Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  “One would think you to be quite the seasoned adviser,” he comments, his tone a mingling of sarcasm and admiration. His black eyes are lit with a kind of approval that I relish.

  “You did not marry a fool,” I tell him with an annoyed click of the tongue.

  He says nothing to this but offers a half smile. “While we are on the subject of truth, do enlighten me with another. Tell me about Ralph Neville.”

  My heart lurches in my chest. How does he know? I have not seen him since we were wed; I am innocent of anything he could accuse me of, but Lord Howard’s expression indicates he does not care whether I am innocent or not.

  But I will hold to my creed. I vowed to speak the truth and so I shall. I draw in a breath. “What about him?”

  “You loved him,” he says.

  I nod, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”

  What is it softening his eyes? Disappointment?

  “You did not want to marry me,” he states, his voice very quiet.

  I shake my head.

  He turns toward the window, looking out at the gardens. Spring has arrived. Little green shoots push their bare heads through the soil to greet the sun with the promise of donning their flowery headdresses.

  “But I have married you,” I tell him, my voice gentle. “And as I said, I will be a good wife. I will be faithful and steadfast as is required of me.”

  “Yes. As is required.” He sighs. He clasps his hands behind his back, turning toward me once more. “Your father warned me of your plight; I do not know why I asked for a recitation. Besides, I was required to marry you as well. Were it expedient, I would have remained in the single estate.” He chuckles. “Worry not, my lady. There is no love lost between us. But if you obey me, plan no dalliances, and behave as befitting your station, we shall get on quite well.”

  I swallow a lump rising in my throat.

  He approaches me, reaching out to stroke the cheek still stinging with his slap. “I rather appreciate your honesty,” he says offhandedly. “In turn I shall favor you with your own philosophy. I will always tell you the truth, Elizabeth.”

  He drops his hand. I stare at him in a moment of confusion. Now that we have promised to tell the truth at all times, there are too many to impart and most of them are unwanted. I do not want to know that my lord has a side to him that is dark and cruel. I do not want to know that he is filled with irreparable bitterness. I do not want to know that our marriage has very little chance of being loving.

  “And now the truth is I must excuse myself and prepare for my excursion to Plymouth, where I will prepare my fleet,” Lord Howard tells me, rubbing my cheek a moment more before quitting the room, leaving me quite alone and wretched.

  In all these confrontations with truth, I have neglected to inform him of one that could have changed everything.

  I am carrying our child.

  Thomas Howard

  I sit on my bed and stare at the hand that struck her. I close it into a fist. I hit her. I hit my fifteen-year-old bride.

  What would the princess make of this?

  It is the grief that made me do it, the grief and the anger about Neddy. The girl called it. She is not a fool, this Elizabeth, that is certain. I rather like her. But she needs discipline. Regardless of her desire to adhere to her code of truth, she cannot use that as a cloak for disrespect. I am her husband, after all. And she is far more child than woman yet, requiring a bit of reining in. Buckingham must have overindulged her, causing her to become too accustomed to expressing unwanted opinions.

  She is almost too clever. I wonder if it would have served me better to marry the dullard. It is too late now.

  I sigh. I must make some kind of reparation.

  Before setting out to Plymouth, I purchase an aquamarine as clear and eternal as her eyes. The morning I leave, I set it on the pillow beside her, pausing a moment to admire her face, which is set in determination even while asleep. What is she thinking about so hard?

  I ponder leaving a note with it but can think of nothing to say, and being that we’ve spoken a vow of truth, I won’t disrespect us both by becoming another composer of courtly nonsense.

  On impulse I lean down and brush my lips against her forehead.

  I cannot help myself. She looks . . . well, I suppose she looks sort of endearing lying there like that.

  Elizabeth Howard

  I open my eyes after my husband has quit the room, to admire the aquamarine he has set on the pillow where rested his head the night before. I prop myself up on one elbow and seize the object between thumb and forefinger. It is almost too large to be real, even larger than the knuckle on my thumb. Perhaps I shall have it set in a pendant and wear it on a gold chain about my throat. Or maybe I’ll save it for the baby. If it’s a girl, she can wear it; and if it’s a boy, it can go to his betrothed someday.

  I think of trying to catch my lord before he departs but am too tired. I imagine he does not want to see my reaction to his gift anyway; if he did, he would have bestowed it upon me while I was awake.

  It is thoughtful, I can say that much, and I am not immune to the charms of a sparkling bauble. But if the only way of obtaining jewels is achieved by bearing the brunt of his hostility, I prefer to remain unadorned.

  And so he has left me and prepares to fight in Brittany, where he might prove himself a hero. His enterprises seem to be cursed when it comes to the inconvenience of weather and supply issues and it isn’t until June that he can even depart. Meantime, I am three months gone with child and, as I am so small, must add panels to my gowns to hide my condition. I avoid my stepmother-in-law’s questioning glances when I take ill in the mornings and rest in the afternoons. I do not want anyone to tell him first. I want to be the one. I blame my nausea on something I ate that day or the heat of summer.

  I begin to dream about the baby. This will make my lord so happy, I just know it. Then everything will change. He will soften and I will stop thinking about Ralph Neville. It will not do to dream of a man who isn’t the father of the child growing within me. No, I must concentrate on my husband. I focus on all the good I have seen in him, as it is said bad thoughts could be unhealthy for the baby. I dream of Thomas Howard’s handsome voice, his intense eyes, his strong and slender hands. I recall dancing with him, how strength and energy flowed from his embrace, filling me up. I think with a fluttering heart of the passion that has brought this child into my womb. My heart is light as I anticipate his reaction. It will rejuvenate his shattered spirit, I know. He will be excited and probably accept anything so long as it survives. Wouldn’t anyone after his past?

  I do not know what I’ll call it. I suppose Edward or Thomas if it is a boy, depending upon what my lord thinks. He may want his brother honored, but then again, considering his mingled love and resentment, he may not. And he may not like the name Thomas either since his firstborn was christened thus. I suppose we could go with Henry, after the king.

  If it is a girl I shall name her Catherine for my queen and my sister. I would even go so far as to call her Catalina for the queen’s true name but dare not. That would be too Spanish for my family and I’d never hear the end of it.

  This is how I wait out the war, sewing a baby’s wardrobe and dreaming of names and cradles, of the sweet kissable cheeks of my little one and the tenderness that is sure to descend upon my husband’s face when he gazes at the scene.

  The Fruits of War

  Elizabeth Howard, Summer-Autumn 1513

  It seems Lord Howard will have no part in the French campaign after all. He is to stay behind with his father to “play nursemaid to Queen Catherine while the king indulges himself in the sport of war with that churl Wolsey at his side,” he had cried in a fury. I told him we should be flattered. Surely the king values the Howards a great deal if he entrusts his wife and kingdom to our keeping, but I am waved off with a grimace of annoyance. Lord Howard takes the assignment as a personal slight.

  It is not all in vain when the Scots attack, however. The spark
that inflamed the Scots’ malice was not only the Barton affair but that their warden of the East Marches, Sir Robert Kerr, was slain by our own John Heron of Ford. Henry VIII refused to surrender Heron to James IV, breaking the treaty of 1502. King Henry also neglected to finish paying his sister Margaret’s dowry. So it is easy to understand their ire, and Lord Howard admits that if they were going to attack, now was the perfect time with the king abroad.

  As I watch Lord Howard tremble with anticipation, I quake with terror. Bloodlust lights his eyes and as I bid my soldier farewell, I am not in envy of those who will be unfortunate enough to cross swords with him.

  After he departs I throw myself upon my bed sobbing. Lady Agnes rushes to my side with a posset. “Don’t upset yourself, girl, for the child’s sake.”

  I sit up, wiping my eyes and sniffling. “You knew, my lady?”

  “Of course I knew. I’ve only spent half my life with child,” she says with a wry smile. “I recognize well the signs.”

  “You haven’t said . . . ?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I would never deprive you of your moment,” she tells me, her voice soft. “ ’Twill be a happy day for the Howards when your little one arrives. Lord Thomas will certainly cherish you for it.”

  I rub the swell of my belly. “Oh, I hope so, my lady, so very much!”

  And so together we wait for news, united in our anxiety for our husbands, the most illustrious soldiers in the land.

  “Victory, my lady!” cries the filthy messenger to my stepmother on a rainy September afternoon. “And a great day it is for King Henry VIII!

  “Lord Surrey and Sir Thomas—they are alive?” I ask, clutching the lad’s sleeve.

  “Aye,” he answers, nodding. He is about to burst with excitement. Blue eyes sparkle from a mud-stained face. “Outnumbered by ten thousand they were, but it mattered not to our brave Englishmen! They took their stand on the hill at Flodden Field and drove the bastards out—even capturing their brass cannon!”

  Lady Agnes squeals in delight. “Cowardly Scots!”

  “There’s more, my lady!” he cries. “And this is by far the most glorious: the Scottish king—he’s dead!” he finishes with a laugh. “His body was found near the litter of your good earl.”

  Lady Agnes presses her palms to her cheeks. “My, such a victory . . .” she breathes. She lowers herself onto one of the chairs in the parlor, her eyes lit with eagerness. “And the Howards secured it. Imagine what this means. . . .” She raises her eyes to the messenger. “Thank you, good lad. Now go feed yourself from our kitchens; we are pleased to share what we have with you.”

  He bows. “Thank you, my lady!” he cries, rushing off for his dinner, which I imagine he has not seen in a good long while.

  Lady Agnes is smiling. “I think we’d best prepare for some changes, Lady Elizabeth,” she says. “Big changes!”

  At this the baby flutters in my womb. I offer a giggle in delight. Life will be good now; I’ve no doubt of it. Lord Howard will ride home to the cheers of the countryside. He will be rewarded by his king for keeping the kingdom safe.

  But his biggest reward will be from me.

  Thomas Howard

  According to Queen Catherine, it is God and the leadership of the absent King Henry that won the battle of Flodden, but it is no matter. I suppose she is obligated to say that. Meantime I know the truth and if the look on Queen Catherine’s face is any indication when we deliver the bloodied body of King James to her, she knows it, too.

  “Dearest Lord Howard,” she says in her soft accented voice as she rests a hand on my shoulder. “Well done.” She closes her eyes, her face radiating sheer triumph. I cannot help but admire her. This is a woman who rode about in armor to inspire the soldiers at Buckingham before they marched north to Flodden. She is as fierce and proud as a woman can be, but in her these are not grating attributes. She is a queen in every sense of the word.

  “Oh, well done, my defender and champion!” she cries again in pure joy, taking my hands in hers and squeezing. “Shall we send His Majesty the body, do you think?” she asks with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.

  “It may not be wise,” my father intones gently. “King James was his brother-in-law, we must remember. The English would take to that well, Your Grace. But perhaps if we send his coat . . .”

  “Yes,” she says, righting herself under her canopy of state and offering a bright smile. “See that the coat of the slain king is sent to my husband in France,” she orders. “It has been a time of victories for us all, has it not? The king has taken two towns in France and we have Flodden. You will be rewarded for your service,” she assures us. “Richly rewarded.”

  “God bless Your Graces!” my father cries. “God bless and keep you always!”

  All I can do is nod and bow. I am struck speechless as my mind speculates on our compensation for keeping England secure.

  The queen’s promise of rich rewards is made good. For the second time, the dukedom of Norfolk has been awarded to the Howards for our service to a king. My father relishes his new title and I enjoy referring to myself as the newly styled Earl of Surrey.

  We will not lose our right this time. Not ever again.

  I take to Lambeth where waits my stout stepmother Agnes and a horde of brothers and sisters demanding a recounting of the battle that I am all too happy to provide. It is a long moment before I notice Elizabeth is absent from the welcoming party.

  Honestly, I think I forgot I was married.

  When I do note she is gone, cold fear slithers through me, creeping up my spine and into my heart, where it rests in an icy knot.

  “Where is Lady Elizabeth?” I ask in sustained panic.

  “She has taken to her bed,” answers my stepmother with a slight smile. Whether it is meant to reassure me I do not know.

  “Well, send someone to wake her up,” I say with a note of impatience.

  “You go, Lord Thomas,” says Agnes. “Isn’t it a mite more romantic, the gallant warrior returning to his wife’s bedside to kiss her awake?”

  “Oh, nonsense and drivel!” I say, but it is with a laugh as I commence to our chambers. I do not bother with the door. I enter the room, suppressing the memory of my princess when last I saw her lying on her bed of death, covered in blood. . . . Oh, God, I cannot think of it. It is all right. I am not going to see that. . . .

  Elizabeth is in bed but, unlike my princess, is curled up on her side, sleeping. Her cheeks are rosy with life and her dark hair is strewn in waves over her shoulder. Her little hand is curled under her chin. For a moment I just watch her. She is a pretty thing, if nothing else.

  I shake her shoulder. “Elizabeth . . .”

  She turns her head, her eyes fluttering open. Upon bringing my face into focus, they register a strange sort of joy I did not expect. She sits up, holding out her arms.

  “Oh, my lord Howard!” she cries, throwing her arms about my neck and drawing me close in such a swift movement that I fall into bed beside her. “You are home! Home and safe, thank God!”

  I find myself smiling.

  She sits up and as the covers fall away, I notice something. Her nightgown is clinging to her shape, a much rounder shape than when last I saw her in June.

  She rests her hand on her swollen belly and nods. “I wanted to tell you . . .” she says. “But there was no time.”

  I cannot speak. I am beset with too many conflicting emotions: fear, expectation, fear again. It is a terrible thing, fear. Never on the battlefield have I been this afraid. Against my will, visions of my princess, her belly swollen with my seed, swirl before my mind’s eye. Too soon was the fruit of our love plucked from us. Too soon our children went from cradle to casket. To go through it all again, the joy, the pain, the loss, the inevitable loss . . . And having developed a strange fondness for this strong, fiery girl, can I give her up so easily? Should she live, can I bear to see her spirit become as numb and jaded as mine?

  “You are happy, aren’t you?�
� she asks, her voice registering the slightest bit of annoyance.

  I offer a slow nod.

  “It is very lively,” she tells me, brightening. “I can barely get any rest, for it’s kicking me all the time.” She giggles. Her face is so young and dreamy, I want to touch it but cannot seem to will my hand to move. I am immobilized. “I was quite sick in the beginning,” Elizabeth goes on. “And I could not hide it from Lady Agnes, but she promised to let it be my news. She’s been quite dear. And the queen knows as well. We are thrilled to be with child at the same time.”