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Bess smiled and said softly, “It is Barlow. … I am a widow.”
“Hardwick is easier to remember,” Elizabeth asserted.
Robin Dudley laughed. “George Talbot did make your name unforgettable.” As Bess blushed becomingly, he introduced his brothers. “This is Ambrose and Guildford.” Both were well-built youths with pink cheeks and golden hair.
Robin gets his swarthy good looks from his mother, Nan, Bess thought as she pictured the attractive Countess of Warwick.
“Are you invited to the New Year's costume ball?” Ambrose Dudley asked Bess, licking his lips in anticipation.
“Yes, she is, but Bess will be disguised to protect her from uncouth louts like you,” Elizabeth informed him.
“I'll be able to see through her disguise,” Ambrose boasted, staring at her breasts.
“Stop trying to see through her gown, you jackanapes!” Elizabeth cuffed him on the ear.
Bess was not offended. The Dudley brothers were all younger than she, and their youthful lust didn't threaten her at all.
When the Lady Mary arrived, Bess curtsied to her. Elizabeth did not, however, and Mary threw her a look of disdain before joining Frances and Lady Jane. Mary and Elizabeth loathe and detest each other! Bess realized. Then Queen Catherine Parr arrived, accompanied by Henry Grey. Trust Henry to do the proper thing, Bess thought. This time Elizabeth sank to the floor with all the other ladies, while the young men, including the heir to the throne, bowed low.
Finally, King Henry arrived, and all in the room made their abject obeisance. When he bade them rise, it was the signal for everyone to take their place at table in strict order of rank. Next to the queen came the heir, then the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth. Frances Grey sat on the king's left, then her daughters, Lady Jane and Lady Catherine, and then their father, Lord Henry Grey. He smiled at Bess and indicated that she should sit beside him. It was fortunate he did so, for Bess had seemed rooted to the floor at the sight of King Henry Tudor.
Never in her life had Bess seen such an imposing figure. His vast bulk clearly showed that he was grossly overweight. On top of this, he was swollen and bloated, making his stomach bulge obscenely below his huge barrel chest. The king's face, once ruddy, was now purple, pouched, and puffy. An expression of discontent marred it further. His neck was nonexistent. He did not walk but lumbered forward, dragging a huge bandaged leg. His gentlemen followed at a safe distance.
Judas! No wonder Rogue Cavendish was insulted when I mistook him for the king when we first met!
King Henry's garments were resplendent. He wore a ruffled silk shirt beneath a heavily embroidered velvet doublet whose sleeves were slashed with scarlet and gold, then overall came a sleeveless brocade coat. Across his chest sat a massive gold chain with an emerald the size of a duck egg. Its weight would have brought a slighter man to his knees. Henry Tudor did not wear a crown; he did not need to. Instead, he wore a plumed velvet cap adorned with another emerald, surrounded by diamonds.
Catherine Parr hurried forward to assist him. “Where the devil have you been? The queen's place is beside her king!” he roared.
“Your Grace, forgive me, I attended Mass with the Lady Mary.”
Henry shot his elder daughter a venomous look, then threw himself into a high, carved chair and lifted his hand to indicate that everyone might now be seated.
Bess shuddered, imagining his hands upon her. His fingers looked like fat sausages, albeit they were adorned with more than a dozen jeweled rings.
A hushed silence blanketed the room as Henry Tudor spoke. “Some of you will be leaving us to spend the Holy Days of Christmas with your families.” He paused, looked around the room, then with feigned bluffness continued, “When you return, Christmas will give way to the feasts and revels of the New Year and Twelfth Night. We will celebrate together.” The short speech gave the king's subjects permission to leave Court and, more importantly, permission to return.
Now that the king had spoken, all were free to resume their conversations. Elizabeth immediately turned her back upon her sister, Mary, and began talking to Robin Dudley on her other side. Frances Grey waited until the king's food taster sipped the wine, then she raised her goblet. “Merry Christmas, Harry.”
Henry Tudor was in a decidedly peevish mood, and he had monstrous reason to be, he told himself. His vigorous youth and virility were gone. Age crept upon him as insidiously as the foul ulcer crept up his leg. What he wouldn't give to ride his great stallion again or, better yet, ride a woman!
He fingered his codpiece with disgust. What good was a weapon that remained flaccid no matter what stimulation his wife applied? Might as well cut the useless thing off! He had been so proud of it once—its inordinate size, its staying power. His beady eyes slid to Catherine Parr. Mayhap it was her fault? She was hardly a woman to inspire lust.
His eyes lifted to the holly and ivy Christmas decorations and he winced, recalling a far better time. Besides Frances, only one other woman had dared call him Harry. Anne! Her beauty and her laughter still haunted him. Christmas had been their special time. It was after the Christmas revels that Anne had first yielded herself to him, and with such abandon. She had been insatiable for him through Twelfth Night, enticing him to bed her a half dozen times a day, so that before their first month was ended, his seed had taken root and begun to ripen in her fecund body. Exactly nine months later Anne had given birth to Elizabeth.
Henry's eyes were drawn to his red-haired daughter. She was haughty and proud, as her mother had once been. He wondered if she, too, were a witch. Anne had certainly bewitched him! The Christmas following their daughter's birth, Anne had lured him to duplicate their excessive coupling so she could give him a son. It was not her fault she had lost him. He remembered her silken body with bitter regret. Anne was the only woman he'd ever loved, and those about her were so jealous they had maneuvered her downfall. Never for a moment did Henry blame himself.
He sighed heavily. The only pleasure left to him was food, and even that had its price. He washed down a mouthful of venison with a goblet of golden Rhenish wine and massaged the pain in his belly until he produced a massive belch.
“That was well brought up, Harry, even if you weren't!”
My sister's daughter Frances is the only woman in the world who dares speak her mind to me. Anne used to do that.How I miss her, he thought morosely. He wondered if she was laughing at him from above. Nay, more likely she was cursing him for declaring her daughter illegitimate. He looked hard at all his children now. Only Elizabeth had his stamp on her. Her brilliant hair proclaimed her Harry Tudor's daughter. In that instant he vowed to change his will and restore her title of princess, which would put her back in the line of succession. Anne's child was just as fit to inherit his crown as any of his other wives' children, perhaps more fit.
His eyes roamed the table and came to rest upon another red-haired female, who was having an animated conversation with Henry Grey. He felt his groin stir slightly. “One of your ladies?” he asked Frances.
“Aye, Bess Hardwick is also my dear friend.”
“A spirited filly. Is your husband riding her?”
Frances rolled with laughter. “He'd better not be! Sir William Cavendish would have his balls!”
