Chapter 27 #2
‘Younger is delighted the king is here,’ she said, looking over to the top table where space had been made for the monarch to join the married couple.
‘There was no doubt Henry would arrive,’ said her father, his eyes shrewd. ‘He knew you would be here.’
Elizabeth felt a cold shiver ripple down her spine.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He watches you,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Has he ever suggested a liaison?’
Her breath caught in her throat. Her father stared at her with hooded eyes, his face serious, and she was a child again, unable to lie to this man who loved her but commanded respect.
‘He once gave me a gift which suggested he had feelings for me,’ she said. ‘He has also written to me, sent poetry, but when I spoke of it to my husband—’
‘You spoke to Thomas about it?’ he said.
‘Yes, and his advice was for me to dismiss it, to view it as a game of courtly love. It is, after all, the style in which the king models his court.’
‘Good,’ said her father. ‘You have more power when you refuse; continue to do so and the king will look favourably upon us, but remember, Lizzie, you’re a Howard born and should the king require it, you must do as he requests.’
‘I shall not,’ she hissed in reply.
‘I have discussed it with the king and given him assurances of your willingness. Thomas will be rewarded.’
Elizabeth stared at her father in horror.
A fury of such intensity rose within her, she feared that if she spoke, she would say unforgiveable things, words of such bitterness, the rift between them would never mend, yet she knew this was not the place of a woman, a daughter.
He was the head of their family, her father, a powerful man.
‘You must be mistaken,’ she said. ‘The king is a young man in his prime, I am a woman grown, a mother, a wife. Why would he seek such as me?’
‘The king likes older women,’ said her father with a shrug, ‘and he has been fascinated with you for many years. Have you not noticed how all his mistresses look like you? The same colouring, a similar height. He is biding his time, but his patience is growing thin.’
‘Father, please, no…’ she gasped.
‘Have you heard of Jericho?’
‘No,’ she replied honestly.
‘It’s a moated house the king recently bought from St Laurence Priory in Blackmore, Essex. He uses it to see his mistresses.’
‘What does this have to do with me?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘The house, like your property Cerensthorpe Abbey, has been granted a licence of the Crown to be changed from a religious house to secular use. Lizzie, why do you think the king was so willing to help you convert your property? He believes it will make a suitable place for you to meet away from prying eyes. Another Jericho.’
‘Father, no,’ she replied, appalled by the idea.
‘It’s not up to me, Lizzie,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘In the end, you will capitulate or the king will destroy us all, including you and your family.’
She put down her goblet, ready to flee, but there were footsteps behind her and her father bowed, ushering the king towards them.
Elizabeth stared around, trapped, unable to believe her father would treat her in such a manner.
She tried to rise from her chair, but the king’s hand was proprietorial on her shoulder.
‘Remain seated, my dearest Lizzie, for now, we are simply guests at your brother’s wedding,’ he said.
However, a moment later, a platoon of footmen and pages cleared the table around them, laying out fresh plates of food and drink. As the pages melted away, she noticed her father had left, too, leaving her alone with Henry.
The king raised a goblet and took a deep draught of wine, watching her younger brother Edmund as he led Jocasta to dance.
‘Good lad,’ the king said with a ribald laugh. ‘No wonder she said yes, your brother’s grown into a good-looking lad and he dances almost as well as me.’
‘Not so, sire,’ replied Elizabeth, attempting her usual politeness, ‘you’re by far the finest dancer at court. Edmund is a stumbling fool in comparison.’
Henry smiled in agreement, although Elizabeth thought Edmund was a far more elegant dancer than the king, who was overfond of showy, elaborate moves which often looked ridiculous.
‘Did you like my New Year gift?’ asked Henry.
‘Yes, it was the most generous present,’ said Elizabeth. ‘The cups are beautiful. I hope you received our note of thanks and the gift Thomas and I selected for you.’
On New Year’s Day, a messenger had arrived with one of the most expensive gifts given by the king to any courtier that year: four fine gilt cups with heavy covers addressed to Elizabeth.
She had been appalled, realising he had taken her prolonged silence and coolness towards him not as the rebuff she had intended, but as a strategy for gaining his attention.
She had sent a note of thanks from herself and Thomas, hoping the king would understand she remained uninterested in his advances.
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘but we both know, it was a gift from my heart to yours.’
Elizabeth’s hand trembled as she placed her goblet on the table.
‘You honour me,’ she said.
Before her father’s words, she would have responded in the manner of courtly love of which the king was so fond, but with her heightened emotions she was forced to summon all her guile to reply in a suitable manner.
‘How fares your new project – Cerensthorpe Abbey?’ he asked and Elizabeth’s hand shook so much, she spilled her wine, the red stain spreading across the white linen cloth like blood.
‘There is much work to be done, a hammerbeam is giving my workman difficulty as they convert the old cloisters into a great hall.’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ said Henry, holding her gaze. ‘I would love to see the property when it’s complete. Will it be a family home? A place where your heart and desires live?’
‘My home is Hever where my heart is already pledged to Sir Thomas and my family.’
He leaned closer, his breath warm with wine. ‘Another refusal, Lady Boleyn,’ he whispered. ‘You are a woman who makes the chase difficult, but I believe the capture will be even more rewarding.’
She forced a tinkling laugh. ‘Your Majesty is kind, but I am married,’ she said.
He stood abruptly, holding out his hand.
‘Let us dance, Lady Boleyn, let us move the stars and the moon with our suppressed passion. We are both married and are wise to the ways of love, to men and women, to the delights of the marriage bed. If dancing is the closest we can come to the true expression of our love, then, for now, it must suffice. Yet we both know, the passion beating between us will not be denied forever.’
Despite her distaste at his words, Elizabeth had no choice but to take the king’s hand.
The crowd parted as he led her to the dancefloor and as the music shifted tempo to a sultry volta, she was aware of her father and Younger’s eyes upon her, their smiles complacent, while her husband’s eyes settled on the king and hardened in fury.