The Queen's Rival (40 page)

“She will not be back,” Mary Boleyn’s mother, Lady Howard, put in crudely, overhearing the same thing Elizabeth had. “Poor Bessie Blount,” she mocked. “She appears destined for the annals of obscurity now, when once she showed such promise as a true courtesan.”

Elizabeth shot her a censuring look as the king and queen walked farther away from them down the hall. But she did not say anything in response since, at the heart of it, she really could not argue the point. It appeared that while Mary Boleyn’s star had begun to burn very brightly, Bess Blount’s was destined now to fade gradually, and quite unremarkably away.

 

B
ess and her brother George walked, arms linked, up the sloping lawn from the mossy bank of the small lake while their mother remained with the baby. After sixteen days’ time, Bess craved a bit of fresh air, as well as a break from the duties of motherhood she found all-consuming. Henry might not have come, and she might have been cast over for Mary Boleyn for now, but Bess was too in love with her son to concern herself with any of that at the moment. From the very first instant the midwife had laid him on her breast, Bess’s world had shifted. Her son was the love of her life, and having him with her healed a great many other wounds that nothing else ever could have.

She saw the horses in the distance as they came into the courtyard, banishing all thoughts of that. She knew by the livery and the large group of riders that the sizable cortege had come from court. Her heart quickened with the realization, and she gripped her brother’s arm more tightly.

“Stay calm now, Bess,” he bid her. “It’ll not do to have you full of expectation. He is married, after all.”

“I knew he would come,” Bess said softly, her heart filling once again with every bit of the love she had so long felt for Henry.

No one understood what they meant to each other; how it was when they were alone together, in spite of everything that was against them. And their son, the image of his father, was a reminder of that. She began to walk more quickly up the little flagstone path, the warm summer breeze ruffling the hem of her dress. George strained to keep up with her as Bess broke into a run then—until she saw him.
Them.
Her guest was not the king after all; instead, there were two guests, Cardinal Wolsey and Gil Tailbois.

When Gil saw her approaching, he called out to her with a wave. Bess forced herself to wave back, because it was not his fault that with every part of herself she wanted him to be someone else.

“You look wonderful,” he said happily as they embraced, his lanky body pressing fully against her.

Bess smiled at him in response, then turned and dipped into a low curtsy before the cardinal, who stood stoically, silently, and, she thought, formidably—a stout, towering sight in his bright crimson cassock and biretta.

“You did not write to me that you intended to come,” she said to Gil.

“I thought it better to surprise you. But Cardinal Wolsey did write to your mother of our intention to travel here.”

Of course her mother would do that—try to make Gil’s trip into some romantic and heroic rescue of a maiden in distress now that there was a child involved. Was that not why he had brought the cardinal to accompany him here? No matter how much she cared for Gil, and his friendship, Bess had grown. She had matured these last years. She had come into her own, and she did not plan to be pawned off by anyone against her will as Elizabeth Carew had been—not even by the king’s command.

“May I see him?” Gil asked of the baby who still, sixteen days after his birth, had yet to be named.

They began to walk together up to the large carved-oak entrance of the king’s secret house. A royal servant silently opened the door for them, and they all passed by without acknowledging him.

“I would like you to see him,” Bess answered, meaning it. It felt important to her that at least someone who cared for her had taken the time to come here when the king had not. “He is absolutely gorgeous, Gil; you’ll not believe it.”

“He is your son. That surprises me not at all.”

He gently pressed a hand against her back to guide her up the stairs. After everything, she thought, he still cared for her. After six years of trust and dear friendship, she was not certain why that surprised her, yet it did.

“He sleeps well already and eats just like his father,” Bess happily reported.

“Then he had better become fond of a sporting life, if he does.”

Even Wolsey chuckled at that.

They found the baby asleep in a cradle in Bess’s bedchamber and Catherine Blount reading from a prayer book as she sat in a chair beside the cradle. Seeing Wolsey, Bess’s mother immediately stood, then dipped into a reverent curtsy.

“It was good of Your Grace to make the journey here.”

The prelate advanced, then hovered over the sleeping infant for a moment. “He is indeed the very image of the king.”

“It is a disappointment that His Highness has not come here to see that for himself,” George put in.

His mother swatted at him, and yet the words could not be unspoken.

“His Highness is very busy presently, especially with planning the upcoming summit with France to solidify the peace.”

“Yet it is said that he finds time for Mistress Boleyn,” George persisted.

The cardinal frowned at him, and there was a sudden awkward silence. “What is your name, young master?”

“I am George Blount, Your Grace. Bess is my sister.”

“Then you have defended her honorably. See only that you do not overstep your bounds with your ambition to sound clever.”

George had no choice but to acquiesce with a silent and deferential bow. Wolsey went downstairs, with Catherine and George following behind him, and Gil remained behind. He was happily transfixed, it seemed, by the infant whose deep, beautiful Tudor eyes had opened and seemed strangely trained upon Gil.

“May I hold him?” Gil asked.

“I am surprised you would want to do that. He is another man’s son, after all.”

“But you are his mother, and that shall always be what makes him special to me.”

She felt a twinge of guilt, just as she always did, knowing that he felt emotions for her that she could never return. Still, he was her dear friend, and he had come out here when Henry had not, she reminded herself again. She owed him some gratitude for that.

Gently, she drew the docile child from his cradle and handed him to Gil.

“Pray God, I do not break him!” Gil smiled in awe as he carefully cradled the infant in his gangly velvet-sleeved arms.

“You’ll not. You are far too gentle a soul to ever hurt anyone,” Bess said sincerely.

She watched him more closely than she had intended to as he pressed his thumb across the baby’s cheek.

“Marry me, Bess.”

He had blurted it out so suddenly that she was certain at first that he had not meant to say it, and she felt a burst of pity for him. But then he turned his earnest gaze upon her.

“I would be a good father to the boy, and I would try with all my heart to make you happy. Although I know it is doubtful that you could ever actually love me, in time, you might find, as Nicholas and Elizabeth do, that—”

“Oh, dear.” Her lower lip turned out a little, and she struggled not to frown or do anything that would make him feel rejected. He was making her such a wonderful offer, but her heart still wanted Henry so badly that she could not allow herself even to consider accepting it.

“Gilly, my friend, my dearest friend, please understand that I cannot.”

It would never be an ideal situation. She knew that. Bess was not a fool or an innocent any longer. But she did not quite believe that Mary Boleyn had fully replaced her. There was still enough of the romantic child left in her to believe in him and his past declaration of love. Until the day came that she learned otherwise, if it ever did, it would not be fair to Gil to use him that way.

“Very well,” Gil said with a sad smile, as if he had expected it. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I thank you, more than you know.”

He handed the child back to her then, and after she had returned him to his cradle, Gil drew a small velvet pouch from his doublet.

“If you would not mind, I would like to give you something anyway.”

Bess glanced up at him, uncertain of what to say. His kindness made the guilt of rejecting him that much worse. “Please. I want you to have it,” he urged, handing her the pouch. “It belonged to my mother, given to her many years ago by a suitor she did not marry either.”

Hesitantly, Bess drew out a delicate ruby and pearl pendant. It was so exquisite, so delicate, that she actually gasped. It was far too detailed and valuable to have been given by any country squire to a lady. There had to be an extraordinary story behind it.

“I cannot accept this, Gilly. It is too precious.”

“I have waited years for the right time to give it to you. I tried once, long ago, but I lost my courage about it, so Wolsey has kept it for me since,” he said with a chuckle, and she could tell that he was trying to put her at ease. Still, she could see his devotion to her behind the easygoing smile, and there was something incredibly heroic in it. “It was to be your betrothal gift, if you accepted me. But I think now it shall make an even better remembrance for the birth of your son.”

Bess wiped away the tears in her eyes, despising herself a little for not being able to love him the way someone so honorable very richly deserved to be loved.

“Try it on?” he urged, moving the drape of her cap and clasping it at the nape of her neck. “Ah, there. Exquisite, you see? Just as I knew it would be.”

“You really are too good to me.”

“True,” Gil returned with a sly little crooked smile that made her chuckle.

It was much later that day when Cardinal Wolsey called for Bess to come and speak with him in the apartments he had set up in the Priory of St. Lawrence with the monks. Going to him was, of course, designed to give him the advantage. She had learned that much from her years around the powerful prelate, but now she was in no position to contest his demands.

She was shown alone into a room, stark by contrast to what she knew him to inhabit at the various other royal palaces. Wolsey was sitting in an imposing, straight-back black oak chair beneath a forbidding tapestry depicting David slaying Goliath, hung on a heavy black iron rod. Wolsey was reading from a prayer book, bound in crimson leather, a color that matched his cassock exactly. At first he did not look up despite the swishing sound of her heavy silk dress.

“Your Grace,” she finally said, dipping low into a curtsy.

It was another moment before he granted her the favor of glancing up.

“Ah, yes. Mistress Blount.” He said her name in a perfunctory tone as he casually set down his book. “How are you faring these days?”

“I am quite well, Your Grace.”

“It seems childbirth agrees with you.”

“As motherhood does.”

“That is certainly a far bigger role, one best overseen by a child’s father.”

Bess narrowed her eyes at him, feeling a new yet strong maternal flicker of suspicion.

“I intend to be a devoted mother to my son, Your Grace, in spite of who his father is.”

“I am told you have refused a wet nurse.”

“It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to feed my son myself.”

She could tell she had surprised him, because he paused for longer than he ever had in speaking to her. Thomas Wolsey was certainly not known for ever being at a loss for words.

“Very well then. We shall take it all a day at a time, for now. As I am certain you know, the boy needs a name.”

“I am waiting for the king to decide that,” she countered in a brittle tone.