As time passed and the intensity of his delusion had increased, after several months of despair, a worried Elizabeth had tentatively mentioned the king’s letters to her husband. Thomas had laughed, dismissing her concerns, claiming it was the king’s version of courtly love.
‘Be flattered, Lizzie,’ Thomas had said when, without revealing the intense nature of its contents, she had mentioned the king had sent her a poem. ‘The king believes his court is the new Camelot and he is a young Arthur, swooning over beautiful maidens, slaying dragons and pursuing truth on his quest for enlightenment. He will soon move onto another worthy maiden, but, while he pretends to woo you, it means we are held in high esteem.’
When she was in the safe haven of Hever Castle or at her other sanctuary, Cerensthorpe Abbey, where she worked with Mistress Ellyn in the scriptorium, writing her own tale, in which she included several of the letters sent by the king, the overbearing proclamations from him were easier to dismiss. At court, his nearness made the suggestions feel dangerous. To proclaim love on the eve of his daughter’s christening had felt wrong; a betrayal to the queen. Eventually, Elizabeth had gone to bed, trying to convince herself it was a jest and pushed it from her mind.
Now, the heavenly sound of music filled the church and Elizabeth allowed the sacred ceremony to wash away thememory of the letter from the previous evening with its tawdry words. A good night’s sleep had helped her to realise how ludicrous her reaction had been. As Thomas had once told her, this was a game of courtly love, nothing more. She was foolish to believe the king’s words held meaning. How could they be anything other than heightened nonsense when he was the father of a princess? An heir to continue the Tudor lineage, he would do nothing to tarnish his line. The ancient words calmed her as they welcomed the new princess into the Catholic church, offering succour and love.
The angelic voices of the choirboys swept through the church and Elizabeth’s eyes wandered, noting who was present. There were representatives of older noble names, as well as new, wealthy families. The Tudor court was a place where any man with ambition and determination could make a name for himself. There were not many attributes Elizabeth admired about the king, but his readiness to reward men on their merit and service to him, rather than sticking with courtiers because of their ancestral lines, was one of the few.
Who would make a good husband for Mary or Anne?she thought as she observed the packed pews.
Both her and Thomas hailed from Norfolk and other important neighbours were the Pastons, although an ongoing feud made this an unattractive option. In Kent, the Wyatts were near neighbours, as was Baron Cobham, the head of the Brookes family.
Perhaps I should aim higher?mused Elizabeth as the Earl of Northumberland coughed, causing more than one head to turn in his direction.We are among the chosen few, we are connected. If Thomas were to secure the earldom, we would have a wider circle of potential suitors for the girls and marriage would make them safe from the king.
‘Come, my dear,’ said the Duke as the service ended and the christening party left, returning to the palace. ‘Let us make merry.’
She allowed herself to be escorted by her father, welcoming the warmth of the great hall after the chill winter air outside. A vast throng of courtiers filled the space, jostling towards the fire, searching eagerly for the king. He had not attended the christening, as was tradition, but his overwhelming glamour, hisjoie de vivre, meant at court no gathering was complete without him. Elizabeth wondered if she were alone in her dread of the monarch and the strange undercurrents which followed him like a curse.
‘Lady Margaret, how fare you?’ she heard her father say and turned to see a woman a few years older than herself curtsy.
‘Very well, Duke, and yourself?’
‘Better now we’re out of the cold,’ he said. ‘You remember my daughter, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn? Lizzie, this is Lady Margaret Carey, she is a distant cousin of the king.’
‘My lady,’ said Elizabeth as they bobbed a curtsy at each other.
Elizabeth’s brother, Younger, appeared in the doorway and beckoned to their father. He rolled his eyes at Elizabeth.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘My son appears to be anxious about a matter, which I must discover and resolve.’
‘Younger is always agitated,’ muttered Elizabeth. ‘If he’s struggling to cope with the challenge of an earldom, how will he fare when he’s a duke?’
‘Spoken like a true sister,’ said Margaret with a warm laugh.
‘Apologies,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I forget myself, but he’s so pompous.’
The women giggled and Elizabeth felt herself relax.
‘Do you have brothers?’ she asked.
‘No – one sister,’ said Margaret. ‘My mother, Lady Eleanor Beaufort, had many brothers, though, and she often told us tales of their antics.’
‘Was she not married to the 5th Earl of Ormond?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘She was,’ confirmed Margaret. ‘I believe the earldom is awaiting a suitable candidate.’
‘My husband, Thomas, and his mother believe it should be his, as do I, but there are other claimants.’
‘My son, William, asked if he would be eligible, but I explained there were stronger blood claims.’
‘How old is you son now, Lady Carey?’
‘He will be twenty-one later this year.’
The two women appraised each other, and Elizabeth saw a spark in Margaret Carey’s eyes.
‘A suitable age for a betrothal,’ she said. ‘Are there any entanglements?’
