Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  The delivery of her stillborn monster confirms it. Anne’s days are numbered.

  The king recovers, sustaining a leg wound but no worse for wear and more determined than ever to be rid of who he now refers to as The Witch. In April, charges are contrived against six men for having criminal knowledge of the queen. One of them is her own brother. Charges are then brought against Anne: witchcraft, plotting to poison Lady Mary, adultery, treason, and incest. The last is needless and horrid. I am sickened.

  The task of interrogating and arresting her falls upon me. She does not argue with me for once but carries herself with the dignity of her station, declaring her innocence with cool control and allowing me to escort her to the Tower, her arm looped through mine.

  “I have no choice, Anne,” I tell her. “Believe me.”

  “Of course you don’t. You are a Howard, after all,” she says, her voice laced with irony. I am reminded of my last conversation with Queen Catherine, when I told her I had no choice but to abandon her as well. But I didn’t have a choice. Not then and not now.

  What can I do but be the king’s man, else lose my own head?

  Four of the six men arrested are killed, either hung, drawn and eviscerated, or sacrificed to the axe. I preside over the trials. It is my duty to the king, and God knows I do my duty well. At this crucial hour, it is vital I am viewed as nothing but King Henry’s loyal servant.

  My nephew George was among those killed, my proud handsome nephew who dared read his charges aloud, charges brought against him by his treacherous wife, Jane. I sentence him to death, as is the king’s pleasure. All of it is for his pleasure.

  Anne is tried as well. I preside and watch my niece carry herself with more dignity than ever before. If she did not live as a queen, she dies as one.

  I find her guilty as do the rest of her peers and am forced to sentence her to death by beheading or by burning, again at the king’s pleasure.

  I weep looking at her. Not only for my lost opportunities but for the baby I once held in my arms so many years ago at her baptism, the baby who challenged me with her steady black gaze so like my own.

  There is naught to do but witness her beheading, holding that black gaze till she is blindfolded. I do not look away, not even as the French sword cuts through her swanlike neck and the crimson blood pours onto the straw below, red as rubies.

  At once I am reminded of my daughter Mary’s childhood dream of a pretty lady wearing a ruby necklace that drips blood. . . . Can it be the child possessed that frightening gift known as the second sight? If so, what horror has she forecast for the house of Howard? I shake my head, closing my eyes against the horrific thought. It was a dream, a horrible dream and a queer coincidence. These reflections do me no good. There is nothing to be done. Anne is dead. Gone. And with her my hope of a Howard sitting the throne of England.

  The night after her death I lie stunned in Bess’s arms.

  “We will remove to Kenninghall,” I tell her. “Just for a while. I will think there of what to do.”

  Bess is wide-eyed and horrified. “Was any of those horrible things they said about Queen Anne true, Your Grace?” she asks in her tiny voice. “Any at all?”

  I turn toward her. “It was as she said at the trial. Her one sin was not giving the king the respect due him. She was blameless, Bess.”

  “And you sentenced her anyway? You said she was guilty, even though you knew she was not?”

  “I had to, Bess. To preserve my own life,” I tell her.

  Bess crawls out of bed and begins to back away from my outstretched hand. She is shaking her head in terror.

  “Don’t be afraid, Bess,” I tell her. “For God’s sake, don’t be afraid of me.”

  “You would let me be killed, too,” she whispers in horror. “If you had to, you’d let everyone close to you die. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Come back to bed, Bess,” I order with impatience. “Get these thoughts out of your head.”

  Bess inches forward, but when she again lies in my arms she is trembling.

  I turn away so she cannot see the tears paving hot trails down my cheeks. What is the point of any of this anyway? Why don’t I just retire to the country for good?

  But I won’t do it. I know I won’t. I will not lose. I may retreat but I will not go away. I will rise again. I am Thomas Howard and I will survive this as I have survived everything else.

  Days after the execution, the king marries Jane Seymour and crowns her queen. Her children will be the only heirs. My little grandniece, the pretty Elizabeth, is now among his growing list of bastards.

  That same summer, my son-in-law Henry Fitzroy dies, supposedly of consumption but it is my belief that he was poisoned in a plot to remove him from the succession. It is a horrid time to be alive, waiting and wondering who will be struck down next.

  I take my little girl to Kenninghall, my precious baby Mary, a widow mad with grief and who must now fight for her inheritance. There we will think of something. I will regain my favor with the king and come up with a new alliance for Mary. There is hope. She can still be useful to me, and at least with Fitzroy gone, I can keep her with me a little longer yet.

  Yes, I will get through this.

  I will press on.

  The Redbourne Years

  Elizabeth Howard

  Strange to think they both died in the same year, the true queen and the false one. I am sick with grief for both of them. I expected to mourn for my Catherine, but at least I am assured that she is in Heaven with her Lord and five children. Her suffering has ended at last. No longer do I have to fret over her in her exile, no longer do I have to worry about her failing health, no longer do I have to rail against all those who have shown her such profound disregard. I am at peace with Queen Catherine’s death; far better she does not see what her husband has become.

  It is what I feel upon learning of Anne’s wrongful execution that stirs an unforeseen amount of grief in my aching breast. I think of all the terrible things I called her, all the accusations and confrontations and battles fought in her name. She was not the cause. She was a mere girl, a tool of greed and ambition. Her entire life, forces worked for and against her and all of them so much stronger than she could ever have been. Now at twenty-nine she is dead and a child is motherless.

  The injustice of it all is like taking in the sight of a fortress for the first time: awe-inspiring for its sheer magnitude.

  My daughter loses the husband she never had that same year and Thomas cloisters her at Kenninghall while Bess is in another one of his manors. I remain here, of course, and am not allowed to comfort my daughter in her time of bereavement, though what consolation I could give, I have no idea. Yet, if I could, I would tell her to be strong, that there is hope. She is a young woman with endless possibilities before her. She could know happiness and love yet if she would persevere. And if there is any of myself in her . . . but there is not. She is of another world altogether, made of some ethereal substance brilliant for its beautiful transience. And though I do not doubt her will and intelligence, I bear the inexplicable knowledge somewhere in the core of my being that Mary will be deprived of any true joy. So long as her father rules her. So long as she allows it. And she will allow it, that much I also know.

  I must not think on her overmuch, else I be devoured in regret.

  Instead, from the safety and loneliness of Redbourne, I learn of the happenings at court. My husband rises to prominence again when he puts down the Pilgrimage of Grace, a papist revolt against the dissolution of the monasteries and the king’s general perversion of the Catholic faith. Our son Henry, Lord Surrey, fights alongside his idol and together they put down their fellow Catholics and are praised as heroes.

  Jane Seymour gives birth to the desired heir, Prince Edward, only to die twelve days later. The country is thrust once more into grief and the hunt is on for her replacement.

  The king is cursed, I believe. His own actions against his first wife have cursed his subsequent marr
iages, and no wife of his will ever know a day of happiness.

  As these dramas unfold, I write to Thomas Cromwell, a rising star at the court of Henry VIII and a rival of my husband’s. Now named Privy Seal, it is Cromwell who has the king’s ear above all others, much to my husband’s consternation. As such, Cromwell is my only hope for attaining some justice. I do not hope to win my husband from the arms of his harlot. What I need is money. I cannot live on this pathetic amount. I have servants to pay, a manor to run, and food to put on the table. My daily expenses are driving me into debt. If my daughter Mary can be granted a pension for an unconsummated marriage, then I must have some rights to claim.

  I send appeal after appeal, pouring out to Cromwell every crime Thomas has ever committed against me without shame. I will humiliate Thomas into doing right by me. Cromwell’s responses are polite and filled with empty promises. Nothing changes. Thomas’s letters are filled with threats and remonstrations for my “slander.” If I recant and apologize, he will consider granting me a larger annuity.

  But I remind him of the vow I spoke to him years ago, that I will speak only the truth, and thus avowed, I cannot recant or apologize for that would be lying.

  I never receive a letter from Thomas again.

  Thomas Howard, 1540

  Cromwell thinks he is crafty and clever, the very right hand of the king, he thinks he is, but he will be brought down and I will be the one to do it. For too long he has been allowed to hover about, whispering in the royal ear, advising and manipulating to suit his desires. Knave and scoundrel! His taunts ring in my ears; he delights in throwing his correspondence with Elizabeth in my face.

  “Norfolk, aren’t you the happy man,” he chuckled when last we met. “Your wife has nothing on you, for if she did, I think she might undo you.” How his narrow eyes lit up with that statement, as though he could not wait to help her bring me down! But I will show him. I will show him just as I showed Wolsey. No one fights the Howards and wins.

  Cromwell is victorious at the moment, however. His cleverness has secured for the king a Protestant sow from Germany in the hopes of Lutheranizing England. He will not succeed. As it is, Anne of Cleves’s German maids will be replaced with good English ladies-in-waiting and I begin to scout out members of my family to secure places at court for as many Howard girls as possible before she arrives.

  This task requires a visit to my stepmother’s London residence, where I am told resides the daughter of my late brother Edmund. They await me in the parlor, the girl dressed in a gown that verifies my brother’s modest estate. Despite this, her beauty is undeniable. Auburn hair cascades down her back in thick waves and her eyes sparkle as blue as the sunlit sea.

  I nod to my stepmother and she curtsies, leaving us alone. I sit in one of the Dowager Duchess’s hard wooden chairs and shift in discomfort.

  The girl offers a clumsy curtsy. For a moment we stare at each other, making assessments. Then, to my shock, she runs toward me and jumps onto my lap, wrapping her arms about my neck and kissing me on the cheek.

  “Oh, Uncle, I’m so glad you came to visit me!” she cries in delight. “No one ever comes to see me!”

  “So you’re Catherine,” I say at last, resisting the urge to push her off me. She could prove very useful so must be handled with care. I wrap my arms about her tiny waist, assessing with as much subtlety as possible her hips. They are rounded and ready for childbearing. It appears she is blessed with the body of a twenty-year-old, the angelic face of a ten-year-old, and the mind of a complete idiot: a perfect combination for my purposes . . .

  “Kitty,” she corrects me. “I’m Kitty.”

  “Ah, Kitty,” I say, reaching up to stroke her lustrous hair. It is like silk under my fingertips. “Tell me, Kitty, you must be a very grown up lady. Have you your courses yet?”

  She flushes bright crimson. “Yes, for about six months now,” she tells me, bowing her head.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” she says, raising her head. It is obvious she is proud of achieving this great age.

  “Fourteen!” I cry. “Tut-tut, old girl! It is a sin for a grand lady of fourteen to be shut away at Norfolk House. How would you like to come to court with Uncle Thomas?”

  “Court? Me?” she cries in delight. “Oh, Uncle Thomas, but I would!”

  “Will you be a good girl and listen to everything I say and follow my every command?” I ask her in severe tones.

  Her large blue eyes grow even wider with fear. “Yes, of course I will!” she insists.

  “Good Kitty,” I say, drawing her close so we are cheek to cheek. “I will make certain you have everything you desire. Gowns and pretty hoods and slippers, jewels even. As long as you are always my good girl.”

  “I will be, Uncle Thomas!” she cries. “Oh, I will be!” She hugs me tight, kissing me full on the mouth before pulling away. I can barely control the urge to wipe the kiss away. Though there was nothing sexual in it, I am disconcerted and annoyed at being invaded by this little dolt. “Can I go tell my friends now?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I tell her, forcing patience into my voice. “Go tell your friends that you are leaving them to become the great Kitty Howard.”

  She offers a smile to light up the darkest night and blows me a kiss. “Dear Uncle Thomas, you’ve no idea what you’re rescuing me from. . . . I love you!”

  I wave her off and she skips down the hall, laughing and singing.

  She is perfect, I think to myself, a little triumph.

  With her I can solve two problems: Cromwell and the resurrection of lost dreams.

  A Howard Rose

  Thomas Howard

  The 1530s proved turbulent for the Howards but we pulled through, ushering in the next decade with renewed purpose. This promises to be our best years yet. Oh, there have been pitfalls. My children have all proven to be disappointments in their own right. Mary refused an advantageous alliance with young Prince Edward’s uncle Tom Seymour at her brother Lord Surrey’s urgings while the latter grows more impulsive and hotheaded with each passing day, landing himself in confinement more often than not. As for my youngest son, Thomas, he has become an impassioned reformist and I have very little use for him.

  Mary is still valuable, however, and serves at the court of Anne of Cleves alongside her pretty cousin, the newest Howard star, my little niece Kitty.

  To my utmost satisfaction, the king seems disposed to rid himself of the poor German in record time. She repulses him for some reason, though I don’t find her altogether unappealing. It’s just as well for my purposes, however, and I take every opportunity to thrust the delicious Kitty in His Majesty’s view. Her gowns I take particular interest in, making sure they are designed to accentuate every generous curve to the best advantage, paying attention to the neckline. It must be low enough for the king to appreciate her lovely white bosoms but not too low so as to appear wanton.

  Kitty is a natural and, almost without knowing it, plays right into the king’s hands. And her protective, doting uncle takes every opportunity to place her in his path. He must see that this beautiful and sensual creature is supervised and cared for, preserved as a prize he will certainly claim as his own.

  Kitty is malleable and agreeable to everything I say, so unlike her unfortunate cousin and predecessor Anne. Her lack of wit and basic intelligence, however, is aggravating at times. It isn’t as though she is stupid. She is just so young. . . .

  And the king is so old. Eighteen years my junior and one would never guess. I have retained my excellent form through discipline and moderation, while excess and decadence has reduced the man once deemed the handsomest prince in Christendom to a grossly overweight pig with a rotting leg oozing with an ulcer that never heals. It turns my stomach to serve him up with this pretty babe. But the end result will make it all worth it. And Kitty is a flighty, superficial thing; she will love the thought of the shiny crown upon her head and will think nothing of putting up with a few minutes of the huf
fing and puffing king as long as the presents keep coming.

  And they do. The king and I keep her well supplied. Kitty loves her gowns and hoods, her slippers and jewels. But of all the things she loves, it surprises me to find that it is her pets that give her the most pleasure. When one day I approach her in the gardens with a little gray kitten, she holds it to her face in delight, rubbing her cheek against its soft fur.

  “A kitty for my precious Kitty,” I tell her, reaching out to stroke her own lustrous auburn locks. God, she is beautiful.

  Tears light her round blue eyes. “Oh, thank you, dearest Uncle. She’s so sweet,” she coos. “Remember when I was a little girl and you let me play with your dog at Norfolk House?”

  I struggle to summon the memory. “Storm?” I ask, recalling the greyhound Queen Catherine sent me upon my recovery from the sweat.

  “Yes, do you still have him?” she queries, still rubbing her cheek against the kitten.

  I nod. “He’s getting old. He’s a good dog,” I tell her. “I’m certain the sight of you would rejuvenate him.”

  She giggles in appreciation. She is easily won, a trusting girl. A strange lump swells in my throat at the thought. I swallow hard.

  At once we note a procession of the king’s guard, followed by His lumbering Majesty as he attempts to take some exercise.

  “Norfolk!” he cries, but his beady eyes are on my niece. “How now, dear friend?”

  “Quite well, Majesty,” I answer, bowing. I elbow Kitty to curtsy. She does so, never taking her eyes away from her treasured kitten.

  “And my little kitten,” he nearly growls, “how goes it with my precious gem?”

  She flushes and smiles. “I’m so happy, Majesty!” she cries, holding out the kitten. “Look what Uncle Thomas gave me.”