“Aye, that is so,” Colby acknowledged. “But I have observed the men and women who surround these pretenders to the throne. I have no wish to be jerked about and manipulated by ruthless people for their own gain and then executed when their plans go awry.”
Something tight in me began to unwind. “You have some inkling how Elizabeth feels, then.”
Colby rested gentle hands on my shoulders, his gaze holding mine. “Why do you believe I’ve appointed you as her guardian? To keep our lady safe and distant from the plotters, to have her head remain intact. You are an excellent watchdog, Eloise.”
“A fine compliment,” I said in my ironic tones. “I thank you. Does Elizabeth know any of this?”
“I have told you. As I say, everyone else who knows is dead. Except you.”
I understood that Colby was capable of strangling me and leaving me here on the stone floor—silly Eloise, who ran off into the woods alone to meet a stranger.
It would be my own fault. I’d allowed myself to be caught up in the rivalry between Elizabeth and Mary, proud that I’d been chosen to watch over Elizabeth. I’d lauded myself for perfecting the scheme of using stitching to convey messages into and out of Elizabeth’s house.
Not only that, but I’d found it exciting to meet a handsome man like James Colby in out-of-the-way corners. I knew he had no lover, because I’d have heard the gossip, nor any woman with whom he liked to dally. The only lady he spoke to intimately was me, and I’d pretended to myself that his interest in me went beyond taking care of Elizabeth.
I’d been a fool. I made myself let my ridiculous fantasies about him go, and met Colby’s gaze squarely.
“No one listens to the prattling of Eloise,” I said. “Even if I blabbed far and wide that you were Henry’s bastard, no one would believe me.”
Colby’s grip tightened. “Perhaps not at first, but they’d begin to look twice at me and to wonder. I am in your power now, Mistress Rousell,” he finished softly. “What must I do to ensure you will keep my secret?”
“Nothing.” I put truth in every word. “I would never, ever betray you to a soul.”
Colby’s dangerous expression relaxed into perplexity. “Why not? Knowledge like this could give you much power.”
I smoothed his cloak where it lay against his chest and then turned from him and caught up my own. “I will not tell you why not. That will be my secret.”
I believe he guessed because he tugged me back to him and pressed a brief, warm kiss to my lips. It was a sincere kiss, a kiss of gratitude, not an offering for my silence.
“Be well, Eloise,” he whispered.
I told him I would and departed.
Chapter 19
July 1554
“I am very ill, Master Bedingfield,” Elizabeth said in a hard voice. “This is why I am silent at mass.”
“But you are not silent,” Bedingfield countered, his drooping moustache quivering with his words. “Only when prayers are said for the queen.”
“Perhaps that is when my headaches flare,” Elizabeth returned. “I do have them, sir. In fact, I have one now and must lie down. Mass must be sung without me, today.”
Bedingfield gazed at her more mournfully than ever and scuttled away to write of the conversation to Mary.
Love was a strange thing, I mused as I went about my duties. When one is very selfish, love is about how the object of desire makes one feel. A cruel woman could make a courtier her abject servant and be kind to him only when he pleased her.
A less selfish love not only wishes for the pleasure the other person can bestow on one but also wants to make the desired person happy. A mutual pleasing, as between a fond husband and wife.
More selfless still is love that expects no return, a need to keep the beloved safe and ensure their happiness. This love can be beautiful, as a mother with her children or a daughter to an elderly father … or it might turn dangerous and slide into obsession.
I did wonder as much as Colby had why I wanted to keep his secret, why I did not want to see him used by ambitious men or beheaded for the blood in his veins.
I knew only that I wished Colby to be safe, and that I admired him for his sensible acceptance of his position. If he’d been greedy and zealous, he’d have used the opportunity of Edward’s—or even Henry’s—death to sail in and claim he was Henry’s son, despite the difficulties in proving such a claim.
Colby hadn’t done this, because he did not covet the throne. He wanted nothing to do with it, but fervently wished Elizabeth to have it.
I thought of love for another reason the day that Bedingfield admonished Elizabeth about omitting prayers for her sister during mass. In Winchester that morning, Mary had married herself to Philip of Spain.
