The Queen's Rival (31 page)

“Has the revelation ended things between them then?” She wanted suddenly to know, and he heard the hopeful tone in her voice.

“Alas, no. If anything, it has seemed to spur her on. Bess has a spark of defiance about her. We should have seen that with our first challenge. I suspect they are together now, since she is not here or in her chamber, as she normally would be.”

Elizabeth Carew gazed out the window into the falling blackness of the night, and Gil could only imagine what she was thinking. But she had brought it on herself, just as Bess had.

What was it about Henry that trumped all logic and reason for a woman, he wondered, even now? Certainly, he was a king, handsome, athletic, musically gifted, and humorous. But he was irrevocably married until death separated him from the queen. Thus, it could only ever end badly for anyone else who came to love him.

“Does Bess hate me, do you believe?” she asked in a broken tone.

“I suspect it is not hate she feels, so much as betrayal. But, of course, upon that I can only guess.”

“You have never betrayed her,” Elizabeth said, finally turning back to look at him standing there in the center of the room, arms limply at his sides while he waited dutifully as he always did for what was meant to come next. He was strong, solid, never wavering.

“No. But then I love her.”

“I love her, too,” she said tearfully. “I am so worried for her, for where this might lead if she stays in this.”

“We both fear for her. But no one can stop her any more than they could have stopped you.”

“The king has a power. I do not quite know how to explain it.” She sighed, her voice full of knowing. “I made some very foolish choices.”

“And yet would you not make them all again?”

She wiped the tears from her eyes and exhaled a steadying breath. “In a heartbeat, if he desired me,” she admitted.

“Quite likely that is what our Bess feels. All we can do is be here for her to collect the broken pieces and help her continue on when it ends.”

“As you did for me,” she said.

“As I did for you,” he echoed.

Gil was a trusted friend. Being that for those he loved mattered deeply to him. He thought it was a pity, though, that no one seemed to see him as much of anything more. Perhaps they never would.

Bess and Elizabeth did not speak of the situation after that night, but a palpable tension had developed between them. Where once there had been camaraderie and trust between the two girls, there now was a wall of distrust. In fact, they barely spoke at all as they sat in the queen’s privy drawing room, both of them doing needlework at separate tables, each with other maids of honor, when once they would have sat together, bursting with private stories, laughter, and gossip. Occasionally, Bess would look at her friend, but her glance would instantly cut away if Elizabeth looked up in her direction. She still could not quite believe that Elizabeth had lied to her, and about something so important as her having had an affair with the king.

Elizabeth Carew’s life had been constructed upon a shaky foundation—a lie. Her seemingly secure position in the queen’s household, her marriage, and her liaisons, were all smoke and mirrors. Yet she had sought to share none of that with Bess, once her dearest friend.

As she pressed a needle through the thin cotton fabric, Bess tried hard not to imagine them passionately together. She tried not to imagine her doing with Henry the intimate things Bess herself had now done. But the images crept into her mind anyway; erotic, dark, unnerving images. Bess tried to focus on her needlework, but the tedium of it made her thoughts vulnerable. What she had with Henry was special. It was unique. And he truly did care for her. She believed that. . . . She must steadfastly continue to believe it, because she loved him.

Suddenly, Agnes de Venegas, her uncle Lord Mountjoy’s wife, was beside Bess, speaking something softly into her ear. “The queen wishes you to attend her presently.”

The directive was startling to Bess, considering her thoughts of the queen’s husband at that moment. Bess turned around with a start, dropping the needlework onto her lap.

“Are you certain it was I she asked for, madam?”

“
Sí
, Mistress Blount, you.”

As trepidation rose quickly within her, Bess pushed back her chair, stood, then straightened her skirts to steal herself a few moments to collect herself. When she saw that everyone was looking at her, her sense of dread deepened. But there was no escaping the royal command. Somber-faced Agnes, with her sleek black hair pulled away from her face and her perfect, noble carriage, was standing beside her like a jailer, intent on seeing Bess to her incarceration. And surely it would feel that way when she went to see the queen, Bess thought.

For her, the queen’s secret rival.

A dozen scenarios played across her mind as they walked silently over heavy carpets, with floorboards creaking beneath. Bess’s heart was racing, and it felt as if a stone were lodged in her throat. If she had displeased the queen somehow, she could be easily replaced by one of a dozen willing daughters of other waiting nobles, then sent home to Kinlet, returned to the monotonous and idle country life in which she had all but forgotten how to exist, where she would never be able to see the king again. If that happened, her parents would be furious, since it would seem a slight upon them, on Lord Mountjoy, on all of the Blounts who depended upon the king and queen for every aspect of their livelihood.

Fear that the queen had discovered her deception—fear she had long felt—spiked through Bess as she was led past the posted row of guards in their green tunics, each adorned with silver gilt and a red Tudor rose. The expressions on the faces of some of the senior ladies she passed nearby, including the sisters, Lady Hastings and Lady Fitzwalter, were harsh as each glanced appraisingly at her, then casually turned away. God save her, she knew. They all knew!

“Ah, there you are,” the queen said coolly as Bess was issued into her privy chamber.

The door clicked to a close. Katherine was seated on a carved throne with a massive gold and purple tester emblazoned with the king’s coat of arms and a Tudor rose hung dramatically behind her. There was a collection of Spanish crucifixes on the wall, and the room was unnaturally chilly. The queen’s dress, as it was most days now, was stiff black silk, edged with ivory-colored lace. At her chest was another large silver jewel-studded crucifix suspended from a heavy pearl and silver chain. Bess dipped into a deep curtsy and held it. Finally, she rose and waited. She felt as if she were holding her breath. She certainly could not breathe. The stone of fear was still too deeply lodged in her throat. Even though the queen had a small reserved smile, everything about this moment held danger.

“Your Royal Highness,” Bess properly acknowledged, willing her voice not to crack.

“It has been a while since we have spoken, has it not, Mistress Blount?”

“Regrettably, it has, Your Highness.”

She saw the queen and Maria de Salinas exchange a little glance. “And you have been well?”

“I have been, Your Highness. Thank you kindly for inquiring.”

“I have concern for all of my ladies, Mistress Blount, their health, their lives . . . their activities.”

“Your Highness is most considerate.”

Katherine arched a dark, thick eyebrow suspiciously and paused before she said, “It is important for a queen to know what goes on around her at all times. Would you not agree?”

“It would seem impertinent of me even to imagine what would be required of a queen, Your Highness.”

“An excellent point.” She grinned in an oddly forbidding way. “After all, there can only ever be one queen for Henry, and I shall forever be that.”

“We are blessed that it is so.”

“
Sí bueno
. I am gratified to know that we are in accord,” Katherine replied. “You know, Mistress Blount, my mother was an extraordinary queen herself.”

“Queen Isabella is already a legend.”

“
Sí,
I would agree with you. And do you know, Mistress Blount, one of the most important lessons my legendary mother taught me as a girl—the thing I took to this country, this role, and this life, tucked most indelibly into my mind and heart?” She leaned forward slightly, her elbows both balanced now on the arms of the chair and her hands joined together at just the proper angle so that her wedding ring glinted in the sun through the large window beside her. “My mother taught me never to underestimate a rival.”

Words of self-defense threatened to push past her lips, but Bess stubbornly pressed them back down. This was meant as a polite, only slightly veiled, warning. The queen was a wise woman, one Bess had always respected, even liked. If she did not know about Bess and the king, she quite obviously suspected it. This little performance proved that. It was meant to throw Bess entirely off her game, and it had succeeded.

“I am certain it was an honor to know such a wise woman, and to have been schooled by her,” Bess said instead.

The queen’s thick brows merged slightly, in a discerning way. “Mistress Blount, unfortunately, you shall never have any idea how true that is,” she said abruptly. “The best advice I can give to you is to always be mindful, as well as cautious, of those who have been well schooled in many things. Know well your limitations, and your rivals, or believe me, they
will
be your undoing.”

Katherine of Aragon’s words were final, and Bess knew the audience she had been given was at an abrupt end. As Doña Elvira took a step forward, Bess dipped into a second low and proper curtsy.

“I shall always remember that, Your Highness,” she said.

“
Splendido
. It is pleasant for me to see you are still the wise young woman I thought you were from the start. But, just in case . . . I shall be watching.”

Bess felt the chill in her words. What she would do about that beyond the proper curtsies, the proper backward exit, and the smiles, remained to be seen.

The king himself had organized the little hunting party. It was to be a small group of only his most intimate friends this time, those around whom Bess would feel at ease, and those around whom he would feel entirely free. That meant mainly those who would not gossip to the queen, which was a small number in a court where some element of avarice and ambition reigned supreme in nearly everyone. Therefore the hunting party would include Brandon, Sir William Compton, Sir Henry Guildford, and Sir Edward Neville. And to make his intentions only slightly less obvious, and to give him the appearance of propriety, Lord Mountjoy and Elizabeth Carew’s father, Sir Thomas Bryan, had been selected as well.

Henry drew on his tooled leather riding gloves in his bedchamber and admired himself in the full-length, gold-framed looking glass. Carew, who was now a Groom of the Chamber, stood formally and stiff behind him, hands linked behind his back. Nicholas was not quite the companion he once had been, before that nasty Elizabeth episode. But how could the king have known that the silly girl would actually fall in love with him, and that it would become necessary to call Nicholas, his friend, into service to marry her? At least Jane Poppincourt had possessed the good sense to have seen their dalliance for what it was. And, after all, everyone had won in it. For as long as it had lasted, and for their discretion, he had showered each of the young ladies in his life with jewels and other rewards. Last winter, he had given Jane a rare beaver cloak and a purse full of gold coins. Henry was a bit ashamed of himself that all that he had given Bess was a little trinket necklace and a book. But there was still time, after all. He winked at his own reflection, and the thought, then smiled.

She was still so deliciously uncorrupted, so eager to please him, he thought a little cruelly, as he forced away the true, unsettling vulnerability he had felt that first time they had kissed beside his bed. That had been a mistake—how unprepared he had felt, at least. His brother’s birthday had brought it all to the fore. Henry had been swept up by powerful emotions he knew he could not allow himself to feel. Emotion made him too fragile. It made him feel the hurt and insecurities of his boyhood. And a king, this king, could not afford anything but total control. Ah, how he did want to control her! Bess was quite delectable, really, which was why he so readily suffered her guileless expression, and her overly eager smile every time he approached her. Had that mother of hers never taught her the advantages of the wanton, slightly removed seductress?
Ah, my kingdom for a mistress like that!
Bess was probably a bit too much like Elizabeth for her own good, or his. But for now, Bess Blount was far and away the most interesting diversion his court provided.