Heart of Gold Read online

  It was a joy to have them. As a young child, before her sisters’ arrival, Elizabeth had been an extremely lonely child. With no parents and no friends, Elizabeth had found other ways way to capture the magic she missed in her life. The little girl had a God-given gift. Elizabeth Boleyn had the ability to see and depict beauty in the darkness around her.

  She could still remember what it had been like the night of her mother’s death. Dry-eyed, sitting by the burned-out hearth, she had held a fistful of warm ashes in one hand, a charred twig in the other. Using stick and ash, the young girl’s small fingers had quietly, desperately swirled and traced a lifeline of patterns. Standing and moving to her mother’s cold, lifeless body, Elizabeth had touched her mother’s face, as beautiful in death as it had been in life. She left smudge of ash on the high cheekbone.

  Elizabeth had only wished the ash could make her warm.

  The rest of her childhood was spent drawing on boards, floors, and walls—using whatever subjects she could find and then letting her imagination fill the void.

  Years later, she began to paint. As long as Elizabeth made no trouble for her new guardian, she was allowed to run away from the confining prison of her quarters and spend countless hours with the craftsman and the artists that visited Queen Isabel’s court. None of the men had ever minded or questioned the bright-faced child who sat silently watching, her knees pulled up to her chest, her eyes intent on their every move. With apprentices bustling about, some of the painters had, in fact, shown interest in the little girl and, as she quietly told them of her interest, provided her with precious scraps of canvas or pigment for paint. She had watched the artisans fashioning their brushes, gazed with wonder at the mixing of paints, and studied the planning and the steps of each artist’s technique.

  Elizabeth had practiced all she learned. While other young children of the court might fear and avoid the dark corners of the grim castle keep, Elizabeth had taken sanctuary in them. Though the dark stone walls exuded dampness and cold, Elizabeth herself radiated the glowing vibrancy of life. The bold colors that she used in her paintings shone with sunlight and warmth. The lively detail of her work evoked smiles and good cheer in the few who shared her secret.

  And then her sisters had arrived.

  As time passed, the three black-haired daughters of Sir Thomas Boleyn had soon attracted the roving eyes of courtiers and knights from France and from many different countries. Of the three, Mary had always been the one drawn to the glamour of that fashionable life. Indeed, something in Elizabeth’s sister had always cried out for the fawning attention of the court rakes, but nothing unfortunate had ever occurred. Not while Mary had been under Elizabeth’s care.

  Four months had now passed since her sisters had left. During the years Mary and Anne had been with her, Elizabeth had learned to discipline her creative urge. She would only paint when time allowed and when her siblings did not need her. After their departure, it had taken a long time to overcome her loneliness for them. But as time passed, Elizabeth had actually grown fond of her newfound solitude. It allowed her time to paint. With no disruptions, no one to baby, soothe, or look after, she was tasting the first fruits of freedom. But freedom was short-lived.

  Suddenly Elizabeth found herself unexpectedly summoned to Calais by Sir Thomas. On arrival, she’d found Mary sick and bedridden. Her sister had contracted the dreaded pox.

  She knew what it was. The scourge of every court in Europe. A miserable disease that attacked a lover’s body first, and then attacked the mind.

  Elizabeth tended to Mary with loving care. There was no need for scolding the younger woman. If the syphilis didn’t kill her now, then Mary could look forward to a lifetime of suffering.

  Though she herself had always shunned the allure of the court and its shallow inhabitants, something within Elizabeth kept her from condemning Mary for becoming the love interest of the most powerful man in England—the man who held their father’s future in his hands. After all, Elizabeth had always had her talent, her painting, her secret life, and her hopes of becoming a great painter. Those dreams offered all the passion that Elizabeth sought in this life. They made her independent, even as a woman. Lost in her art, she needed no man to look after her, to protect her. But Mary was different. She needed attention. She wanted glamour. As Elizabeth strove to be the observer and to capture the image, Mary had always taken pleasure in being the object, the observed, the center of all attention.

  Elizabeth thought now of the price her sister was paying. She picked up the brush and started to paint puffs of clouds scudding across the clear blue sky.

  “Anne told me everything that happened today at the tournament,” Mary whispered, watching the smooth strokes of her sister’s brush. “I have to warn you. He is a womanizer.”

  “You know him?” Elizabeth asked without breaking stride.

  “It is hard not to notice him. That Scot is a good-looking man. But don’t worry, sister. He is clean. I haven’t slept with him.”

  The crash of the jug against the floor jolted Mary to a sitting position. She looked down sheepishly, trying to avoid the blazing temper of her older sister.

  “I warn you!” Elizabeth took a step toward the cowering creature. “If I hear you even one more time belittling yourself as you have been...” She took a deep breath to control her anger before continuing. The walls of these tents were too thin for her liking. “You cannot hold yourself responsible, Mary. If someone should to take the blame, it is that king of yours for giving this god-awful disease to a mere child.”

  “Then you believe me that he is the only one I have ever slept with?”

  “Of course I believe you.”

  The soft tears that left Mary’s eyes did not go unnoticed by her older sister. Elizabeth moved quickly to her and gathered the young woman in her arms.

  “Henry doesn’t. He hates me. He called me ugly. He said he never wants to see my sickly face. The night before you arrived, I went to him. I was delirious with fever. He wouldn’t even let his physician tend to me. He called me a...” Mary clutched at the neck of her sister and wept.

  “Hush, my love. That’s all in the past. That’s all behind you now. Just think of the future. Of a beautiful future.”

  Elizabeth clutched Mary tightly in her arms—holding her, rocking her. She knew her words lacked conviction. She bit her lips in frustration as she thought of the cold and selfish king. But men were all alike in that respect. Born free to do as they wished. Free to take what they claimed was theirs by right, but never abiding by any civil rules.

  “Oh, Elizabeth!” Mary wept. “What future? They once called me the fairest girl in France. Every man at court was after my affections. You know how popular I was. Now see what I’ve become. No man will ever want to look at me. I’ll never have any place in society. No one will want me not even as a friend. I’m already shunned. I just want to die. Why doesn’t Death just come and take me?”

  “Stop your foolish talk, Mary. That will not happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Death has to face me first before he gets to you.”

  “You think you could scare him off the way you scare me?” Mary asked with a weak chuckle.

  “Of course!”

  Mary closed her eyes and took comfort in the protective embrace. She should have asked Father to bring Elizabeth here sooner. Everything would get better now that she was here. Elizabeth would take care of her, the way she always had. She would never be alone. And she’d get better. Her sister had said so. Elizabeth had already sought the assistance of the French king’s physician in examining her illness. The man had been here twice and was coming back this afternoon. He had sounded quite hopeful the last time.

  The gentle footstep outside the tent separated the two. Elizabeth moved quickly to her painting and threw a sheet over it.

  “Why don’t you want me to see it?” The young girl stood in the opening of the tent, watching her eldest sister with a pout on her pretty face.
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  “Anne, you should not march in on grown-ups as you do. It is not proper.” Mary whispered in her weak voice from the couch. “You know very well that Elizabeth doesn’t want anyone looking at her pictures.”

  “I am not anyone. I’m her sister. And what you say is untrue. I saw her show her paintings to the Duc de Bourbon!”

  “She saw what?” Mary turned to her older sister in surprise. Elizabeth had sworn Mary to secrecy years back. No one was to see her pictures. No one was to be told. Mary knew it was Elizabeth’s greatest fear—that if people discovered her paintings, they would be taken away. After all, it was not proper for a young woman to pursue such hobbies to the extent that Elizabeth did. Mary had been shocked in seeing that some of Elizabeth’s paintings actually portrayed nude men and women. Though truthfully, considering the builds of some of the men, she’d been tempted more than once to ask Elizabeth whom she’d used as models.

  “I saw her with my own two eyes,” Anne broke in before Elizabeth could respond. “In fact, I saw her accept a bag of gold coins from the duc and leave one of the paintings with him.”

  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 be
yond 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.