Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  The princess nods to the servants. Some understanding passes between them and at once my arms are seized. The princess has taken Maggie in her arms and is carrying her away from me. I struggle against the men, crying for Maggie, cursing my wife.

  I am too weak to break free, however. Perhaps some part of me knows I can no longer follow where she goes. I go limp, ceasing my struggling.

  It is over. It is all over.

  I press my face against Maggie’s pillow. It still smells of her, of lavender and roses and little girl.

  I do not attend her interment.

  My son Thomas isn’t the same after the echo of Maggie’s laughter can no longer be heard ringing throughout our house. He takes to his bed with severe headaches and requires possets to alleviate the pain. My wife attends him, sitting by his side, singing softly, stroking his brow and massaging his throbbing temples.

  With me he discusses the other children; we talk about Heaven.

  “You don’t feel any pain there, do you?” he asks me one day as I sit beside him while he clutches his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “There is no pain in Heaven?”

  “No pain,” I whisper, taking his hand. I swab his head with a cool cloth.

  “And I will see my brothers and Maggie again?” he asks me, his eyes filled with hope.

  I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “When it is your time, when God calls you to Him. But that will not be for many, many years.”

  Thomas shakes his head. “No,” he tells me. “The angel who visited me last night said I will be coming home soon.”

  I draw away from him in horror. “You are just sick with grief, Tommy,” I tell him. “We all are. Sometimes when we are agitated, we take on peculiar fancies. That is what has happened. One doesn’t really see angels or anything of that nature.”

  “Mummy sees them,” says Thomas. “Only she calls them faeries.”

  “Mummy sees nothing,” I say with a little more harshness than intended.

  “What about the people in the Bible?” Thomas asks. “They saw angels all the time.”

  I had never really read the Bible. I want to say I always intended to, but it isn’t true. I can’t bring myself to pick it up. I shrug. “Times were different then” is the best thing I can think of to say. “Do not worry, Thomas. We will get through this. You will feel better. We have no other choice.” I recall my grandfather’s words, words that seemed so cold but were the best he could come up with. “We are Howards.”

  Perhaps it is better clinging to this abstract idea of a name and the greatness that can be associated with it than to the realness of people, people who are bound to leave in one way or another.

  I rise, leaving his bedside. In the hall I encounter the princess, who has brought a basket of sweet-smelling herbs to the room along with some embroidery.

  I seize her upper arm. Her eyes widen in surprise.

  “What are you thinking, passing your fancies on to our son?” I seethe. “Aren’t we in trouble enough as it is without his having to believe in such drivel? There is nothing that can come of it. Shroud him with illusions and the world will be all the more cruel to him when reality sets in.”

  “Reality has set in,” returns the princess. “And I can think of no better way to ease his pain and sorrow than with these ‘fancies’ of mine. What else have we to cling to but our faith in the unknown, our faith in something bigger and better waiting for us on the other side? If we have not that, we have nothing.”

  I release her arm, half pushing her from me. “It is all nonsense. I’m sick and tired of it.”

  Her face is a mingling of sweetness and pity. “Of course you are. But it isn’t that you’re tired of; it’s the death and the pain and the grief. You want something to blame, so you will blame anything to make sense of it all. I do not seek to make sense of it. There is no rational explanation that could ever justify what has happened. So let me keep my nonsense. I will lose my mind without it.”

  “Perhaps, madam, your mind is long since gone,” I say before turning on my heel and quitting her presence.

  Everything is so simple to her. I want to accept things as she does, but I cannot. I cannot throw myself into some fantasy world while reality stalks me with the relentlessness of a falcon.

  I have never realized to this day how different the princess and I really are from each other.

  The angel of Thomas’s vision claims him in August, four months after the death of his sister. His is a peaceful passing. He complained of a headache, something the princess and I had come to grow used to, and closed his eyes. That was it. He was gone.

  Six servants hold me down to force a sleeping posset down my throat after I have screamed my throat bloody and raw for four hours straight. The princess takes her grief out of doors and sits swaying on a garden bench, singing to herself.

  I am alone when I awake; my children are still gone. No amount of screaming against the fates or God or whatever force of divinity that decides these things will return them to me. I am silenced. I require no comfort. It is over, all over. My dynasty has collapsed.

  As my heir and namesake, he is interred at the family chapel of Lambeth, and the occasion is celebrated with the property dignity.

  Some of my siblings attend the funeral and we are approached by my sister Elizabeth and her husband, the ambitious and untalented Thomas Boleyn.

  My sister wraps her arms about my princess in an impulsive embrace that she does not know how to respond to. She is rigid and almost frightened of the show.

  I reach out, resting a hand on my sister’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” I murmur.

  Elizabeth turns a tearstained face to me. “I don’t know what we would do if our situations were reversed,” she whispers, reaching up to touch my cheek with a long-fingered hand. “My God, brother, I’m sorry.”

  I swallow the ever-present lump in my throat. “There’s nothing that can be done,” I say in husky tones. “They are gone. All gone.”

  “There may be more,” says Elizabeth, her voice taut with desperate hope. When I respond with a cold laugh, she adds, “Oh, Tom . . . I don’t know if this is the proper time, but we would like to ask Lady Anne to stand as godmother to our new baby. We—we named her for her.”

  “That is most kind. She will be honored, I am certain.” I turn to the princess. “Won’t you be honored to be godmother to your little namesake?”

  The princess nods, her expression vacant.

  I disengage from the group, allowing the Boleyns to discuss their children, sweet baby Anne and the promising little George, along with the rest of the family.

  I want to be alone. I want to stand by my son’s tomb and recall when I first held him in my arms, how I stroked his hair, how I would coo at him and laugh with him. How he held his bow with such promise. How he laughed and sang and told his childish jokes that caused my sides to ache in genuine mirth because he was so convinced of their humor. I think of his eyes, so like his mother’s, alive with intelligence and mischief. I think of his sensitivity and gentleness. I think of his little clothes and shoes and the new armor I planned to have made for him this year. I think of the great knight that will never be, the grandchildren I will never see, the future we all have been denied.

  I think of another child God has claimed for no good reason.

  A silky hand slips into my own and I turn toward my princess.

  “They know no more suffering,” she tells me. “At least now they are all together.”

  “Yes,” I say, my tone oozing with bitterness. “Let us thank God for that.”

  We cannot seem to speak to each other, the princess and I, and we take to our grief separately. I throw myself into the running of Stoke. I hunt. I read without grasping the words. I attend Mass, managing to separate the comforting monotony of sacred ritual from the God who I now find too callous to worship in private.

  The princess keeps to the gardens. She leaves no more offerings to her faery folk.

 
We do not go to each other as husband and wife anymore. I want to. I want to reach to her, but something stops me, something in her, something in me. She has drifted further into her world and I am held back as well. I am not so ready to chase her; everything requires too much effort, and what comfort can we offer each other really? Empty words, useless embraces?

  Nothing will bring them back.

  We attend the christening of my niece and I do not allow myself the luxury of sentimental tears as I hold the child in my arms. She is not my baby. She is someone else’s pet.

  My princess can neither hold nor look at the baby. Indeed, I almost find it cruel that she has been named godmother at all in the wake of her tragedy.

  I look down into the black eyes of this child; she could easily pass for mine. I stroke her downy soft hair and offer a bitter sigh. “May fate be kinder to you, little Anne Boleyn,” I say to the trusting baby’s face.

  I pass her to my stepmother, grateful to be rid of her.

  I do not want to hold her.

  I do not want to hold any baby but the ones that are gone, the ones I can never get back.

  The Passing of a Crown

  After a long battle with illness and severe pain, King Henry VII passes into the next world, joining his wife, who died in childbirth in 1503.

  “Another family reunited,” says my princess, and I swear her tone rings with envy. “I suppose they have charge over our children now,” she adds as she helps dress me into the black velvet livery I have been issued as I am to be a lord attendant at the funeral.

  I say nothing. This talk, as with anything abstract and impractical, frustrates me to no end and I extricate myself with haste.

  I attend my king’s funeral but am far from being lost in grief. My thoughts are dominated by the new King Henry, styled His Majesty rather than His Grace, so magnanimous is his presence, and the favor I hope he bestows upon me. The Howards are in the ascendant. I cannot help but feel a thrill of excitement as my eyes are drawn to the strong young king, who even at the tender age of eighteen bears an aura of pure energy and power.

  I have a feeling serving this Henry VIII will be the adventure of a lifetime.

  The king marries Catherine of Aragon, freeing her from her years of sparse living and enforced patience while the old king was hemming and hawing about whether or not he saw political advantage in a union with Spain. This is the first thing this feisty young king does, with special dispensation from the Pope granting permission to wed his brother’s widow on the grounds that their marriage was not consummated.

  The June coronation is a grand affair. It seems this young king has a taste for extravagance. There is feasting, dancing, and masquing. I have entered the lists along with my brothers Neddy and Edmund for the jousts that are held in the king’s honor, and I take the prize for most skilled combatant on the first day, along with Sir John Carre. What a thrill to have proven my worth even on this small scale! I shall stand out among these pretty boys and show the king who will serve him best when battle really comes calling.

  I doubt he is thinking of any of that now, however. Now is a time for celebration, for frivolity and fun, something this lusty Tudor indulges in without hesitation. This is going to be a far different court from that of his stoic, cautious father, but then, this Henry does not understand what it is like to have to struggle for his crown. His was given to him as God intends, with the passing of a monarch, not with bloodshed and battle. Sheltered and protected his entire life from the harshness of reality, this robust and rosy Henry thinks nothing of the sacrifices that brought him to his glorious apex. He thinks of his parties, of the culture he is set on bringing to England, of his bride.

  It would be hard not to think of her. Queen Catherine of Aragon is at the peak of her beauty, though six years her husband’s senior. I admit it is difficult to tear my eyes from her as she sits in her box, where entwined are C’s and H’s on the royal canopy along with her symbol, the pomegranate, and Henry’s red and white Tudor rose.

  She is an unusual Spaniard with her deep auburn hair and gentle blue eyes. Her skin is fair and I would never have guessed her to be the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand.

  I have the privilege of dancing with her at one of the masques. She is elegant and formal, keeping the proper distance between us, much like my own princess.

  “We are compelled to offer our sympathies, Lord Howard, for the losses of your children,” she tells me in her softly accented voice.

  I flinch at the mention of them and the queen squeezes my hand. Her eyes are lit with tears.

  “I thank you, Your Grace,” I say. Knowing her to be a pious woman, I add for good measure, “But I suppose it is the will of God.”

  “Yes,” she says with a nod.

  We both know I do not believe it, but she is too gracious to call attention to it.

  My princess does not dance much that evening, though she does accept a twirl about the floor with her irresistible nephew the king, while I am paired off with one of the queen’s young maids, the young daughter of the third Duke of Buckingham.

  All I remember about that family was that the grandfather, the second Duke of Buckingham, was executed during the reign of Richard III for supporting Henry VII. It is that of which I am thinking when dancing with this child, who is young enough to be my own.

  She examines me with fierce blue eyes. Indeed, they draw me from my reverie and make me call attention to her face, a determined little face with a set jawline. Everything about her is a paradox: delicacy and strength, angularity and softness. Her chestnut hair falls in thick curls to her waist and I find myself wondering rather stupidly if she sets it in rags or if the attractive asset is natural.

  “You are Lord Howard,” she tells me.

  I nod.

  “I saw you in the jousts today,” she says. She cocks her head, her arresting eyes squinting as though they are searching for my soul. It is so disconcerting I have to avert my face a moment.

  “And who were you hoping would take the day?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “I suppose you want me to say you,” she says and I cannot help but laugh at her candor.

  “No, you may say what you like,” I assure her.

  She smiles. “I should have liked Charles Brandon to win,” she says of the king’s boon companion, the handsome courtier who follows him like a lovesick pup. Noting my expression at the thought of the doe-eyed boy, she laughs. “No, in truth I am not so fond of Brandon. I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

  “You are an instigator, Lady—”

  “Elizabeth,” she says. “Elizabeth Stafford.” Her lips curve into a sarcastic little smile as her eyes take me in from boots to hat. “And you are the very devil.”

  “How old are you, Lady Elizabeth?” I ask her, amused.

  “I am twelve, sir,” she says proudly.

  Twelve. The age my Thomas would be. I close my eyes a moment. Would I have chosen her for his bride? It would have been a good arrangement, the daughter of a duke for my handsome boy. But those are thoughts for the past and the past is gone.

  The young girl standing before me will make someone else’s son a fine wife.

  “Lord Howard?” Her low voice cuts through my reflection and I start. She offers a perfect little curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Howard.” She leans up to whisper conspiratorially, “And everyone wanted you to win, even the queen.”

  I laugh as I watch her bound through the crowd. It catches in my throat as I find myself wondering when life will find it prudent to dole out its first cruel blow to her.

  I shudder, longing for one day of not being assaulted by dark, bitter thoughts.

  I return to the side of my princess and ask her to favor me with a dance.

  She shakes her head, tears lighting her eyes.

  “I do not think I can bring myself to it, my lord,” she says. “I am so tired.”

  She coughs into a small handkerchief and upon pulling it away attempts to hide it in the poc
ket of her dress. It is too late. I have seen the flecks of blood on the cloth, bright as a cardinal’s feather in the snow.

  We stare at each other in mutual horror.

  BOOK TWO

  Elizabeth

  Kenninghall

  Elizabeth Stafford Howard, January 1547

  Every time I think of my husband, I want to dance the fleet, light steps of a maiden. Of course this urge to avail myself to such joyous abandon is only due to the fact that he is now keeping company with his like, the rats of the Tower of London.

  In truth my mood is far from celebratory. One can be triumphant and unhappy at the same time; my husband is a prime example of that.

  God gives and God takes. He gives me the peace I crave, but my son is made sacrifice for it, my son Henry, who also sits in the Tower awaiting his fate. No doubt he is blaming everyone but himself for the arrogant and impulsive actions that led him to that dark and evil place—he learned that from his father.

  I imagine I will not attend the execution. Thomas made certain to turn my little boy against me years ago. I mourned his loss long before an Act of Attainder was passed against him.

  I sift through a casket of sentiments. No one would believe me to be in possession of such a thing; indeed, I rarely look at it save for when they die. Now, faced with more death, I open it again to find the poems written by Henry when he was a child and could barely make his letters. Pictures Mary, guileless girl that she is, drew of our “happy family” when she was too young to know otherwise. My daughter Catherine’s wedding ring. A dried flower my son Thomas gave me when he was five.

  A miniature of the third Duke of Norfolk.

  He had given it to me years ago; indeed, I think he passed them out to half the kingdom in case anyone should be overcome with the urge to admire him.

  I stare at it now. How grave and proud he looks, holding his staffs of office in those elegant hands! His face is an impervious mask; it is a perfect rendering.