Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

19

I did not need to tell Will about the pantomime. The story was all over court by the next morning. That afternoon, as we strolled together in the queen’s gallery, surrounded by other members of her household, I relayed my conversation with his sister in a whisper and told him about my unproductive effort to question Jane.

“Kathryn may be correct,” he said “There are warring factions at court. Religious matters divide them. My sister has made a powerful enemy of Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester. Gardiner is always careful not to offend the king, but everyone else knows he’d return the Church of England to Rome if he could. He blames Kathryn for persuading His Grace to be lenient toward reformers. That the king and queen discuss religion in private infuriates him. He thinks he should be the only one guiding His Grace in such matters.”

Her Grace favored the evangelical point of view—further reform of the Church of England and the right to study the Scriptures for ourselves. There were all manner of religious books and translations of the Bible in her apartments. I had not read them. I was more interested in music and games, dancing and masques. When I read at all, it was a letter from my family or a newly composed sonnet.

“Does the king need guidance?” I asked. By declaring himself head of the Church of England, King Henry had replaced the pope. I wondered if that made him equally infallible.

“At times.” Will’s smile appeared for a brief moment only. “But His Grace could do worse than to allow my sister to instruct him.”

The queen’s ladies and gentlemen had drifted toward the other end of the gallery, where the Bassano brothers were about to play a new composition. For the moment, we could speak freely, unafraid of being overheard.

“But why should Bishop Gardiner concern himself with me?” Our love was a private matter, or should have been. Especially when we denied ourselves the pleasures of coupling.

“Your father supports reform, just as I do. Gardiner would be delighted to see both of us burn for heretics.”

Alarmed, I stopped walking. “Surely it will not come to that!”

He tugged at my arm to start me moving again, lest we draw attention to ourselves. We had almost reached the courtiers lounging on the gallery floor on cushions to listen to the music. “Be patient, Bess. And cautious. And never doubt my love for you.”

I tried to follow Will’s advice, but as another spring edged toward another summer and there were no more stolen kisses in dark corners, I wanted nothing more than to find enough privacy to give myself to the man I loved. I longed to be held in Will’s arms again.

Instead, long conversations in public had to suffice. The queen’s warning was always on my mind—Have a care what persons you trust.

It was in May, when the court was at Whitehall, that I realized someone was following me every time I left the queen’s apartments. I could not get a good look at him. He was just a shadow, vanishing when I turned his way.

Whitehall was an enormous place. Included in grounds that encompassed more than twenty acres were gardens and orchards, a bowling green, a cockpit, four tennis plays, and a tiltyard. There were also three galleries and more passages and stairs than anyone could count. I could hear the man’s soft footfalls on the rush-covered floor as I made my way toward the council chamber, hoping to catch Will when he left that day’s meeting. I was too late. The Privy Council had already adjourned.

I considered returning to the maids’ dormitory, but what if the man stalking me waylaid me in one of the narrow passageways? Instead I set out at a brisk pace along the gallery near the lord chamberlain’s chamber. A winding stair took me toward the water gate, but my destination was not a boat or a barge but rather the private rooms of the sergeant porter, the gentleman in charge of palace security.

I had almost reached my goal when I glanced over my shoulder and for the first time got a good look at the man pursuing me. I stopped and turned. I knew that face—the ruddy complexion, the hair combed forward to form a short fringe over the forehead, the tuft of hair at the point of the chin.

“Matthew Rowlett!” I shouted. “Stay right where you are!”

My father’s man turned and started to run. In his panic he tripped over his own feet and nearly fell. His ruddy complexion darkened further when I caught him by the coattail and dragged him to a halt.

“How dare you spy on me!” Hands clenched into fists at my hips, I glared at him, fighting an urge to strike him.

He snatched off his cap, mangling it as he tucked his head in like a turtle. He refused to meet my eyes. “I was only following orders, Mistress Bess,” he mumbled.

“Well, here is another for you. Go away. You’ve no business at court.”

Rowlett shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his scuffed leather boots stirring the rushes on the stone floor. He was dressed to blend into the background, looking like a lowly clerk in a long, fitted, rat’s-color fustian doublet with close-set buttons. “Lord Cobham won’t like that, Mistress Bess.”

“And I don’t like what he’s done by sending you here to spy on me!”

“He heard rumors, mistress.”

“I don’t care what he’s heard!” And I was too angry to care. “Leave Whitehall at once!”

Matthew Rowlett went, but a few days later my father made the crossing from Calais. I was not surprised that he’d come to court, and I was prepared with good arguments in favor of my eventual marriage to Will Parr.

Father did not want to hear them. “If I could do so without insulting Queen Kathryn, I would order you away from the royal court entirely.”

Our confrontation took place outdoors, in the open space between the queen’s gallery and Princess Mary’s lodgings, a separate building along the riverfront. To any observer, we would have looked unexceptionable, a father and daughter taking the air on a fine spring day. Beneath the surface, I was as furious with him as I’d ever been with anyone. I was also determined to have my own way.

“I love Will Parr,” I said. “I want to marry him.”

“The Earl of Essex,” Father corrected me in a low, angry voice. “I use the title deliberately to remind you that he laid claim to it through his wife. He is not free to wed you, Bess.”

“There is no impediment to our union. Will’s marriage to Anne Bourchier was invalidated by an act of Parliament. You yourself voted to divorce them.”

“It is not the place of women to choose their own husbands. That is a father’s duty.”

“You were pleased enough when my choice was Harry Dudley.”

His thick eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Your choice? His father and I made that decision and talked the boy into it. It is a great pity that he died but, as he did, it is my responsibility to arrange for a new betrothal. I have been negligent in not doing so ere now.”

My temper spiked. Perhaps I had been wrong about Harry’s feelings for me, but I was not mistaken about Will’s. All those long, chaste conversations had allowed our understanding of each other to grow and, along with it, mutual liking had developed. Our love, our desire to wed, had not diminished, but our feelings had deepened and matured.

“You cannot force me into a marriage I do not want. I have the right to refuse, and I will refuse any betrothal that is not to Will.”

I had rarely seen my father lose control, but he did so then. His face turned a terrible purplish-red and he gripped my shoulders with bruising force to shout directly into my face, “I forbid it! You are not to speak to him again, not to dance with him, and most certainly not to be alone with him! No other man will have you if he thinks you’re Parr’s leavings.”

I slapped at his hands. “Dorothy did well enough for herself!”

He released me so abruptly that I stumbled and nearly fell. “Brydges is a fool and Dorothy another. I thought you had more sense. Stay away from Parr. You are obliged to obey your father’s commands.”

But the more he barked orders at me, the more determined I became to go my own way. “I will follow my heart. And I will never agree to a loveless marriage.”

Father’s face worked as he struggled for self-control. He turned away from me, staring at Lambeth Palace, the archbishop of Canterbury’s great house on the opposite side of the Thames, until he could speak calmly again. As stone faced as a gargoyle, he asked if I was Will Parr’s mistress.

“No, I am not,” I said and added, pride in my voice, “we agreed to wait until we are married to couple.”

“You will have a long wait!”

With that, Father stalked off. I did not see him again before he returned to his duties in Calais.