The Queen's Rival (28 page)

She watched Henry carefully beside her, feeling the seductive warmth of his hand on her knee beneath the table cover as he laughed and casually conversed with the Duke of Buckingham, who was on his other side. Lord, but the king was magnificent—so purely male, she thought, still overwhelmed as she was by it all. Yet it was not this side of him, but rather the tender vulnerability that had so entirely won her over when they were alone, for which she would do absolutely anything.

Suddenly, as large gleaming silver platters of roast partridge, venison, boiled leg of lamb, figs, sugared almonds, and quince pastries, were laid before the assembled lords, ladies, dukes, earls, and ambassadors, Henry turned to her and leaned nearer.

“Come with me to Beaulieu tomorrow. Since the sweating sickness is growing worse, I am taking only a few of my court to the new palace I have just acquired in Essex from Sir Thomas Boleyn, and I wish very much for you to be with me. It is getting near enough that I, and those I love, must be away from the threat.”

She could barely believe he had bought yet another new palace; he already had more than a dozen. The opulence and wealth she would never grow accustomed to. But she wanted desperately to be with him, and she was excited beyond measure to see what mysteries and treasures this new palace, and the days ahead, held for them.

“Are you certain it would be appropriate for me to accompany you?” she managed to ask. “I would not wish to be a complication.”

Henry tightened his grip on her knee for a moment, then snaked his hand up near the place between her legs. “I should not wish to go without you,” he said deeply, purring the words seductively in her ear and tasting her earlobe for an instant with the tip of his tongue. “Besides, you shall go in my sister’s train. The selection of attendants made by the Duchess of Suffolk shall not be questioned.”

“Is she not closely allied with the queen?” Bess dared to ask, knowing already how close the two women were, as she fingered the silver stem of her goblet and tried to will herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

“I, not the queen, am ruler of England. It is my wishes, as well as my desires, that must be obeyed,” he replied quickly and with a hint of impatience, as his hand that was not on her knee gripped his own silver goblet a little too tightly.

Bess saw a muscle flex in his square jaw as he looked back out across the crowded hall.

“I shall obey all of your commands, my lord,” she returned so sweetly then that the small frown that had darkened his expression was replaced quickly by a smile.

“It is what I am hoping for, beginning later this evening after the banquet has ended. I shall send for you then.”

“And I shall be anywhere that you ask me to be, tonight, tomorrow, and always,” Bess replied, trying in vain to keep the desperate note of pure devotion from her voice.

A small disturbance across the room beneath the archway near the door took her attention then as the king began to dine on sturgeon and Buckingham once again tried to engage him in conversation. Beside the pillar, two men were speaking with Gil. Jane Poppincourt was there as well, and one of the men was holding Gil’s arm. But there was concern for him, not censure, in the gesture. A moment later, Gil faltered just as the two men led him from the vaulted banquet hall, one on each side of him in support. Jane quickly followed. Bess thought he did not look well, and her own concern deepened. Still, she could not suddenly leave the king’s side to attend to another man’s welfare—not when things had only just today deepened between them. It was not long, however, until the choice was made for her. A liveried page bent down behind her. “Lady Carew bids you to come at once, mistress,” he said in an urgent tone. “She bids me tell you that it is Master Tailbois for whom she seeks your assistance.”

“What is it?” she asked, turning around now to meet his gaze.

The king took note. Henry ceased his conversation and turned to the page as well.

“It may be the sweating sickness,” the page nervously revealed. “Pardon me, mistress, but Master Tailbois appears quite gravely ill and Lady Carew felt you would want to know.”

“Are you certain it is the sweat?” Henry asked, his deep voice ringing with concern.

Without waiting for a reply, Bess pressed back her chair and stood, her thick skirts moving around her.

“I must go,” she declared, surprising herself with the rush of loyalty she felt for Gil, despite what the king might wish.

Without waiting for his approval, Bess left the banquet hall alone then, dashing out into the torch-lit corridor crawling with shadows, and fled up an enormous echoing flight of stairs to Cardinal Wolsey’s suite of apartments. There, in a paneled room with two modest oak-framed windows of multicolored glass, she found Elizabeth, Nicholas, Jane, and the cardinal himself. They were gathered at the foot of a canopied bed, while two court physicians attended to Gil, who lay beneath a mound of heavy bedding. He was grimacing as if in enormous pain, but his eyes were closed, so he did not see her.

As Bess advanced, it was the cardinal who looked at her with calm concern and held out a fat jeweled hand to stop her. It was the first time in all these years she had ever seen his fleshy face full of anything but condescension toward her. “Perhaps you should not get too close, my dear. They are quite certain now it is the sweating sickness.”

“But he was fine only yesterday!” she cried, feeling tears prick her eyes and the swell of panic move up from her heart. She knew how fatal it could be.

“That is the expected onset, as well as the course of the progression, I am afraid, swift and deadly. The best we can all do for him now is pray,” Wolsey said calmly.

His heavy touch on her forearm was full of kindness, but it was clear he intended her to go no farther toward Gil.

“I do beseech you, my lord, allow me to see him,” she softly pleaded. The desperation that showed on her face was also in her voice.

“It would not be safe for you,” the cardinal calmly argued.

“I do not care about that!”

She exchanged a stricken glance with Elizabeth then, memories of precious times among the three of them flaring, then circling in her mind like birds. “Should we go to the chapel and pray for him?” Elizabeth asked as tears cascaded down her own smooth cheeks and Nicholas tightened his grip around his wife’s waist to keep her from faltering.

“He is
not
going to die!” Bess declared, as if her commitment alone could make it so.

“You know what they say,” Nicholas gently reminded. “Stricken by supper, dead by dawn.”

“Then I am certainly not going anywhere!” Bess stubbornly declared.

The cardinal was looking at her with what she thought was an expression of surprise. But there was also a small spark of respect there, visible in his rich, dark eyes. It was something she had never seen before on the face of anyone at court—at least not directed toward her.

“If you must, then sit with him,” Wolsey directed her. “Perhaps you shall bring him some comfort. He is enormously fond of you two young ladies.”

Without waiting for a further invitation, Bess advanced toward Gil, pressing past the physicians, both in long black gowns, miniveredged sleeves, and brimless caps. They stood ominously, cloaked in shadows, talking in a low tone at the side of the bed.

“He is full of fever,” one of them declared gravely. “Take care, mistress.”

For only an instant, remembering then what had become of the king’s brother, did Bess feel any spark of fear for herself. Still, being here for him was far more important. It was everything. He was her friend and her confidant. She simply would not, could not, let him die as Arthur had died. She refused to know that eternal kind of loss.

A candle flickered beside the bed, and he smelled faintly of camphor. There was a large dish of water on the bedside table and a moist cloth near it. Bess ran the cloth through the cool water, then pressed it onto Gil’s blazing forehead. He moaned softly but still did not open his eyes, and Bess felt her heart squeeze at the prospect. She could not lose him; she would not.

She and Elizabeth stayed like that all night beside their dearest friend, running moistened cloths over his forehead and taking turns holding his hand. Bess forgot entirely that the king had promised to send for her. It would not have mattered anyway, she thought when she later remembered, since this was where she was meant to be. If, as the ghoulishly cruel saying went, he was to be dead by morning, Bess was determined that Gil not go to that death alone.

When Wolsey placed a hand on her shoulder, it was dawn. The pale pink sunlight spread a blanket of warmth and a glow across the room around her. Elizabeth was asleep in a chair on the other side of the bed, her head back, and her small lips parted. Realizing where she was, Bess instantly bolted forward from her chair to check Gil.

“He has survived the night. He is merely sleeping,” the prelate quietly announced. “And his fever broke about an hour ago.”

“You were here the entire time?” she asked.

“Of course. He
is
my responsibility, after all.”

“He is your servant.”

Her charge did not ruffle him. Wolsey stood calmly, towering over her in his smooth silk crimson cassock, his posture, alone, full of more authority than she had ever seen in anyone. “The boy and I have grown close through the years.”

Bess thought his tone was odd, belying far more than his words did. Certainly a heart like Cardinal Wolsey’s was too hard to have been softened by a young ward with whom he had no family tie. There was clearly something more than a work relationship between them, but precisely what, she did not yet know.

A moment later, Elizabeth woke and, seeing them, lurched forward across the bed.

“Is he. . . ?”

“He has survived,” Bess answered her wearily with that same little catch in her voice.

“Oh, praise God! Where has Nicholas gone?”

“To get some sleep,” the cardinal announced in a calm baritone. “He said he would return soon.”

Elizabeth reached over to touch Gil’s limp hand.

“I cannot believe we nearly lost him,” she said as a wellspring of tears fell onto her pale cheeks. “I know not what I would have done.”

“Nor do I,” said the prelate.

Bess glanced up at him and felt compassion. She could see that Cardinal Wolsey truly cared for Gil. Obviously there were many things she still did not know and understand about the world, or even about just the world of the English court. Bess knew she was still considered innocent by many—particularly by those who did not know what was happening between her and the king. But Bess was certain she did know whom she loved and trusted. And after the long night, three of those people were in the room with her.

After Gil woke and they all took turns embracing him and admonishing him never to frighten them like that again, Bess finally stood to stretch her legs, which were cramped and stiff after a full night in a hard chair. She walked to the window to draw open the latch for a breath of morning air. But as she gazed down into the courtyard now that morning had fully broken, she felt her heart lurch, and her breath fall away. The sight below was one she had not expected or, at first, wanted to believe she would ever see. Collected there below the window were dozens of saddled horses, laden carts, and courtiers preparing for travel. Among them was the king himself, who stood very close to Jane Poppincourt, his hand lightly around her waist as they spoke in a low tone together. The king and his entourage were going without Bess to Beaulieu to escape the sweating sickness. It took only a moment more to fully understand. She had been exposed to danger by Gil, and clearly it was too great a risk to include her now in the royal entourage, no matter what the king had proposed yesterday.

Bess stood stone still as she watched a groom hold the polished silver bridle of the king’s saddle to steady the horse. Henry leapt easily onto the sleek black stallion without ever once turning around. She watched Jane standing nearby as the king tossed a glance back her way and then nodded to her. Perhaps they were just friends, Bess thought, and with a little jolt of envy she forced herself to press back.

It was understandable—yes, entirely. He feared illness, of course. Who could blame him? His own brother had died of the very same thing, and Henry had been left with a kingdom to rule. At least that was what she told herself as he gave the order, with a gloved hand and a throaty shout, to the blare of peeling trumpets, and galloped off into the dust. He did so without ever having explained himself, or having bid farewell to the girl who had so fully given him her heart, and her trust, only yesterday.

 

E
ight months had passed by the time Bess saw the king again at more than a distance. Over the winter, the threat of illness had passed, so Henry felt safe to join together his traveling entourage with his full court. By April, the queen was yet again pregnant, and again great hope for a son rose up—especially now that at least one of her prayers had been answered. She was finally the mother of a child who, at last, had survived the very fragile first two years.