He was still absent when I received a second letter sent from Boulogne. This one came from Lord Lisle. I broke the seal with mild trepidation, assuming that he had met with my father to discuss the terms of my marriage to his son.
The first words made my heart stutter. As I read on, my limbs grew cold. The letter dropped from nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor. I was not to marry Harry Dudley, after all. No one would ever marry Harry because Harry was dead.
Dazed, grief-stricken, I was scarcely aware of it when Alys plucked the letter from the rushes and read the terrible news for herself. “After King Henry left France,” she relayed to Mary Woodhull in a choked whisper, “there was sickness among the troops. Camp fever. It was so widespread that even those in the command tents were infected. Harry—” She broke off, unable to say the words aloud.
“Harry died of it.” I grabbed the letter back and tore it into tiny bits and threw them into the fire.
Tears streamed down my face. “It would have been a good match,” I sobbed. “We were well suited.” And there had been no impediment to our marriage.
None but death.
17
I do not remember much about the next few weeks. I performed my duties by rote, an insincere smile pasted on my face. I had to force myself to eat. It seemed unbelievable to me that someone as full of life as Harry Dudley should be so suddenly and finally gone. When Lady Lisle returned to court, we wept together for what we’d both lost.
Soon after that, the queen went on progress again, this time into Buckinghamshire and Bedfordshire. This time the king did not accompany her, nor did her brother. The days passed with great sameness until, on the return journey, Her Grace decided to stop at Ashridge to visit the king’s younger daughter.
I had seen Princess Elizabeth from a distance when I first joined the court as the queen’s maid of honor, but I had never spoken to the fragile-looking, red-haired, eleven-year-old. As soon as the king returned from France, she’d been sent back to her own household. In Nan Bassett’s opinion, that was because His Grace was uncomfortable in her presence. She had her mother’s eyes.
I was seated by a window, staring out at the bleak November landscape, when I heard the rustle of satin behind me and smelled marjoram, the light fragrance the princess always wore. I rose, bade her good morrow, and dropped into a curtsy.
Her Grace peered into my face, her large black eyes unblinking. “Why are you so sad?” she asked.
Disconcerted by that stare and disarmed by her directness, I blurted out an honest answer. “I lost someone I loved.”
The princess nodded, her expression solemn. “It is best not to love anyone,” she said. “The people you love always leave you.”
She had reason to believe that. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, had been beheaded when Elizabeth was only three and she had since lost two stepmothers and who knew how many devoted servants to the whims of her father the king.
“I am not certain it is possible to stop love,” I said.
Princess Elizabeth considered this, all the while continuing her intense scrutiny. “I love my governess,” she said after a few moments of thought. “Who are you?”
“My name is Elizabeth Brooke. I am Lord Cobham’s daughter and a maid of honor to Queen Kathryn.”
There was something about Her Grace, even as young as she was, that compelled me to answer the questions that followed. By the time she left me at the end of a quarter of an hour, she knew a good deal about me, even that I’d been planning to marry Harry Dudley.
Alone again, I pondered the princess’s philosophy. Was it better not to love anyone for fear of losing them? No doubt it was, but love was not something anyone could control. I loved my parents and siblings. I’d loved Harry, after a fashion. And, God help me, I loved Will Parr.
Months of separation punctuated by fleeting contact had only made the attraction stronger. What I felt for Will defied common sense, but it was very real. As I stared blindly out at the grounds of Ashridge, I accepted a very great truth—I could no longer imagine living the rest of my life without Will in it.
18
By the time the progress was over, it was almost Yuletide. We were to spend Christmas at the king’s favorite palace, Greenwich, and celebrate with masques and other pageantry. Then we would move to Hampton Court for the Twelfth Night festivities.
Will arrived at Greenwich a few days after I did. The moment I caught sight of him, I felt the powerful pull of attraction. I stared at him until he glanced my way and met my eyes. It did not take him long after that to find an opportunity to speak privately with me in a secluded corner of the queen’s presence chamber.
He kissed me first, a searing bonding of lips that left me breathless.
“I have missed you, Bess,” he murmured.
“And I, you. More than you can know.”
He kissed me again and ran the tips of his fingers over my cheek. I shivered with pleasure.
“I . . . I love you, Will,” I whispered.
“And I, you, from the first moment I saw you.”
I frowned, remembering that occasion all too well. “You were kissing Dorothy the first time we met.”
He chuckled. “Jealous, my sweet? There is no one else for me. Not anymore. I cleave only to you.”
But when he reached for me again, I put both hands on his chest to keep him at a distance. “Does your wife still live?”
“Sadly, yes. But that does not matter. I am free of her, free to wed again. We need only obtain the king’s permission.”
“And my father’s,” I reminded him, scarcely daring to hope it would be that simple.
“George will not go against the king’s wishes.”
“His Grace’s consent is all we need? Truly?”
“It is a trifle more complicated than that,” Will admitted. “I must convince King Henry to grant a royal decree that will allow me to remarry. But I am high in His Grace’s favor and my sister will support our cause.”
He’d said that before. “The king is nothing if not unpredictable,” I reminded him. “Especially if his leg pains him.”
“If I approach him at the right moment, catch him in an expansive mood . . . you will see, Bess. His Grace will favor my suit.”
I smiled up at him, struck by an idea. “What if I help you persuade the king?”
He winced. “It might be best if you keep your distance. He might find you too tasty a morsel to resist.” To prevent any argument, he caught me to him and found my lips. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him back, reveling in the passion I’d unleashed until the sound of approaching footsteps forced us apart again.
“We must be circumspect,” I said in a breathless whisper. “No hint of scandal must touch us. We cannot expect the queen to help us if she thinks I am just another Dorothy Bray.”
Reluctantly, Will released me, but he made no promises.
We spent a great deal of time together after that, for the most part in the queen’s apartments. I resisted the temptation to visit him in his lodgings. In other circumstances conceiving a child would have led to the marriage we both desired, but so long as Will was not completely free, that was no solution for us. If the king did not sanction our union, I’d be banished from court and might never see Will again. Far better to bide our time and wait for an opportunity to broach the subject of a royal decree with the king. It had to be the perfect moment, else His Grace might forbid us to wed at all. He might even take it into his head to find a more “suitable” husband for me.
My closest friends, Alys Guildford and Mary Woodhull, knew how I felt about Will. They knew, too, that I heartily wished his faithless wife would die. But no one else was aware of our commitment to each other. Or so I thought.