‘Yes, you’re right,’ said the duke. ‘It will probably be his or the Lord Chamberlain’s decision. The king remains a great admirerof yours, Lizzie, you might be able to persuade him to favour your husband.’
The words innocently spoken by her father – the consummate politician, always ready to use favour to his advantage – made her stomach heave.
‘You must be mistaken, Papa,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Are there not rumours suggesting Henry has begun an affair with Elizabeth Blount, the daughter of Sir John Blount?’
When Thomas had written as such, Elizabeth had felt a wave of relief. Her husband claimed, Bessie Blount, as she was known, fascinated the king and he spent a great deal of his time with her.
‘There are always rumours, my dear,’ said her father. ‘However, I believe he continues to hold you in great regard.’
‘How so?’
‘Have you not noticed?’ said the earl with a satisfied laugh. ‘Bessie looks like you, I believe Henry has decided she will do – for now.’
‘The king is a father,’ she said. ‘Bessie will be forgotten as Henry concentrates on having a second child with the queen, a son.’
The earl observed her with shrewd eyes. ‘You’re either delightfully naïve or there is much you have not shared with me. You are no longer a child to be duped by my stories of angels hiding in the glimmers in quartz, you – a woman who has learned the subtle art of the courtier,’ he said. When she did not reply, he continued. ‘If you do have an accord with the king, it could be useful.’
‘No, Papa, I don’t—’ she began, but he gave her a knowing smile, then spoke over her, deliberately changing the subject.
‘I believe Thomas is to carry the cloth of estate for Princess Mary at her christening tomorrow?’
‘Yes, it’s a huge honour,’ muttered Elizabeth, her emotions a mixture of fury and humiliation at her father’s incorrectassumptions concerning her relationship with the king. ‘I shall be attending the celebration afterwards.’
‘I’ll be there, too,’ he said. ‘We shall speak to the king together.’
‘But, Papa,’ she said, ‘it’s not for me to meddle in politics.’
‘You will do the smiling and I shall do the meddling,’ he said with a knowing grin and hurried off before Elizabeth could protest again.
The February day was cold and Elizabeth pulled the cloak around her. Her sister-in-law, Bess Howard, Countess of Surrey, appeared in the entrance of the Church of the Observant Friars, the tiny princess in her arms. A golden canopy, carried by Sir David Owen, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Thomas Aparre and her husband, Sir Thomas Boleyn, was held above them as they processed down the aisle to the font. The church was sumptuously decorated and Elizabeth sat beside her father.
After the unnerving conversation with the Duke of Norfolk in the vast hallway of Greenwich Palace, Elizabeth had returned to her and Thomas’s rooms and taken the piece of quartz she had treasured all her life from her jewel chest. The stone she believed had linked her to her father, the magical belief of the tiny angels within who had always protected them both, was now besmirched by his callous comments. On the way to the christening, she had flung the stone in the river, wishing to be free of her father’s manipulations.
Now, she had eyes for Thomas alone; tall and broad from his hours in the tiltyard, he had retained his good looks. His confidence had grown with his status and he was a man of considerable power in the king’s court. His grandfather’s death had meant the property New Hall had come to him and there were rumours the king wished to buy it for an enormous sum. To be part of a second royal christening – Thomas had also been present at Prince Henry’s, even though the baby had died a few weeks later – meant their family was at the heart of the court elite, members of the innermost circle of the king.
It was because of this, Elizabeth did not know whether to tell her husband about the note delivered to their rooms the previous evening. She had been alone, apart from her maid, when a page in Tudor livery had knocked, requesting the maid of Lady Boleyn. He had thrust the note into her hand and skittered away. Thomas had been with his brother, James, discussing the health of their mother.
The note had held a blank seal and she’d been unsure who would deliver such a mysterious item. Nervous of being drawn into intrigues, she’d resolved to read it and, if it were incriminating, burn it before Thomas returned. Her father’s words earlier in the day had unnerved her. Did he truly believe she and the king had a long-standing agreement? Did the rest of the court? Was another man attempting to proposition her, hence the reason the seal was blank, to give her no clues, an intrigue, a lover’s code? She had shuddered; the idea of whispers and rumours following her through the corridors made her wish even more she were safely at home in Hever Castle.
Yet, she’d known there might be a reason her father suspected she and the king were lovers and, as she had stared at the small square letter in her palm, she’d wondered if this were another link in the chain of deceit the king was wrapping around her.
She had flipped the seal into the fire, where it melted, waxen blood in the orange flames, a shape-shifting demon which dissolved with a violent hiss. Elizabeth had felt bile burn in the back of her throat as she’d unfolded the note that revealed Henry’s extravagant handwriting.
My most dear and entirely beloved,
Word reaches me of your return to court. This news pleaseth me greatly, for it bringeth me the promise of your company once more within these walls.
In the days to come, as we celebrate the birth of my daughter, I shall look for you amidst the Queen’s ladies. The sight of you will be to me a comfort and delight beyond measure. Think not that time or distance hath cooled my affection; rather, your absence hath made my heart the more eager.
You are, Elizabeth, the brightest jewel in my court, and are ever in my thoughts. My realm is incomplete without your grace and beauty. Come quickly, and let no one stand between us when you do.
Until the hour we may take our ease together, know that my love is constant and true, and that I remain, as ever, your love,
Written by the hand of your own Henry.
Swallowing hard, appalled at herself for allowing the king’s words to cause such a strong physical reaction, she had flung the note into the flames and retreated. A jug stood on a trivet and, with shaking hands, she had poured herself a goblet of wine, gulping it down to calm her nerves.
Ever since he had given her the hawking whistle, the king had imagined a love affair between them. His many letters remained unanswered, yet they continued to arrive at regular intervals.Elizabeth found each note more preposterous than the last as he claimed memories of trysts that had never been, conversations they had not shared, promises never made, except in Henry’s imagination.
