It was a strange response and Elizabeth felt unnerved by the loving look in his expression.
The music began and as other couples joined them, crowding the small space, Henry stepped nearer and Elizabeth felt overwhelmed, swamped by his height and width. She barely reached Henry’s shoulder. When she danced with her husband, Elizabeth was always gratified at the ease with which they fitted together. Thomas was the perfect height for her, taller but not excessively so, his shoulders and arms strong from jousting, his feet deft and precise, led by his natural musical ability. With the king, Elizabeth felt mismatched and as he reached for her, his hands were strong, eager, but his grip on her waist was too high and his fingers brushed the underside of her breasts. She did not know if this was a mistake due to their differing height or an intentional gesture of seduction.
‘Dance as you did at my coronation,’ Henry whispered in her ear, his hands gripping her more tightly. ‘I watched you that night, in your husband’s arms, your eyes flashing, your bodypressed close to his when he lifted you. I shall hold you close, too. Lift you higher, but do not fear, I shall never drop you, you are too precious to be damaged, my dearest Elizabeth.’
She did not know how to respond. His words were shocking. They were too intimate, too intense, but his description of the evening and her reaction to Thomas was vivid and correct. She remembered it well: their excitement at Thomas’s knighthood, the joy of a new, younger, more energetic and open-minded court had thrilled them both. They had left early, running to their rooms, hand-in-hand like newlyweds, but she did not realise anyone else had noticed the passion they had barely been able to contain.
‘You see more than most, Your Majesty,’ she murmured as her feet followed his, her body crushed against him, horrified by his comment. It was intrusive and the happy memory of their night together felt tarnished by the king’s words.
‘As do you,’ he said, his eyes locking onto hers, again.
‘I see only what is offered to be seen,’ she replied, wondering what game the king was playing.
‘Then you miss half of royal life,’ he said. ‘You’re the daughter of one of the most powerful men at court, you of all people understand that the real games of power and gain are played in the shadows.’
Elizabeth was unsure how to respond so instead she let the silence stretch, allowing the music to fill it, hoping for the dance to end.
‘My father was a great king,’ Henry said, lifting her and spinning her around with an easy strength and grace, ‘but he was a cold and calculating man. The long wait for his throne taught him patience and this was the lesson he passed on to me, to watch, to learn and not to act until the moment is most potent.’
He paused, swirling her around, his feet never missing a beat. Elizabeth focused on the steps, the music and theknowledge her husband was dancing nearby with her sister Anne.No harm can come to me, she thought, but her words felt hollow as Henry’s arms once more encircled her.
‘I’ve watched you, Elizabeth,’ Henry’s voice was deep, throaty, akin to the voice of an expectant lover.
She looked up and their eyes locked, there was no flirtation in his expression, instead she read certainty, ownership.
‘You have a rare composure,’ he said. ‘No doubt, your daughters will have it too – that steel beneath the silk. But the fire? The passion? These start with you.’
Elizabeth’s spine straightened, a flicker of anger had come to her rescue and she felt her mother’s hauteur and disdain rise within her. When she spoke, her voice was dismissive.
‘You honour me, sire,’ she said, but there was a hollowness, an aloofness he would not misunderstand.
He smiled, teeth gleaming in delight, as though her words were the challenge he had sought. ‘Do I?’ he murmured. ‘Some women are born to be queens, to fly free, yet they marry lowly men who clip their wings.’ He glanced at Thomas Boleyn who was dancing with aplomb. ‘Thomas is a good man, a friend, but does he have strength enough to hold you? I wonder, my beauteous Elizabeth, would you fly? If the sky were yours, would you rise high?’
The question hung between them, wrapped in music and smoke. Was it a test? A warning? A promise?
Elizabeth swallowed her fear, hiding behind her years of training as a courtier, and inclined her head, a small smile on her lips.
‘I am content with my place, Your Majesty.’
Henry studied her, then, as the tune finished, he stepped back, his grin widening.
‘For now,’ he said lightly, and with a sweeping bow, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Elizabeth trembling with unease.
21
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON – JANUARY 1510
The morning mist hung low over the water meadow, blurring the line between earth and sky as Elizabeth rode alone. In the distance came the lap and hiss of the tide turning as the River Thames beat like a heart in the centre of London. Frost sparkled on the grass, and with the rising sun, the air was suddenly alive with the eerie call of the curlews on the embankment. Elizabeth shivered, always unnerved by the pee-wit of the wading birds, as the whispered words of the former Howard servants, Mrs Crew and Thomas Littleby, both long dead, seemed to float in the silver air around her: ‘Curlews. A bad omen. When you hear them in the day, it is a sign of death. They are haunted birds, their cries carry the voices of those who have drowned in the waters of despair.’
Elizabeth closed her eyes, refusing to allow the lingering fear, the echoes of the past, to ruin her morning.
‘Foolish,’ she muttered to herself and urged her palfrey forward, eager to fly her new falcon.
A few days earlier, the court had moved from Greenwich to Westminster, where the revels of Christmas and New Year continued with lavish gift-giving and banqueting. Once again,the king had singled her out to dance and when she had retired before her husband, she had felt the king’s eyes on her as she left and was reminded of the day he had stared at her with such intensity as a young boy.
Always an early riser, Elizabeth had decided to take advantage of this clear bright morning to escape the overcrowded corridors of the palace and regain her equilibrium after the odd behaviour of the king. As she had slipped out of bed, she had noticed a white feather on the silken covers and the old folk tradition had whispered through her mind:‘When a white feather appears, angels have visited unawares’. With cautious fingers, she had gently scooped it from the bed, not wishing to disturb Thomas, and twirled it around, praying for protection from the heavenly hosts.
Thomas had groaned, rolling over before returning to his deep slumber, not noticing as she slipped from their rooms, heading to the mews. Her husband had been drinking and playing cards late into the night with Elizabeth’s brothers, Younger and Edward. Before he had collapsed into a snoring heap beside her, Boleyn had muttered about her eldest brother requiring a favour.
