The Jewels of Warwick (21 page)

 

 

Amethyst returned and made so bold as to join the King on the dais
in the great hall on the night of her arrival. At first she'd begged
off, not wanting to appear as if she were displacing Catherine, but
the King insisted.

 

 

As the Queen's seat had become conspicuously empty for longer and
longer periods of time, Amethyst felt that Henry wanted her up there
not so much to honor her, or to dangle another enticement over her
head, but out of plain loneliness. For the King to be sitting alone
at the high table among two hundred families at court, wasn't the
most presentable–or comfortable–situation.

 

 

After the mumming and music, during which she insisted on joining
the King's Musick in the gallery despite his protests that she rest
for the evening, she waited the respectable amount of time for the
courtiers to settle into their chambers, then agreed to join him in
his sanctuary.

 

 

She had donned her fine satin underclothes, the chemise pure white,
soft and buttery to the touch. She'd never worn it before. She
brushed her hair until it shone like spun gold, then pinned it up
with the ornate ivory combs she'd received from the King upon her
arrival at court.

 

 

She dabbed Topaz's rose petal oil from a delicate glass bottle
directly onto her pulse points, then on a plucky impulse, lifted her
skirts and dabbed the scent on her inner thighs. She walked slowly
so as not to let her skirts rustle too much, sweeping through the
hallways, up the staircase, past the erect guards, and through
Henry's private apartments to his inner chamber.

 

 

He was waiting for her, and took her in a soft but demanding
embrace, as if he'd been waiting a long time.

 

 

"Do you not want to know how Mary is?" she asked as he began to
undress her.

 

 

"And how is Mary?"

 

 

"She asked me if I'd seen her mother."

 

 

"None of us has. Catherine is more secluded than the abbey monks."

 

 

"She is a strong-willed lass and I believe she will come through
this just fine. I made it clear to her that I am not the reason for
her parents' divorce."

 

 

"Oh, hell's bells, she knows that. With your auntie there as
governess, I'm sure she is getting the truth. I am worried not about
Mary. She is on the brink of womanhood. She will soon understand
that a woman cannot bear children past a certain age."

 

 

"Oh, that she understands, sire."

 

 

"She will also understand why I need a male heir."

 

 

She stroked his cheek. "That I am not so sure of. She is Catherine's
daughter, you know."

 

 

"Which is precisely why I must keep them apart. I do not want
Catherine putting ideas into her head."

 

 

"You must not alienate Mary, my lord," she warned. "She is your only
living legitimate heir."

 

 

"I shall have sons, many sons, before I depart this earth. While I
still have any life in me, I am going to give this kingdom a male
heir. Oh, Amethyst, darling girl..." he breathed, his hands moving
up to the combs just like she knew they would, pulling them from her
hair, tossing them on the rug as her tresses tumbled down around her
shoulders.

 

 

He took her face in his palms and claimed her lips, wordlessly, for
there was no need to speak any further. They slowly glided to the
bed, its velvet curtains open to the plump pillows and satiny
coverlets, the pallet empty. They were alone, their bodies
prolonging a desperate embrace, and he lowered her to the feathery
mattress.

 

 

She wanted to melt away and consume his patient passion for her. She
reached up and ran her hand through his hair. She detected a
lingering musky scent as their kiss came to an end and she ran her
lips lightly over his neck as he lay beside her, his scent
lingering, blending with the warm glow of the candles around them
that she felt even with her eyes closed.

 

 

She reached out and he was there—right next to her. His arms were
around her, and she ran her hands over the smooth satin of his
nightshirt. Her fingers found the buttons clasping the shirt
together and started to undo them, one by one, until she reached the
bottom button, slipping her hand inside his garments.

 

 

He moved closer and she felt his body against hers, warm, hard,
impatient. Her hands explored, caressed, felt his swelling desire.
He quickly, gently, removed her gown and her chemise, slipping it
over her head. His hands slid over her curves. He rolled away for a
second and when he came to hold her again, she melted into the
warmth of his bare skin, his breath hot and demanding as his lips
crushed hers, his tongue seeking her mouth's every crevice, savoring
her taste, her essence.

 

 

They kissed and explored and stroked, her arms urgently pulling him
closer, closer, until he was all hers, in her, with her, hers in
every sense of their being. She gasped in sweet agony and together
they soared and drifted, the only sounds being those of their
desperate need for each other and the peaceful lapping of the river
way below them. Finally, when she felt as if both their bodies would
burst, she screamed, she cried, caught up in the most blissful
rapture she'd ever felt.

 

 

Afterward, she reclined in his arms, drifting on tiny wavelets of
pleasure, on that magic cloud on which they both lay.

 

 

She stroked the damp hair away from his eyes. Bathed in the warm
golden light, he was the picture of peace, yet still so regal and
majestic.

 

 

She was beyond speaking, still caught up in that magical trance
during which the very world had exploded around their bodies. She
smiled, closed her eyes, and once again, they floated away together.

 

 

He placed upon her finger a magnificent ruby ring, sending out deep
red bursts of light from its richly faceted depths, set in a
delicate gold band. "This is an exact replica of the Regal of
France," he said, holding up his thumb, a perfect likeness of her
ring glittering in the candlelight. "Thomas a Becket wore it, I wear
it, now you and I have matching rings."

 

 

"How magnificent it is, sire."

 

 

"Will wedding bands be next?" he asked.

 

 

"That is not entirely up to me," she said.

 

 

"Neither is it up to me, alas," he whispered.

 

 

When she opened her eyes again, the candles were out, the only light
being the silver-blue of the moon cascading through the windows,
diffusing like diamond dust on the tapestry rug. She could feel him
looking at her, sensing the warmth of his gaze enveloping her.

 

 

"Do you love me, sire?" she asked him through sleepy, dream-clouded
eyes.

 

 

"Like the bees love the flowers, my lady. I can hardly keep away.
You are the very essence of life to me."

 

 

"As you are to me, Henry, my love."

 

 

His eyes lit with joy and he gathered her tightly to him once more.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

 

The next evening, as Amethyst entered the King's outer chamber, she
could detect an ominous buzz that did not speak of an ordinary
pleasant evening in the palace. She caught snippets of sentences,
the words "Rome" and "The Pope" prevalent among them. It had to have
something to do with Catherine. The attendants did not turn to her
as she entered; no one greeted her. She took one of the King's
gentleman ushers aside.

 

 

"What is amiss?"

 

 

Half expecting to see an enraged Catherine storm out of the King's
privy chamber in a swirl of satins, crucifixes and tears, she kept
her eyes riveted to the door, ready to jump into the shadows at a
moment's notice.

 

 

"Rome has been sacked, Lady Amethyst. Charles the Fifth's troops
have taken Rome and imprisoned the Pope," he told her in a horrified
whisper.

 

 

"God Jesu!" She looked past the usher at the Flemish tapestry on the
far wall. All thoughts of Catherine vanished. "Where is the King
now?"

 

 

"With Cardinal Wolsey and the Council in the Council chambers."

 

 

She left the King's chambers and returned to her own. She
immediately began writing a letter to Matthew. Her writings to him
had begun to take the form of a journal; she recorded any reactions
she had to the events of the day, and related her feelings about
daily life at court, and the courtiers around her; the sincere
friends of the King as well as the obvious opportunists.

 

 

Now all she could write was that Rome had been sacked by Catherine's
nephew. She could write no more until she saw the King. Her heart
sank with dread at the thought of all the suffering the Imperial
forces had caused, and what it would mean for England now.

 

 

 

She faced him the following evening, and to her surprise, his mood
was light, bordering on jovial. It seemed to bother him not that the
Pope was a prisoner of Catherine's nephew.

 

 

"But my lord, this gives Catherine an uncanny advantage! She can
manipulate the Pope ruthlessly through Charles in order to secure
her marriage to you! How can you be free of her now?"

 

 

As much as she respected the Queen, she was beginning to see Henry's
side. No one deserved to be forced to live with someone out of
spite—the heir apparent excuse notwithstanding. After all, he had
Mary, but she planned to give him many sons.

 

 

"Bah! I am sending Wolsey to France to help free the Pope. If the
Pope cannot be freed, I shall get Wolsey to appeal to the other
cardinals and make them see that if the Pope is in no position to
consider my problem, I shall hand it over to Wolsey for final
judgment. Aha! It will work out after all! See, Amethyst, there is
always a way. That is something every king must know, in order to
keep his kingdom alive, free from invaders, and thriving. There is
always a way."

 

 

But even when Charles let the Pope escape from the Castle San Angelo
where he'd been prisoner, and the Pope slipped out of Rome in
disguise to Orvieto, once more he dragged his heels, afraid, for
many reasons, including not wanting to turn Henry or Charles against
the Church. So Henry's divorce proceedings were once again thwarted
and Henry's impatience knew no bounds.

 

 

 

The following evening, a messenger brought her a folded note. She
recognized the severely slanted penmanship.

 

 

She broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment, her eyes sweeping
over Matthew's letter before returning to the top and reading it
through once again. "And do you truly want to be Henry's queen?"
he'd asked at the end of the letter, after all the newsy bits about
the harvest, his orchards strewn with juicy apples, her nephews'
progress with their lessons, always saving their confidential
correspondence for last.

 

 

She penned in response:

 

 

Aye, dear Matthew, I do truly love him, and I do want to become
his queen. After all the misgivings I harbored these last months,
in dread of hurting Catherine and my family, I am convinced that
the King is doing all he can to dissolve what he feels was never a
marriage to begin with, but it has become increasingly
frustrating. He runs into one wall after another. The Pope refuses
him, Wolsey drags his heels and there is Catherine's relentless
cloying when she comes out of hiding. I feel we are all dancing an
endless rondo, going in circles all the time, like a dog chasing
his tail, and I wonder if it will ever be solved. I shall let you
know, Matthew, but please, do not tell a soul... No one must know
until Henry is completely free!

 

 

She found Henry late that night in the gardens, as his sleepless
nights were now more frequent. "What troubles you tonight, sire?"

 

 

He embraced her warmly and his strong arms beneath the velvet cloak
obliterated every trace of the brisk autumn chill. "The usual. What
about you?"

 

 

"I am just very apprehensive of how the kingdom would react to me if
I did become your queen someday."

 

 

"Any woman who displaces Catherine will suffer a bit of disfavor
throughout the kingdom," he said. "But you do not have to live to
please the kingdom. I must, of course, but you do not have to."

 

 

"Still, my lord, it is quite beautiful the way it is."

 

 

"I must agree with that. But you realize I must have a wife who will
bless me with a legitimate heir."

 

 

"Of course, my lord!" She snuggled more deeply into the folds of his
cloak, the soft ermine trim tickling her cheek. "How much longer do
you think your great matter will take?"

 

 

"That depends on so many people," he answered, sighing, frustration
tightening his voice. "But most of all on God."

 

 

 

Henry came to her chambers one evening quite unexpectedly.
Amethyst's maid of honor jumped at the sight of him and dipped and
swooned and bowed her head so much he thought she was being
controlled by strings from the crossbeams up above.

 

 

He entered her retiring room where she was reading Matthew's last
letter to her.

 

 

I am a mélange of emotions. I am so relieved to be
unfettered from Topaz's yoke, yet fearful for the lads, over whom
she still wields such manipulative sway.