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  “It was Bess’s conceit, Your Majesty.”

  Faces turned toward Bess. Smiles, murmurs, applause from an older gentleman nearby.

  The king’s eyes flickered to Bess. She fancied she saw menace in their depths and fear swept over her.

  “Indeed?” His voice was cold. Perhaps he was recalling the other time he had spoken to her, she thought, when Cat had been at his side. He looked like a boar about to charge. Bess’s palms were damp with sweat. She curtsied to the floor, dropping her gaze so she would not have to meet the king’s eyes. He snorted, piglike, and she heard the rustle of his clothes as he turned away. It was a long time before her heartbeat slowed.

  The next day Sir George called Bess to him when he came in after supper.

  “You have an admirer, my girl,” he said, smiling. “Christopher Winters inquired most keenly after you today, wishing to know more about your situation and your family. He wanted to know if your parents would entertain his suit.”

  The formality of his words confused Bess for a moment.

  “You mean . . .”

  “I mean he is considering you as a wife. And it would be quite a match for you. He is a rising man at court.”

  Here it was, and so suddenly. Bess found that her stomach was churning. Christopher was a comely man, to be sure. The touch of his hands, the heat of his gaze, had enchanted her. And for all she knew from their bits of conversation, he was pleasant enough. But marry him? Now that the prospect was real rather than imagined, alarum bells were sounding in her head. She didn’t want to marry anyone. It had been almost a year now since the death of Cat Howard, but Cat’s terrified eyes haunted Bess’s sleep still sometimes. Cat, Cat, you should have run before you thought ever to wed.

  “I told him that I would write to your mother,” Sir George said. “You have no objection, I take it?”

  He fixed her with a sharp gaze and she was hesitant to speak. But speak she must, before matters proceeded further.

  “It is most flattering that the gentleman shows me such interest, sir,” she said carefully. “But I do not think that I wish to marry.”

  Sir George goggled at her and shook his head as if he had not understood her.

  “What?”

  “I do not want a husband, sir.”

  “By God!” His bellow seemed to rattle the windows and Bess flinched. Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall and Lady Zouche dashed in, her face full of concern.

  “What is it, George?”

  “I have told her of Christopher Winters’s interest and she throws him back in my teeth.”

  Bess was frightened at the look of outrage on Lady Zouche’s face.

  “Oh, no, sir! No, my lady, I do not mean to do so. It’s only—I fear what might happen to me.”

  “Oh, that.” Sir George guffawed. “Sure, every young maid is nervous about her wedding night.”

  “My dear Bess,” Lady Zouche said, putting her hand on Bess’s shoulder. “If that’s all, don’t let those fears stand in the way of a good match.”

  Bess thought of the procession of queens that King Henry had cast off, into disfavor, despair, and death. He had set a precedent, the rumors flew. Divorce was not enough.

  “It’s more than that, madam,” Bess said. “I saw what happened to Catherine Howard. Anne of Cleves was lucky, but Anne Boleyn—and Queen Catherine before her . . . It seems a dangerous thing to be a wife.”

  Sir George and Lady Zouche exchanged a glance, and Bess recalled all the whispered night discussions she had heard between them over the last few years.

  “Being a wife is not the same as being queen,” Lady Zouche said. “It is true that a husband is lord over his wife, but surely you don’t think that every man has the power to cast off his wife and put her to death if she displeases him?”

  Bess thought back to Lizzie’s fevered whisperings the previous night as they’d returned home from the palace.

  “Does he not?” Bess asked. “Lizzie told me that William Parr will soon be rid of his wife, accusing her of adultery, and that he has asked the king that she be punished with death.”

  “But that’s—surely she will not be put to death.” Sir George seemed to be trying to flounder onto more solid ground.

  “Bess, why do you suppose your mother sent you to us, if not so that you might find a husband?”

  At Lady Zouche’s words, Bess had a vivid image of her mother weeping after the confrontation with the king’s men at Hardwick. She had vowed then that she would do whatever she must to make things easier at home. She must keep her vow. But not yet; she wasn’t ready yet! Take it one thing at a time, she reminded herself, breathing deeply to steady her nerves. A letter to my mother is not a promise that I will wed. Surely I can find a way out if need be.

  “You are right, sir, and madam. Of course you must write, and I will heed my mother’s counsel in this matter.”

  She curtsied and hurried from the room before she began to cry, and nearly ran into Rachel.

  “Why, lamb, what’s the trouble?” Rachel cried.

  “I don’t want to get married!”

  “Why, what’s brought this on?” Rachel drew Bess to her and peered into her eyes.

  “A young man I danced with last night has spoken to Sir George about a marriage.”

  “And did you not like him?”

  “I did, but . . .” Bess tried to order her thoughts and put them into words. “I liked him well. I would like to be someone’s beloved. But the idea of marrying frightens me. Look at all the queens . . .” Her voice choked.

  “Ah.” Rachel nodded. “Aye, it’s terrifying enough. But not all men are like the king. And we women are not made to be on our own. You’ll want to marry when it’s the right man, sweetheart.”

  Bess felt steadier on her feet at the calm confidence in Rachel’s voice. “Do you think so?” she asked.

  “I do. And if you’ve had one offer, sure there will be more.”

  That night Bess lay awake into the night, images of Christopher Winters and the king and Cat Howard swirling in her mind’s eye. Surely her mother wouldn’t want her to enter into a marriage she dreaded. But perhaps Rachel was right, and the idea of marrying would not always frighten her. She prayed for the willingness to do as her mother wished, and the strength to go through with a marriage to Christopher Winters if that was what she was bidden to do.

  But please, God, she asked, isn’t there some other way?

  Before Sir George’s correspondence could have reached Hardwick, however, Bess received a letter from her mother that took her even more by surprise than Christopher Winters’s interest.

  I have had a letter from Arthur Barlow. He tells me that his son Robert has been most grateful and comforted by the friendship you have shown him, and he sets forth a proposal that you should wed the lad.

  Marry Robbie! Bess was amazed. He was still a mere boy, and she thought of him like a little brother.

  Arthur Barlow is ill, and he is endeavoring to do just as your own father did when he knew that he would soon die, leaving a young heir. Such a plan would not stop the Court of Wards from taking charge of the estate until Robert comes of age, but if he were married to you he could not then be forced to marry a bride chosen by the man who held his wardship.

  It was like a chess game, Bess thought, seeing in her mind the sleek wooden pieces of the king’s New Year’s present. Robbie’s father looked across the board and sought to make a move that would block approaching danger. And she and Robbie were the pawns.

  There would be much benefit to you from such a match, the letter continued. When young Robert is twenty-one he will inherit Barlow Manor, which brings with it about two thousand acres of farmland, meadow, woods, and heath, and rents from properties in five or six villages nearby.

  A vast amount of land, Bess thought. She pictured the green hills rolling away from Hardwick and wondered if Barlow looked the same. She would like to live at Barlow, close enough to Hardwick that she could probably see her mother sev
eral times a year. She thought about what it would be like to be married to Robbie. Her heart did not thrill with excitement, but neither was she frightened at the prospect. He was a golden-haired angel child, gentle and affectionate. He could never do her harm and would never want to. And the thought of having her own home, being lady of a manor someday, was very pleasing.

  “Well!” Lady Zouche exclaimed when Bess showed her the letter. “You have suitors coming out of every corner, it seems.” Her eyes became serious. “Choosing the right marriage is a most important matter. Christopher Winters would not bring you such an estate as young Robbie would, but there is no doubt he has more interest at court, which is not to be sneezed at.”

  “No,” Bess agreed. But the image of the king, his piggy eyes nestled above his lardlike cheeks, rose to her mind and made her shudder. She could not look at him without images of death and blood rising to her mind. Marrying Christopher Winters would take her closer to the king, would likely keep her in London with its noisome air and constant hubbub.

  Marrying Robbie, on the other hand, would let her return to near home.

  Bess sought out Rachel and found her in the nursery chamber. She found the homey smells of wood smoke and lavender comforting.

  “What do you think I should do?” she asked, plopping herself onto a stool near the hearth.

  “Well,” Rachel answered, swabbing the mess from the bottom of little Edmund Zouche, “if the time has come to wed and you’re leery of a husband’s power, sure the thing to do is pick the one who is more gentle?”

  “That’s what I have thought,” Bess said. “But surely I should choose a husband who will benefit my family. If I marry Robbie, my parents will give his father my dowry, and also forgive a debt he owes them. So they will gain nothing, and be no better off than if I had not married.”

  “Perhaps not now,” Rachel said, tying a clean clout onto the baby. “But when your young man comes of age, you’ll be mistress of a fine estate. You can bring your younger sisters into service, and help them find husbands.” She hefted the baby up into her arms. “Nothing needs to change for the present, you know. You would likely both remain in the Zouches’ household for now, as you’re both so young.”

  “Then we could live like brother and sister,” Bess said.

  “Just so.” Rachel came closer and put a gentle hand on Bess’s cheek. “He’s too young to lie with you, you know. So no fear of that for now. And I warrant in another two or three years you’ll not mind the thought.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS AFTERNOON IN LATE MARCH, AND BESS AND Robbie were strolling amid fields that were hazy green with the first shoots of spring. They stopped to watch a clutch of brown bunnies emerge from a hole in the ground and tumble together in the sunshine as their mother crouched nearby, her nose twitching as she watched her little ones at play.

  “Look at them,” Bess laughed.

  “I had a pet rabbit when I was a little boy,” Robbie said. “I found him all alone in the woods, naught but skin and bones. Something must have become of his mother, I suppose. He looked so frightened, but he let me pick him up and carry him home, and went straight to sleep when I put him in a little nest of straw in the kitchen.”

  “What was he called?” Bess asked.

  “Nubbin,” Robbie said, grinning. “He was no more than a nubbin when I found him. He never did get very big.”

  Bess smiled back at him. She was relieved that he had recovered completely from his illness, which had lingered throughout the winter. It was he who had suggested a walk, and he didn’t seem tired, though they had come quite a way, walking up Tottenham Court Road and out into the countryside.

  “You know why Lady Zouche sends us out together,” Robbie said, tilting his head inquisitively.

  “Yes, I know,” Bess said. “She is encouraging us. To wed, I mean.”

  “And what do you think?” Robbie dropped his gaze and bent to pluck some tiny blue flowers.

  Bess felt silly telling Robbie that she thought of Cat Howard and feared marriage. What harm could come to her from this boy, with his sunny ways and fond recollection of his rabbit?

  Robbie stood and offered her the little nosegay of flowers. “Marry me, Bess. Each of us must marry someone. Why should it not be each other? We like each other well enough.”

  Bess lifted the flowers to her nose and inhaled their scent before meeting his look. The blue of his eyes was just the shade of the blossoms. The color of a baby’s eyes. She loved babies, and the thought of having one of her own, with sweet Robbie its father, made her happy. Robbie was gazing at her with shy hope. Her heart swelled with affection for him, and she made up her mind.

  “I like you very well, indeed,” she said. “I would be most pleased to be your wife.”

  “Oh, Bess.” His whole face radiated relief and joy, and he stepped close to Bess and gently kissed her cheek. “You make me so happy.”

  * * *

  BESS AND ROBBIE WERE MARRIED ON A BRILLIANT MAY MORNING, the spring sunshine spilling through the colored glass of the church windows. Bess glanced sideways at Robbie as he recited his vows, his clear, high voice not yet broken into a man’s lower register. When they stood, she was taller than he was, but kneeling side by side as they were now, they were of a height. His eyes met hers and his fair cheeks flushed. He put out his hand, scarce bigger than her own, and grasped her fingers. Yes, Bess decided. Marriage to Robbie would be what she made of it. And she would make of it a happy thing.

  The Zouches feted Bess and Robbie with a wedding breakfast, attended by the household and a few friends. Neither Bess’s nor Robbie’s family was present. Robbie’s father was too ill to travel and his mother was at home with him and the younger children. Bess’s mother had written that she could not leave her girls at home for the fortnight it would have taken to travel to London and back, but that she sent her love and would be thinking of Bess on her wedding day and looked forward to seeing her, for Robbie and Bess planned to make a visit to Derbyshire soon after their marriage.

  Bess wished her mother could have been there, thought how proud her mother would be to see her in the new gown that Lady Zouche had provided for her, white with embroidered undersleeves of pale blue, which matched the embroidery in the delicate handkerchief Robbie had given her that morning. It had been two and a half years since she had visited Hardwick. Sometimes now she found it hard to call her mother’s face to mind, and she knew that her younger sisters would have grown up so much she would scarce recognize them.

  “Look at you, a bride!” Doll sighed, as she helped Bess adjust her clothes before joining the wedding guests.

  “You’ll be one yourself, soon enough!” Bess reminded her, for Doll would shortly wed Sir Ralph Longford.

  Bess noticed that Lizzie was suddenly looking sad. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Lizzie said, tossing her glossy brown curls back before settling her cap back in place. “It’s just that so far the king has done nothing to let William divorce his wife.”

  Each time they had been at court since New Year’s Day, Bess had seen Lizzie in the company of William Parr, and each time Lizzie had come home seeming lost in a world of her own, sighing and smiling to herself.

  “He kissed me,” she had told Bess on the fourteenth of February, “and called me his valentine!”

  “Be careful, Lizzie,” Bess had warned, worried that Lizzie was so careless of her heart, and was putting herself in peril by longing for a man who had a wife.

  But today was Bess’s wedding day, and not the occasion to reason with Lizzie, so she simply squeezed her friend’s hand. “Perhaps he will be free before long.”

  Bess and Robbie were excused from their duties for the rest of the day, and Bess read to Robbie in the afternoon, sitting in Lady Zouche’s withdrawing room. That night they went separately to their own beds, just as they had before.

  “You’ll go to Barlow to live in a year or two,” Lady Zouche had told them. “Th
ere’s no hurry, after all.”

  Bess and Robbie had not been married a month when what his father had feared and prepared for came to pass. A letter arrived from Robbie’s mother with the news that his father had died on the twenty-eighth of May. It broke Bess’s heart to see her young husband struggling not to cry. Somehow it seemed even sadder that Arthur Barlow had been buried before Robbie even learned of his death.

  “It’s all right,” she told him, pulling him close to her. “You would not have much of a heart did you not weep for your father.”

  “My poor mother,” Robbie sniffled. “I should be there to comfort her.”

  “She says that it might be just as well if we wait to visit until the inquisition post mortem,” Bess reminded him, “and she does not yet know when that will take place.”

  Bess’s life didn’t change much once she was a married woman. She was welcomed into the gossiping circles of ladies when she accompanied Lady Zouche to court or to the homes of her friends. And all the talk that summer was the king’s apparent interest in Catherine Parr, the recently widowed Lady Latimer.

  “Poor lady!” Lizzie sighed. “No sooner does her aged husband depart this earth, leaving her free to follow her heart with Thomas Seymour, than the king casts his eye in her direction and sends him off to Brussels.”

  “Aye, her husband was barely cold before her brother was made a member of the privy council and a Knight of the Garter,” Doll agreed. “That certainly looks like he intends to marry her.”

  “What will she do?” Bess wondered. “If the king wishes to marry her?”

  “She’ll bid farewell to hopes of Thomas Seymour,” Lizzie said. “It doesn’t do to cross His Majesty.”

  * * *

  ON THE FIRST OF JULY BESS HEARD THAT THE KING HAD SUCCEEDED in arranging a match between the five-year-old Prince Edward and the seven-month-old Scottish Queen Mary.

  “How can they betroth a mere baby?” she exclaimed in dismay. “The path the poor mite must tread is laid out for her before she can walk.”