The Queen's Rival Read online

  With her heart racing, Bess thought very little of the courtier with curly copper hair who approached Jane then and whispered something to her that Bess could not hear. But it struck her how Jane glanced across the courtyard at the king. He turned only briefly, nodding to her before he advanced toward an open door surrounded by aides, friends, and servants.

  “Very well, let’s go. He is gone for now. So shall Master Brandon be. He follows the king like a lapdog,” Jane Poppincourt declared.

  Bess watched Elizabeth straighten into an oddly defensive posture. “He does what we all must do, Jane, whether or not we declare it to others.”

  “You’re only angry because you thought it would be you and not me. But obviously there are some circumstances where your Bryan family lineage does not trump all.”

  Elizabeth gave a little indignant huff after that and spun around on her heel, her nose tipped up. There was something more between the two girls, something not at all clear to Bess, but whatever it was seemed to involve the king more directly than anyone at the moment was willing to say. “My lineage will be victorious soon enough. A pity you might well be back in France by then and not see the grand life I shall have once you are gone.”

  The flaring of tempers that followed Gil’s wonderful surprise and the king’s triumphant return was confusing to Bess. She did not understand what they were arguing about. She still understood little so far of the intricacies and rivalries of this new world, and she even despised what she knew was her own sense of naïveté. But one thing she understood completely: It was a world she had every intention of conquering, as Elizabeth Bryan also planned to do. What path Bess would take, however, was still a complete, and rather exciting, mystery.

  The court burst back to life that same evening as the king hosted a grand celebration in the banquet hall with all the flair and magic Bess had imagined. Dressed in a pretty brocade gown with puffed slashed sleeves and a yolk embroidered with beads, she sat, admiring all the activity. Henry VIII was not only celebrating the English victory over France, he proclaimed, goblet in hand, but also his return as host of all the beautiful ladies of his court. He did not mention the queen. It did not seem to her that Katherine of Aragon even existed at all.

  The somber queen’s court was entirely overshadowed in a single day by the brilliant, festive environment the king preferred. The high, painted beamed ceiling of the banquet hall echoed back the melodious strains of rich, happy music coming from musicians collected in the gallery above. Between the linen-draped, flower- and herb-strewn tables, a group of elegantly dressed courtiers danced while everyone else was taken up in boisterous laughter and happy conversation. But from her place near the back of the hall, Bess focused solely on the young and handsome king, who sat while talking, laughing, and greeting friends and embracing the most beautiful of the ladies as they filed before him for a moment of his attention.

  In an odd comparison, she remembered then when her mother had only just lost a child, the heavy pall that had descended on their house, and how somberly Father had sat alone in the library for hours, refusing to speak with anyone. Perhaps the king’s own grief was a thing he felt duty bound to hide from his subjects, Bess considered as she watched him. The jewels on his ornate slashed sleeves glittered in the golden flickering lamplight as he tipped his head back and laughed heartily at something Wolsey had said. The royal Almoner was on his right; Charles Brandon on his left. Her father had told her they were the two most powerful men in England, second only to the king, and they fought each other daily for supreme dominance. As different as the two men were, she could see what her father meant.

  Wolsey was a stout, unappealing man, but he seemed better at keeping the king’s attention—particularly when Brandon was so taken up by Mary, the king’s pretty sister, who sat, radiating beauty, on Brandon’s other side. It was interesting to watch it all play out. It was like attending a performance, with all of its players, and she had no idea yet how the story would go.

  “They will end up together, you know.” A voice beside her startled her back to the moment, and Bess turned to see that Gil was now suddenly sitting beside her, fingering a wine goblet with an unadorned hand. “Brandon has as much of a reputation at court as the king for getting what, and whom, he wants. It has been a good-natured contest between them for years.”

  “And what he wants is the king’s sister?” she asked.

  “That is certainly the gossip.”

  Bess could easily understand it if it were true. Brandon may have been strikingly handsome, but, with her beauty, Mary met him equally. Her graceful neck, vibrant green eyes, and abundance of jewels, made the adolescent country girl feel instantly plain and unappealing when she dared to compare herself to the princess.

  “My father says she is betrothed to Charles of Castile,” Bess stammered.

  “They say King Henry has now lost interest in that match since the war with France, and by the look of it, Lord Lisle means to seize the moment.”

  Bess had been educated enough by both her parents to know that a key political pawn like a king’s sister would never be wasted on someone politically inconsequential, even a personal and dashing friend like Charles Brandon. Bess’s mind worked quickly to put more of the key court players into places that made sense.

  “Will you dance?” Gil asked then as he extended his slim hand, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Are even we permitted to dance, not just the important few?”

  Bess realized, like so many other things, that she did not have any idea of what one might do in front of the king.

  Gil only smiled at her question. “Wolsey says the king prefers dancing to the lot of us sitting here, staring at him.”

  Bess could feel the heat of her own blushing. It made her straighten in her seat. “I was not doing that.”

  “Ah, but you were,” he affably countered. “Everyone does when they first come to court. It is rather unavoidable really since he is so majestic and handsome.”

  “He is that,” Bess replied, cautiously daring to agree.

  She let Gil lead her out into the area where others were dancing, and the fabric of her skirts brushed against all the other luxurious fabrics and folds. Well schooled at dance, they both slipped easily into the steps of a branle. Happy to feel confident at something at last, Bess smiled. They were surrounded by dancers, courtiers not just of importance, but of such skill and grace, that it felt daunting and yet rather fun as well. Moving flawlessly around her were the king’s impressively stylish friends, Sir Edward Neville, Sir Henry Guildford, and Sir William Compton, who was the curly-haired young man she had seen whispering with Jane in the courtyard. All of them were brilliantly arrayed in velvet, jeweled doublets, and matching puffed trunk hose. Gil named each of the courtiers carefully, and Bess quickly memorized their faces in case she should be introduced. Chief Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Esquire of the Body, Keeper of the Sewer; their titles were daunting to a girl of fourteen. The women, their partners, she knew by now. But these were the men of great wealth, power, and influence. They were the true keys to everything, Gil explained. This applied particularly to Compton, who, as Chief Gentleman of the Bedchamber, was in a position to control every person going in or out of the king’s room. Bess considered that, and her mind eddied on a thought. She remembered Compton talking privately to Jane earlier, and the catty exchange with Elizabeth that had followed. But she pushed away the unthinkable thought, flatly refusing it, before she could reach its natural conclusion. She looked away, seeing Charles and Mary—preferring that vision to the one pressing in from the back of her mind.

  They were partnered together nearby in the dance, and he was smiling down at her with something akin to admiration, Bess thought. Perhaps it was even love. Surely the king could see it, as everyone else could, and a magnificent young man like Henry could not be without a heart for romance. That much seemed impossible.

  Just as that new thought blossomed in her mind, Bess saw the king across the da
ncing area partnered with, of all girls, Jane Poppincourt. The thought she had tried to press away came forward forcefully again. Jane was dressed far more elegantly than usual. Tonight her gown was of azure velvet over brocade. Very large turned-back cuffs revealed brocade sleeves, and at her throat was a heavy gold pendant surrounding a large emerald. Jane was laughing quite boldly, Bess thought, and she was gazing up at the king with an odd familiarity. Thinking now what she was trying very hard not to, she felt a strange burst of pity just then for the queen—childless and in mourning alone at Windsor Castle. Bess was young and inexperienced, but she was not a fool. It was easy to imagine wanting to flirt with the King of England and attract his attention. But Jane was a part of Katherine’s own household, and her laughing so overtly like that seemed a betrayal.

  “You are scowling, you know,” Gil observed as the dance neared its end.

  “Am I?”

  “It does look a great deal like envy.”

  “Envy for Jane? I have only just met her.”

  “’ Tis not serious, you know. Wolsey says he truly loves the queen.”

  “Then why would a girl do something so unwise as flirt with him, or he with her?”

  “A courtly pastime. And because she can. Mistress Poppincourt is rather comely.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Surely your parents explained all of that to you.” Gil laughed as he led her back to her place at the table.

  She was not entirely certain that they had, at least not fully. “Well, I for one think it is awful,” she declared with a little huff as she watched the king leave the hall with Jane very noticeably on his arm. Again she thought of Jane and Sir William Compton’s familiarity with each other. “I would never do something like that to the poor queen.”

  “You are young, Bess, and green as grass to the ways of a court like this one. You would be wise not to declare yourself so forcefully just yet. At least not until you have met our sovereign,” Gil said.

  Over the next days, Jane began to spend more of her time with the king’s sister, walking with her in the garden and sitting beside her as they sewed. And they were always whispering. Elizabeth Bryan was left to seek out Bess’s company as a result, which was fine with her because Bess liked Elizabeth. Their temperaments were similar, they were the same age, and both had courtier parents. As they sat together one afternoon watching the king and Brandon dashing back and forth at tennis, Elizabeth was surprisingly vocal.

  “Fortunate little moppet, Elizabeth Grey,” she remarked under her breath.

  “Who is that?”

  “Lord Lisle’s ward. She is our age, yet if you can fathom, they are betrothed to marry. The formal nature of the betrothal has already made Master Brandon a viscount, thus his title. I would shudder to be in that poor girl’s slippers!”

  “I thought it was Master Brandon you fancied?”

  “I said that for Gilly’s benefit, of course, because I knew he would tease me worse than he did if he were certain of the truth. No, Charles Brandon is far too cockish. He plays boys’ games with women. His dearest friend, the king, however—now he is quite decidedly a man. Just look at him!”

  Bess watched the king sprinting magnificently across the court in a loose muslin shirt with leather laces, and padded suede breeches, his muscular chest shining with perspiration. She felt a reaction deep within herself for the first time in her life, and the sensation took her breath away. At twenty-two, Henry VIII was an adult, and she most decidedly was not. She was a silly adolescent girl, but that mattered little in fantasy, she thought, smiling devilishly to herself.

  “Do you not think he is glorious?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Glorious, indeed. And I would imagine he would be a glorious kisser, too, just like Lancelot,” Bess replied with a mischievous chuckle.

  Elizabeth looked at her with an expression of surprise. “I knew you could not be so different from the rest of us when faced with that royal, godlike perfection. They do say experience is the best teacher, and I am certain he has had plenty of that. They may look alike, but there could not be more difference between Brandon and the king. You know our Lord Lisle, as they already call him, has lived quite the scandalous youth. He is as ambitious as he is handsome, and he has already had two wives to further his standing.”

  Bess looked at the king’s opponent more closely. Brandon was attractive, it was true. Tall, taut, and auburn-haired, he looked as if he could be the king’s brother. Bess watched the two of them laugh and sprint and yell when the other missed a volley or a serve. All too soon, to Bess’s mind, the match was over, Brandon having dared to beat the sovereign. Still, their arms were slung over each other’s shoulders casually as they approached Elizabeth, Bess, and the few other maids of honor who had collected to watch.

  “So you witnessed my humiliating defeat, did you, Mistress Bryan?” the king asked with an open, affable smile as he and Brandon stopped directly before them. Both girls curtsied, as the others did around them.

  “Your Highness played splendidly,” Elizabeth replied. “I actually thought you won.”

  “Brandon cheats,” Henry declared with a little wink as his storm green eyes landed at last upon Bess. “And whom have we here, Mistress Bryan?”

  “I am Elizabeth Blount, Your Royal Highness,” she replied for herself, though the words stuck suddenly in her throat and were delivered on what felt like a miserable, high croak as she dipped into a painfully awkward curtsy, then rose back up. The king smiled at her youthful embarrassment, which made it that much worse.

  “Ah, yes, you’re Sir John’s girl.”

  “I am, sire.” Bess averted her eyes as the reply left her lips, feeling her cheeks flush hotly. She was unable to look into his confident, handsome gaze a single moment longer. She felt like such a fool, a hopelessly inconsequential child in his presence, with his gaze bearing down upon her. His casual smile had seemed absolutely blinding.

  “How goes your father’s convalescence? He is missed here at our merry little court.”

  “My mother writes that he is swiftly improving, sire.”

  “That is splendid news.” He seemed to be studying her, she thought, when she forced herself to look back at him and he had not looked away. “You do very much resemble your mother, you know.”

  “I am told that.”

  “You shall be a great beauty one day. You certainly hold promise. Do you not agree, Brandon?”

  Charles Brandon, who seemed bored with the entire exchange, was glancing off toward the gardens as if he had barely noticed her. He did not even regard Elizabeth Bryan, whose confidence and beauty were already apparent. She certainly did not seem intimidated, Bess thought, feeling a sudden spark of envy toward the girl.

  “Brandon!” the king barked.

  “Yes, of course, Your Highness. Lovely, lovely,” Brandon blandly returned, still never looking directly at Bess either. She must be too far beneath him for that, Bess thought a little ruefully, finding no admirable comparison between Lord Lisle and the king beyond appearance, just as Elizabeth had indicated.

  “I am sorry if it has been dull for you here without the queen, but she shall return soon enough,” the king suddenly said to her.

  “Not dull at all, Your Highness. There has been much for me to learn in her absence.”

  Henry’s smile widened. His teeth were white and straight, and as magnificent as the rest of him. She could not push the legend of Lancelot from her mind as she looked at him girlishly. “Ah, an optimist, are you, Mistress Blount? That pleases me greatly.”

  “They tell me I get that as well from my mother.”

  Bess forced herself not to look away this time, but it was a bit like looking at the sun, brilliant and blinding.

  “Well, there is much for you to learn at my court, whether the queen is here or not,” Henry said decidedly.

  “I am discovering that, Your Highness.”

  “Mistress Bryan here is a splendid teacher. Mistress Poppincourt as well. Learn wha
t you can from each of them. Take their advice, too, since both might be ahead of you in many ways,” he said with a wink. Bess made a proper nod in return to the surprising gesture, but when she looked up, she saw that the king and Brandon had unceremoniously turned and were already walking away.

  “That went pleasingly,” Elizabeth remarked. “And you did not even say anything too foolish to embarrass yourself, or me.”

  Bess thought of saying that Elizabeth’s adoring and silly adolescent gaze upon the king had done that well enough, but she decided against it. Bess knew she needed what friends she could find here.

  “Does he always depart like that, without so much as a fare-thee-well?” she asked instead.

  “Often, yes. He is the king, after all, Bess.” Elizabeth chuckled. “He has quite a lot more on his mind than two inconsequential girls. I am surprised he said as much as he did. Perhaps it was my new dress that drew him over here.”

  “Of course that was it,” Bess said with a smile as they left the tennis court in a line behind the other girls.

  Secretly, Bess did not care what had brought the king to her side, or caused him to speak. She knew only that it was a defining moment in her life. And she would wait eagerly and full of fanciful thoughts for it to happen again, somewhere, sometime. While she waited, she would try very hard not to resent the very fortunate queen for marrying him before Bess had even fully grown up.

  “What are you moping about for, lad?” Wolsey asked with an irritated sigh as Gil came away from the window through which he had been gazing for the better part of an hour. It was a window that shone down onto the royal tennis courts and the knot garden beyond. The king’s match with Brandon was only just over.