I didn’t have to turn around to know who shared this space with me. The hiss in his aged voice brought a churn to my stomach, the same brand of churning that had almost overtaken me when I spied his brown eye peering out from behind the tapestry.
Still facing the wall, I dipped into a stiff curtsey. “Your Majesty,” I croaked.
Where had he come from?
His hand flitted away from my shoulder like a bird from a dead bough. “Turn around, let me look at you.”
I chewed my lip and did as I was told.
Despite being dressed in the finest robes and threads, and despite the noble, jewel-encrusted crown upon his head, the man before me was inexplicably old. Bags beneath his eyes held all the weight of the worries of yesteryear. Thick wrinkles had taken the place of what was probably once taut, tanned skin. Once upon a time, he was probably a sight to behold. But now?
Tales of his robust, brawny good looks filled the English countryside when I was a girl, however those years were spent on women who weren’t me. Had I grown old with this man, I would have seen the beauty in the wrinkles since I would have shared in the making of memories and the laughter that outlasted them. Try as I might, I couldn’t see the handsome young man hidden inside this broken shell of a murderous old blaggard.
A gangrenous odor, understated yet still present, wafted up from his bad leg, just as tales suggested. The stench brought a sting to my eyes and a burn to my nose.
His glistening brown eyes searched me, taking no care to be subtle or even hint at romance. Finally, his gaze met mine. I tried not to show disgust as I returned his stare, though his was ravenous with a hunger that I would never reciprocate.
“Thank you for the wine at dinner, Your Majesty.”
“You are a marvelous creature, Lady Bridget,” he breathed, ignoring my gratitude. “Hair the color of baked bread.” He fingered a tendril before continuing. “Eyes like burning embers, jade or emeralds.” Ever slow, he let his fingers trail from my hair down my cheek. “Skin as innocent and pure as milk and honey...”
Though his hand cupped my cheek, Henry’s lust-laden eyes fell to my chest before continuing down my tight blue bodice. “This dress becomes you. It is no doubt filled with other delicious treasures just waiting to be discovered.” His hoarse voice fell to a whisper. “And conquered.”
Revulsion rose and fell in my stomach. Lady Rochford’s haunted smile. The Queen’s wetting herself before a crowd of people who hated her. Their untimely deaths. These fresh memories, punctuated by the sickening thunks of rolling heads, were all too raw. And this man and his royal whims had caused it all.
The burning blue eyes of the headsman came to mind from nowhere; the way he’d stared at me as I left the Tower Green. The way I’d stared back for no reason I could properly place.
Henry reached down and adjusted himself. “Perhaps we can journey to uncharted lands right now.” In an instant, I was pressed against the wall, and his exposed member, stiff with want, pressed against my thigh as he struggled with the layers of my dress.
Emotion tightened my throat. I pushed back against his shoulders, but bit my tongue. Any wrong word would cost me my head.
Is my maidenhead such a price to pay for my life?
“Ah,” he groaned, successfully exposing my lower half. “Do tell me you consent, beautiful Bridget.”
Before I could answer, a torch lit the far end of the hall. “The horses are saddled and ready, Your Majesty.”
Henry’s lusty want went flaccid. “I’m coming,” he answered. His voice echoed off the ancient stones with an almost divine authority. I shifted my hips and sent the layers of my dress cascading back where they were supposed to be. Down.
Henry stepped back, his eyes on me. He took no qualms to be modest as he tucked himself back into his folds of clothing. When he was tucked securely away, he spread his arms wide. “M’lady.” His head dipped slightly from years of practice. “The next time we meet, I pray you conceive my son. Until then, I bid you good day.”
With that he turned and strode, slightly out of step, to the torchman waiting at the end of the hall. As he rounded the corner out of sight, I realized my hands were not trembling. They were not shaking nor were they shuddering. They were quaking with violent tremors, despite the thick and humid warmth of the castle air.
†††
The English night fell soft and velvet black about the royal grounds. Stars, bright and silver, twinkled like jewels above us as Elizabeth broke the easy quiet. “Who do you suppose it is?”
“Hmm?” I stepped off the path that led back to the castle from the garden. I still hadn’t fully recovered from my brief, unsuccessful encounter with the King, despite a long night-time walk in the garden with Elizabeth. “What now?”
“Which girl do you suppose is Queen?”
The drawbridge was still down, despite the late hour. Word had come back that His Majesty’s manly urges were renewed at the prospect of a new queen and the business that pulled him from the castle had indeed been nothing more than a hunting trip. It was also said that he swore not to return to the castle until he’d shed the lifeblood of the largest wild boar in the Royal Forest, with which to honor this new queen.
Manly urges.
Elizabeth and I walked toward the downed drawbridge. “I figure it be you, Cousin,” I lied.
Something tied my tongue, and the instinct of sheer self-preservation warned me to eke not a word to anyone of my near-dalliance with the King. “He no doubt heard your musical laugh and knew at once he must take you to wife.”
Elizabeth flushed, her cheeks matching the hue of her scarlet and gold dress. “I figured more on you.” Her voice was quiet. “After all, you are a rare beauty Bridget. And would make a stately Queen of England.” She glanced at me, the light in her eyes flickering back to a flame. “And Catholic, too.”
I knew how much those words must scald her tongue. Elizabeth and I were nothing if not competitive while growing up, not to mention on different sides of the Reformation. She never took defeat well.
Still, something in her face told me she had made peace with this, of all things. She took my hand. “Tell me you will appoint me as your head Lady-in-Waiting.”
A whiff of jasmine thickened the air around us. “Your figuring is wrong, Cousin.” I untwisted my hand from hers and let the cool quiet envelope us again. A moment later, we came upon a sitting place.
I sunk down upon the obscure stone bench, bathed in moonlight. It looked to have been in that same spot since William the Conqueror’s time, the trunk of the tree having grown into the bench itself. I leaned against it, taking no qualms to be careful with the blue silk gown. Edged in purple. “Tell me, do you remember how the straw soaked up Catherine’s blood this morning?”
Elizabeth eyed me, slowly taking the chilled seat beside me. “Yes actually. I do.”
I looked around and appreciated the exquisite hedgerows and rosebushes. “I remember the fear, Elizabeth. The fear in her eyes, the puddle at her feet of her own making.” I swallowed back the emotion I thought I kept in check.
Elizabeth patted my shoulder, but the tears that pricked my eyes still came. “And poor Lady Rochford. Why was she looking at me that way?”
“There there now.” My cousin wrapped her arms around me and danced around my question. “Their transgressions are simply avoidable for the next queen.”
I sniffled and pulled away. “Are they Elizabeth? Really?”
