The Last Heiress (20 page)

“Am I wise or foolish, Bess?” Anne wanted to know. “What say you?”

“The court is a place in which I am a stranger, Anne,” Elizabeth began. “There is much intrigue, much gossip, much plotting of plots, all of which come to naught. The king is wed to Queen Katherine, though she be out of favor and unlikely to ever again gain it unless she gives him his way. That much is fact. He needs a legitimate son, which means he needs a new wife. Since she will not agree to an annulment or to a divorce, he must continue to pursue a means of dissolving his marriage. Or the queen must die a natural death, which seems unlikely in the near future. Until then any child born to him of any but his law-ful wife will not be eligible to inherit the throne. You have often said you are not your sister, Mary, nor would you be. What if you gave in to the king’s blandishments and yielded your virtue to him? And you bore him a son. And perhaps another. Both would be deemed bastard-born. And then finally the king would be free to remarry. Would he marry you? Or would his advisers convince him that he was perfectly capable of having sons, given the example of your sister, you, and Mistress Blount? And he would allow them to arrange his next marriage with a proper princess. The king is usually most considerate of his reputation. Would you be content to accept such a situation?”

“Never!” Anne Boleyn spat angrily.

“Then do not listen to your uncle, Anne. Or to anyone else who tells you to give yourself to the king. They do so in hopes he will tire of you and marry the princess they will choose for him one day when this matter with Queen Katherine is settled. And he who makes a successful marriage for the king will have great power. But he who fails the king will suffer as the cardinal has suffered. They say his heart is broken.”

“He was a horrid little man,” Anne said darkly. “He hated me, but then I hated him. Had he not interfered I should be Harry Percy’s wife, and happy.”

“You have the heart of a king in your keeping, Anne. Are you not happy knowing that? The king loves you.”

“I wonder if he does,” was the candid reply. “Or if it is that he just wants what he cannot have.” She tossed her dark head impatiently. “I am so unhappy,” she admitted.

“Did you love Harry Percy?” Elizabeth probed. At this point there was little point in being politic. “Do you love the king?”

“I did love Harry,” Anne replied. “And strangely I find that I love the king. He can be the most wonderful man to be with when we are alone. But oddly I believe he is no happier than I am right now. The matter with the queen troubles him greatly. His need for a legitimate son worries him. I comfort him as best I can, but you are correct, Bess, when you tell me to keep myself as chaste as I can until I can be his wife.” She laughed weakly. “There are those who say I have bewitched the king, you know.”

“I know,” Elizabeth responded, “but the court is populated by fools, as you well know. If the king is bewitched it is by your wit, your beauty, your charm.”

Anne took Elizabeth’s hands in hers. “I have never had a friend before,” she said sadly. “Must you return to your Friarsgate, Bess?”

“I don’t belong here, Anne. I am able to survive because I know I will be leaving shortly. Friarsgate is where I gain my strength. I must go home!”

“I could make you stay,” Anne said. “If I asked the king he would order it.”

“Aye, you could,” Elizabeth agreed. “But if you are really my friend you will not. You will let me go. You will not lose my friendship by my going. My mother has always continued her friendship with Queen Katherine and with Margaret Tudor, despite the distance between them. I will always be your friend, Anne Boleyn. And when you are queen one day, I will still proudly proclaim our friendship. But I must go home.”

Anne sighed. “I envy you, Bess Meredith. You have a home and a purpose in life. My home is, of necessity, wherever I am. My purpose is to help my family in any way in which I can. That is the Howard law. Advance oneself.”

“My family motto is
Tracez votre chemin,
” Elizabeth offered with a small grin.

“Trace your own path,” Anne smiled. “It is a good motto, Bess, and it suits you, for despite what others think or say, you are most determined to do just that.”

“I am,” Elizabeth agreed.

“But you have to have a husband, Bess. All girls do. What will happen now that your trip to court has proven unsuccessful?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth replied. “I do not believe my family will force me into a union that I do not want. It is not their way. I suppose I must leave my fate in God’s hands. I see no other way.”

Anne nodded. “I think both of our fates are in God’s hands,” she said. “I hope he will be merciful to his humble handmaidens, Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth Meredith.”

Chapter 7

E
lizabeth kept her conversations with Anne Boleyn to herself.

She did not even discuss them with Lord Cambridge, and certainly not with her older sister Philippa. She was flattered to be the confidante of a girl who was obviously destined for great things. But at the same time she was uncomfortable with the situation. Yet she was wise enough to understand that Mistress Boleyn had needed to un-burden herself to someone she knew she might trust. Someone who would shortly be gone from court.
I shall never again be able to look the
king in the eye,
Elizabeth thought, blushing at the word pictures that Anne Boleyn painted of her faux lover.

Henry Tudor, however, was delighted that the object of his desire had apparently become companionable with the daughter of Rosamund Bolton. Rosamund’s daughters were models of discretion, as their mother had been. Still, the knowledge that two of Rosamund’s daughters were wed, and the third seeking a husband—the fact that someone he had known as a boy was now a grandmother—made him even more aware of the passing of time. Of his need for a legitimate son. He watched, amused, as Anne and her friends played Blindman’s Buff on the lawns of Greenwich. The air was delightfully warm, and the days growing longer. For the moment he was content.

Elizabeth Meredith could not see from behind the blindfold. She could hear the scuffling of shoes and boots, the swish of fabric, the giggles around her as she moved carefully forward, hands outstretched seeking a target of opportunity, listening for someone to make a mistake. There was someone behind her. She was certain of it. Whirling, she felt her quick fingers catch at the velvet of a doublet. “Aha!” she cried, and lifted her blindfold, blinking at the sunlight as she did so.

“Flynn Stewart, you were careless, I fear. I heard you.”

“Bah, mistress!” he replied. “I merely took pity on you.”

“Liar!” She fastened the blindfold securely about his eyes and twirled him about, moving out of his way as she did. Eventually there would be a pretty girl to take pity on him, deliberately standing in his way to be caught. And sure enough, two giggling lasses were quickly vying for the honor.

Flynn caught one easily, and exchanged his blindfold for sight again while the girl stumbled off, seeking to find herself a willing vic-tim. The Scotsman moved quickly out of her reach to join Elizabeth.

“Walk with me,” he said. “I’ve had enough of games for the nonce.”

“I know. It seems such a waste of time,” she said. “It is all these courtiers seem to do. When you are not your king’s messenger, what do you do in Scotland, Flynn?”

“I am generally with the king. I hunt, fish, dice, and golf with him.

I sit by his side in the council, and listen to the bickering of his earls.

I listen for information that might be of use to him. My life is full. I am much older, of course, than the king. I taught him to ride when he was just a wee laddie.”

“Was she ever there? His mother, I mean,” Elizabeth asked curiously.

“Sometimes, but she was never really accepted by the Scots. On one hand I believe she loved her husband, yet her loyalties were often divided, for she loved her brother in England too. Finally, after King James IV’s death, I think she realized there was no one to really protect her, and her loyalties were fixed of necessity on herself. She married Angus first, but he wanted her for the power, and when she realized it she divorced him. Now she is wed to a husband much her junior, but she is a fascinating woman, I have to admit, and this Stewart adores her.”

“You are most astute,” Elizabeth noted.

“A spy should be,” he teased her.

“But you told me you were not a spy,” she remarked.

He chuckled. “Every foreign national here at the Tudor court spies for one reason or another, my lambkin, but of course none of us will admit to it.”

“I do not find what is happening here particularly fascinating or worthy of repeating,” Elizabeth said seriously.

“It isn’t,” Flynn agreed. “At least not now. But now and again something occurs that is worth passing on to my king.”

“So you are not interested in the mundane details of the court,” she said.

“Nay. Reporting on how many times the king visited his privy is not of great interest, unless, of course, he were aged and dying,” Flynn said. Then, changing the subject, he asked her, “Are you ready to partake in the archery contest in two days’ time?”

“I am,” she said. “You are a most worthy instructor.”

“Perhaps we need to practice again,” he suggested.

“If you want to kiss me, Flynn Stewart,” Elizabeth replied mischievously, “I suggest we forgo the longbows, and simply find a private place where we may cuddle.”

“Are you attempting to seduce me, lambkin? If that be your intent I am more than happy to oblige,” he told her boldly. To his delight she blushed with his words.

“Nay! Nay! Nor do I wish to be seduced, sir, but I did enjoy kissing you, and you have not attempted it since that day you taught me to use a longbow,” Elizabeth explained. “Do you not find me worthy of your attentions?”

“Oh, lambkin, I find you more than worthy,” he said, and taking her hand he led her towards the small woodland that separated the palace from her uncle’s house.

“If we go into my uncle’s garden, Flynn Stewart, we will have all the privacy we need,” Elizabeth told him boldly. Her other hand dug into the hidden pocket on her rose-colored gown for the key to the little door.

He stopped at her words and pushed her up against an old tree.

“You are, lambkin, a bold baggage, I have begun to consider.” He brushed a lock of her long blond hair from her cheek. “You should not play such games unless you are prepared to pay the price,” he advised her.

“I have been told that both lovers can win in the game of love,” she answered him low. He was pressed against her, and she could smell his very male scent. It almost made her dizzy with a temptation she had never before felt.

His laughter was insinuating. “Who told you that?” he asked her, and his lips brushed her forehead.

“My mother,” Elizabeth answered him.

“A wise woman,” he told her. Then he tipped her face up to his, and his mouth closed over hers in a passionate kiss.

His lips were warm. Dry. Firm. She had closed her eyes when those lips had met hers. She reveled in their touch even as his lips worked hers gently, forcing her mouth to open that he might plunge his tongue into it. Elizabeth started, but he held her firmly as he sought out her own tongue. She retreated. He advanced. And finally the two tongues touched. He caressed hers tenderly. She shuddered, and it was as if liquid fire had been released in her veins. She was hot and weak at the same time. She didn’t know how she was managing to remain upright, and then she realized he was holding her tightly. She sighed and drew her head away from his. “That was nice,” she murmured to him.

He laughed. “You appear to have an aptitude for kissing, lambkin.”

“I am pleased to learn it,” she said. “Until recently I had never been kissed.”

“Ah, your other Scotsman,” he replied. “Should I be jealous?”

Now it was Elizabeth who laughed. “Neither of you should be jealous of the other,” she told him. “I kiss you, allow you to kiss me, because it pleases me.”

“You must be careful of such speech, Elizabeth,” he warned her. “I know your words are direct and truthful. Another man might misun-derstand and think you a wanton. I know you are not, but then I am an honest man, and there are few at court who are. You must beware of appearing to be what you are not. Especially given your friendship with Mistress Anne Boleyn, the king’s little friend.”

“Why are you not married?” she asked him, changing the subject entirely. “Do you have a mistress? I understand most Stewarts do.”

“I am not married because I have nothing to offer a wife. I am bastard-born for all my father was a king, but I have little to call my own. A name, aye, but no land. No house. Few possessions. I serve my half brother with both love and loyalty. I am not a man for marriage, Elizabeth. And as I cannot afford a wife, I can scarce afford a mistress.

Mistresses are far more expensive to keep than a wife would be.”

“You would think your brother would reward your service,” she answered him. “You are in the same position my father once was, but at least he was rewarded with my mother’s hand in marriage, and in those days it was my mother who was the heiress to Friarsgate. You need a propertied wife.” What on earth was she saying? Certainly she wasn’t offering herself to this man because he had kissed her? But nay! She found his company pleasant and his kisses heady. It was, she thought, as good a foundation for a marriage as any, and they kept telling her she had to marry. A poor man of good breeding, Flynn Stewart would never presume to pursue her, so she must pursue him.

“A propertied Scots wife,” he corrected her gently, his emphasis on the word
Scots
. “I will always serve my king, lambkin. My loyalty ex-tends beyond our bond of blood. My birth was an accident, yet my father gave me his name and treated me with loving kindness. And when my mother died and I was forced from the only home I had ever known, my half brother’s guardian recognized me for who I was, and took me in. I was given a purpose in life, and trusted. I am a Scot, lambkin, and I can never be anything else but a Scot.”