by D. L. Bogdan
I do as I am bid only because my body is doing it for me. I am possessed by a force greater than myself as I bear down, grunting and pushing till at last I hear the triumphant cry that the head and shoulder have emerged. As the rest of the child slides forth into Tsura’s capable hands, I fall back onto the bed, exhausted.
I do not even think to ask after its sex or its health. I can only close my eyes, panting and sweating and aching to rest.
Tsura’s needle mends my torn body and I am called to my senses by the lusty cry of my baby. My eyelids flutter open and my gaze finds Agnes, who is holding a little bundle, her broad face glowing with joy.
“A son?” I ask.
Agnes shakes her head. “A little ally,” she tells me as she places the baby atop my chest. I wrap my arms about the warm little creature, stroking its silky dark hair, still slick with birthing fluids. Its face is ruddy and wrinkled and by far the most endearing thing I have ever seen.
“A daughter,” I breathe in awe. I plant a kiss on the child’s button nose.
The duke rises, crossing the room to sit beside me and rest his hand on his granddaughter’s head in blessing. “And what will we call this little angel?” he asks with a smile.
“Catherine,” I tell him, hugging my little triumph to me.
“A fine name,” says the duke, stroking my baby’s smooth cheek. “A fine name for a fine Howard girl.”
I never want to let her go. I want to keep her beside me always. Now it doesn’t matter if my Thomas comes or goes. He has given me something that will always remain.
Suddenly the ordeal of childbirth has lost its potency.
I am content.
Thomas Howard
The messenger is breathless when he meets up with my fleet, and my throat tightens as he runs up the gangplank, waving his arm, crying, “Admiral Howard! Admiral Howard! News from Lambeth!”
My body tenses. I know the news. Elizabeth and the baby are dead. It will not affect me. I did not see the child and had little enough affection for the mother. I will find another breeder and will not make the same mistake I did with this girl. I do not have need of a clever wife. A dullard like her sister will serve my purposes much better.
When the messenger reaches me, I close my eyes and turn my back, drawing in a deep breath, readying myself.
He bows. “My lord. On six December your good wife, the Countess of Surrey, was delivered of a daughter.”
“And?” I ask in a whisper that betrays my sudden panic. It is hard to breathe. My throat is so dry and tight that I keep adjusting my collar in the hopes of allowing myself more air.
“And, my lord?” the messenger asks, screwing up his face in confusion. He shrugs.
“They have survived?” I press, my voice thin with impatience. My heart is racing.
The lad offers a gentle smile and nods. “Yes, Lord Admiral. They have survived.”
Relief courses through me as I blink back unexpected tears.
A daughter. A living daughter.
I am a father once more, for whatever that portends.
It is Yuletide before I can bring myself to see them. My business with the navy is all but resolved for the winter and I cannot avoid Lambeth any longer.
Elizabeth must be up and about by now. And the baby . . . I do not know what to think about the baby.
I arrive at night, hoping the household is asleep. I do not have need to confront my siblings or stepmother right now. My presence does not go unnoticed, however, and I am greeted by the servants, who offer their congratulations with nervous smiles.
I enter the nursery first, or at least I try to enter the nursery first. I am stopped short at the door, my heart racing. I do not know what to expect, what to feel. I close my eyes, pushing open the door to find in place of a nurse or rocker my own wife, sitting beside the cradle, holding the baby in her arms. She is dozing, her head tilted against the back of the chair, her hair spilling over her shoulders in moonlit waves. For a moment I can do nothing but stand there staring dumbly, unsure if what I am seeing is beautiful or frightening. It is so reminiscent of before, so reminiscent of my days with my princess. It seems almost a sacrilege to repeat them with anyone else.
I collect myself and stoop down to remove my boots before approaching her. Everything hurts. I don’t know when this developed. My joints throb and ache and I have become antagonized by stomach pains. Now is no exception. As I near my wife and baby, my gut twists in knots. My knees are so stiff and achy I am almost hobbling.
I reach the peaceful pair, standing over them. From what I can discern, the baby has a head full of dark hair. I bite my lip, swallowing several times.
Sensing my presence, Elizabeth stirs, then wakens. She raises her eyes to me, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “Thomas . . .”
I force a smile. “Happy Christmas.”
She props the baby up against her chest, offering me a better view of its little face. One slender hand cups the back of its head, stroking idly. “And what do you make of your gift?” she asks. I can hear the smile in her voice.
I do not know how to respond. “Very nice,” I say at last.
Elizabeth kisses the downy head. “I called her Catherine.”
A name . . . oh, God, she gave it a name. My mother said that was when it happened, when the curse began, after you gave it a name, after you’ve attached to it an identity and your heart. . . .
“So many people we love are named Catherine,” Elizabeth is prattling. “The queen, my sister . . . Wasn’t your grandmother named Catherine as well?”
I nod.
“We shall call her Cathy. There are enough Kates about,” she adds, her tone decisive. “What do you make of that, Mistress Cathy Howard?” Her tone becomes loud with the exaggerated sweetness one often uses when speaking to idiots, dogs, and children. She returns her gaze to me once more. “Here I am being so selfish and you haven’t even had the chance to hold her yet.”
Before I can protest she rises, placing the baby in my arms. She lights some tapers, illuminating the room with a soft glow, then guides me to the chair, tugging at my elbow till I am compelled to sit.
Once I am situated I begin to acclimate myself to the warm weight of this child in my arms, its head in the crook of my shoulder. I look down into her face. She has opened her eyes, blue as all babies’ eyes tend to be. She does not resemble the half siblings that God claimed. She belongs to herself, which makes gazing upon her much easier. She is a sturdy child, near ten pounds at least. Her cheeks are chubby and kissable. I clutch her to me. She is the first of my new dynasty. I must protect her.
“Who is the nurse?” I ask.
Elizabeth’s smile broadens. “I am.”
Where have I heard this before? And what were the results?
“Absolutely not,” I say, tightening my grip on the baby. She squawks a bit. “Gentlewomen are not capable of nursing healthy children. I allowed my prin—Lady Anne to do so and was rewarded with four graves to visit. No. I see we shall have to regulate our children’s upbringing with stricture and discipline. You are to be a countess, not a country maid. We will do things right and proper. These children are not to be mollycoddled and made soft. They are going to survive. They are going to be Howards.”
Elizabeth’s lips are quivering. I lower my head, pretending to be occupied with my daughter so as to avoid the pain lighting my wife’s eyes.
“I will hire a good country girl on the morrow,” I tell her.
“No,” she whispers. “Please. At least let me do that.”
I hesitate. “Very well. But I will have the final say.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth acquiesces. “Of course you will.”
She turns away, leaving me to rock and ponder the great heights my little Cathy will climb to, if God allows.
A Countess’s Life
Elizabeth Howard, 1514–1520
Astout country girl is hired to nurse Cathy and she is restrained in swaddling bands to ensure the set of her limbs.
I hate seeing her thus. There is nothing I love more than watching my baby kick her chubby legs and reach about to explore her world with dimpled hands. There is no hope for private moments with my daughter. My lord has made certain that my every move is watched, lest I disobey him.
“I suppose we’re to get used to it,” I say to little Cathy one day as I rock her. At least I am permitted to perform this small act of closeness. “A lifetime of governance.”
As I adjust to motherhood, my lord is called to do battle against the French galleys that were responsible for the slayings of his brother-in-law Thomas Knyvet and brother Neddy. He is all too happy to avenge their deaths. He is all too happy to do anything that involves a sword, a ship, and an oath of destruction.
Yet I am proud of him. He is grand, sweeping into Normandy like a force of nature, ravaging the countryside and proving the victor.
When he returns triumphant, we learn that we are to go to France as a family, not in hostility but in peace, for a secret truce has been arranged at the urgings of Thomas Wolsey, the king’s rising star. After Catherine of Aragon’s father, King Ferdinand of Spain, deserted Britain in favor of an alliance with the French, King Henry was disposed to offer peace as well, if for no other reason than spiting his father-in-law.
The pawn in the treaty is Henry VIII’s beautiful sister Mary, who is to wed King Louis XII of France. The girl is as miserable a bride as I have ever seen, far more than I ever was, and as we witness the proxy ceremony at Greenwich in September, I blink back tears of sympathy. All I can think of is my little Cathy and offer fervent prayers that my husband will be good to her and marry her to someone not only politically expedient but loving as well.
But love matches are too rare. One is as liable to laugh in incredulity at the mention of a love match as at a sighting of the little people.
In October we proceed to France for the actual wedding. As an earl, my husband is allowed fifty-eight attendants. King Louis, a horrid old man rotting from the French disease, dismisses all of poor Princess Mary’s court, replacing them with French ladies. He claimed she was being kept from him. Oh, if only someone could keep her from him, the dreadful old cur!
Thomas and I do not think much on them, however. I am too caught up in the dazzling spectacle of a royal wedding, and Thomas is beset with joy at his rise in favor. It is a wonderful trip. We pass our nights practicing all the naughty things the French courtiers educated Thomas about, and our days in feasting and masquing.
By the time we return to England, I am carrying our second child.
My husband is more receptive to this pregnancy. Perhaps it is as I hoped, that the birth of little Cathy has softened him and her show of good health proves to him that more lusty Howards will follow.
He is not solicitous with words, but if his gestures are an accurate testament of his heart I must be treasured indeed. I am showered with jewels and satins, anything that strikes my lord’s impeccable fancy. I must say, he does know how to choose a gift. Cloaks lined with fur, kirtles inlaid with pearls and gems without flaw, hoods, pendants, and silk petticoats. And slippers! Never have I known a man to be so absorbed in footwear. He makes certain I have a pair of slippers to match my every gown. All of them are encrusted with the finest gems and pearls, with buckles of silver and gold.
But the reward that outshines any precious stone is his smile. It is rarely given, much anticipated, and treasured beyond what can be estimated. It is a slight curve of the lips, an ironical smile, if not a little lacking in honest joy. But it is his and, to my utmost surprise, I love it.
“It seems we are always with child together,” says Queen Catherine to me one day. We have been called to court for Christmas and I am pleased to be in my gentle sovereign’s presence again.
“You are feeling well, Your Grace?” I ask her, my shoulders tense with anxiety for the queen’s as yet ill-fated pregnancies.
She pats her stomach and smiles. Sorrow has robbed her of her beauty, but her smile retains its sweetness and her eyes their regal strength. “I am very well. So well that the king commissioned for our prince a beautiful cradle.”
“All my prayers are with you,” I tell her with sincerity. Were I permitted to touch the royal person, I would have seized her hands in mine, but I refrain, adhering to the protocol the queen is so devoted to.
I wonder if she ever desires to break free of it, the rigid boundaries, the formalities, the enforced coldness. Does she ever long to twirl about and run and scream? Does she ever long for the comfort of a friendly embrace?
The king has made no secret of his longing for “comforting embraces” and has dallied with numerous ladies since marrying my lady. He and Charles Brandon even took to sharing a few mistresses, according to court gossip. His Majesty’s latest conquest is the beautiful Bessie Blount, a gentlewoman of my age who serves as one of the queen’s maids of honor. The affair is conducted under the sheerest veil of discretion; of all the qualities King Henry can boast of, subtlety is not one of them. Bessie Blount is no better, giggling and flirting with His Majesty like a common barmaid. It disgusts me.
The queen, however, tolerates the situation with a grace as habitual as her suffering. We watch the Christmas pageant at Greenwich, a gala of which King Henry stars along with the said Bessie Blount, Elizabeth and Nicholas Carew, Lady Guildford, Lady Fellinger, Charles Brandon, and the Spanish envoy. The ladies are masqued with gold caps covering their hair and lavish blue velvet gowns. The gentlemen are dressed as Portuguese knights who save the ladies from danger. It is a delightful spectacle, one I wish I were participating in, but my condition forces me to watch from the sidelines. It is astounding how much more one sees from this vantage.
The king dances with the curvaceous Bessie Blount, encircling her in his strong arms. She tosses back her blond head, laughing in a tone too familiar, too intimate for the gathering. It would be easy to be swept away by His Majesty. He is so broad and golden, his figure so stunning and fine. But how could one, even in such circumstances, be so carried away as not to remember the woman we as ladies-in-waiting are bound to serve? How could anyone be so brazen in her disrespect? It is a concept foreign to me.
I am not a fool. It is in very few men to be faithful. They seem to have a need to take whatever is in front of them and then some, hoarding it like greedy, gluttonous wolves. My father took on dozens of mistresses. I am blessed that whatever affection my lord has for me prevents him from doing the same.
The queen watches the display, her expression wistful. “He is not only my husband,” she tells me in soft tones. “He is a king. We must do good to remember his needs are greater than that of common men.”
“Oh, really, Your Grace!” I cry before I can help myself. “And what of your needs? Does not your exalted station as a princess of the blood put you above common women?”
I bite my lip. The face Her Grace turns to me is impassive. I am unsure as to whether or not I will be chastised for my outburst.
Rather than scold me she reaches out, taking my hand. Her smile is sad. “You are very young. You see the world as a child. Good or bad, night or day. One must always remember that there is twilight, Lady Elizabeth. One cannot see as well in the twilight.” Her eyes grow distant. Her grip loosens. “Things we thought to be certain of in the hours of the sun become so much less defined.”
There is nothing I hate more than the abstract. I am quick to interject with “But we know how it should be defined, Your Grace—”
She does not give me the opportunity to finish but holds up a silencing hand. Her eyes are filled with fierce determination. “We know nothing but what the word of the Lord tells us, which is to be faithful, obedient wives no matter the circumstances. To endure long-suffering and to stand true to God, to ourselves, to our husbands, and to each other, no matter the pain.”
But it isn’t fair! I want to shout. Why us? Why must we always be the ones to suffer while the men do nothing but profit by it in one way or another?
I do not dar
e speak against her. Instead I squeeze the hand that still holds mine. “I shall always stand true to you, Your Grace,” I tell my queen with fervency.
“My loyal maid,” says the queen with a gentle smile that reveals very little happiness. She reaches out to stroke my cheek, drawing in a wavering breath. “Loyalty is . . . a very rare and worthy virtue,” she adds in a whisper.
She says nothing more, turning her head to watch the pageant that features those exceedingly lacking in that virtue.
The winter is a frenzy of activity. Fra Diego Fernandez, Queen Catherine’s confessor and the man my lord husband warned me against as a little girl, is deported to Spain for his amorous and decadent behavior. I am thrilled to see him go. He had never ceased to take me in with his dark Spanish eyes and slow, sensual smile. It made me shiver in discomfort. I truly believe some people are inhibited from performing good works because of excessive handsomeness.
King Louis of France was not one of them. He was neither handsome nor goodly, passing away to be replaced with the dashing and lecherous King Francois. King Henry’s sister Mary is left a royal widow and it is up to Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, to bring her home to England. Though the king made him promise not to propose marriage, it is no secret that Suffolk had designs on the princess from the beginning. The court is on tenterhooks. Will her last name be Tudor or Brandon upon her return?
Frivolous gossip is overshadowed by the birth of a prince at Greenwich in February. He lives just long enough for his mother to hold him and love him, then bury him in a shroud of her tears. I cradle my own belly with a protective hand upon hearing the news, saddened that Her Grace chooses not to solicit the comfort and society of her ladies during this dark time.
“It would do no good,” says my lord Thomas as he holds me in bed one early March evening. He shudders beside me, huddling closer, drawing the blankets over our shoulders and stroking my hair. He kisses my forehead. I relish the demonstration. “Seeing you in your present state would only grieve her more.”
