The Last Heiress (58 page)

“Nay, you have a daughter Mary,” Anne said with a show of her old spirit. “I have called her Elizabeth after your sainted mother, may God assoil her good soul. You will name the lads, my dear lord, but I will name the girls.”

The king chuckled, eased from his bad mood briefly. Then he nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “You always did know how to bargain, Annie.”

Then he left her.

Elizabeth came back in to be with her friend. Anne was paler than she usually was, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes, which now had a haunted look in them. “He spoke kindly to you,” Elizabeth comforted the queen as those around her prepared her for sleep.

“I have disappointed him. I said my daughter was named after his mother, but she is named after you too. May she be as strong a woman as you, Bess,” Anne said.

Three days after her birth the princess to be called Elizabeth was baptized by Archbishop Cranmer, immersed in the silver font kept for royal babies. She then went off to her own royal household while her mother lay in state receiving the mighty. But it all rang hollow. Everyone knew the king was unhappy, no matter his fine words. And Anne was condemned to remain forty more days in her confinement until the ceremony of her churching took place.

And then one morning in early October, as the king came from his chapel, a man with a wealth of black hair, as tall as if not taller than Henry Tudor, came down the corridor of the palace dragging two yeoman of the guard, one clinging to each of his arms. The king and his companions were both astounded and surprised. Reaching Henry Tudor, the great man shook the guardsmen off and bowed politely to the monarch.

His gray eyes engaged the king’s blue ones. His garments were soiled, but of decent quality. There was a length of red-black-and-yellow plaid over one of his shoulders. He was unarmed but for a dirk at his side. “Your majesty,” he said in a deep voice that hinted of the north. “I have come, with your permission, to fetch my wife home.”

“Your wife?” The king was truly puzzled.

“Elizabeth Hay, the lady of Friarsgate, your majesty,” the man said.

“She came in the spring at the queen’s command. Now I would like her to go home at your command.”

Henry Tudor began to chuckle, and the chuckle grew into a great shout of laughter. The men around him looked nervously at one another. Should they laugh too? Discretion prevailed, and they remained silent. The king’s amusement eased, and, nodding, he said, “Aye, Scotsman, it is time you got your wife back, and if she is anything like her mother, which I believe she is, she longs for her beloved Friarsgate.” He turned to look at the men accompanying him, and, finding who he sought, he waved him forward. “I will send for your wife to come to you in my gardens. She has our permission to go home. In the meantime I give you a fellow Scot to keep you company.” Then, with another deep chuckle, Henry Tudor moved past Baen Hay, the MacColl, and on down the corridor.

The two men eyed each other, and then the king’s man held out his hand. “I am Flynn Stewart,” he said.

“Baen Hay, known as the MacColl,” was the response. “You must be the other Scot she kissed when she was here last.”

Flynn Stewart was unable to repress the grin that sprang to his lips.

“A gentleman does not kiss and tell, sir,” he said as they walked down the corridor and out into the gardens by the river. She had not been lying: Her husband was a big man.

Baen chuckled. “Do you think she has enjoyed her time here?” he asked.

“She came for the queen, but I know she longs to go home. The queen feels she needs Elizabeth’s friendship, but she does not consider her friend’s husband or child or responsibilities, her own needs overshadowing all.”

“They say she is a witch,” Baen said.

“They are wrong,” Flynn countered. “She’s just an ambitious woman who has now played her trump card, and probably lost. I doubt Elizabeth could have gotten away from her but that you came to fetch her. It is better she not be caught in what will follow, Baen Hay. Her heart is too good.”

“Aye,” Baen agreed, “it is.”

“Baen!” Elizabeth was flying across the lawns, holding her skirts up so that she would not trip. She flung herself into his open arms. “Oh, Baen!” And, taking his head between her two hands, she kissed him hungrily.

“I will bid you both farewell and a safe journey then,” Flynn Stewart said. She loved him. Oh, yes, she loved him very much, and for a brief moment he was envious.

Elizabeth turned in her husband’s arms. She smiled sweetly at Flynn. “Thank you,” she said softly, and then together with her husband, the lady of Friarsgate walked across the green lawns of Greenwich towards her uncle’s house. She did not look back, and so she did not see the woman standing alone in an upper window. She did not hear the familiar voice whisper a farewell. She did not see the single tear slip down the queen’s face. She was going home with her husband, and for the first time in months Elizabeth felt lighthearted. The day was bright with an October sun. Baen was by her side. And she was going home to Friarsgate!

Epilogue

June 1536

F
lynn Stewart was riding for the border separating Scotland and England. He had taken a route far out of his way, but before he saw his brother, the king, he meant to stop at Friarsgate first.

He owed that to Elizabeth. Looking about him as he rode, he admired the beauty of the region, now understanding Elizabeth’s passion to live here, and not at court. It had been almost three years since he had watched as Elizabeth and her husband walked away from Greenwich.

He wondered if she had changed, but thought not. And then he topped a rise in the narrow road, and there before him lay Friarsgate.

Its fields were filled with growing grain, and its green hillsides dotted with white sheep. He halted for a brief moment, taking it all in. Could he have been happy here? Perhaps, but he could have never denied his loyalty to his brother, King James V.

Urging his horse forward, he rode down the hill along the road that passed through those beautiful fields and a small cluster of cottages.

Reaching the manor house, he pulled the beast to a halt and dismounted as a stable lad ran to take his animal. Stepping up to the door, he knocked loudly upon it, and when a servant opened the door, Flynn Stewart said, “I need to speak with your mistress.”

“This way, sir,” Albert said, leading him to the great hall. “Mistress, a gentleman asking for you,” the hall steward said.

Elizabeth looked up. Then she stood, holding out her hands. “Flynn!”

Her eyes were bright with their welcome. “What brings you to Friarsgate?

I hope the queen has not sent you to bring me back to court again, for I shall not come. My responsibilities have increased greatly since my return.” She smiled at him as Albert brought a goblet of wine for her guest.

He took the goblet, gulping half of it down. He had not realized he was so thirsty. “I am on my way to Edinburgh,” he told her. “I thought I should stop and see how you and Friarsgate are doing,” he told her.

“Edinburgh is farther north, and just above the other side of England,” Elizabeth said, an amused look upon her face. “You obviously have little sense of direction, Flynn.” And she chuckled.

“Then I shall admit to being curious as to this Friarsgate of yours, and thought to see it. I have important news for James, and I am finally to be relieved of my duties. My brother tells me he has a rich wife for me. I am at last following your advice, Elizabeth.”

“Baen should be in from the fields soon,” she told him. “It is almost time for the haying to begin. Young Thomas is with him. And we have two other children: Edmund, who was, coincidentally, born nine months after Baen and I came home. And our daughter, Anne, born the fifth day of December last year. When I saw our daughter’s black hair I knew I had to name her after the queen.” And Elizabeth laughed. “How is she? We get little news here in our remote northern lands.”

Baen Hay came into the hall and, seeing Flynn Stewart, held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. A little boy, tall, but quite young, walked with him. The child ran to Elizabeth and hugged her. “Welcome to Friarsgate,” Baen greeted their visitor. He kissed his wife upon her lips, and then, his arm about her, turned back to face Flynn Stewart. “What brings you here, sir?”

“I have told him that if the queen wants me back I cannot go,” Elizabeth teased her handsome husband.

Baen laughed. “Nay, sweetheart, I’ll not let you go again.” He looked to Flynn. “Will you stay the night, Flynn Stewart?”

“Aye, and I thank you for the shelter,” Flynn replied.

“And you will tell us the news of court over dinner?” Elizabeth said.

“I will,” Flynn answered her with a heavy heart. How was he to tell her the terrible news that he carried? How much did she know of what had happened in those many months since she had last been with the court? Did her sister, a countess, he recalled, write to her?

They chatted idly as the meal was served. It was a plain country meal such as he remembered from his own childhood. There was broiled trout, a potage of vegetables, venison, a roast capon, bread, butter, and cheese. The food was fresh and well cooked. Flynn watched in amusement as Elizabeth’s two sons helped themselves to cherries from a bowl on the high board, and then vied with each other to see how far they could spit the pits. He had been shown the infant Anne Hay with her black curls, who so resembled her father, and was already showing her mother’s lively personality.

Now the children were all sent off to bed. He sat with Elizabeth and Baen outdoors on the early summer’s night. He could delay no longer.

“Does your sister, the countess, write to you often?” he asked Elizabeth casually. “I should dislike repeating that which you already know.”

“Nay,” Elizabeth said. “Philippa goes little to court now. She is almost as much a country wife as I am. I did receive a letter from her just before Anne was born. She and Crispin had joined the king and queen on progress into Wales last summer. She wanted to visit the place where our father was born. She said it was beautiful, but not as beautiful as Friarsgate, and bleak. And our cousins there more backward than she would have expected. And her best friend resides in Wales.

She said little about anything else.”

“Then I shall tell you all I know,” Flynn Stewart said. “Things went from bad to worse after you departed court. The women surrounding the queen were harpies. Her mother, her sister, Jane Rochford, Mary Howard, who was married to Fitzroy, the king’s son, among others.

None loved her, but for one: Margaret Lee. After you left she was most sympathetic of the queen’s loneliness, and they became friends.”

“Oh, I am glad!” Elizabeth said. “I thought of her highness so often, but I had to come home. Say on, Flynn.”

“Margaret Lee was her only comfort. The king’s passion for Queen Anne had waned and burned out,” he said. “They quarreled bitterly, and often publicly. The king was openly courting other women—the queen’s cousin Margaret Shelton, among others. The more he dallied with others, the more shrewish the queen became.”

“She was afraid,” Elizabeth said wisely. “Poor Anne. She was always afraid.”

“Aye,” Flynn agreed. “There were two confinements the year after you left, but neither came to fruition. Then the king’s proposed alliances first with France, and then with Emperor Charles, began to un-ravel. The pope had excommunicated him for refusing to take the princess of Aragon back and restore the lady Mary. Last summer the king was despondent that all he had so long labored for was lost. The queen’s star glowed briefly once more, and they went on progress together. To all who saw them they seemed happy again but for the presence of Mistress Seymour. In late autumn it was announced that the queen was once again with child. The bairn would be born in July.

“Then the princess of Aragon died on the day after Twelfth Night.

The king refused to wear mourning, and threatened any who did. Instead he gave banquets and held tournaments in celebration. In late January he was unhorsed for the first time in anyone’s memory.”

“He is too old to play at such games any longer,” Elizabeth said.

Baen nodded in agreement.

“How badly was he injured?” she wanted to know.

“It wasn’t the fall that did the injury; it was his horse falling on him,” Flynn explained.

“God’s wounds!” Baen exclaimed. “He was not killed?”

“Nay, but he lay unconscious for two hours, and that wicked busy-body Norfolk went running to the queen to say the king was probably dead,” Flynn Stewart replied.

“She lost the child,” Elizabeth said fatalistically.

“Aye, and that was the beginning of her end,” the Scotsman said.

“After that the king visited her no more. He openly courted Mistress Seymour before all. The queen was sorrowing for her child—a son, by the way—and deserted by all but a few. The court rushed to align itself with what was to be the new regime, while the king looked for a way to divest himself of the queen, and not look the worse for doing it.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am astounded the king would bother with Jane Seymour. Her chin recedes. Indeed, she has a double chin.

She is past thirty, and her youth has long flown by. Her hair is the color of dung, and not beautiful at all. And that little prim mouth.”

“She is meek and obedient,” Flynn said. “She never raises her voice. She has allied herself with the lady Mary.”

“She is sly and guileful,” Elizabeth said bluntly.

“Aye,” he agreed. “But allow me to continue my tale. Mistress Seymour, like the queen, held herself off from the king while at the same time encouraging him. He gave her many gifts, but ’tis said when he presented her with a bag of gold coins at Easter she refused, telling him that sort of gift was for another time. The king considered ways to rid himself of the queen, and he enlisted Master Cromwell in his endeavor.”

Elizabeth shuddered. “The man has evil eyes,” she said.

“Master Cromwell gathered an alliance together of the Seymours, those unhappy in Anne’s service, her cousin Nicholas Carew, and the lady Mary’s supporters. Suddenly the queen was being denounced publicly for immoral behavior. Two senior gentlemen of her privy chamber, Henry Norris and William Brereton, were arrested and brought to the Tower, along with Francis Weston, Lord Rochford, and a young musician in her household, one Mark Smeaton.”