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  On Christmas night the merrymaking continued into the wee hours. Bess danced until she was out of breath, blushing and giggling as the young gentlemen of the household clamored to partner her. She was particularly taken with a tall, dark-haired young groom named Edmund, and her heart beat with excitement when he took her by the hand and drew her into a shadowed corner.

  “Why, look, it’s mistletoe,” he murmured, pulling her toward him. Bess looked up and saw that a clump of the greenery with its waxy white berries hung above them. Edmund’s eyes glowed like coals as he gazed at her. She found that her head was spinning from the wine and the dancing and the air, heavy with the scent of spices and the honey smell of beeswax candles. Edmund kissed her and she felt herself drowning in a rush of sensations such as she had never experienced before. The feel of his lips on hers, the taste of him, the scent of him—all were intoxicating. But at the back of her head a little voice whispered a warning, and she put a hand on his chest and drew herself away from him.

  “What’s the matter, pretty Bess, don’t you like me?” He put his hands around her waist, and she struggled to keep from succumbing to the pull of his eyes, suddenly afraid of what might happen.

  “Of course I do, but I—I pray you tell me what’s the news from court?”

  Edward gave her a catlike smile, and she was relieved that he had halted his pursuit, at least momentarily.

  “Apparently this lady of Cleves is not quite what His Majesty has been led to believe.”

  Bess was shocked at the casual way he spoke of the future queen.

  “How so?”

  “Those who have seen her say she’s tall and thin, and of middling beauty at best.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. Surely he must be wrong, Bess thought.

  “But her portrait?”

  “Is perhaps not quite true to the life. Holbein may have flattered her a little.” Edmund glanced around to see if he was overheard, and whispered in Bess’s ear, twining his fingers in her curls. “There’s a rhyme going around:

  If that be your picture, then shall we

  Soon see how you and your picture agree.”

  Bess was appalled. What would the king do if he found that his bride was not to his liking?

  Edmund tilted her face up to his, but just as he bent to kiss her, Audrey’s voice brought Bess back to earth.

  “Bess!” Audrey grabbed Bess’s elbow and pulled her away from Edmund. “Her ladyship is looking for you. Come here at once!” She shot a sharp glance at Edmund. “And you, lad, you know better.”

  Edmund smirked and inclined his head in a bow that seemed to smack of mockery. Audrey steered Bess away from him, through the chattering and dancing revelers. Once on the opposite side of the room she stared sternly down at Bess.

  “Have a care, wench. Your virtue is a precious thing, and your good name just as important. Don’t allow a roisterer like that to smirch your reputation.”

  “No,” Bess faltered. “I wasn’t—”

  But she knew that she had been in dangerous waters, and that she must be on her guard in future.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THREE DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS, WORD ARRIVED THAT ANNE OF Cleves had finally been able to set sail and had reached Canterbury, and would be in London within a few days. Bess and the other girls accompanied Sir George and Lady Zouche to the palace for the New Year’s Day festivities. The king, at the center of an attentive crowd, appeared in high spirits, roaring with laughter at some jest of his own as he cuffed a page good-naturedly. Bess thought he looked like an apple, the shiny red satin of his doublet stretched across the expanse of his belly, but dared not even whisper this conceit to Lizzie.

  “A toast to my new queen!” the king shouted, raising his heavy goblet aloft. “The beauteous Lady Anne of Cleves!”

  “Lady Anne of Cleves!” a chorus of voices proclaimed, and dozens of goblets flashed in the candlelight.

  Surely he had not heard the rumors about his future queen failing to live up to the promise of her portrait, Bess thought. She studied the faces around her. Had others heard the gossip that Edmund had whispered to her?

  “I feel like a lad of twenty, so impatient am I to see my bride!” the king crowed. “In fact—George, where did Cromwell say she is now?”

  Sir George Zouche hastened to the king’s side. “At Rochester, Your Majesty.”

  “Rochester! Why, I could be there in two hours! And now the idea takes me, I will be there!” He struggled to his feet and clapped Sir George on the shoulder. “Come, let us ride thither! Let my horse be made ready! I shall visit her!”

  A groom scurried from the room as the king’s eyes swept the revelers. “You’ll come with me, Harry Grey. And you, Francis.”

  When he had named four or five of his cronies, the king strode from the room, followed by his men, leaving a buzz of astonishment in his wake.

  The next afternoon, Bess made her way to Lady Zouche’s chamber with a gown she had mended. She intended to lay the garment on the bed but was stopped by Sir George’s voice coming from Lady Zouche’s closet, the small private room that stood between her bedchamber and the little alcove where her close stool was kept.

  “It’s a disaster!” Sir George’s voice was hoarse with anxiety. “His Majesty accused Thomas Cromwell before the council today of having deceived him in the matter of the queen. He was in such a temper that I thought he would order Cromwell to the Tower, and by God, I’d wager Cromwell thought so, too. He went white and stammered that he had received false reports of the lady’s appearance.”

  “But what happened to bring this on?” Lady Zouche gasped.

  Bess was frightened by Sir George’s words. She had heard from Lady Zouche of the terrible days when the king had suddenly turned against Anne Boleyn, for whom he had thrown over his queen and defied the pope. She knew that King Henry had appointed Cromwell Lord Great Chamberlain only a few months earlier as a reward for promoting the match with Anne of Cleves. If Cromwell’s star had risen with the lady, what would happen if the king cast her off? She thought of the tarred heads adorning London Bridge, the sightless sockets of their eyes staring down on all who entered London. That was what happened to people who displeased the king.

  She knew she should leave but she was afraid that they would hear her if she moved, and she felt rooted to the spot by the desire to know more.

  “When we arrived at the Bishop’s Palace where the lady lay,” Sir George said, “the king would not wait a moment, but made haste to visit her. As soon as he laid eyes on her I knew the thing would end badly. He was polite but left as soon as he could without giving offense. He didn’t even give her the gifts he had brought!”

  “Oh, no,” Lady Zouche moaned.

  “As soon as we were from her presence he began to rant. ‘I like her not! I like her not!’ he kept saying. And with a face like thunder, he swore he would not marry her.”

  Bess felt her heart thud in her chest. What would become of the poor lady? Would he have her put to death?

  “And what will happen now?” Lady Zouche sounded as distraught as Bess felt.

  “The king stalked out still in a rage, roaring that he would have none of her. But I don’t see how he can get out of the match now. If he were to send her back to her brother the Duke of Cleves it would be such an insult that it would likely drive the duke into the arms of the emperor and the French king, and that would mean war.”

  “And already it’s been proclaimed that the wedding will be on Twelfth Night.”

  “Yes. The crowds are gathering in Greenwich to greet the lady. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “And we will be there,” Lady Zouche said. “Dear God, let it somehow come right.”

  Bess sat down to write to her mother that night, but could not find the words. She would only worry her mother if she revealed how anxious and frightened she felt. And perhaps it was best not to put to paper her thoughts about the royal marriage.

  Here are no news, she wrote, but . . . But what?
But that the royal marriage, the subject of so much joy and anticipation, seemed to be like a ship headed squarely for rocks on which it would founder with the loss of many lives. She put the letter away uncompleted.

  * * *

  ON THE THIRD OF JANUARY, BESS WAS PART OF THE ENORMOUS party that set out from Whitehall on barges to Greenwich, every vessel decorated with streamers and banners whipping in the breeze. The riverbanks were lined with people, cheering and waving as they caught sight of the king. His coat was encrusted with jewels that reflected the rays of the sun, casting shards of light wherever he turned.

  The king retired to the riverside palace, but Bess, along with Lady Zouche and her other attendants, walked with the throngs of gloriously arrayed courtiers up the hill to Blackheath, where a magnificent pavilion of cloth of gold, surrounded by smaller pavilions, had been set up at the foot of Shooter’s Hill to receive the new queen. Bess’s fingers were numb from the cold and she wished she could warm them at one of the glowing braziers wafting up scented smoke.

  She would not have been surprised to know that every one of the king’s subjects was packed onto Blackheath, so vast were the crowds. Hundreds of gentlemen and ladies on foot and on horseback were drawn up in ranks, their silks shimmering in the winter sun, and beyond them the king’s humbler subjects thronged the heath as far as she could see.

  “Look at the number of people!” Doll marveled.

  “Yes,” Lady Zouche said. “Every great person in England is here today.”

  She looked apprehensive, Bess thought, though her face showed a brittle smile.

  “There are the king’s daughters,” Lady Zouche murmured, nodding her head toward the gold pavilion. “The Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth.”

  Bess turned with curiosity to where they waited with their ladies. The Lady Mary was a pretty, small girl with a turned-up nose, who appeared to be a little more than twenty. The Lady Elizabeth, dressed in a gown of white brocade with skirts that stood out stiffly about her, was about six. Bess noted with a pleasurable thrill that both of them had red hair. The Lady Mary’s shaded toward golden, but the Lady Elizabeth’s was as fiery as her own, and the girl reminded Bess of herself at the same age, but her face was solemn and grave, and Bess thought she read apprehension in the dark eyes.

  “I’ve seen many grand events,” an elderly lady bundled in furs pronounced to Lady Zouche, surveying the scene. “The arrival of Catherine of Aragon to marry poor Prince Arthur. His Majesty’s coronation, aye, and his father’s before that. But none to touch this.”

  “What of the Field of the Cloth of Gold?” another old lady in furs queried.

  “Aye, of course. But that was in France. I mean here. And why should it not top all? His Majesty has found a queen, and we’re not like to see such an occasion again.”

  “It is a great blessing.” The second lady nodded. “Thanks be to God, England can rejoice once more.”

  Bess glanced at Lady Zouche. Her mouth was a tense line and the tendons in her neck stood out hard under her pale skin. How could England be happy when the king had been trying even the previous night to find a way to escape the coming wedding? What would happen? Bess longed to ask but she had not dared to tell anyone of the terrible conversation between Sir George and Lady Zouche.

  Anne of Cleves was traveling from Dartford, and at a little after noon Bess heard drumbeats in the distance.

  “She’s coming!” someone shouted, and a murmur ran through the crowd. Bess craned with everyone else as the sound of drums grew near. And then she caught her first sight of the future queen, riding in a painted chariot drawn by two white geldings, and followed by a mounted retinue of hundreds. She was swathed in a heavy fur robe, so Bess could not tell what her shape was like, but she thought the lady’s face was far more pretty than she had feared. Her nose was longish and thin, and her chin somewhat sharp, but her cheeks glowed rosy in the winter air and her blue eyes were alight with excitement. Her fair hair was gathered in a silver net, topped by a velvet cap almost completely covered by pearls, and with a coronet of black velvet above all. Surely the king could accommodate himself to such a bride.

  “Oh, so lovely,” Doll sighed.

  The chariot came to a halt before the largest pavilion, and a flock of men presented themselves, bowing.

  “The gentlemen of her household,” Lady Zouche explained.

  A dark-robed man from the Lady Anne’s party came forward and made a speech to her. Bess could tell it was in Latin but did not know enough of the words to understand its meaning. Then the future queen inclined her head gravely as each of her servitors was introduced. Next, several dozen richly dressed women made their curtsies.

  “The ladies who are to serve her,” said Lady Zouche.

  Bess wondered if her mistress was relieved not to have been chosen for the new queen’s household. The scene unfolding before her seemed unreal. Like one of the masques she had seen at court during Christmas. But when it was over, the participants would not put off their costumes and go home and forget about it. Bess strained to understand what Anne of Cleves was saying as the ladies came forward, but could not.

  “She is speaking High Dutch,” Lady Zouche said. “My lord says she speaks no English at all.”

  Poor lady, Bess thought again. Not only was she to be married to a king she did not know and who did not want her as his wife, but she could not even understand him if he spoke to her.

  When the Lady Anne had greeted all the members of her household, she alighted from the chariot and withdrew into the great gold pavilion, followed by a dozen of the ladies who had ridden behind her.

  After a short while, a fanfare of trumpets rang out and over the crest of the hill came the king, mounted on a sleek gray stallion. He was adorned even more magnificently than he had been for the trip by barge from Whitehall, with a broad collar heavy with jewels and pearls draped over his shoulders and chest and a scabbard and sword likewise glittering with precious stones. He rode well, despite his bulk, and Bess could almost imagine the handsome and magnificent man he had been in his youth.

  Just behind him rode ten footmen, their coats shining gold like the king’s, and behind them a great train of mounted courtiers.

  “There’s my lord!” Bess cried out, noting Sir George in the first rank of gentlemen behind King Henry.

  “Here comes the queen now!” Audrey whispered, and Bess turned to see that the king’s bride had emerged from her pavilion. She had cast off her fur robe and the full skirts of her gown of cloth of gold billowed around her. A footman in livery embroidered with a black lion helped her to mount a white mare, its saddlecloth and bridle shining with gold and silver. Once settled, she rode toward her future husband, attended by half a dozen footmen.

  The king had reined in his horse and waited. A broad smile lit his face, and Bess thought that if he truly had no liking for Anne of Cleves, he was hiding it very well. She glanced around her, at the hundreds of people watching with rapt attention as the lady neared the king. Here and there Bess saw a face that betrayed apprehension, but for the most part they were smiling, and the common people gathered farther away on the heath were cheering. They didn’t know that it was but a sham they were watching.

  The Lady Anne reached the king. He pulled off his velvet bonnet and bowed his head before taking her hand and kissing it. Now all the crowd was roaring, nobles and commoners alike. King Henry held the lady’s hand in his, and spoke, though Bess was too far away to be able to hear his words. The lady spoke, too, then she and the king both laughed, as if acknowledging that neither could understand the other. Then the royal pair turned their horses and, followed by a sea of attendants, rode toward the ranks of the nobility and the golden pavilions shimmering in the sun, trumpets blazing their way. They turned from side to side, smiling and waving their acknowledgment of the shouted good wishes and cries of “God save the queen!” that echoed off the frozen ground.

  When they reached the pavilions, the king swung down from his horse and he
lped the Lady Anne dismount, and then handed her into her carved and gilded chariot painted with a coat of arms. Two of the ladies she had brought from her own country rode with her, and behind them came three more chariots packed with her ladies, and then an empty litter of cloth of gold.

  “A wedding present from the king,” Lady Zouche explained, and Bess thought that she, too, was doing an admirable job of covering her anxiety about the king’s opinion of his bride.

  The royal couple rode down the hill toward the palace, the glittering crowd of their attendants following in their wake. Bess could see that the river below was even more crowded than it had been earlier with craft of every kind, all of them crammed with people cheering, singing, waving banners, seeming determined to make the most of such a day of celebration as most had never seen in their lives.

  The booming of cannon announced that the king and the future queen had reached the palace, but by the time Lady Zouche and her ladies reached the bottom of the hill they had retired inside.

  * * *

  WHEN SIR GEORGE WAS AT HOME OVER THE NEXT DAY OR TWO BESS heard tantalizing bits of whispered conversations between him and his wife, but not enough that she could learn what was taking place at the palace.

  The royal wedding went forward on Twelfth Night, the sixth of January, which marked the end of the Christmas festivities, and Bess guessed that the king must have decided he liked Anne of Cleves well enough after all, or reconciled himself to his disappointment. Every time she was at Whitehall, the number of people thronging the chambers seemed to have grown. She was making new acquaintances and kept her ears open for any news of the success of the royal marriage. She sidled closer when she noticed Lady Zouche in conversation with Anne Basset, a pretty, blonde girl of about eighteen years of age who was rumored to have been the king’s mistress. Perhaps she knew better than others what was happening.