The Queen's Rival (8 page)

“Do you and Mistress Bryan test all of the new girls at court this way, or was I the only fortunate one?”

Clearly surprised at her sharp tone, Bess watched him shrug his shoulders, then run a bony hand behind his neck. “ ’Twas only a game, mistress.”

“One that well could have seen me ejected from court altogether. I find little humor in that sort of game.”

“More’s the pity when you are so splendid at it,” said Elizabeth Bryan, who had come up beside them in a sweep of amber-colored brocade, a gold and pearl pendant glistening at her throat.

People here seemed always to be doing that, listening and lurking about, Bess thought angrily, remembering not only Wolsey but her own uncle. It was off-putting, to say the least.

“We were wrong and you know it,” Gil suddenly said to Elizabeth. “Our boredom is not a sound reason to risk another’s position.”

“Mistress Blount is going to discover that no place at court is ever without risk. She may as well find that out sooner than later. I believe we did her a service,” Elizabeth parried.

While Wolsey continued speaking with the queen, Bess watched the Princess Mary whispering and laughing with Jane Poppincourt. Their light chatter was in direct contrast to the constant restraint, fear, and oppression Bess felt. She had clearly prepared her tourdion and her pavane for nothing; all anyone seemed to do here was sew or pray. For her, there was no reason to laugh or smile.

As the queen linked her arm with Wolsey’s and headed toward the door for prayer, the rest of the court ladies and younger girls silently assembled behind them. As it was with everything else, the procession was a grave and orchestrated undertaking.

When Lady Hastings nodded to her, Bess slipped into the line where she was directed beside the king’s sister. At eighteen, Mary was poised and breathtakingly pretty, and she seemed to Bess more elegant than anyone else in the queen’s household. It was difficult for Bess not to turn her sideways appraisals into stares as the collection of women walked silently out into the corridor, across a rich inlaid tile floor, and advanced down a twisted staircase to the king’s chapel. As they neared the open doors, the ladies before her all steepled their hands solemnly, and Bess followed suit. The queen and Wolsey were still speaking in low tones at the head of the line. Childish curiosity made her long to know what they were saying. Lines from
Lancelot
and sweepingly romantic images moved through her mind, and she nearly fell out of step before she steadied herself by looking at the back of Gilbert Tailbois directly ahead of her.

He walked beside Elizabeth Bryan, her pretty amber brocade dress sweeping over the tiles. He was not unattractive, Bess decided, as they moved in a silent double-file line into a small, cold chapel, a sanctuary with a very high vaulted ceiling and far fewer chairs than ladies. It became obvious that those behind her and the princess would be required to stand. Bess had no idea how someone so young and new at court as she would have been given such prominence of place, but she was old enough to realize that those behind her would not like it. The thought only set her further on edge.

Instead, she tried to focus again on the young man in front of her—the only male, besides Wolsey, in their company. Gil seemed taller than most young men his age, certainly taller than George, her brother. He was not quite gangly, yet youthfully slim. His rich wheat-colored doublet bore slashings at the puffed sleeves, and a dagger and tassel were slung from a belt at his waist, in the current fashion, all of which seemed to wear him, rather than the other way around. Yet he walked with a certain confidence bespeaking his feelings that he belonged precisely where he was, however mysteriously. Bess liked that about him, even though she was still angry about the challenge.

She was too aware of the people around her after that to hear much of the service, making sure to know for certain who each lady was, her title, and level of importance at court. She silently catalogued each of them as the cleric at the altar droned out the prayers. It would be dangerously easy, her mother had warned, to insult someone if she did not.

After the early-morning service, they returned to a large, elegant chamber beside the queen’s apartments for breakfast. It did not come as any surprise to Bess that the meal was simple. There was baked fish, porridge, and bread served at a large tapestry-draped oak trestle table in a room overlooking the bowling green. The queen did not join them; neither did Wolsey nor Master Tailbois. She was disappointed at that since, besides Elizabeth Bryan, Gil seemed the only spirited soul at this rather dull court, and the comparisons she was continually making between them had begun to remind her of George.

Bess sat between Elizabeth and Jane, eating silently as she tried not to stare at Princess Mary, who sat on the opposite side of the table. Such elegance fascinated her. Her dress was rich pumpkin-colored velvet, the square-cut necklace outlined with a border of gold, set with jewels. At her breast was a heavy gold square pendant adorned with four pearls. Her pale copper-colored hair was caught up above her neck in a gold mesh caul. Even for matins, Mary looked noticeably lovelier than the other girls, and still there was a spark of fun about her. It made Bess wonder if her brother, King Henry, possessed the same spark. He certainly had that reputation.

After the silent meal, the ladies returned to the predictable task of sewing more banners and flags. As it had been the day before, it was largely silent work, and Bess was certain she would soon go mad from the tedium, when a commotion exploded in a flurry of Spanish in the privy chamber just beyond the doors. Murmurs, whispers, and serious cutaway glances occurred all around her, but no one dared move from their places.

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.