‘Unlike your husband,’ Henry said. ‘I remember you before your marriage and always think of you as Lady Howard. My Lady Howard.’
‘This is beautiful, sire,’ she said, ignoring his comment, ‘but it is too much. It would be unseemly to accept such a jewel from a man who is not my husband.’
‘Yet,’ he whispered in an eager voice, ‘not your husband – yet.’
‘But, sire…’
‘Fear not, my love,’ he said, leaning closer and placing a finger on her lips to halt her words. ‘This will be our secret until such time as we lay in each other’s arms, exhausted from desire, husband and wife, king and queen.’ He ran a finger down hercheek and whispered, ‘Would you like to know the story of the jewel?’
‘Yes, please,’ she replied, sickened with fear and revulsion. If the story was long, Thomas might return before it was finished.
‘The stone is a ruby, drawn from the ancient mines of Momeik, in the distant lands to the east,’ he said, turning it so its fire caught the light. ‘It is said, these rubies were born of blood – the blood of the first people who walked that land. After Eve’s fall and mankind’s exile from paradise, her children wandered to the farthest corners of the earth. Some came to Momeik, where they found hidden caverns and secret groves. Overwhelmed by such beauty, they felt themselves unworthy to claim them as their own and they wept tears of blood, each drop seeping into the stone.
‘When the floods came – the terrible judgement of God intended to wash away the wickedness of man – the pure waters mingled with that ancient blood and from their union rose the finest rubies the world has ever known. This is such a stone: born of sorrow and forgiveness, pain and joy alike. And see, it bears the letter “H” for “Howard”, yes, but more too. When you wear it, think of Henry. Not the king, but the man, the boy who loved you once, and the man who loves you still, bound only by your vows to another and the strictures of propriety that dare restrain your desire for me.’
Elizabeth bowed her head, pretending to admire the jewel. She wanted to fling it from her, to wash her hands until no trace of its touch remained, yet her fingers remained locked in place. Her breath stuck fast in her chest, terror pressing her ribs like iron bands. The ruby pulsed in her palm like a heart torn from the earth, its weight more than she could bear. Blood and tears, flood and fire – all trapped within its facets, pressing against her skin. To him, the ruby was a token of love; to her, a scarlet snare,glinting with menace beneath the weight of his gaze. The price of her family’s betrayal of her.
‘You’re overwhelmed,’ he said, and his words held complacency, amusement. ‘Robbed of words as desire takes your voice. Come, my love, a bedchamber awaits through those doors and we shall not be disturbed.’
Elizabeth stared in horror at the king stood and began to loosen his clothes. ‘Your Maj?—’
‘Henry,’ he said, his voice tinged with impatience, ‘call me Henry. In your presence, I am not a king. I am a man – a desperate, sad and lonely man who has loved you forever. A man who can wait to no longer to sate his desire.’
He was in front of her, pulling her to her feet. He clamped his arms around her, dragging her into an embrace. His mouth on hers, his face flushed, his breath sour with wine as he kissed her.
‘Sire… Henry, no, this is improper,’ said Elizabeth, twisting in his grip, freeing her mouth trying to escape his grip. ‘I am married.’
‘Stop denying your passion, my love,’ he moaned, crushing her to him, his lips once again finding hers, forcing his tongue into her mouth.
The strength of his arms around her was like torture, she could feel bruises blooming on her skin. As he continued to kiss her, he began walking backwards, dragging her towards the door.
‘No,’ she screamed, shoving him with all her might.
Henry staggered and released her. A huge smile split his face. ‘Your passion is even greater than I imagined,’ he said with a deep laugh. ‘Come, my love, let us give in to the desire that has burned between us for years.’
‘No,’ said Elizabeth again, fear rising in her. ‘There is no passion, no “affair”. You’ve created a dream, a tale, imagined a woman who is not me to have reciprocated your love. Yourgames of courtly love are not real, and I will not betray my marriage vows, even for a king.’
She held out the glowing red pendant and placed it in his hand.
‘Thank you for the gift, Your Majesty, but it is too generous,’ she said, curtsying, desperate to return things to normal. ‘I shall leave you now and find my hus?—’
‘No!’ roared Henry, his face flushed. His mood and expression changing, quicksilver fast as his laughter turned to anger, his face livid. He grasped her wrist and continued to drag her towards the bedchamber. ‘I will have you, Elizabeth Howard. You will be mine. You will belong to no man but me; your brother promised you to me.’
To her horror, he drew a jewelled dagger from a sheath on his belt. He stood, his clothes in disarray, his arm raised holding the blade aloft, his teeth bared, and in an instant, he transformed in her mind to the spoiled child at his mother’s knee.
Her brother, Younger, had fed the king’s foolish dreams of her. An image of the two men sniggering together as they planned to compromise her, disgusted every inch of her being and for that instant her fear fled, replaced by contempt. She would never yield to this man, even if he was king.
‘My brother had no right to make such claims on my body,’ she said, her tone icy with disgust. ‘I am not his to command.’
‘You will yield!’ howled Henry, sounding even more like a querulous toddler, and Elizabeth wondered if he would stamp his foot.
‘No,’ she murmured, ‘I would sooner you drive the knife into my breast than yield to you.’
Henry froze, stunned, the only sound, his ragged breathing. Then he stepped back, his eyes narrowed, as understanding of his own ridiculousness filtered across his face, pride bleedinginto fury. ‘You would rather die than yield to your king?’ he said and his voice was low, sinister, unnerving.
His expression was one of disgust, whether it was aimed at himself for misreading the situation, for creating a masque in his mind, a gossamer confection of lies, or her, for finally revealing to him his true self with his unrequited and dangerous obsession, she did not know, but her confidence of a few moments earlier disappeared as the colour drained from Henry’s face and a murderous glare engulfed his features.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a quavering voice.
