the two of them are in league with each
other, well then, God help us all."

 

 

Amethyst shivered at his words and held Matthew even more tightly.
He comforted her, clasping her in a light but warm embrace. As she
relaxed into his arms, she reflected on how different he felt from
her King Henry. How unfamiliar were the contours of his body, how
strange it felt as he clasped her around the waist and patted her
back.

 

 

She forced herself to break away despite the joy of the enveloping
warmth, and sensed Matthew was equally reluctant to let her go, his
hand lingering on hers a bit longer than it should have.

 

 

Later in bed, she denied just how much she enjoyed being with him,
talking with him, laughing with him...as well as the stirrings of
arousal she'd felt while in his arms. All the same, she had a
restless night longing for such joyful comfort once more.

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

 

 

When she returned to court on January 10, Amethyst's maid of honor
greeted her with a wish for a happy new year, then she broke some
tragic news. Catherine of Aragon was dead.

 

 

"She expired at two in the afternoon, day before yesterday, Lady
Amethyst."

 

 

"What happened?" she asked in a horrified whisper.

 

 

"She had been gravely ill for quite some time—"

 

 

"I know that! But to expire so suddenly! Is the King in residence? I
must go to him!"

 

 

She gathered her skirts and, not even pausing to bathe off the dirt
and grime of her last day's journey or change from her travelling
garments, tossed her cloak on the bed and hurried to the King's
chambers.

 

 

The Yeomen of the Guard halted her at the entrance to Henry's privy
chamber.

 

 

"The King is receiving no visitors," the guard stated, his eyes
straight ahead, focused on some faraway pinpoint.

 

 

"But I am... You know who I am! Let me through!"

 

 

"We have our orders, Madam."

 

 

Just then the King appeared, waving the guards aside. He looked as
if he hadn't slept since she left him.

 

 

"Sire! I just arrived back and I just heard..."

 

 

He held his hand out to her and they swept past the guards who'd
parted for the King. They entered his bed chamber and he sat on the
edge of his bed. It looked as if he'd been abed all day, the sheets
rumpled, the pillows strewn about the floor.

 

 

"I am so sorry."

 

 

"She is to be interred at Peterborough Abbey." He turned away, as if
needing her touch, but not the sight of her, with him still holding
her hand. She let him continue. "I just received a letter..." His
voice was so strained it was barely audible, against the wind
rattling the windows and the crackling fire, each fighting to defeat
the other.

 

 

"A letter? From whom?"

 

 

"From Catherine." They shuddered in unison at the thought. "She
wrote it before she died."

 

 

"I would think she did, sire."

 

 

"She knew the end was upon her, and she made a few requests of me."

 

 

"And what were they, sire?"

 

 

"After pardoning me... pardoning me..." His voice indicated that
perhaps he indeed had acted in a fashion that demanded a pardon.
"...she asked me to provide for her maids. She asked something else
of me... Oh, yes, she asked me to be a good father to Mary."

 

 

"Not very unreasonable requests, my lord."

 

 

"Nay, that is true. Your Aunt Margaret is like a mother to her, and
for that I am grateful in some ways. Perhaps I can bring her to
court, along with Elizabeth, and we shall be just like a family."

 

 

Like a family, he'd said, for a solid family he'd never really had
since the day his brother Arthur had died and he had become heir and
his mother had died and left Henry VII bereft.

 

 

"We shall have a family of our own someday, sire."

 

 

He nodded. "Aye, some day."

 

 

As much as she wanted to give Henry that first male heir, she was
sure Anne was praying just as much, for if the child within her
lived, then she would live.

 

 

"Chapuys thinks Anne poisoned Catherine," he said, a quiver in his
voice that betrayed his own doubt.

 

 

"Oh, no, my lord, she wouldn't have done such a thing. Anne may be
self-centered and impetuous at times, but I do not believe she would
ever take such drastic measures."

 

 

An uneasy smile parted his lips and he looked deeply into her eyes.
"You are so trusting, Amethyst, seeing the good side of everyone."

 

 

"If Anne had wanted to poison Catherine, she would have done so long
ago, when the divorce was pending. She easily could have poisoned
Catherine any time when she was still at court and she was serving
as lady in waiting. Chapuys is wrong. Of course he has his own
reasons for accusing Anne. He was ever so devoted to Catherine."

 

 

"Anne's behavior towards Catherine's death was not exactly mournful,
either," Henry said.

 

 

"Did you expect it to be? It has just happened and it is a great
shock. Apart from that, she is no doubt greatly relieved. There can
be no doubt as to your married state now and she is hoping to give
you a legitimate son and heir. All her worries have been removed.
She is only being true to her feelings. She is a greatly troubled
girl, sire. She is under enormous pressure to produce your son, the
next King of England."

 

 

"Then why doesn't she give me my heir and be done with it!" he
thundered, turning to his wine decanter, filling his goblet to the
rim, but not spilling a drop. He slammed the decanter down, the gold
liquid sloshing inside.

 

 

She smiled despite herself. "Even the great King of England has to
wait nine months for a bonny baby boy, does he not?"

 

 

"Aye."

 

 

"So just be patient with Anne," Amethyst said, approaching him,
taking the goblet from his hand and twining her fingers through his.
"Let her have her child in peace. Son or daughter matters not so
long as it is a living child who is of the royal blood and offers
proof that your marriage to Catherine was cursed as you have said
and you were right to seek heirs from a new bride. If it is a girl,
she will have clearly failed in her duty. Then you and she can part
amicably so you and I can finally live our life without our love
being locked behind closed doors."

 

 

"And if it's a son?"

 

 

She sighed and shook her head. "I know not."

 

 

He changed the subject, then, asking her about Warwickshire. It was
obvious he had no desire to discuss his relations with Anne. Nor did
he mention Topaz, and for that she was grateful. She wasn't quite
sure what she would have said. The death of the former Queen made
her more concerned than ever, but without a clear idea of Topaz's
intentions, it was best to just wait rather than alarm the King
unduly.

 

 

He had a funeral to attend to. They might have divorced but Henry
had once loved her and known her all of his adult life. It was yet
another cruel loss to endure. The last thing Henry wanted to deal
with was a vague report of a possible rebellion by a mere woman.

 

 

 

CHAPTER FORTY

 

 

The torches blazed through the biting cold as the funeral procession
approached Peterborough Abbey, where Catherine was to be interred.
Anne was not present, using her pregnancy for an excuse. This would
have sounded like a lame excuse to anyone, the King included, who
voiced his disgust before the court at every opportunity, but
Amethyst believed there was some validity to Anne's absence.
Desperate to give the King his heir, she had every reason to be
cautious.

 

 

Amethyst was at the King's side throughout the two-day journey to
Peterborough, as they followed the black hearse groaning mournfully
on its wheels over the frozen rutted ground. Mary, draped in black,
clung to Amethyst's arm, sobbing pitifully.

 

 

Her heart broke for Mary, who had not been allowed to see her mother
during the last final months of her illness. The poor girl had been
bastardized, her claim to the throne shoved aside to make way for
Anne's children, for the sake of the as-yet-unborn but eagerly
awaited son.

 

 

Bursting with grief for Mary, and her sorrow over Catherine's wasted
life, which mingled with anger at the King of his neglect of Mary,
coupled with her devotion to him, all converged on her during this
bleak and sorrowful occasion, rendering her a confused jumble of
emotions.

 

 

Knowing she was able to be of some comfort to Mary was her only
solace as she took a tiny step back, the King and Mary on either
side, and watched as they slowly made eye contact across the empty
space she'd created, and finally, with grudging acceptance, fell
into a sobbing embrace.

 

 

 

The next day she was practicing a motet with the other musicians in
the conservatory when a page approached her and summoned her to the
King's apartments.

 

 

She set down her lute and plectrum and followed him down the
corridors, across the great hall and up the staircase to his
chambers, past the guards, and knocked on his door.

 

 

Most times, he answered it personally, as he knew her knock, but
this time it was opened by a Yeoman of the Guard. The bed chamber
was dark, lit by only a few candles scattered about, and he lay upon
the bed, prone, his bad leg propped up on pillows.

 

 

"What is it, my lord?" she rushed up to the bed, taking his hand.