Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  Anne offers her edgy laugh in response. “Oh, but it is a travesty! The Pope told His Majesty that rather than grant an annulment of his marriage, he would grant a special dispensation allowing Princess Mary to wed Fitzroy! Can you believe that? He would rather a sister and brother marry than allow the king’s desired annulment!” She shakes her head. “Sheer madness.” She cocks her head, surveying me with a slight smile. “Besides, I have another solution for Fitzroy,” she adds in her throaty voice.

  I lean in toward her, taken in by the conspiratorial tone.

  She covers my hand with hers. I note the little nub of a sixth finger on it and withdraw mine. She grimaces at the empty spot, then covers the hand with her sleeve.

  “One of your girls,” she says. “Catherine or the little one, what’s her name?”

  “Mary,” I say, my heart catching in my throat at the thought of the ethereal child. “Her name is Mary.”

  “Whoever,” Anne says, waving a hand as though the girls were interchangeable. “No one could accuse you of putting yourself too close to the throne then.”

  “An intriguing thought,” I say. “But Catherine is spoken for. It would have to be Mary.”

  “Mary, then,” Anne says in decisive tones. “I shall bring it to His Majesty’s attention.”

  “Be subtle, Anne,” I caution her.

  “I know how to handle him, Uncle Thomas,” she assures me. “You’ve taught me well.”

  With that she rolls the dice. “Ha!” she cries. “I win! See? I win!”

  I laugh.

  The gaze she fixes on me is cold and hard. “I always win, Uncle Thomas. Remember that.”

  Something in the certainty of her tone causes me to shudder.

  She is an unnerving creature, this Anne Boleyn.

  At Christmas, much to Anne’s chagrin, the queen presides over all the festivities alongside her husband. Anne makes merry in her apartments, entertaining courtiers who trade piety for vibrancy. She is sought out for favors more than anyone save His Majesty, including Queen Catherine and the hated Wolsey. His decline in favor causes my heart to expand with joy as I wonder what the pompous old fool thinks of the Howards now.

  Elizabeth keeps company with Her Grace and I with the king, who puts on lavish entertainments for the papal legate. But despite whatever means of avoidance I employ, I am paired off with the queen during the dancing that follows one of the banquets. The sweet face regarding me is lined with such open misery and anguish, I am forced to avert my eyes.

  “You are quite recovered, Your Grace?” she asks me in the Spanish accent I always found disarming.

  I nod. “Many thanks for the fine hound,” I tell her. “Though I can hardly claim him as mine anymore. He is smitten with my baby niece.”

  “Your nieces have that affect, it seems,” the queen says in wry tones.

  I say nothing. The hand that holds the queen’s is rigid. My body is tense and achy. My dancing days are over and I want nothing more than to end this farce and go to bed.

  The queen’s thumb strokes mine a moment and my heart lurches as my eyes seek out hers. The blue gaze is soft with unshed tears.

  “My champion,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Many years ago you saved my husband’s kingdom from the Scots.” Her smile reveals a trace of triumph. “And years before that, you rode for my honor in the lists. Would you ride for me again, Your Grace, or do you carry another’s banner?”

  I force my gaze to hold hers. “I carry the banner my king commands,” I tell her.

  Her face falls. She seems to age ten years in that moment. “You are a good subject, Your Grace, but you are also His Majesty’s friend. As a friend, would your higher obligation to God ever compel you to interfere in a matter of conscience?”

  I am growing impatient with the leading nature of her questions and the desperation creeping into her tone. I draw in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “The king’s tender conscience serves as my moral compass,” I say in firm tones. “I adhere to his will, which is tantamount to God’s on earth.”

  “Despite whatever divinity courses through the royal veins, he is still a man and influenced by other men, men whose ambitions are far from holy,” the queen says. “As his faithful friend, you would not try to guide him if you saw he was headed down a path that could jeopardize his soul?”

  What is it with these women and the soul? I want to scream. I doubt my Bess would think twice about such utter nonsense. How I miss her!

  “I am not a man of the cloth,” I tell her. “Matters of the soul are best left to the theologians. I do not attempt to guide His Majesty; I trust and defer to his judgment.”

  The queen’s lip quivers. My heart stirs.

  “Then I am alone,” she says, almost to herself. “All alone in a foreign land.”

  “Your Grace—” I begin but am cut short by my own inability to reassure her.

  “Of course,” she says with a flash of her blue eyes, “there are a few left whose loyalty I never have to question. Your wife, for instance?”

  She is enjoying this, enjoying being caught in the middle, enjoying being one of the main sources of the ever-growing chasm between Elizabeth and me. This good pious woman is enjoying her position and does not seem to know or care what it is costing her friend.

  For the first time, I feel sorry for my wife. Frustration heats my cheeks and I clear my throat. Elizabeth decides her own fate; pitying her is a waste of time.

  The dance ends. Her Grace curtsies; her smile is twisted in irony.

  I bow. The smile curving my own lips is forced.

  She returns to her faction and I to mine, wondering which of these two very different ladies will emerge the victor: the Spaniard whose beauty has long since abandoned her or the fresh, new star at her peak?

  It is all in the hands of a gouty little cardinal from Rome.

  The Palace Shaped Like an H

  Bess Holland

  With His Grace at court, there is nothing to do but carry out my duties as washer and play with the children. Oh, but they are wonderful! I am certain no gift His Grace could bestow upon me would be equal to the joy spending time with these little lords and ladies provide. They get me through the days and help ward off the loneliness. We sing and play all kinds of games, but playacting is our favorite. We put on musicals and masques for the benefit of the staff. Little Henry himself writes many of the plays we perform and takes a great deal of pride in his talent. We go to great lengths to make our shows spectacular, building and painting sets, sewing costumes, and inviting the choir from the chapel to join us.

  Even Lady Cathy participates. With her mother away, she has warmed to me. But she knows. What the others have been spared thus far has not escaped her; she is a sharp one, sharp as her mother but with the discretion to keep her opinions to herself. Being the consummate lady, she never accuses, never corrects, never says a word. It is agonizing at times, not knowing what she is thinking, wondering if she truly bears me any love or if I am just something to be tolerated for lack of anything better.

  When she learns she is to wed the earl of Derby, she abandons her characteristic self-control in favor of bouncing about the nursery like the child she never was, inspiring the same reaction in the rest of us.

  She takes my hands and twirls me about. “I’m to be a wife, Mrs. Holland, can you believe it? I shall keep a home of my own with babies and will hopefully attend the queen at court and . . . oh! I am to be a countess!”

  “It’s wonderful, Lady Howard!” I cry, squeezing her slim hands while blinking back tears at the travesty His Grace insists I maintain for my dignity, that I must be addressed as Mrs. Holland when Holland is my maiden name and I am as far from being married as is possible.

  “Oh, I do hope I get to attend you at your wedding!” Little Mary cries, her green eyes dancing. “Do you think this means I shall be betrothed soon, too, Bess?”

  My heart stirs in fondness as I behold the little girl whose very being captures the essence of inn
ocence. It is never Mrs. Holland with her. I am her Bess and she is my Mary most dear.

  “Da already said you will marry soon,” Henry tells her.

  “Oh,” Mary says, as though disappointed that she did not bear some knowledge of this. “Am I betrothed, then?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t think so. He has to finish arranging it.”

  “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” says Lady Cathy. “Today is not about Mary.” She sits on the window seat, tilting her face toward the sun. “Oh, can you believe it? I’m to be married! I do hope I have a baby right away.”

  I bite my lip, swallowing the tears that keep threatening to spill onto my cheeks. How much do I long to be in Lady Cathy’s place! To be imparting the news of my marriage, to fantasize about the babies I will have . . .

  “Will you name one after me?” Mary asks her sister as she sits beside her.

  “I shall name one after all of you,” Lady Cathy assures in tones smooth as honey, compensating for any previous insult. She reaches out and caresses Mary’s creamy cheek. “And you will wait on me. Wouldn’t you like that, Mary? Then when I go to court you shall accompany me.”

  “Oh!” Mary cries, scrunching up her little shoulders, an endearing habit inherited from her father and exhibited whenever she is excited beyond words.

  Henry laughs at this. “Nonsense and drivel!” he cries in perfect imitation of His Grace. “Da will never let Mary go.”

  “Why not?” Mary asks, her tiny mouth quivering as she watches her dreams dissolve in her brother’s mocking eyes.

  Henry shrugs. “He just won’t, is all. He has other plans for you.”

  “How do you know?” Mary asks, eyes growing round with curiosity. “Did he tell you?”

  “I hear things . . .” Henry says. “But I won’t tell you unless you give me . . . hmmmm . . .”

  “Now, now, Henry, I won’t be having you taking your sister’s things again,” I tell him, knowing poor Mary would give him her beating heart should he request it. “Besides,” I add with a laugh. “You don’t know anything, anyway.”

  The boy offers up a disarming smile, caught in his ruse but not the least bit ashamed.

  Lady Cathy directs her attention out the window once more. “I wonder how soon I shall go to court. And will I have my own apartments as a countess or will I have to sleep with the other maidens?”

  “Listen to you making your plans!” I laugh as I scoot in beside her and Mary. “What a great lady you will be. You will be everything your parents hope for.”

  “I do hope so,” Cathy says. “Oh, I hope so. I want to be a credit to my family.”

  “You are,” Mary says with fervency, taking her sister’s hands and squeezing them. “Oh, you are!”

  With this we embrace, caught up in the happiness and fantasies of a blushing bride.

  “Do you ever think to arrange a match for me?” I ask my father that evening when I call upon him in his chambers.

  He is resting before the fire, laying his head back on his chair, dozing with his mouth open and a half-finished cup of beer at his side. When he hears my entreaty, his head snaps up and he laughs.

  “A match, Bessie? With whom?” He arches a bushy blond brow. “Or is it that you expect the duke to put aside his wife for you?”

  I flush, bowing my head. My shame is no secret at Kenninghall; it has won as many admirers as enemies, but to hear my father call it out into the open causes my heart to wrench with humiliation.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to expect, Father,” I tell him, swallowing the tears rising in my throat. “I suppose that’s why I come to you, to ask after my future. Do I have one, sir? I am seventeen now. Perhaps it is time to begin considering prospects.”

  “Are you mad?” Father shakes his head. “And lose your exalted position?” This he says in a voice steeped in sarcasm. “You’re what he wants, Bessie. You hold the fate of this family in the palm of your hand . . . or whatever other body part His Grace prefers,” he adds, slapping me on the bum.

  I back away from him. Tears pave icy trails down my cheeks. I want to rage and scream but know it would be in vain. He is right. My father is not indispensable. If I angered the duke, he could be dismissed and lose his honor.

  Strange to think my father’s honor depends on my dishonor.

  His Grace sends dressmakers with bolts of the finest fabrics from which Lady Cathy will choose her gown and trousseau for her Shrovetide wedding. Together Lady Cathy, Mary, and I sit surrounded by cloth of silver and gold, damask, taffeta, silk, and fur, a garden of luxury. Lady Cathy is the embodiment of poise and refinement as she selects the material for her gowns. No longer does she exhibit the excitement displayed upon learning of her betrothal; she is composed and collected, the essence of calm.

  Mary and I cannot contain our delight, however, and we finger the fabrics and ogle the shoes with wide eyes, trying on hoods and squealing with joy over Lady Cathy’s elevation.

  As Lady Cathy is fitted for her wedding gown, we are stunned by its grandeur. Embroidered with seed pearls, its sleeves are split to reveal shimmering silver organza with a matching kirtle. The train is five feet long and Mary jumps up and down when she learns she will be one of the ladies attendant, vowing she will make it her solemn duty to carry the train to the very best of her abilities.

  We laugh at the passion in the child’s tone, then turn to each other.

  “Oh, Lady Howard, you are a picture of happiness,” I exclaim as I behold her.

  Lady Cathy’s eyes flutter a moment as she endeavors to hold back tears. “I’m very blessed,” she says in husky tones.

  His Grace returns with the duchess for the festivities. My heart pounds in fear and excitement as I watch the pair enter the great hall. They are splendid; Lady Elizabeth is wearing a deep blue riding habit, her chestnut hair swept under her hood, her angular face framed by escaping tendrils. She stands so straight, holding her head high and proud, her piercing blue gaze surveying her fine home, imparting to me without saying a word that this is her place. This is her place and I do not belong.

  I shudder, averting my head.

  His Grace walks with the same brusque steps, surrounded by an aura of pride not to be denied. He has changed a great deal; gone is the shoulder-length hair—it now grazes his jaw line and he is even slimmer than before. But his presence! Oh, his commanding presence! I shudder in mingling excitement and fear at the sight of him.

  He and the duchess greet the children arm in arm, and my heart wrenches to see the anticipation on the four faces as they wait for some sign of affection. Mary holds her arms up as her father passes, only to drop them by her sides, hopes for an embrace dashed.

  Duchess Elizabeth’s greetings are measured with equal coolness. It is something I do not understand. Watching this, I vow that my future children will be showered with all the open adoration they deserve.

  That night I am summoned to the duke’s apartments. I make certain to perfume my body with the scent of lavender that His Grace adores and don my prettiest gown, brushing out my white-blond curls until they shine.

  When I am permitted entrance, he encircles my waist with his arms and twirls me about the room. I emit a giggle, touched at his demonstration. At once my heart is seized by a pang of guilt as I wonder what separates me from his children. Am I stealing their share of his love? If I were gone, would they receive the affection they so need?

  His Grace sets me down, cupping my cheek. “What is it, my dear?” he asks in solicitous tones. “Is that a pout I see?”

  I shake my head. “You are well, Your Grace?” I ask him, resting a hand on his chest. “When I heard you had been taken ill with the sweat . . .” Tears clutch my throat at the thought. However unsteady my foothold is in his life, the thought of losing him is still unbearable. I swallow, blinking several times.

  “I survived,” he tells me, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “As I always do. Now. No more fretting. How did you spend your time when I was away? Were you a good girl?�
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  I nod, wondering what he is implying. If he means faithful, the answer is yes. “The children and I passed a lovely winter. But I missed you so. When you are away I am . . .” I shake my head, searching for the words. “Undefined.”

  “Undefined?” He screws up his face in confusion. “How so?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, wishing I were more eloquent, like Lady Elizabeth or Lady Cathy. “It’s just that, well, I am of an age now when all my friends are becoming betrothed. Watching Lady Cathy prepare for her marriage, well . . . mayhap I am a little jealous.”

  He pauses. “I can assure you, Bess, marriage is an institution from which happiness cannot be derived. Once you are a little older and the romance of the idea has faded, you will see how unhappy all those giddy maids of yours are and envy them you will not. You will be glad you did not enter into such foolishness.”

  How long does he plan to keep me in this state? I want to ask but bite my lip, bowing my head lest he read my disappointment, not that I should be fated to endure a lifetime with him but that I should be forced to endure a lifetime of disgrace.

  “But they will have children,” I venture.

  “What are they but little reminders of inevitable heartbreak?” he counters. “Really, Bess, be grateful you are where you are. You have no need of any such drivel. You are mine and I shall make your every dream come true.”

  The fair words do little to ease the sadness lying heavy in my heart. How can he profess that he has the ability to make all my dreams come true when the two I want most are denied me?

  “Anyway, enough of this girlish nonsense,” he tells me. “You would like a ring?” he asks in absent tones. “Then I shall give you one.” From his little finger he removes a heavy gold signet ring, then, taking my hand, slides it upon my left ring finger. “Here. My coat of arms. Wear it and be reassured that you are mine.”