Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

16

King Henry returned from his French war in the first week in October to a grand and glorious reunion at one of his lesser houses, a place called Otford. Will was with him, but His Grace had left Lord Lisle and Harry behind in Boulogne, along with most of the army. They were to hold that captured city for England.

Davy Seymour also returned with the king. He brought with him a letter for me from Harry.

“His handwriting is as poor as mine is,” I observed.

Alys sat beside me on a window seat in the queen’s privy chamber. “What does he say?”

“That he was knighted by the king just before His Grace left for home.”

“That must have pleased his father.”

“It pleased Harry, as well.” I could tell by the bold pen strokes he’d used when writing the news.

“Was he wounded?” Belatedly, Alys looked concerned. “Knighthoods are often a reward for bravery in battle.”

I hurriedly skimmed the next lines then breathed a sigh of relief. “He says he came through the campaign without a scratch.”

“What else?”

I read on, summarizing as I went until I came to the last sentence. Then my breathing hitched and for a moment I lost the ability to speak. I must have had an addlepated look on my face because Alys seized me by the shoulders and gave me a hard shake.

“Bess! What is it?” I held out the letter, my hand atremble. Alys snatched it away from me and read the rest for herself. When she glanced up from the page, a wide grin split her face. “He says his father has agreed to a match between you and that he hopes the betrothal can be arranged as soon as he gets back to England. This is wonderful, Bess. He wants to marry you.”

“Wonderful,” I echoed.

Why, then, did I suddenly feel trapped?

I did not speak of my impending betrothal to anyone else during the next two weeks. The celebrations surrounding the king’s return continued, as did the royal progress. The court traveled to Leeds Castle, then back to Otford, and finally set off in the direction of London. Will Parr was not with us. He’d gone to visit his estates in Essex and Surrey.

He was still absent when I received a second letter sent from Boulogne. This one came from Lord Lisle. I broke the seal with mild trepidation, assuming that he had met with my father to discuss the terms of my marriage to his son.

The first words made my heart stutter. As I read on, my limbs grew cold. The letter dropped from nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor. I was not to marry Harry Dudley, after all. No one would ever marry Harry because Harry was dead.

Dazed, grief-stricken, I was scarcely aware of it when Alys plucked the letter from the rushes and read the terrible news for herself. “After King Henry left France,” she relayed to Mary Woodhull in a choked whisper, “there was sickness among the troops. Camp fever. It was so widespread that even those in the command tents were infected. Harry—” She broke off, unable to say the words aloud.

“Harry died of it.” I grabbed the letter back and tore it into tiny bits and threw them into the fire.

Tears streamed down my face. “It would have been a good match,” I sobbed. “We were well suited.” And there had been no impediment to our marriage.

None but death.