Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  I must stop crying. Where have tears ever gotten me?

  I clutch the miniature to my heart a long moment before casting it across the room. Good God, would Thomas be seen crying over a portrait of me?

  He may never have cried for me, but there was a time . . . oh, yes, there was a time. . . .

  A Little Maid

  Iam installed as one of Catherine of Aragon’s ladies-in-waiting in the spring of 1509 at the great age of twelve, when the golden and glorious King Henry VIII ascends the throne of England. She is so beautiful, this unique Spanish woman with her charming accent and her silky auburn hair. She is pious and kind; her gracious sweetness warms me like the sun and I adore her.

  She was first married to Prince Arthur. How we pitied her when he died, leaving her to live in a wretched castle with a meager household and dwindling funds for six years while surly King Henry VII tried to figure out what to do with her. Once he even pondered marrying her himself after the death of his wife, the gentle Queen Elizabeth, but then decided against it in favor of a union with his son. He could never bring himself to carry it out, however. I think he enjoyed holding the King of Spain’s daughter hostage just as much as King Ferdinand liked dickering over the dowry agreement. It was a frustrating situation.

  But Henry VIII set it right. He swept in, like a great glorious knight of old, and married the radiant princess. England could not be blessed with a nobler nor gentler queen.

  They have a joint coronation ceremony and I am able to attend everything: the jousts, the parties, the fine banquets, everything. I stay up late and gossip with the other girls in the maidens’ chambers and we are beside ourselves with excitement. It is far better than home, where there was nothing to do and no one visited save old boring people who discussed the tedious things that old people relish, like their failing health and war and death. Oh, what a dreadful place!

  But here! Oh, it is grand! At the joust celebrating the coronation, we pick our favorite champions; some of the girls give tokens, but the queen says I am too young so must settle on waving instead.

  Many girls give their tokens to Charles Brandon, the king’s dearest friend, and the handsome Howard brothers, Edward and Edmund. As fetching as they are, my eyes are drawn to the oldest Howard, Thomas, uncle of the king through his wife, Anne of York. He is a compact man but rippling with lean muscle, and something about him makes me shudder with a mingling of fear and peculiar delight. His dark face is set with determination and he does not offer the easy smiles his brothers do. Curling hair black as pitch reaches his jawline and his long-lashed obsidian eyes seem distracted, as though not really as caught up in the spirit of the events as the rest of us are.

  I watch fair Lady Anne tuck her token in Lord Howard’s armor. He kisses her cheek and she flushes furiously.

  “Those poor souls,” whispers the queen’s maid of honor, Maria de Salinas, a woman so devoted to the queen that she opted to stay and suffer with her through her years of deprivation rather than return to the land of sunshine and oranges.

  I arch a brow. “What happened?” I ask, eager for any court gossip.

  “You don’t know? They had a houseful of children, three boys and a precious little niña. Lost them all.”

  “Oh, how dreadful,” I breathe. This is not the variety of court gossip I enjoy. “Do you expect they’ll have more children?”

  “Would you?”

  I shake my head. I would never risk bringing another child into the world after such heartbreak; loving something that seemed destined to be taken away was rather an invitation for more pain.

  We watch the jousting tourney, where Lord Howard takes the day. His victory is met with the briefest of smiles and a curt nod of gratitude but he is not as demonstratively ecstatic as his rivals are jealous. I find myself pleased that he has won some sort of recognition—not that it will make anything right for him by any standard, but it is nice to be favored once in a while.

  That evening at the entertainments, I am paired off with Lord Howard for a dance. It is strange. He isn’t a big man at all but there is something so powerful in him, an energy that flows through his elegant hand into my own. We talk of nonsensical things, the joust and Charles Brandon. I tease him a bit to bring a smile to his face. It is not easy, but I find at this moment it is what I wish for most.

  When I am rewarded with a slow, almost nervous smile, I offer my most charming in return. He is an older man, old enough to be my own father, but I have no designs on him. He is married to a fine lady, after all.

  I just want to see him smile.

  The next day a miniature deer park and castle are set up in the tiltyard and there is a spectacular show in honor of Diana, goddess of the hunt. It is quite the display, with the lads slaying the stags and hanging their bloody carcasses from poles for the delight of the ladies.

  I cannot say that I am particularly delighted. I have never been keen on the idea of blood and gore, and from what I can tell, neither is Her Grace. She offers a tight-lipped smile as though trying to swallow a gag and waves at the gentlemen who are trying so hard to win her favor.

  Charles Brandon is there along with all the Howards. They are quite handsome, even Brandon, who I love to tease about because nearly everyone has taken a fancy to him. I haven’t. Despite his pretty face, it is easy to see he will soon take to fat.

  Lord Thomas Howard takes part in the festivities with his grim face set in determination. He draws back his bowstring with skilled perfection, hitting every intended mark. There are moments when his expression softens as he gazes at his bow, but they do not last long. Whatever emotions he allows to creep into his heart this day, he manages to keep at bay.

  “Pray for him,” the queen urges when she finds my eyes have rested upon him. I flush in embarrassment. “There are only two ways a man can go in the wake of such tragedy.”

  I offer a grave nod, then bow my head and murmur a quick prayer for the poor wretched Howards.

  I am relieved when the hunt is over and we are allowed to take some rest. I never thought there could be such a thing as too much celebrating, but when I lay head to feathers that night, I drift into the blissful sleep of the overtired, dreaming of all the happy things I have been pleased to bear witness to.

  Long forgotten is the Howards’ tragic lot. All I can think of are the conduits of London running red with wine in celebration of our glorious king and queen.

  On 29 June, the king’s grandmother Margaret Beaufort passes on. The bells toll for six days in her memory and I admit I am more saddened that our celebrations have been cut short than over the passing of that old curmudgeon.

  Still, she was the king’s grandmother, which means she was the queen’s relation by marriage, too, so I give the proper deference and pray for her obstinate old soul.

  When the period of mourning passes, the king takes to ruling his realm and everything is made merry again. Into the kingdom drift minds of more intelligence than I could ever possess and they bring to us their Greek and Latin plays and books, their ideas about religion and art and music, their passion, their energy, and novelty.

  King Henry relishes his merrymaking. Everything is cause for celebration: feast days, holidays, anniversaries of this event and that. There is always jousting and masquing. The king loves leaping out at us in disguise and scaring the queen, who offers her sweet giggle and adoring eyes to the strong and bonny prince. Watching them, I am beset with fantasies about marriage and new love.

  Love is all around at court. Not a day goes by when some letter or poem or token isn’t delivered to this lady or that from one handsome courtier or another. Even though the queen runs a devout and chaste household, it is far too easy to get swept up in dreams of romance.

  “I think that you are awaiting the day when you, too, receive these love-gifts,” says Fra Diego Fernandez, the queen’s confessor, one afternoon when he finds me sighing in the gardens.

  I offer the handsome Spaniard a bright smile. “Oh, no, sir, I do not think a
bout such things.”

  He laughs. “Of course you do! You would not be human otherwise!” He leans toward me, nudging my shoulder with his upper arm. “And besides, I won’t tell a soul—remember, I am a confessor.”

  His nature is so jovial and inviting I cannot help but warm to him. Fra Diego covers my hand with his. “And you being such a fair child will no doubt have the suitors circling.”

  Something about his physical familiarity alarms me. I withdraw my hand. “I am a chaste and virtuous maid,” I tell him in case he may be testing me for my fitness in the royal household.

  He only tilts back his dark head to laugh. “Such a treasure!” he exclaims. He snaps off a rose from one of the nearby bushes, twirling it a moment between thumb and forefinger before giving it to me. “Here: your first token,” he says in a whisper before rising from the bench and making long confident strides toward another group of ladies, who are making sheep’s eyes at him.

  I study the rose a long moment, confused and delighted.

  So absorbed am I in reliving my moment with the handsome Spaniard that I do not notice the pair of feet rooted in place before me. My eyes travel up the well-turned legs to the trunk, which is swathed in fine livery, at last resting on the stern countenance of Lord Thomas Howard.

  He snatches the rose from me and crumbles the petals in one fine hand before casting it to the ground. “Don’t be seen dallying with that,” he says in dark tones. “He is a knave and a scoundrel. Who is attending you? You should not wander by yourself.”

  “And you should mind your own affairs, sir!” I tell him in haughty tones.

  He laughs at this, but his is a peculiar laugh, lacking in real mirth. “My affairs?” He runs a hand through his curling black hair and sits beside me. I try to ignore the flutter in my belly at his nearness. “I recommend that you mind your own. Take care around the Spaniard. The ‘pious and devout’ friar who has you so caught up in his charms will bed anything that moves, my little lady. Everyone knows it.”

  “My lord!” I cry, scandalized at his language. “Retract that statement at once! The queen would never trust her soul to a degenerate!”

  Lord Thomas’s smile is filled with mockery. “ ‘Retract my statement’?” He laughs, that odd half laugh. “Am I in the presence of a little lawyer?” The smile fades to a grim line. “I cannot retract a truth. Her Grace is a trusting woman and stubborn at that. Anyone who can last six years in a dreary castle awaiting her fate is not faint of heart. People have warned her against her friar—even old Henry VII—but all to no avail. She will retain him despite his reputation because she does not believe it. She sees what she wants to see in those she loves—a most dangerous trait.” He regards me with penetrating black eyes.

  Annoyed, I avert my face. “Well, I suppose he can’t help being a knave, he being so handsome and delightful, unlike some,” I add pointedly. “Besides, he was probably forced to become a friar by his family. He may not even want to be one.”

  “You are a silly little creature,” says Lord Thomas. “And one of poor judgment.”

  I turn toward him to glare.

  “I may not be delightful,” admits Lord Thomas as he rises, “but I am exceedingly handsome.” He chucks my cheek.

  “I suppose so,” I say with a slight smile as he retreats. “For an old man!”

  “Take heed my warning!” he returns.

  When I can no longer hear the footfalls and soft laughter of the arrogant knight, I stoop down to gather up the petals of my first love token, cursing Lord Thomas for spoiling my fun and alerting me to the darker side of life at court.

  Of Princes . . .

  Thomas Howard, 1511

  Ihave reaped many a reward serving our new king, this boisterous Henry VIII. Not only have I been elected into the elite ranks of the Order of the Garter but I have been given more lands than I know what to do with.

  My princess is not as enthused about our triumphs.

  “What will we do with it all?” she asks in her soft voice as we prepare to take to London to await the birth of the king’s first heir. “Who will we pass it down to?”

  I shake my head. “We can’t pass it down to anyone if we . . . if we don’t . . .” I can’t say it. We have not coupled in three years; neither of us can bring ourselves to risk the agony that our unions seem to breed. Instead we watch with heavy hearts as everyone around us celebrates the births of their children. My brothers and sisters have given me a slew of nieces and nephews. Indeed, my own father has proven as fruitful with his second wife as his first, and I have so many new half brothers and sisters I cannot even remember some of their names. I do recall, with a measure of annoyed amusement, that he named another one of the brats Thomas, which strikes me as wholly unoriginal, but I suppose that is his matter.

  It is hardest on the princess. When confronted with these rounded bellies and lusty little baby cries, I see her hand stray to her own flat stomach wherein lies a vacant womb too scathed by sorrow to bear fruit.

  The queen’s pregnancy is the most difficult to bear, something that sends me into a rage of guilt. Queen Catherine delivered a stillborn daughter the year previous and I can well empathize with the anxiety she must be suffering while anticipating the birth of this child. Despite that I wish her nothing but the best, my heart still contracts in pain whenever my eyes travel to Her Grace’s belly.

  The joy of the realm is a constant assault to our grief. The princess begs to be left at home for the duration of the celebrations that will follow the birth, but I stand firm.

  “How would that look to our sovereign?” I ask her. “You have to go. We can’t be seen hiding like petulant children. The queen is a gentle woman and can identify with you, at least somewhat. I imagine she will take into consideration your loss and not try to draw attention to . . . things when you are in her presence.”

  “How can that be avoided?” the princess demands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She begins to cough as she does whenever she becomes excited. Breathless, she collapses onto her chaise.

  I sit beside her, checking the handkerchief that she so tries to hide. I don’t know why she bothers. I am well aware of the blood that stains it.

  “You must stop upsetting yourself like this,” I tell her in gentler tones. I stroke her clammy cheek. “Their triumph is our triumph. We must celebrate with them just as they would with us should we ever . . .” There is no use saying that. We both know there will be no such celebrations for us.

  But the princess seems just as content to pretend as I do and she nuzzles against my upper arm. “Yes, of course. Do pardon my foolishness.” She wipes her eyes with a slender hand. “I want everyone to be happy—you know that, don’t you? Oh, of course you do.” She offers a defeated sigh. “We must remove to London directly to share the joy.”

  I stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head, wondering if we shall ever savor joy again.

  The Prince of Wales is born at Richmond Palace on New Year’s Day, another bonny little Henry. How can I begrudge anyone this kind of joy when I see the queen’s face, so tender as she beholds her newborn son? Was not my own princess the owner of that same dreamy expression, was not her sweet face once filled with a love so overwhelming, none but a parent can appreciate it? No, now is not a time for resentment or envy. The princess and I give ourselves over to the contagious atmosphere of celebration that cloaks the kingdom.

  My father is named one of the infant’s godparents, another mark of the king’s favor, and the earl’s eyes shine with triumph at the honor.

  The king makes a pilgrimage of gratitude to the Priory of Our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk, making the mile progress barefoot from Slipper Chapel to the shrine to light a candle and offer an expensive necklace. Bernard Flower, the Royal Glazier, is commissioned to create stained-glass windows for the chapel as another sign of his appreciation.

  I think it’s a lot of showy superstition but hold my peace, for when the king returns, I am required to attend festivities the like
of which I have never witnessed. The queen is churched and ready to commemorate the birth of her son with her husband and once the baby is installed at Richmond, they meet the rest of the court at Westminster, where the first of the jousts and banquets begin.

  On 1 February, I tilt against the king, Charles Brandon, Edward Neville, and my brother Neddy with the lords Essex, Dorset, and Devon. Even mock battle sends that satisfying surge of heat through my limbs. Everything is so certain—you either win or lose. I savor the rawness of it all, the lusty battle cries, the clank of lance against armor, the pounding of the horse’s hooves against the field, the sweat, the breathlessness.

  I look to the stands, to the queen sitting in her box, so merry and exultant, to my princess, so wistful and pained. I expect her thoughts have traveled down that wicked path, the path I catch myself wandering. All the what-ifs, all the wondering. Would our children have participated in the festivities today? No doubt Thomas and our Henry would have been betrothed by now and probably serving the king as pages. Wills and Maggie would have been too young to partake; they would have remained at home. We would have been choosing a tutor for them. . . . I have to stop this.

  I concentrate on the sport, on the simple feat of ousting my opponents, which I am incomparably successful at, though I would never show up His Majesty. No one is foolish enough to do that.

  The rigors of play work at our appetites and we are treated to banquets laden with more food than I have ever seen. Venison, hare, mutton, beef, stuffed capons, eels, fish, cheese, breads, sauces rich and savory on the tongue, puddings, tarts, comfits, wines that warm the blood and bring a tingle to the cheeks. My appetite has changed and I cannot consume as much as in years past, nor have I ever been a drinking man, but in a place where everything is a contest, I am compelled to take in as much of both as possible. I am so sick the next day that it is all I can do to keep my eyes open against the blinding sun.