Heart of Gold (40 page)

There was not so much as a hint of triumph or even happiness in the man’s words as he answered. “She will. Anne succeeds in anything she sets her mind to. The drones at court are already buzzing with talk of annulment. But—and hear me, Elizabeth—I want no part of it.”

Elizabeth looked at him doubtfully. “You don’t approve of her ambition.”

“I don’t.” He paused and then shook his head. “Oh, I won’t try to impress you with any newfound scruples I might have regarding Anne’s plan. She is older than her years, Elizabeth, and she knows what she wants. But what she won’t see is that she, and all of us, will pay a price. She thinks this is all just a lovely game of chance. She can spin the wheel...and ride only to the top. She will not consider the consequences, the potential for failure. Consequences that will be heavy for all of us when the wheel turns again.”

Elizabeth tore her eyes away from her father’s face and walked to the bench beside the open hearth. A coating of fine dust covered the surface. Absently, she pressed an open hand in the dust and lifted it, examining the distinct print her palm and fingers had left.

She couldn’t care less about English politics and could not really see what effect Anne’s actions could have on her own future. Elizabeth never planned to step on English soil for the rest of her life. But still, she knew that something in her heart longed for the youngest sister that she and Mary had left behind at the Field of Cloth of Gold. Right or wrong, Anne was still her sister, and Elizabeth cared deeply about her well-being.

“What kind of trouble do you think awaits her? You don’t think the king would harm her?”

“Nay. Not the king. Henry is captivated by her wit and charm...for now.” Sir Thomas picked up the goblet of wine from the floor beside the baron’s chair and drank deeply. “From what I see, the king has already allowed himself to be convinced that his marriage to Catherine of Aragon offended the laws of God. After all, she was wed to his older brother, Prince Arthur, before him. The special dispensation he received from the Pope? Merely the result of political maneuvering. He now believes that the miscarriages that the queen has had over the years have been a sign. He has no sons, Elizabeth, and he no longer believes Catherine is capable of delivering one. I believe Henry intends to make Anne his wife.”

“Then what is it that bothers you? That will surely bring the family far more prestige. Far more power. The very things you yourself have worked your whole life to attain.”

“The marriage cannot last. And if it doesn’t, Anne will assuredly pay for it... somehow.”

“How so?”

“Those who dwell in the corridors of power do not give up their place so easily. All the old, noble families in England will align themselves against such a match. The Poles, the Courtenays, these are Queen Catherine’s supporters. They will not soon forget if she is packed off to some convent. And they will not forget the woman who was the cause of the queen’s banishment. The king needs the support of these influential families; they wield great power in England. A time will come when Anne will be a great liability to Henry, and then...”

Elizabeth stood stock still beside the table, watching as her father shrugged his shoulders and averted his eyes.

“Cardinal Wolsey, The Lord Chancellor,” Sir Thomas continued, moving back to the open hearth. “He has let it be known that if the king’s marriage is annulled, then the king must marry one of the French king’s sisters. That’s the only way to put an end to the conflict there. Wolsey and the nobles do not see eye to eye on much, Elizabeth, but they will stand together on this. I have friends in every corner of the court, daughter, and I hear a great deal. They will fight the queen’s annulment from every angle. From what I hear, the Pole family has even sunk so low as to seek the aid of one of the king’s favored henchmen, a ruffian named Peter Garnesche. They will do anything to dissuade the king from proceeding the way he appears intent on going.”

Elizabeth stared blankly, and Sir Thomas looked sharply at his daughter.

“You know of him, don’t you?” Sir Boleyn said, gazing steadily at Elizabeth’s paling expression. “He cut quite a figure at the Field of Cloth of Gold—until your Scot knocked him down a peg.”

“I remember him.”

“Well, the somewhat hot-blooded Sir Peter has made himself quite indispensable of late to the king. In fact, I don’t believe the king has made a decision in the past few years without talking it out first with Garnesche. I know the man employs spies that feed him information.”

“The man is a brute.”

“It is interesting that you should say that, Elizabeth. Because since his rise to power at court, Peter Garnesche has never been too excited about our family. And now, with the king’s attraction to Anne becoming stronger every day, I have no doubt he will side with the old noble families. No one tells King Henry what to do, but Garnesche will surely try to steer the king away from Anne.”

“Is that all?” Elizabeth’s voice was tight. “Is that the extent of what he would do?”

The elder man shrugged his shoulders and sat down. “I just don’t know anymore. I’ve written Anne off. She doesn’t listen to me, and I don’t want any part of her schemes. I don’t.”

Elizabeth watched Sir Thomas close his eyes and lean his head heavily against the back of the chair. He looked so old and fragile. Four short years had wrought an incredible change in this man. Her mind raced back over all that had been said. Despite all the bad blood that had existed between them over the years, Elizabeth somehow could not help but believe the things that her father had told her. She tried to think back, to remember everything that had taken place on the sad day when Mary had taken the blow from the dagger that had been meant for her. Sir Thomas could not have been responsible. He no longer had any motive for such an act. She knew that in her heart and in her soul.

It had to be Garnesche. It had to be. Perhaps, seeing Anne growing closer to the king, Garnesche was becoming wary of what information might be passed to the king through Anne. Information that might incriminate him.

Elizabeth shuddered at the thought. She had not been in contact with her sister Anne in the past four years. But now, with Anne’s growing influence, perhaps the English knight feared a reunion between the two sisters.

That’s it, Elizabeth thought. The sleeping dog is awake, and he’s after me.

She had to keep her distance at all costs. That was clearly Elizabeth’s best option.

“Are you happy, Elizabeth?”

“What?” she asked, roused from her thoughts.

“Are you happy, daughter?”

“Why do you ask now? You have never concerned yourself with such things, Father.”

“You are the only one left.”

“Anne is not dead.”

“To my mind, she is,” he murmured under his breath. “You and Jaime are all that I have left.”

Elizabeth saw Sir Thomas’s eyes glisten in the failing light. She felt differently now than she had when the old man arrived, but Elizabeth was not about to let her father fool himself into thinking the impossible.

“Father, neither I nor my daughter will go back to England with you.”

“It doesn’t have to be there,” he said quietly. “You could go to Calais, or to France. I’ll look after your expenses.”

“I won’t go,” she said, her voice taking on an edge of determination. “I am staying. This is our home now. We are not leaving it.”

Sir Thomas straightened his tired body in the chair. “I did not come here to uproot you for no reason. I came in peace. I want to see you happy, child. Everything I have is yours. I don’t want you to stay in this wild and desolate edge of the world just because you have no place else to go.”

“You don’t understand, Father,” she returned. “I am here because I want to be here. No one has forced me to it.”

“But look at yourself, Elizabeth. Abandoned in this pile of stone.”

She looked into Sir Thomas’s face questioningly. Into his eyes, dimmed with age; his expression, saddened with remorse.

“I have not been abandoned here, father. The baron and I are to be married.” She tried to stay calm, to ease the tension in her voice as she answered his charge. “I know it is hard for you to believe, but Ambrose Macpherson loves me—and I love him. And our love is not bound by the endless quest for worldly wealth, nor by the corrupted politics of ambition.”

He looked at her. “You have nothing to give him, Elizabeth. No dowry, no title. Though, if you would let me, I could—”

“M’lord, he wants me. Only me. For who I am. Not for anything I have.”

“Then he is a better man than I.”

“Aye, Father,” she whispered. “Far better.”

Elizabeth watched as the old man’s eyes reddened, welling up with tears. Sir Thomas made no effort to hold them back, nor to hide them as the glistening droplets rolled down his wizened face. She stared at the old man for a moment, struggling with her own feelings as her father’s emotions spilled freely in the fading light. Thomas Boleyn, the same man who walked away so easily and so coldly from her mother, leaving her to a life so wretched that only suicide could relieve her pain. Thomas Boleyn, the same man who shamelessly sent his own flesh and blood to lives of disease and disrepute. Thomas Boleyn sat before her now. But life had shown him the vileness of his ways. And he had changed.

Elizabeth looked deeply into her heart. She knew she could never be the doting daughter. She knew she didn’t feel the care and concern, the respect and trust, that one friend should feel for another. She even wondered how she could honor him as a man in the twilight of his years.

But gazing at the broken man, Elizabeth knew that she could not deny the sorrow she felt for him. Pity pressed at her heart, stirring in her an aching sorrow for a man who had wasted his life in the pursuit of the wrong things. And who knew what happiness he had thrown away.

Elizabeth walked to him and drew him to his feet. Placing her arms around him, she felt the ache in her own heart disappear as he laid his head upon her shoulder.

He was punishing himself enough. She would not add to his suffering.

Benmore Castle was a heaven plucked from the sky.

With only three days until their wedding ceremony, Elizabeth gazed somewhat anxiously out the leaded glass windows of her bedchamber, her eyes searching the distance at the purple heather-covered hills that surrounded the broad Spey River valley. The rugged autumn Highlands in which the Macpherson stronghold was located offered breathtaking beauty, but even in the sunny, noonday light, they presented no sign to the bride of any approaching bridegroom.

“He’ll get back in time,” Elizabeth asserted firmly to no one, adding wistfully, “but the messenger said he would arrive today.”

With a last look down the valley, the young woman turned toward the mirror, tucked a loose strand of hair into her lengthening braid, and started for the door. Lady Elizabeth, Ambrose’s mother, had assured her at breakfast that, although the trip from Stirling, where the queen was holding court, could be slow in bad weather, she was certain that her son would appear anytime, now. Elizabeth smiled as she pulled open the heavy oaken door. Never had she ever felt more welcome—more a part of a family—than she had been feeling since arriving at Benmore to the open arms of Ambrose’s parents, Lady Elizabeth and Lord Alexander. The laird and his wife had taken her and Jaime in as if they were their own long-lost bairns. Indeed, from the first moment they had ridden across the wooden bridge that led into the castle courtyard, little Jaime, clutching her kitten, had been treated like a precious princess presenting herself to her kingdom.

After all, Benmore Castle was the domain of men. Elizabeth had watched in amusement as Jaime looked wide-eyed on the trio of young boys that scurried around the travelers’ horses.

Ambrose Macpherson was the second of three sons. The eldest brother, Alec, was married to Fiona, a warm and wonderful woman who had immediately befriended Elizabeth. It was not until a week had passed that Elizabeth learned from the local priest that Fiona was also the half-sister to the king. The couple had three sons, as well as a handsome sixteen-year-old ward, Malcolm MacLeod, who had just arrived from the Isle of Skye for the wedding.

So, needless to say, with all the boys in the family, the attention and the treatment that young Jaime had been getting was exceptional. Elizabeth was not sure the little girl would be fit to live with after all this pampering.

The young bride also looked forward to the arrival of Ernesta and Joseph Baldi, who were due anytime now. Elizabeth couldn’t wait to share with Erne some of the stories of Jaime’s experiences en route to the Highlands. She knew that the older woman would be delighted to see how happily the little girl was adjusting to her new surroundings—and her new family.

Tripping lightly down the hall, Elizabeth considered how quickly the weeks had flown since she and her father had stood holding one another in the partially renovated hall at Roxburgh Castle.

A few days later, as Elizabeth’s father prepared to depart for London, a stern-faced Ambrose had returned from the Scottish court, storming into the Border stronghold like a lion protecting his pride from a rogue intruder.

With little time to explain all that had passed between her and Sir Thomas, Elizabeth had been pleased, and a little relieved, to see Ambrose perceive quickly the change in the relationship between the two. Watching him proudly, the young woman was certain that her fiancé was calling into play all of his diplomatic skills as he assumed the role of cordial host, welcoming the aging Englishman. Elizabeth was convinced that her father had carried from Scotland great respect and even perhaps a glimmer of fondness for his future son-in-law, Ambrose Macpherson, the Baron of Roxburgh.

As she moved down the corridor toward the circle of stairs, Elizabeth paused and looked out a small window onto the courtyard. Not an hour earlier, on the stone cobbles below, she had seen Jaime being entertained by the MacLeod boy, who together with Fiona’s lads had brought a number of falcons up from the mews.