Chapter 29 #2
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.
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 the memory 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, his joie 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?’
‘None at present,’ said Margaret.
‘Thomas and I have begun discussing suitors for our girls, Mary and Anne,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s a huge responsibility. How my father managed to find matches for us Howards when there were so many of us is astonishing.’
‘Lady Boleyn,’ said Lady Carey, ‘perhaps you and I should form an accord. We have a common bond in the earldom of Ormond, your husband would be able to provide a generous dowry for…’ she hesitated as though unsure which name to suggest, then said, ‘Mary?’
‘Of course,’ confirmed Elizabeth, ‘and our children? Should they not at least meet?’
‘We must—’ began Margaret, but her sentence was interrupted by a trumpet announcing the arrival of the king.
With the rest of the court, they dropped in obeisance as the king entered with his usual entourage of friends. His eyes roved the crowd and Elizabeth hoped they would rest on Bessie Blount, who waited in a distant corner, but instead he gazed at her and walked swiftly in her direction.
‘Lady Boleyn, Lady Carey,’ he said in joyous tones, blushing deeply. ‘This is a happy day indeed.’
He waved to a page, and a goblet was thrust into his hand.
‘You were deep in conversation,’ said the king. ‘Was it scandalous court gossip?’
Behind Henry, Elizabeth saw her father and brother watching with interest.
‘We were discussing a potential match between your cousin, William, and Lady Boleyn’s eldest daughter, Mary,’ said Margaret.
‘A distant cousin, third, I believe, not too close,’ he muttered as though working out a puzzle in his head and Lady Margaret blushed at her faux pas. ‘My apologies, Lady Carey,’ the king continued, ‘I did not mean to embarrass you, it was more thinking aloud.’
‘Would your majesty be pleased by a proposition?’ continued Lady Carey.
‘Yes, I shall instruct Wolsey to consider it,’ said the king, ‘but for now, I have business with Lady Boleyn.’
Lady Carey curtsied and melted away into the crowd.
‘Did you receive my note?’ asked Henry urgently, speaking as though they were alone and not in the centre of his crowded court, then his voice took on a frustrated note. ‘Why do you never respond?’
Elizabeth stared at him in shock. ‘Your Majesty, I am married,’ she said in a low whisper.
‘A love like ours will find a way, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘Don’t fret, we shall soon be together or there will be hell to pay.’
He bent low over her hand, kissed it and, with a sorrowful smile, moved away.
A hand gripped her wrist, and she stared up into the terrified face of her husband. Without a word, they left, hand in hand, not looking back.