Heart of Gold (3 page)

Mary jumped out of her place and flung herself at her older sister. “My God! You did it. At last! You sold your work. Which one? How did you convince him to buy one of your paintings? A woman’s painting! How did you approach him? How much did you get for it? What made you do it?”

Elizabeth looked up and captured the gaze of her excited sister. She couldn’t relate the truth. Not all of it. After all, she had done it for Mary herself. To pay the French physician’s fee. But she couldn’t let her know.

The Duc de Bourbon, for the past couple of years, had been a persistent pursuer of Elizabeth’s. An admirer, true, but Elizabeth knew the duc loved to pursue every young woman who rejected his advances. The nobleman hated to be denied, and he surely thought that she, too, would fall to his charm and wealth—all the young women eventually succumbed. She knew the man had many mistresses. But that was a situation Elizabeth could not accept. She was simply not interested in becoming an ornament, tucked away and brought out from time to time for some man’s pleasure as her mother had been so many years ago. She had let the duc know her feelings on the matter. But the man was not giving up. In their most recent encounters, the duc had been most devious in his efforts to seduce her. She’d been regularly infuriated by his persistent antics and his pathetic tales. So now Elizabeth thought with some satisfaction of how she had earlier today been able to mislead the young nobleman over the painting. She had made up stories that were too unbelievable, but the duc had, for some reason, accepted her tale.

“Tell me, Elizabeth,” Mary asked again, “how did you convince him to buy your work?”

“I lied. He thinks he’s become the patron of a very talented, though as of yet unknown artist. An unknown male artist. He thinks I was just playing the part of the kind-hearted liaison.”

“I would have thought he’d be a jealous monster at the thought of your acting for another man.”

“I don’t see why.” Elizabeth sighed as she cleaned and put away her brushes. “My relationship with the duc has never been anything more than one of innocent acquaintance...at least on my part. I’ve never been attracted to him, and I’ve never led him on.”

“No? Do I have to remind you how men think?” Mary moved back to the couch and sat down. This topic was one in which she had a great deal more expertise than her older sister. “It doesn’t matter what you say or what you do. The fact is, Elizabeth, you don’t belong to any man. So you are fair game.”

“Oui! I know the poems...we women are the ‘tender prey’ for these overgrown, ‘love-struck’ boys. Well, I’m not. Though I guess I may have embellished the story to take that into account. I did tell him the artist is a crippled nobleman with leprosy who hides himself away in a priory and never sees visitors.” Elizabeth removed her apron and tucked it away. “I suppose after hearing that story there was no reason for the duc to feel challenged.”

For all her words, though, Elizabeth hoped she would not cross paths with the French nobleman for the rest of her stay here. With the heartache of her sister’s ailment, she was in no mood to deal with a persistent courtier.

“Father wants you, Elizabeth.” Anne’s voice had the singsong quality of a child who knows a secret. The other two women both turned to her in unison.

“Father? What does he want?” Elizabeth had seen her father only from a distance since arriving in the north of France. There was nothing extraordinary in that, however. From the first day she had—as a child—entered Sir Thomas’s household, their relationship had never been anything more than politely detached. In fact, unless it was due to Mary’s illness, Elizabeth had no idea why her father had summoned her, a daughter he had always seemed intent on ignoring.

“I’ll tell you for one of those gold coins.”

“No chance, you brat,” Elizabeth said curtly, her eyes twinkling. Taking the sides of the painting carefully, she moved it to the back wall of the tent. “I’ll find out on my own.”

“Perhaps,” Anne responded. “But I’ll get one of those coins yet.” As the words left the girl’s mouth, she leaned over and grabbed a couple of Elizabeth’s brushes, bolting for the tent’s opening.

It took Elizabeth only a moment to realize what Anne had done. She turned and ran after her.

“You spoiled, greedy monster.” The older sister chased Anne into the bright afternoon sun. There was no sign of the girl. She was as good at disappearing as she was at appearing.

Elizabeth’s eyes roamed the setting before her. There were people everywhere. Squires and stable boys, soldiers and servants, some people dressed in finery and others in rags. Horses and dogs, dull gray carts and brightly painted wagons. The very air was vibrant with action. The gold cloth of the tents reflected the rays of the sun. It looked as though the ropes had captured that celestial orb, holding it down. Elizabeth made a mental note of that. Another touch for her work.

“I have to admit, lass, that I’m offended.”

The soft, masculine burr of the accent made Elizabeth turn slowly in the direction of the voice. It was the Highlander. Uncontrollably, she felt her heartbeat quicken at the sight of the giant warrior, dressed in a Scottish tartan now standing only a step away. His deep blue eyes were unwavering as they gazed into hers.

His long, blond hair streamed over shoulders that were wide and powerful. Like a great cat he stood, lithe and balanced and, she thought, ready to pounce.

Ambrose was stunned. She was even more beautiful up close than he had thought her to be. From the grandstand, where he’d first seen her, the young woman’s presence, her confidence, her unwavering eyes had piqued his interest. But now, seeing her like this, he was taken aback by the full lips, the high sun-kissed cheekbones, the long luminous lashes, and the incredibly large black eyes that stared back at him in surprise. It was her eyes, black as coal, that had first captured his attention. She was taller than most women, but even in her unattractively sensible clothes, she was quite graceful.

“I’m Ambrose Macpherson. What’s your name, lass?”

“Why did you say you were offended?” Elizabeth’s mind was racing. Her next painting had to be of this man in his kilt. The sight was definitely too impressive to go uncaptured.

Ambrose smiled.

Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat.

“You were giving this dirt-packed alley more attention than you gave to the joust earlier today.” Ambrose took a step toward her, allowing a horse cart to make its way past. He noticed that she didn’t retreat from him. But he did see a gentle blush spread across her perfect ivory complexion. As her eyes wandered away from his to the groups of people moving by, the young warrior’s eyes continued to roam the young woman’s body. She had her hair hidden under a severe-looking headpiece, but from a loose tendril that lay against her forehead he could tell she was dark-haired. The dress, discolored in spots, was rolled up to her elbow and untied at the neck. The tease of what lay beyond the next tie was tempting. She had the stance and the boldness of a noblewoman but the appearance of a maid. Ambrose let his eyes fall on her lips again. They were full, sensuous, inviting.

“You fought an exciting match.” She caught his eyes on her.

“I had an exciting audience.”

“I thought them dead,” Elizabeth teased. “You surely deserved a better reception than what they gave.”

Ambrose looked at her with a half grin. He’d thought the French reception quite enthusiastic, at least among the feminine members of the crowd. “Is it safe for me to assume that you were impressed?”

“By them? I prefer the living. The dead don’t impress me much.”

“I don’t mean them.” Ambrose frowned in jest. “I was trying to bring the discussion back to me.”

This time Elizabeth looked at him appraisingly. “You think well of yourself, don’t you?”

Ambrose laughed in response. Oh, no. He wasn’t going to make himself a target by answering that question. Studying her closely, he tried to remember if he’d encountered her before today. He was quite sure he hadn’t. This one was different. Beautiful, but different from the others. It was something in the way she held her head, slightly cocked, her eyes clear, alert.

“I haven’t seen you before. Did you just arrive today?”

Elizabeth did not seem to hear him. He was handsome, incredibly so. But not proud and aloof. “You could have broken your neck at the joust, standing in your stirrups as you did.”

“French or English?” he asked. She had watched from the French section during the joust, but the tent she had walked out of moments ago stood in the English quarter of the camp.

“Did you get that scar pulling a stunt similar to the one you pulled today?” Elizabeth studied the deep mark on the knight’s brow. Though his loose blond hair covered some of it, it was clearly a badge of honor. She had to add this touch to her painting later.

“You are not married, are you?” he asked. She didn’t seem too willing to answer his questions—not yet, anyway.

Elizabeth turned her eyes back to the activities in the alley. “There is so much more to see here than at the tournament field.”

“Any jealous lovers?”

“Real people, in their element.” She hid a smile. “They are so interesting to watch.”

“Would you come to my tent? Perhaps tonight?” Ambrose reached out and took her hand in his. His thumb gently stroked the soft skin as he lifted her fingers to his lips. She was not wearing the ring he had given her earlier. “I will make it interesting.”

Elizabeth shivered involuntarily at the feel of his lips against her skin. Their gazes locked. He was so beautiful and so openly sensual. And here she was standing in the midst of all these people, flirting with him. This was so unlike her. Besides, her father was waiting.

“I have to go.” She pulled back in haste and, without so much as a backward glance, ran down the alley in the direction of her father’s tent.

...the root, roasted and mixed with hog’s lard, makes a gallant poultice to ripen plague sores. The ointment is good for swellings in the privities. Indeed, the best of the Galenists hold that once those afflicted with the pox expel the evil humors by lying with the virgin, the decocted root will cure the pustules with nary a scar...

--Camararius,
Hortus Medicus
,

“On the treatment of the Pox”

The bloodied squire landed in a heap at her feet.

Elizabeth started, suddenly aware of the commotion she had walked into. She’d been intent on making herself presentable to her father. Now the dress ties and the condition of her hair were forgotten.

Pressed along the sides of the alley between the tents, spectators were taking in the activity wide-eyed, but with no intention of becoming involved. Elizabeth could see blood pouring from a gash above the lad’s ear. She stared at the young man, who was groggily dragging himself erect, and instinctively put a hand out to help him up.

A voice filled with malice thundered from the center of the alleyway. “Don’t touch the lazy bastard!”

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed at the knight lurching ominously toward her. “He needs care,” she shot back. “He—”

“
You
!” The knight stopped before her. His eyes had the glazed look of one either drunk or mad. Yanking the squire away from her, Sir Peter Garnesche’s glare became a sneer. Casting the lad to the side, he spat his next words over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from Elizabeth’s face. “Go lick your wounds, boy. The Scot’s lady wills it.”

Elizabeth looked with loathing on the huge warrior. Like everyone else, she knew him to be among the English king’s friends, but she also knew him as the man who, four months ago, had escorted her sister Mary to England—and to a lifetime of suffering. She turned away; she had no desire to converse with him.

“Wait, m’lady,” the knight sneered, calling loudly as she walked off. “Perhaps you or your sister can give my squire the name of a good physician.”

Elizabeth felt the prickly heat wash over her as she hurried from the ugly scene. The onlookers’ laughs pounded in her head. Something brutal hung in the air around the man like a venomous cloud. She had to take Mary away from these vile people. She had to convince her father of that.

Though she was half-English by birth, Elizabeth Boleyn had good reason to feel no shred of loyalty to England or to its people. France was the country of her birth, and for Elizabeth, it was home.

Not that her childhood had been awash with sunlight. After her mother’s death, and before Mary and Anne had joined her, Elizabeth had spent long, regimented years under the loveless supervision of her English nanny, Madame Exton. With the exception of the moments when she’d been able to escape to her painters, Elizabeth would prefer to blot this period from her memory. From early on, this manipulative woman had given her young charge a bad taste of English ways, particularly regarding the use of intimidation in child rearing. Even though Madame Exton had continued to run Sir Thomas’s household in France through the years, life under the woman’s iron rule became much easier to endure once the three girls had faced it together.

Sir Thomas Boleyn’s tent was clearly marked with the banner depicting the family coat of arms, and Elizabeth paused before approaching the attendant standing outside. Running her hands quickly down her skirts to straighten her appearance, she thought through what she wanted to say to her father and wondered once again why he’d sent for her. She knew him to be a hard man whose ambitions had taken him high in the government of the English king, but he was also her father. And he had always provided for her.

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth entered her father’s tent.

“You don’t know her, Thomas,” Sarah Exton countered, never looking up from her needlework. “She won’t do what you want simply because you command her. You must work her to your will.”

Sir Thomas Boleyn stopped to glare at his cousin and then continued his pacing, pulling irritably at his gray speckled beard as he crossed the room. “This is no girl’s game, Sadie. We are talking about the fortunes of this family. About—”

The shadows at the tent’s opening stopped him, and he looked quickly at the attendant and the young woman who entered his spacious quarters.