The Queen's Rival (24 page)

Hands linked behind his back, and moving in long-legged strides over straight brick pathways, Henry walked beside the queen through the fountain court, just a pace ahead of Bess and Elizabeth Carew. Wolsey and his rival, Buckingham, walked in outward affability directly behind the ladies.

It was difficult not to be impressed by the vast beauty of Hampton Court. Hosting the royal couple here was an honor for which Wolsey, like all other wise and wealthy courtiers, had openly lobbied for months. It was a state of success in which he now reveled. The group moved past lush clematis and primrose down near a little stone fountain that had been placed by the river. The sky was broad and blue above them, and Bess drew in a deep breath of air, happy that the queen was content once again. When Katherine was newly pregnant, there was optimism, laughter, and music; it was not like usual, when their days were filled only with solemn duty and endless prayer. These times for Bess were like being released from a monotonous prison of order and seriousness. She took in the moment as deeply as the air, which was warm and windless as she walked with Jane Poppincourt, Elizabeth Carew, Joan Champernowne, and Anne Stanhope behind the Countess of Oxford, the Countess of Derby, Lady Hastings, and her sister, Lady Fitzwalter.

Bess watched the queen walk proudly beside her husband now, lightly fingering the heavy silver cross prominent over her chest, as she softly chuckled at something he said. The train of her black cap fluttered lightly on her shoulders.

“Shall we not ask someone then?” Bess heard the king ask his wife. “Surely that shall settle the debate.”

The queen was smiling as they paused and turned around. “Lady Carew,” the queen said in her cool, deep, thickly accented voice. “Is Wolsey’s new Hampton Court more beautiful than any of the king’s own fine palaces?”

“Such a thing seems impossible or it would already belong to the king,” she replied quickly, forcing a smile.

“Mistress Poppincourt? What say you on the matter?” the king asked.

Jane, who walked behind Wolsey, beside Lady Fitzwalter, was visibly taken aback but calmly replied, “I prefer Richmond, Your Highness, for its grander vistas and more impressive location on the river—one that only a king could possess.”

As Jane spoke, her own voice as accented as the queen’s, though belying French rather than Spanish roots, Bess watched a muscle in Wolsey’s jaw twitch and his small dark eyes narrow imperceptibly. The newly named Cardinal Wolsey was apparently interested in this impromptu test as much as the king.

“And you, Mistress Blount?” the king asked suddenly.

Bess felt her heart stop at the sound of her name on his lips as all eyes suddenly turned upon her. She exhaled, steadying herself. “If you will permit my saying, Your Highness, I find Hampton Court on par with Richmond and exceeding Greenwich,” she smoothly replied, surprising herself as she did.

Wolsey tried to stifle a chuckle. Bess could hear Lady Fitzwalter and Lady Hastings whisper haughtily behind her. They had never liked her, and that was becoming clearer now.

“Fool girl,” Lady Hastings said softly to her sister. “One can never take enough of the blunt country manners out of the girl to truly make a lady, can one?”

Only Bess had been meant to hear the slight, and she had. Unexpectedly, however, Henry tipped his head back with a great laugh, pulling her away from the insult.

“You know, Wolsey, I do believe she is right. Your new home
is
lovelier than Greenwich.”

The cardinal bowed to the sovereign. “All that I possess belongs to Your Royal Highness, of course, and is to your honor.”

“Of course, Wolsey, of course,” the king responded, a note of irritation in his voice at the flattery.

Bess caught the nuance but did not have time to mull it over before Jane was upon her.

“You cannot speak so blatantly before them!” she admonished in a hushed tone of indignation while others around her began to whisper.

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it,” Bess said quietly, feeling for once that she had bested the lovely Jane Poppincourt, at least at something.

“There is not always wisdom in honesty,” said the queen, interjecting herself suddenly into the dispute, though neither of them had known she was listening. “Yet controlling one’s tongue is
always
a virtue.”

“A rather dull virtue,” the king grumbled.

“Speaking of virtue, tell us, Mistress Blount, does that French poet de Troyes, whom you endlessly quote, not speak some great pearl of wisdom on the subject in his
Lancelot
?” Lady Hastings asked acidly, clearly trying to highlight Bess’s ignorance, or at least her lack of culture.

“I find Master Skelton’s work more fitting on that subject,” Bess smoothly replied.

“You have read the work of my friend John?” the king asked Bess in surprise.

It was clear he had not expected that of her. Skelton had been an official court poet to Henry’s father and also, for a time, Henry’s own tutor.

“My favorite are his verses from
The Rewards of Court
, Master Skelton’s thoughts on the vices of courtiers. Perhaps more among us should read it,” Bess said smartly.

Henry tipped his head and bit back a smile. There was a small silence before he said, “Why, Mistress Blount, I see that you parry with more experienced competitors quite as well as you sing. Perhaps there is a brilliant future ahead for you at my court, after all.”

“I am honored Your Highness believes so.”

“No one reads Master Skelton’s work more often than Master Tailbois,” Elizabeth interjected, trying suddenly to champion her dear friend’s clearly dying cause of winning Bess.

“And quotes him not only incessantly but incisively,” Nicholas seconded. “Nearly as much as he does de Troyes.”

“That is only because I introduced him to de Troyes,” Bess said proudly.

“To
Lancelot
?” asked the king.

“Lancelot was my very first hero.”

“So long as he is not your last hero,” returned the king.

“At the moment I am afraid I have no other in mind, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps I can offer you a suggestion or two,” Henry quipped.

At that moment she saw the king and queen exchange a glance. Katherine’s pleasant expression had darkened; everyone seemed to take notice and was silenced by it. Bess had obviously impressed the king more than she had the king’s wife—which was most unwise, considering in whose household she served.

On top of that, Bess felt secretly ashamed. She had tried to take credit for Gil’s interests, but she had not known that he even liked poetry, or that he had been reading
Lancelot
. She had never thought there might be an element of romance and mystery about Gil at all. He seemed so transparently simple. But she would have to consider his reading interests later. There were more pressing matters at hand.

They began once again to stroll together at the king’s lead. But Bess’s mind was spinning with fear over the possibility that she might have jeopardized her standing at court. The queen’s expression a moment ago had been unmistakable evidence of that.

Katherine waited until the king, Wolsey, Norfolk, and Buckingham took their leave to meet with the rest of the Privy Council. As she sat on a bench with her companion, Maria de Salinas, her mood darkened to match her expression.

“There is to be a banquet this evening hosted by the cardinal to welcome the king and me to his new home.”

“There is, Your Highness.”

“I find I would not favor
her
among my attendants.”

“Mistress Blount?” Maria asked, even though she knew Katherine’s desires almost as well as she knew her own.

The queen’s dark expression was full of determination, a mirror of her great warrior mother. “I shall not fight every rival my husband puts before me. That would be unseemly, not to mention pointless. But I must do battle with those who pose the greatest danger.”

“Your Royal Highness speaks of young Bess Blount as a danger?” Maria was surprised. Jane Poppincourt had seemed much more of a threat than a pretty, country adolescent.

“You know that my mother was a wise queen. She taught me well,” Katherine reminded her most trusted friend. “Half of the challenge in battle, she once told me, is to know your rival. Isabella dealt with that challenge many times with the rulers of France, Scotland, and England, as well as with the emperor. My instincts were instilled in me by her.”

“Then Your Highness must trust that.”

“I know not why, but there is something about Mistress Blount that causes me to fear her.”

“Once you give the king a son, all of your worries shall be gone.”

“By God, yes,
a son
.” Katherine sighed. “Henry wishes for that more than anything in all the world. Pray that I am the one to give it to him soon or who knows what might become of me.”

The next afternoon, Gil was walking back from the tennis courts with Nicholas Carew when Bess found him. He loved seeing her like this, her expression alive with some great revelation she was about to share. The worst of his fears seemed to be behind him now that Brandon was happily married and was no longer a competitor for Bess’s affections. In addition, nothing seemed to be coming of his fears about the king and Bess. Gil’s heart stirred along with the rest of him at the mere sight of her; carefree, happy, her smooth cheeks slightly rosy with excitement. Elizabeth Carew, who was with her, as well as Nicholas, looked noticeably less happy as the sun lit upon both of their faces, and a soft breeze ruffled the hems of their embroidered satin dresses.

“Look at this, Gil!” Bess exclaimed, thrusting forth a small leather volume tooled intricately in gold. “Can you believe he remembered?”

Gil felt the dread build even as he touched the book. Only one person at court could have possessed something so exquisitely detailed and costly.

“It is a rare edition of John Skelton’s
The Rewards of Court
! I have only ever read a quite-tattered one, and that belonged to my father. I was always reading about court as a girl, hoping to see life here for myself one day!”

Gil tried not to look at her as he thumbed absently through the pages, trying to appear that he cared, though he was devastated that the King of England had entirely undercut him with a gift he could never afford himself. His hand stopped at an inscription:
Since honesty should always be rewarded. H.

Gil fought back the bile of jealousy rising in his throat. He felt a dark rage building and tried to calm his breathing against it so Bess would not see. He knew Bess was just another of the king’s many whims that would not—could not—endure.

No one would ever love Bess as he did—no one.

Nicholas Carew saw Gil’s expression and understood it.

“Better Skelton than de Troyes, I suppose,” Nicholas said affably, trying awkwardly to make Gil feel better by saying at least they had not purchased the same volume or work of the same writer to give to her.

“My French is atrocious, but I find the prose rather lofty and out of style,” Gil said.

“You are misled mightily, Master Tailbois,” Bess quickly replied. “Chrétien de Troyes is a legend, one whose prose is as magical and timeless as the tale of
Lancelot
itself. Still, I shall treasure this volume of Master Skelton’s work forever, as I will the idea of someone who went out of his way to care about what I read and to give this to me.”

Gil must have groaned audibly then, remembering silently all he had done to find her the far shabbier token, only to have angrily surrendered it to the flames at the first opportunity.
You are a fool!
he thought, silently chastising himself for yet another missed opportunity, as well as for unwise fits of jealousy.
You really are your own worst enemy.

Gil struggled to fashion his expression into something carefree and handed the volume back to her. “Shall we all take a stroll then down by the river, and you can recite the best bits to us?” He forced himself to ask the question. “It might not be the epic adventure from the grand de Troyes, but I am certain a bit of Skelton shall amuse us all.”