Blaze Wyndham (53 page)

“Never, as long as there is breath in my body, will I give way my place to that strumpet Nan Boleyn!” the queen suddenly snarled, her fine dark eyes flashing; and Blaze saw that though Catherine be worn with her many years of unsuccessful childbearing and royal intrigues, she was yet the daughter of Isabella, the warrior queen of Castile. There was still much fight left within her.

“Surely the king will not wed the daughter of a mere Kentish knight, madam. He merely seeks to make her his mistress, as her elder sister was his mistress. It is the kind of perversity that occasionally appeals to the king. She is a little more clever and able to hold him off longer, because of her maiden state, but he will soon tire of her games and look elsewhere for easier prey should she not yield herself to him.”

“So think you, madam, but I do not,” the queen replied.

“So thinks the cardinal, madam,” Blaze said.

“Ahh, yes, I had heard that you had seen that wily old fox,” Catherine remarked.

“The cardinal says that he does not believe for a minute that the king seriously contemplates marrying Mistress Boleyn. Any other marriage would be with a French princess or possibly a German princess. The people would not allow the king, despite their love for him, to marry with that girl.”

“Lady Wyndham,” the queen said, “you know my husband. You have said yourself that he is a stubborn man. There is little in this court that I do not know about. My husband has worked himself into a fine froth with the thought that a good English wife is the answer to his problems. The cardinal grows old. He is sickly. He has made enough enemies during his tenure in office to assure that he will not die a peaceful death. He has soothed my husband’s vanity by giving him Hampton Court when Henry grew disquieted with John Skelton’s little ditty. Surely you remember it?”

Blaze smiled, for she did indeed. Henry had been furious, and as a consequence the cardinal had had no choice but to give the king the beautiful home that he had built for himself.

“Aye,” Blaze said, “I remember that little ditty well. I had just come to court myself.”

“The cardinal’s days are numbered, Lady Wyndham, which is sad, for though he be a proud prelate, he has always and ever been a loyal and hardworking servant of the king. His judgment now, however, is clouded by his desire for a French marriage. I stand in his way, and will, therefore, eventually be responsible for his downfall.”

“You know this, and yet you will do nothing to help him, madam?”

“If I step aside, if I admit that my marriage to the king is not a true marriage, Henry will marry with Mistress Boleyn at the first opportunity, even as he married with me in secret six weeks after his ascension to England’s throne. Even then there was talk of sending me back to Spain, and wedding Henry to a French princess. He, however, took it in his head that he must make good the betrothal vows made between us when he was but a lad of twelve and I a maid of eighteen. He loved me then, even as I have always loved him. I will not give way my place as queen of this land, as mother of its heiress, the Princess of Wales, so that Nan Boleyn may rule in my place. So that Nan Boleyn’s sons follow Henry! Never! Never! Never!”

“Madam, what will happen to you if you do not give way to the king’s wishes? What will happen to the princess Mary? I know only too well the folly of refusing the king,” Blaze said softly.

“I can only keep to my position, and pray that the king’s eyes will be opened to the follies that he commits. If God answers my prayers, then the king will be turned from his wickedness. I will put my trust in God as I have always put my trust in him,” replied the queen.

“Alas, madam, all your prayers will not give England the prince it needs. Only another wife for the king can do that,” answered Blaze sadly. There was to be no turning the queen, but then she had known that before she had even entered this room. She thought now that perhaps the king had known it too, but he had tried just once more.

“Your daughter, Lady Wyndham, how old is she?” the queen said.

“She will be five on the last day of the year, madam,” Blaze replied.

The queen drew a small ring from her finger and handed it to Blaze. It was a gold ring with an oval-shaped ruby surrounded by little pearls. “This is for your daughter, madam. A child who bears both my name and that of my daughter should have something to remember us by,” she said.

The interview was over. Blaze slipped from the high-backed stool onto her knees and kissed the queen’s outstretched hand. It was soft, and white and plump. “Thank you, madam. My child will cherish this token of your favor.” Then she rose to her feet. “And I thank you for so graciously hearing me out.”

The queen nodded. “Father Jorge,” she said, “have Mistress Jane show Lady Wyndham back to her apartments.”

“Aye, my lady,” the priest said, and Blaze followed him back out into the queen’s dayroom. “Mistress Jane! You are to show Lady Wyndham back to her own apartments.”

A young lady-in-waiting came forward. She was of middling height and modest demeanor. “If you will follow me, Lady Wyndham,” she said in a gentle voice. She had large dark eyes, and her best feature, Blaze considered, was her soft brown hair, for she was certainly no great beauty with her prim little mouth, receding chin, and somewhat large nose. Someone’s sister, or niece, or a northern heiress with nothing but her wealth to recommend her, Blaze thought, who had been endorsed for her honored position by an important relative here at court. Yet, there was something familiar about her, although Blaze knew she had never seen the girl ever before. Of whom did she remind her?

They reached Blaze’s apartments, and the girl curtsied to her politely.

“Thank you, Mistress... ?” Blaze looked to the girl.

“Seymour, Lady Wyndham. My name is Jane Seymour.”

“You are Tom Seymour’s sister.”

The girl smiled almost mischievously. “You remember him? He will be so pleased!”

“Pray do not say so,” Blaze importuned Mistress Seymour.

Now Jane Seymour laughed. “You were the first girl who ever refused my brother’s advances. He thinks himself quite the fine fellow, Lady Wyndham. When you hit him several years ago he had to consider that perhaps he was not the fine fellow he thought he was. I believe you did him a favor, my lady.” Jane Seymour curtsied prettily to Blaze, and turning, moved back down the corridor away from her.

“You were gone so long I thought you had been clapped into the dungeons of the Tower, m’lady,” said Heartha. “The king has twice sent a messenger, and I expect another will be arriving shortly. I hope you will not be as long with him as you were with the queen. I am anxious to depart this place.”

“Is the coach loaded and ready?”

“Aye, m’lady, it is!”

Blaze washed her face and hands in a basin of warmed water that Heartha placed out for her, and carefully replaced several tendrils of her hair that had escaped her caul. She daubed her favorite violet fragrance at her pulse points, and then stared at herself in the pier glass. She was a beautiful woman. More beautiful than the queen, and certainly more beautiful than Mistress Boleyn, although she had to admit that the Boleyn girl had an exotic fascination to her that would have intrigued the king, whose tastes usually ran to women more blond than brunette. Both Bessie Blount and Mary Boleyn Carey were blonds.

“The king’s page is here,” said Heartha, and the boy stepped into the bedchamber.

“We are to go by means of the inner passage, madam,” the lad told her.

Blaze nodded, and silently opened the hidden door in the paneling. With the lad lighting her way, they descended the narrow staircase and entered the king’s privy chamber. The boy immediately passed through the room and out of it, leaving Blaze with the king. She curtsied, and then looked curiously, for the king’s fool, Will Somers, was also in the room.

“You may speak, my little country girl. Will is my good friend, and privy to all that happens to me.”

“Hal, I am sorry,” Blaze said, “but the queen will not give way her place to another. I sat with her for almost an hour. I pleaded with her, citing Joan of Valois’s sacrifice, but she said that she is no saint, and that Joan was a maid without children, whereas she has given you six children.”

“Of whom but one lives, and that a puling girl!” the king spat. “God has taken my sons from me for the sin of my union with my brother’s wife. Why will Catherine not understand that?”

“She says she is God’s servant, and is incapable of interpreting his will.”

“Aurrgh!” the king cried as if in pain. “She understands! She understands too well! She but plays the fool, but she is not a fool. She does it to annoy me! Oh, Blaze! What am I to do? I must have a legitimate son!
I must!
Catherine does this from her own bitterness. She knows I am able to sire sons who live on the bodies of other women. She is angered that she cannot bear me sons that live, and this is her revenge upon me, but it is not my fault that she has this weakness of body. It is not!”

“Oh, Hal,” she said, and took him in her arms to comfort him. “Whenever you have wanted something, you have wanted it immediately. This will take some time, and you must accept that. You, better than I, should know that the wheels of power grind slowly.”

“But what if I die, Blaze?” he asked her in a tone of voice she had never heard him use before. It was an almost fearful tone.

“You will not die, my lord,” she said, speaking to him firmly, as she spoke to Nyssa when she had terrorized herself with some imagined fear. “You will live to father sons for England upon a new young queen, Hal. The Tudors will not die with you. Oh, no, Hal! Not with you.”

“Until now,” said Will Somers from his stool by the fire, “I had thought myself to be your only true friend, my lord. I see now that you have two real friends upon whom you can count.”

��Can I count upon you, my little country girl?”
the king queried her anxiously.

“Always, my lord!” she answered him. “I will always be your majesty’s most loyal servant.”

“Provided,” the king, now recovering, teased her, “that I do not tempt you to overcome your principles.”

“Exactly, sire!” she answered him quickly. “You see, you are my friend also, for you understand me, Hal.”

The king smiled down at her. “You will want to go home now, my little country girl. I can see it in those wonderful violet-blue eyes of yours. You are anxious to shake the dust of Greenwich from your heels, and hurry back to your Anthony.”

“And to my babies too, Hal,” she said, returning his smile.

“Kiss me good-bye then, Blaze Wyndham,” he said quietly.

She tipped her head up to his, placing her arms about his neck as she did so. His mouth, warm and, as always, sensuous, closed over hers, evoking memories she had thought long forgotten. He drew her against him, prolonging the embrace, and it was just at that minute the door to the king’s privy chamber slammed open and closed.

A scream of pure outrage pierced her consciousness, and she heard the half-hysterical voice of Anne Boleyn. “Villain! Oh, you are such a great villain!”

The king released Blaze and roared, “How dare you enter this room without my permission, Nan!”

Blaze turned about to see Anne Boleyn in her favorite pale yellow, her young face a mask of jealous fury.

“Aye, I dare, Henry! I should dare anything to keep you for myself, for I love you, and well you know it! Still, you cannot be at peace with yourself unless you are fondling some low strumpet! Can you not wait until we are wed? Must you recall your past
amours
to court, and parade them before me until I am half-mad with my pain?”

“Nan! For shame that you should think such things. Lady Wyndham came to court at my request to intercede with the queen for me, for Catherine has always liked her. I hoped that perhaps if another woman spoke with Catherine she could be made to see reason. Lady Wyndham has done us a favor in coming, even if Catherine will not listen to her any more than she will to me, and to all the others who have spoken to her.”

“I know the kind of favors Lady Wyndham does for you, Henry,” Anne Boleyn hissed. “The kind my sister, Mary, did for you both before and after her marriage to poor hapless Will Carey. The kind of favors Bessie Blount did before and after her marriage to Gilbert Tailboys, mad old Lord Kyme’s son! She spreads her legs and takes your cock into her! Do not think to mislead me, for I am not a fool!”

Before the king might remonstrate further with Mistress Boleyn, Blaze stepped forward, and with her small open palm slapped the hysterical girl across the face.

Anne gasped, and sputtered, and then screamed at the king, “She has slapped me! Your whore has slapped me!”

Blaze slapped Anne Boleyn a second time. “If you continue to call me names, Mistress Boleyn, I shall continue to slap you. How dare you speak of me in such terms. I am the Countess of Langford, and as such, your superior in rank. I am loyal to my king, but faithful to my husband, Mistress Boleyn. All is precisely as the king has told you. Do you dare to doubt the king’s words?”

“Come, sweetheart,” the king said, opening his arms to Mistress Boleyn, and she flung herself into them, sobbing. “There, lovey, there. You have no cause to be jealous. I could have no better nor truer friend than Blaze Wyndham, and neither could you.” He stroked her long dark hair.

“I th-thought you had brought h-her back to court to b-be your mistress, Henry,” wept Anne Boleyn. “She as much as said so the other n-night.”

“The other night?” The king looked curiously to Blaze.

“Mistress Boleyn paid me a visit while I was in my bath,” responded the Countess of Langford. “She obviously misunderstood all that I said, putting her own interpretation upon my words.” Blaze’s eyes were twinkling, and the king could not help the chuckle that escaped his lips.