Vining sat beside Stuart on a bench outside the court kitchens. They had scrounged up a baked chicken and were now picking the carcass clean. Vining smacked his lips. “Delicious,” he said. But his eyes were no longer on the chicken bones, but rather on a courtier passing by. He had loved women, many women, although he was married and had two children.
“I have never met your wife and children,” Stuart said, setting down his chicken bone. “Where do you keep them?”
“Oh, I never let them come to court.”
“Why not?”
“Because my wife is too plain. The king doesn’t like plain people. He likes good-looking chaps like us and even bonnier women.”
“You shouldn’t speak of your wife that way.”
“What way?” Vining’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What did I say?”
“You said she was plain.”
“Well, she is plain. She’s always been plain. But she had a lot of money. From her first marriage. Her husband had the good grace to die and leave all his wealth to Millie. So she was glad enough to get a handsome fellow like me with a title. It works well for both of us. I share her money, and she has something good to look at now.”
“You are a scoundrel, Charles!”
“Well, of course I am. Always have been. But the king understands that.”
“So where do you keep your family?”
“Oh, we have a country house not far from London. I go there on occasion to give her a little cheer and comfort. She gives me a pocketful of money. Otherwise how would I possibly afford to stay here?”
“I thought the king supplied you with money.”
“Well, he does. He’s very generous, but it’s not nearly enough. Not when one dresses as I do. You’d be wise to spend some of your winnings on a new wardrobe, Stuart. Some day soon we’ll be meeting the king’s new bride.”
“New bride? Please tell me he is not serious—that he will not really divorce Catherine.”
Vining gave him a wry look. “Ah, prepare for more disillusionment, my young friend. The king wants a son more than anything else. And haven’t you discovered yet that whatever Henry wants, Henry is going to get? He can do that, you know.”
“But he couldn’t make a harlot the queen!”
“Oh yes he could. Some of the mistresses have been rather nice, actually. Anne Stafford was a pretty girl, soft and pleasant. I think I might have made headway with her myself, but of course that wouldn’t have been a politic choice, would it now?”
“How many have there been?”
“Oh, I’ve lost count. There was one called Jane Popyngcort. A horrible name, isn’t it? Well, anyway, she was his mistress. She was maid of honor to Queen Catherine.” He suddenly laughed again. “Honor. A maid of honor. Isn’t that a laugh? Henry got tired of her and sent her off with a reward of a hundred pounds.”
“And the others?”
“Oh, the others, the others. Elizabeth Blount, or Bessie, as she was called, was a court beauty. She sang and danced beautifully and was rather loose in her morals. Back in the year eighteen she became the king’s mistress. A rather ironic thing it was, Stuart. Henry was guarding Catherine’s health, hoping that the child she was carrying would be a boy, while Bessie birthed a child that was a boy—and lived.”
“What happened to him?”
“His name is Henry Fitzroy, and he’s been assigned a princely household like that of the king’s legitimate daughter.”
“He’s still alive?”
“Oh, yes. He may be king some day. Who knows? Henry could do that. Then after Bessie there was Mary Boleyn—well, actually, Mary Boleyn Carey. Henry kept her for quite a while. And so it goes. It’s all become rather boring, actually.”
It was not boring in the least to Stuart. His own fall into immorality had brought shame to him, but he was still capable of being shocked. Now knowing this history in full, he felt that the world was a lesser place. He had admired King Henry and seen in him a strong man full of courage and knightly virtues. To find that he was no more than a mere serial adulterer sickened him. He’d known enough of the story, of course. It was impossible to dodge the gossips, impossible not to see it with his own eyes over the years. But the idea that it was all common knowledge was truly outrageous.
He thought of Queen Catherine and her daughter, Mary. Catherine had few friends who were not seeking some favor from the king or from her, but Stuart sought nothing but to be a companion to both mother and child. Stuart wiped his mouth on a cloth and rose.
“Where are you off to?” Vining asked.
“To see the queen, I believe.”
“You won’t mention—”
“Of course not. Give me a little credit, Vining. I’ve learned a bit about how the court moves over the years. I know what is a safe topic for our lady—and what is not.”
“Mind that you don’t let anything slip,” Vining said doubtfully. “She can be fearsome in her wrath. And Henry’s current, mad ideas about religion frustrate her and make her fearful. One doesn’t want to be caught between them.”
He would play any game that Mary wanted for hours at a time, and today was no different. So hard did they play, running about the corridors and gardens in a game of hide and seek, that he finally persuaded her to sit beside him to read a book, only to have her fall asleep, her face against his shoulder. Stuart looked up to see Catherine leaning against the doorframe, watching them.
“She’s such a beautiful girl, Your Majesty.”
“More than some,” Catherine said with a smile. “She dotes on you. She talks about you all the time. You’re her favorite playmate.”
“She must give you a great deal of pleasure.”
A slight cloud crossed Catherine’s face. “She does. If only she had been a boy. That disappointed the king.”
“Does he love her?” Stuart asked cautiously.
“He doesn’t think about her.” There was sadness in Catherine’s tone, and she said quietly, “It was my task to bring a son to Henry, and I haven’t done it.”
“You may yet.”
“If God wills.” She turned suddenly and said, “Are you a Catholic? You never talk about your faith.”
“I’m a very poor example when it comes to faith. I was baptized, of course, when I was a baby. But my religion has become … unimportant. Other things occupy my mind.”
“You should do something about that.”
“I’m sure I will in time. For a while I spent a great deal of every day reading a Bible.”
“It’s difficult to be a good Catholic.”
“Because in England it’s different from Spain, my country. In Spain there was no question. Everybody was religious. They had to be.”
“Was that good, in your opinion? A forced religion?”
“It’s the right thing, the right way,” Catherine said firmly.
He looked into her dark eyes, saw her furrowed brow. “But something is troubling you, Majesty, about the church?”
Catherine’s eyes almost glittered with her passion. “God made the church, the Catholic Church, beginning with Saint Peter. There are not two churches. Only one. Men want to change that.” She hesitated, then said, “My husband may be one of them.”
“But the pope has bestowed on him the title Defender of the Faith.”
“He wrote a paper defending the church. That was why he was given that title, but he feels little allegiance to her.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“As am I. It grieves my heart.”
“How do you think people want to change the church?”
“They’re never satisfied,” she said with disgust, pacing now. “It’s mostly this man Martin Luther stirring up trouble among the people. Some even wish to take the Bible out of Latin and translate it into English.”
Stuart asked as mildly as he could, “Please, I don’t understand your fear. What harm might be found in an English Bible?”
“It could be very bad.”
“How so?”
She stilled and faced him, incredulous. “Because only priests are trained to understand the Scripture. It’s kept in Latin so that the common people will not take the Scripture and twist it. They do that, you know. They’ve already tried through the ages.”
And so can the pope, Stuart almost said, but luckily caught himself. “I know a man whose whole purpose in life is to do exactly that, translate the Bible into English.”
“Who is he?” Catherine demanded, leaning forward, and then at once she closed her eyes and leaned back. “No, don’t tell me. I would have his life in my hands, and I don’t want that.”
“You don’t mean that he could be harmed for translating the Bible!”
“Under certain conditions he could be burned at the stake.”
At once Stuart saw the work of William Tyndale in an entirely different light. He knew that there was a movement to stop the translation. The king, so far, had taken no active part, so he asked tentatively, “Is the king opposed to an English translation?”
“Not at present, but I think he will be.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Perhaps you’d like to meet with my chaplain. I’m sure he could help you answer some of your questions—the questions that obviously keep you from investing in your faith.”
“That would be most kind, but your husband keeps me very busy.”
“I can see to that. Perhaps the three of us could pursue this matter together.”
Stuart paused. Vining’s parting words—“One doesn’t want to be caught between them”—echoed in his mind. But what was he to do? Queen Catherine awaited his answer. And he had never refused her. “I would be most honored, Your Majesty.”
Three days later, when Stuart was walking along one of the broad pathways in the garden next to the castle, deep in thoughts of Queen Catherine, he heard his name called and turned to see Charles Vining with an attractive young lady.
“Come, Winslow,” Vining called out. “Come and walk with us a while.”
At once Stuart joined them. “Mistress Anne,” he said with a nod.
“Master Winslow.”
“Welcome back to court.”
“I confess I missed it,” she said, with a smile that was impossible not to return. “The country is terribly boring. This is where I belong.” She looped one hand through Stuart’s arm and the other through Charles’s, and they resumed their walk around the gardens. Stuart’s face burned, and he scanned the windows, hoping the queen did not spy them together.
Anne Boleyn was not what one would call a beautiful woman, but she was an intensely attractive one. She had a heavy cascade of glossy black hair that freely fell down her back. Her best features were her large dark eyes. They were lively and curious and gave an impression of intimacy even upon this first, casual meeting. “So, do tell, Master Winslow,” she said, with a graceful inclination of her head, “How fare your birds?”
“Do you speak of the king’s hunting birds,” Charles put in, “or Nell Fenton?”
Anne had a deep, pleasant laugh. “Nell mentions you often, sir.”
“I’m surprised,” Vining said. “Winslow here claims she hasn’t thought about him in months.”
“Oh, a lady’s attention can always be recaptured. Just as a man’s can.” She cocked an eyebrow at Stuart.
“I wish it could,” Stuart said regretfully. “But I fear I’ve tried everything with Nell over the years. It appears hopeless.”
“Leave us now, Sir Charles. I’m going to instruct Master Winslow on how to secure the affections of the young lady he so desires.”
“If anyone could teach such a thing, it would be you, my dear.” Charles grinned and moved away, laughing softly.
“Shall we continue our walk, Master Winslow?”
“My pleasure, Mistress Boleyn.”
She spoke freely of her life in France, but hardly mentioned her family. She was the most vivacious woman Stuart had ever seen, and in spite of his devotion to the queen, he was completely taken by her.
“Well, now, tell me about your prospects.”
“Well, to be truthful, I don’t have many, madam. I have no title and no property and little money. I am merely keeper of the mews.”
“Come, now. I happen to know the king is very proud of his birds. But about Nell?”
“I fear it’s hopeless.”
“Oh, you must never say that! There never was a woman born who couldn’t be taken by spirit and determination. Now, let me tell you how to catch her interest. …”
“She’ll be the next queen,” Charles said quietly in Stuart’s ear as they watched Anne with the king. “Mark what I tell you.”
“I don’t believe it. The king has a wife.”
“Nearly nine years at court, and still you remain naive! Just watch how the king hangs over Anne, and watch her when she speaks to this fellow Wyatt. There! Are you watching? He’s head over heels in love with Anne.”
Stuart watched as Anne moved through the crowd, stopping to speak to a lady, then greeting a lord. All the while both Wyatt and the king had a difficult time looking anywhere but in her direction.
“Heavens, Vining, you just may be right.” He looked to the queen, who was managing to watch the court festivities as if nothing at all was wrong. “He’s a poet, you say? The man who seeks Anne’s attentions?”
“A dead poet, if he doesn’t end his pursuit and the king finds out about it.”
Three days later, Stuart had the opportunity to put Charles Vining’s assertion to the test. He had followed the crowd that was watching the king playing at bowls. Also in the crowd was the poet Wyatt, and Stuart heard an interchange between the two. During the game, Wyatt had displayed a trinket belonging to Anne, and King Henry produced a ring that she had given him. The atmosphere grew tense.
It had never occurred to Henry, Stuart saw, that Anne might give one of her favors to another man. Henry could not conceal his anger. He fixed his eyes on Wyatt and said gruffly, “You have been deceived, sir.”
Charles, standing next to Stuart, whispered, “Well, that’s the end of whatever romance there was between Wyatt and Anne Boleyn.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, the Boleyns and the Wyatts depend on royal good will, and you won’t find either Anne or Thomas doing anything to endanger that. No, I wager we’ll see Wyatt melt sadly and wisely into the background.”
“I’ll take that wager. A sovereign?”
“Make it two, you fool. I’m happy to take your money. You must have noticed the king’s infatuation with Anne Boleyn,” Charles insisted. “Why should you be surprised?”
“I just don’t believe she’s that kind of young woman.”
Charles stared at his friend in disbelief. He started to argue and then changed his mind. “Well, time will tell. And when it does, I’ll have two new coins in my pocket.”
“Isn’t there anything that can be done for this gossip, Charles? It is most damaging to Mistress Anne.”
“No, there isn’t. Henry doesn’t burden himself with the morals of ordinary men. He thinks he’s above such things. It’s merely a part of courtly life. You know that by now.”
“But Henry is married to Catherine. Such idle stories will hurt her.”
“But if Henry pays no attention to God or man, why should he pay attention to his wife? And if he decides that Anne Boleyn will be his mistress, then it’s as good as done.”
“There’s a man to see you at the gate, Master Winslow.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
Stuart went to the gate and found Orrick, one of the Stoneybrook servants. One look at his face told him that bad news was his errand. “What is it, Orrick?”
“It’s your grandmother, sir, Lady Leah. She’s very sick. Your father said to bring you at once.”
Fear filled him. His whole family depended upon Lady Leah. What will happen to Mother and Father and Quentin if she dies?
“I’ll come at once. Let me get a few things, and I’ll fetch a horse from the stable.”
Stuart tumbled off his horse and threw his reins to a Stoneybrook stableboy who said, “I’ll take care of the animal, sir.”
As soon as Stuart came into the hall, he saw his father sitting at the oak table, his hands clasped and misery on his face.
“How is she, Father?”
“She’s dying, Son.”
“Surely not! There must be something that can be done. Is the doctor here?”
“Come and gone. There’s nothing he can do. It’s the sweating sickness.”
The words brought a cold chill to Stuart. The sweating sickness was much like the plague, a lurking danger every spring and summer. Stuart had seen the disease even among the court. It struck without warning. Its victims broke out in a heavy sweat and emitted a horrible odor. They turned red all over and developed a high fever. In the last stage a rash appeared, and death soon followed.
And now his beloved grandmother had it.
“Are you certain?”
“The doctor is. Just pray God it doesn’t affect the rest of the family.”
“Where are Mother and Quentin?”
“At a neighbor’s. I don’t want them anywhere near. But I knew you’d want to see her, regardless of the danger.”
“You were right. Thank you.”
Stuart went to the bedroom his grandmother favored. He saw there was no hope. She looked like a shrunken mummy, and she was covered with red blotches. Going to her bed, he knelt down and whispered, “Grandmother, can you hear me?”
There was a long silence, and then Lady Leah’s eyes opened. Her voice was so faint that he had to lean forward. “I’m glad you came, Stuart. I have a final message for you.”
“What is it, Grandmother?”
“You must learn to love God.” The words were broken; speaking took all of her strength. “And you must leave the court.”
There was no answer for that except “God bless you, Grandmother. You’ve been such a blessing to us.”
“Get your father.”
Instantly he jumped up and ran to open the door. “Father, come at once!”
Claiborn came in and went to the other side of Leah’s bed. Neither of them seemed to fear death.
She reached up her hands, and each man took one. “You have been my treasure. Claiborn, you are a true man of God.” She said a few more words to him, and then her voice faded as she said, “Follow Jesus, Stuart. Always follow Jesus.” There was a long silence, and after a time she whispered something that Claiborn could not hear. “What did she say, Stuart?”
Stuart’s throat was tight, and his lips were dry. “She said, ‘I’m going to be with my Savior.’”
That was the last word spoken by Leah Winslow, and shortly afterward the two men rose to their feet. “She was a woman of God, and she loved you dearly,” Claiborn said. “Never forget what she said.”
Stuart’s throat was so tight that he could not answer. He just nodded. “Yes,” he finally managed to say. As he left the room, he knew that something had changed that could never be brought back again—at least not in this world.
“Well, the old woman is finally gone,” Edith said almost carelessly.
Lord Edmund was stricken, for he had cared, in his fashion, after his mother. He was shocked by his wife’s callousness. “She was a good woman,” he said.
“Of course, I know that. I didn’t mean to be cruel.”
“You never cared for her.”
“I did! I just didn’t show it the way others do,” Edith said.
“The lawyer was here this afternoon,” Edmund said. There was something furtive in his manner of speaking, and Edith gave him a sharp glance.
“Why are you looking so odd? She left you all the land, didn’t she?”
Edmund cleared his throat. “No, she didn’t. She left that tract of land to Claiborn—and the house too.”
“She couldn’t have!” Edith’s face flushed, and anger poured out of her. “It’s yours by right!” Ives moved behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“No, that acreage was hers all along, I’m afraid. That’s what the lawyer says. She could leave it to anyone she wanted to. We’ll have to persuade Claiborn to put the land in his will in order to unite Stoneybrook at some point, make her stronger.”
“He’ll never do that,” Edith snapped.
They argued and tried to find a plan, but Edmund finally said heavily, “There’s nothing we can do. The land is theirs.” He was upset, but he had halfway expected it. “She loved Claiborn the best. She always did.”
Claiborn looked out the window but saw nothing, for his thoughts were of his mother. Grace came to stand beside him, and said gently, “She saved us, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did. I don’t know what would have happened to us if she hadn’t brought us here.”
“What will happen to the land now?”
“This land? Why, it’s ours, Grace. Mother’s tract of land, this house. She showed me her will.”
“You mean we don’t have to live under Edmund’s rule?”
“No, not in the least. We’re freer then ever. We can elect to separate the land from Stoneybrook, till this soil as our own.”
“Thank God! I could never tell you how hard it was for me seeing Edmund mistrust you as he did.”
“Well, I still have hopes of Edmund’s changing. I’m hoping that this final act of mother’s will encourage him to take another look at me, at us.”
“Edith won’t be pleased.”
“No, but we can live with that.” He took her in his arms. “We’ve followed where God has led us, and see what it’s brought us.”
“Our own home. Ours, Claiborn. Only ours.” She shook her head. “I never really thought I’d see the day again, short of returning to Ireland. It almost makes me hopeful enough to join you in your hope that you and your brother can someday be reconciled.”
He pulled her closer. “God will see to it in time. I’m confident in him.”
The funeral was performed at once. It was a simple family affair. No one wanted to be exposed to the sweating sickness. Stuart went through it almost as if he were asleep, but actually he was stunned. He was glad when the ceremony was over and stole away to walk with Heather. She had been one of the few who had attended the services for his grandmother, and she took his arm with sadness still on her face. “Stuart. I’m so sorry for your loss. How are your father and your mother faring?”
“We’re all stunned, Heather. Somehow we thought Grandmother would always be with us.”
“I’ve heard many speak of how wonderful she was. I wish I had known her. She sounds like a fine lady.”
“Thank you for coming. I didn’t expect it.”
“I had to come. You’re important to me.”
He gave her a small smile. Would anyone at court do the same for him? He couldn’t imagine it. They walked and talked for a while, as comfortable together as if they saw each other every week. She said, “I have a message for you from Mr. Tyndale.”
“For me? What did he say?”
Heather brought him to a stop and stared up into his eyes. “He said to tell you, Stuart, that God has a plan for you.”
“God has a plan for me, eh? I must say, I’m not convinced.”
“He said he knows God will use you. He’s going into hiding, you know.”
“Hiding!”
“Yes, his work has made him the target of many a hunter.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Yes, but nothing Master Tyndale seems to truly fear. Stuart, he thinks that dangerous times are coming for all of God’s people and that you’re going to have to make a choice one day.”
“I can’t believe that the king would ever be cruel.”
Heather did not answer; she knew that Stuart still had confidence in the king. She was watching him carefully. He took her hand. “You’ve been so kind to me always, Heather. I appreciate that more than you know.”
“I could never be anything but kind to you, Stuart.”
A little unnerved by the intensity of her tone, Stuart gave a half-laugh and hugged her.
He had a sudden knowledge that there was something in him that desired her, and he was shocked and appalled at his desire. He stepped back quickly and saw her smile.
“What’s the matter, Stuart? You’ve hugged a woman before, haven’t you?”
“I—I’m sorry. I’m not myself.” He shook his head. What did her peculiar smile mean?
“You must return soon,” she said.
“I shall. Thank you again for coming.”
He could not get away quickly enough. He rode away at a full gallop.