“He is too much a Scot, I fear,” Thomas Bolton answered. “He could not be content at Friarsgate. But I must watch him to see he does not seduce my darling girl, for the man has a look in his eye that is positively dangerous, dear boy. I shall let Elizabeth play with him a bit, but I shall be observing him carefully.”
“It is late, my lord,” William Smythe said.
“Aye,” Lord Cambridge agreed, “and I find to my surprise that I am indeed not as young as I once was. Let us away to our beds, dear boy. The morning is almost here!”
At court the next day Sir Thomas Wyatt attempted to kiss Elizabeth, and was smacked for his trouble. “But you let Flynn kiss you,” he complained.
“Did he say it?” Elizabeth demanded, her tone angry.
“Well, no,” Sir Thomas Wyatt admitted, “but I have the evidence of my own eyes, Mistress Elizabeth. I saw you together.”
“Yet if I do not say it, and he did not say it, how can it be so, my lord?” Elizabeth wanted to know.
Anne Boleyn laughed. “She has you, cousin!” She linked her arm with Elizabeth’s. “Come, Bess, we shall be gone, and leave these randy gentlemen to their own devices.” She led her friend off, and when they were far enough away not to be heard she asked, “Did he kiss you?”
“Aye, and I was mightily surprised, I can tell you,” Elizabeth admitted.
“What was it like?” Anne wanted to know.
“You have been kissed,” Elizabeth said, surprised by the question.
Anne lowered her voice. “When the king kisses me he kisses me as if he would devour me whole,” she whispered. “Does Flynn Stewart kiss like that?”
Elizabeth thought for a long moment, and then she answered, “Nay. It was a powerful kiss, I will admit, but I did not feel consumed by it except in the nicest possible way. The manner he touched my face was, I believe, tender. I quite liked it. I shall let him kiss me again, Anne.”
“Do you love him?” Anne wanted to know.
“Nay,” Elizabeth said. “We do not know each other well enough for such a relationship to develop. But it is exciting to be pursued by such a man.”
“Would you wed him?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Even I know he is unsuitable.”
“But is your mother not married to a Scot?” Anne wanted to know.
“Aye, but she is no longer the lady of Friarsgate. I am,” Elizabeth replied.
“Then who will you wed?” Anne wondered. “I so want to be married and have a son for the king. The princess of Aragon is being so difficult! I do not know what she thinks she will gain by it. Her wretched daughter will never be her father’s heir. Mary hates me, you know. The king sent the brat from court for insulting me. And do you know what she said to him? That she would pray for his immortal soul! The presumption of her!”
“My mother says she is her father’s darling,” Elizabeth offered.
“No longer!” Mistress Boleyn snapped.
“Then you surely understand her pique, for it is you who have taken her father’s interest away from her. She is jealous, Anne. You must not be angry with her for it.”
“My child will take precedence over hers when it is born one day,” Anne said.
“But you have no child now,” Elizabeth reminded her.
“But I will one day,” Anne assured her friend, “and so will you.”
“If I can find a husband,” Elizabeth said with a grimace.
“My uncle says I must stop holding the king at bay,” Anne confided. “I am afraid. He is so big, and I am so slight. I have held his manroot in my hand.”
“You haven’t!” Elizabeth didn’t know whether to be shocked. And this wasn’t just a man they were talking about. It was the king.
“I have,” Anne said. “It throbs and is sometimes warm and sometimes cold. Often it lies flaccid in my hand like a small bird. And other times it swells and lengthens, growing hard as stone. Have you ever seen a manroot?”
