Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  The king reaches out a fat bejeweled hand to stroke the animal’s tummy. Something about the gesture repulses me and I find myself taking Kitty’s hand and squeezing.

  “You like pets, little Catherine?” he asks her in sweet tones. She nods. “Then I shall make certain you have the entire menagerie at the Tower of London at your disposal!”

  “Oh!” She claps her hands. “Will you take me to see them?” she asks.

  “Of course I will,” he says. “Now run along and play, sweetheart. It pleases me to see you frolic. Later I will set a nice private supper for us with all the entertainments you like.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answers, dipping into another curtsy, then rising and wrapping her arms about me, kissing my cheek. “Thank you for my kitten. I love you,” she tells me as she does every time we greet and part. Never in my life have I been subject to such a harangue of affection. I tolerate it as I must, thinking of the end result and knowing that, unlike my children, there must be something missing in this girl to make her crave male attention so. So I do not push her away. Having her love makes my task much easier. Unlike Anne, there are no quarrels or matches of wits. She is much like my Bess in this manner, full of “Yes, Uncle, no, Uncle.” Had she been born years sooner, perhaps we could have avoided the whole Anne debacle altogether, for the court is in agreement: Never before has anyone seen the king so in love with a woman as with this girl, this little Kitty Howard.

  When she is out of earshot, the king wraps his heavy arm about my shoulders and we begin to promenade, he leaning on me as though any moment he might fall down. It takes all of my strength to hold him up. Fortunately, carrying eighty pounds of armor on my slim frame for so many years prepares me for this and I walk as though unburdened.

  “Ah, Thomas,” he tells me. “You have known me since I was born,” he comments, his eyes misting over with nostalgia.

  “A blessed day, Majesty,” I remark.

  He smiles at this. “Your first four children were my first cousins and your wife my aunt. You’ve been my uncle twice over now. What would you say to a third time?”

  I smile. “Your Majesty,” I say, patting his hand. “Does this mean that you have thought about taking my little niece to wife?”

  “Could it mean anything else?” he returns. “Oh, Thomas, but she is so lovely. What is it with you Howards? There is some magic in your blood for you to produce these women. . . .” For a moment his eyes grow stormy and I stiffen, knowing he is thinking of Anne. But the dark look passes, to my relief. I relax as best I can under his weight. “Really, Thomas, with a treasure like Kitty, I can’t imagine why you didn’t keep her for yourself.”

  I laugh. “Your Majesty, I have enough women to trouble me,” I assure him with a hearty laugh. “One more would likely kill me.”

  He joins me, adding his robust laughter to my own. “I should say I am the authority on woman trouble!” he declares. “But then,” he adds in a soft voice, “this girl is different. Oh, Thomas, she is so innocent and sweet. A rose without a thorn. So far she has warmed to me, to all my gifts and attentions. But I can’t imagine her actually loving me. Do you think she could love me?”

  Bile is rising in my throat. Why does anyone think love has a place in politics? But he is not like other kings. Every marriage, save with the German, has been for one perverse form of love or another.

  “Kitty is a vessel of love,” I say, thinking of the sweet little girl on my knee, the beautiful child who at every opportunity demonstrates nothing but affection for me and anyone else who bothers to pay even scant attention to her. Oh, what am I doing? God save this little innocent. . . . “I have every reason to believe she loves you a great deal,” I finish, clearing away the lump in my throat.

  “As a man or as a king?”

  What does he want of me? “As a king, of course,” I begin, “but more so as a man, a desirable man. Why, she can’t say often enough how handsome she thinks you are,” I lie. “She is in awe of you.”

  He enfolds me in a powerful embrace. “Oh, Thomas, my dear Thomas! You have made me a happy man! I will have her! Nothing will stop me. I will have her and crown her my queen and she will carry on the Tudor line. Nothing shall be denied her, not ever.” His smile is so bright, it brings tears to my eyes. I don’t understand it. This is a man who had my other niece beheaded, let my brother die in the Tower for loving his niece Margaret Douglas, and killed several of my friends. But I pity him. I pity him because he was once great and now he is pathetic, an injured lion that reflects only a semblance of his former glory.

  Like my signet ring bearing the lion with its arrow-pierced tongue.

  I am unnerved by the thought.

  Animals in pain are known to lash out.

  Elizabeth Howard

  I have lost my one potential ally. Thomas Cromwell, once Earl of Essex and Privy Seal, was stripped of his titles, thrown into the Tower of London, then beheaded for treason because of his orchestration of the unfavorable marriage to Anne of Cleves, which ended in another annulment. He was called a traitor and a heretic, denying the presence of Christ in the Host during communion, or so they say. They will say anything.

  I am told Thomas stripped him of his chains of office. I imagine it was difficult for him to refrain from breaking out into a jig at his victory over his hated rival.

  Now another Howard sits the throne of England, little Kitty, a mere babe. I cannot summon the same hatred for her that I did for Anne Boleyn. Perhaps it is that I have grown up, perhaps it is because it takes too much effort now. Perhaps it is because I know who is behind it all, who controls the pretty marionette. Oh, God, it sickens me.

  There is no hope of escape now. I have even written a letter to my Ralph, a letter my sister could read without feeling threatened, just wishing them well and hoping I can see them and their sixteen children soon. There is no bitterness in the letter nor in my heart. I find myself more often than not thanking God that some have been fortunate enough to find happiness in this world.

  My son Henry, Lord Surrey, has four beautiful children I have never seen. I think of them often. I wish I could send them gifts and notes, but Thomas has convinced Surrey to see me as the enemy. I doubt anything I send would get to them.

  So I live out my days at Redbourne. I have been ill; suffering as I did at the servants’ hands at Kenninghall did me little good. My breastbone sustained serious injury and I often feel a stabbing pain in my chest.

  Yet I am some sort of happy. It is a simple life but I keep busy. I tarry in my garden and take pride in its yield. I am proud to say I maintain the finest of figures by brisk walking. I busy myself in the stillroom concocting with the apothecaries all manner of lotions, oils, and possets to keep my skin youthful. I ride and hunt and hawk. I pray for my children and continue to follow my true queen’s example of adhering to the Catholic religion, devoting time to charitable works, and focusing on the suffering of others rather than my own.

  If my life is a testament of anything, it is one of endurance, which is a triumph in its own right.

  Bess Holland, 1541

  Queen Catherine has remained childless throughout her marriage to the king, and my duke laments it whenever he visits Kenninghall. He confides in me that he does not believe the man long for this world, hence the necessity of certain “measures” being taken to ensure the begetting of heirs.

  “But nothing can be traced back to me,” he assures me when noting my frightened expression. “Stupid Jane Boleyn—you’ll remember her as the idiot who accused her own husband of incest with his sister Queen Anne.” His eyes grow distant a moment, then he shakes his head, his face stony and impenetrable. “She thrives off intrigue like a maggot off dying flesh.” He laughs. “She serves as a go-between for the queen and her beautiful golden boy, Thomas Culpepper.”

  “Oh, Your Grace!” I cry, scandalized and terrified. “But this is so dangerous for the poor child! Hadn’t you better warn her?”

  “But I don’t know a thing,
my Bess,” he tells me. “Not a thing. And if it is played right, no one will be the wiser, and England will be all the richer. The king is so besotted with his innocent rose that he is rendered blind. They carry on nearly right under his nose!”

  “How dreadful for her,” I say in genuine sympathy. “Oh, to be so young and married to someone so old and . . . well, he isn’t in the finest form these days. It’s only natural for one her age to want the companionship of a young, virile gentleman.” His Grace’s expression does not change at all when I say this, as though he could not even entertain the notion of my statement being a subtle comparison of the queen’s situation to my own, though I am far too afraid to be unfaithful to the duke. “She must be very naïve to believe she is not in any danger.”

  “Don’t worry so, Bess,” he tells me, pulling me into bed beside him. “Nothing can ever touch us, no matter what happens.”

  I snuggle against him, taking comfort in his promise. Despite everything, I am glad to have him home. He is as good to me as ever, showering me with gowns and jewels.

  I try to tell myself that I can ask for nothing more.

  But I was right to worry. It is not long before the whole affair with the queen and her young gentleman is brought to light, thanks to the treachery of a reformist zealot whose sister served in the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk’s home, where the little queen was raised. He informed the Archbishop of Canterbury that the queen was precontracted in marriage to a man now employed as her secretary, one Francis Dereham, who confessed under torture to the affair conducted at Norfolk House years before Her little Majesty ever set eyes on the king. It didn’t take long for the rest of the story to come to light after that. Culpepper was soon arrested and confessed to his criminal knowledge of the queen, along with a music master who served the girl as a child and tried to tangle with her then. All pay for their crimes with death. It is a sick thing that wrenches my heart, for despite everything, I know the child is innocent. She was unfaithful, of that there is no doubt. But she was a girl, a little girl in a big world, a child-woman who wanted to love a normal man. Why must they make her pay for that?

  I hate the king and any man who takes what he wants and cares not who he sacrifices in the process. I pity the girls who are powerless in the face of such destructive desire.

  I shall not be powerless. I have waited long enough to take what I want. I know there is little hope of true happiness for me, but I will take what little I can from what is available to me.

  I will have my day.

  Thomas Howard, 1542

  Foolish slut confessed to everything! How is it such stupid people can claim themselves my relations? Yet she is only sixteen. . . . What logic could she possibly possess? Oh, God . . . I will not think of it.

  I have retained favor, convincing the king I was in no way aware of the girl’s antics, shifting the entirety of the blame onto the bony shoulders of Jane Boleyn (who deserves to die anyway for betraying George and Anne), little Kitty, and her lover. Perhaps as a test of my loyalty, I am given the duty of going to her at Syon Abbey, where she has been removed, that I might read her the Act of Attainder that is also her death sentence.

  She is so tiny in her gray gown, this child I used to pet and spoil, this baby queen of England. My gut lurches when I see hope light her tear-filled eyes.

  “You came!” she cries. “Oh, you came! I knew you’d help me.” She wipes her nose with her sleeve and stares up at me, as though waiting for a reassurance that will never come. “I didn’t mean to be a bad girl, Uncle Thomas. I didn’t mean to love Thomas Culpepper, truly. And now the king has had him killed, him and poor Francis—” She chokes on a sob, burying her head in her hands a long moment, her little shoulders quaking. “I did love His Majesty. He was always so good to me. If I could just see him and talk to him, I know I could make him understand—”

  I shake my head. “He doesn’t want to see you, Kitty,” I tell her. “Not ever again. Don’t you understand?”

  “Will he put me away like he did Anne of Cleves? He was very kind to her. And he was so fond of me, like a father—”

  I shake my head again. I cannot believe the girl is this naïve. “He wasn’t your father, Kitty. He was your husband. He demanded the respect of a wife, not a daughter. What you did was treason, my . . . girl. You”—I swallow a frustrating onset of tears—“will not escape with your life.”

  “No!” she cries, stricken.

  I avert my head. “Now you come with me. I will be escorting you to the Tower.”

  The little girl stares at me a moment, then runs toward me as if to offer an embrace. I back away.

  “I’m afraid those days are gone,” I tell her, not wanting to risk being seen sympathizing with the girl before the guards, who would happily report my actions to the king.

  Kitty stares at me openmouthed. Tears stream down her cheeks unchecked. She shakes her head, mystified. “Even you don’t love me anymore, Uncle Thomas? Why?” Her voice grows shrill with panic as though the thought of my abandonment is a cross she cannot bear. “Why don’t you love me anymore, Uncle Thomas?”

  I cannot look at her. I turn on my heel and proceed to the barge while the guards carry the screaming Kitty in their arms. She has to be held down throughout our passage to the Tower.

  Still I do not look at her.

  I cannot.

  Bess Holland

  His Grace returns to me, silent and brooding. He did not stay to witness Queen Catherine’s execution; I imagine he does not want to watch another of his nieces die and be forced to examine the depth of his own betrayal. For the first few days, he walks Storm, his old greyhound from the first Queen Catherine. They promenade, two lonely figures in the snow, and the duke looks up at the sky as though searching the clouds for some sign of redemption.

  The exercise is too much for the retired greyhound and one morning when His Grace fetches him for his walk, the gentle dog does not raise its head to his whistle. It had died in the night.

  This seems to send His Grace beyond the edge of reason. He collapses on top of the animal in a fit of sobs. “No!” he cries, gathering the creature in his arms. “No, damn it! Why do they all die?”

  I go to him and rest my hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away from the dog. “Come, love, come . . .”

  He raises his tear-streaked face up to me. “She was just a baby . . . she didn’t know . . . Anne had all her wits about her; she played the game. She knew the risks. She wanted it badly enough not to care and, in the end, died more a queen than any of them, save perhaps Catherine of Aragon. But this little girl . . . this sweet little babe, she didn’t know a damn thing. She just wanted her gowns and her pets and her jewels. . . . She wanted to go to court and play with her friends . . . and we took it away from her. . . . Oh, God!”

  Fie on you! I want to scream. I want to curse his self-pity and his regret and compassion, all arriving conveniently too late to save his Anne and his Kitty both. Now they are gone and he is left scrambling to figure out a means to worm his way back into the king’s heart, gaining whatever he can in the process. Regret! Yes, now he regrets, now that he has almost lost it all. He won’t feel so repentant when he has secured the king’s affections again. Then this will all be an unpleasant memory.

  Yet I know my duke and have I not avowed to love him despite the dark side of his nature?

  So I calm myself. I call for a servant to remove and bury the dog, then guide His Grace to his bed, where we sit side by side. I rub his back and coo soft endearments in his ear.

  “My brother and sister-in-law, even my old stepmother, were put in the Tower for a while,” he goes on, collecting himself. “The king will stop at nothing till all those who displease him are snuffed out. I cannot be in that number. You may think me evil for what I have had to do, but I will not be made a sacrifice to others’ stupidity!”

  “Of course not, Your Grace,” I say and find myself, in a peculiar way, understanding. “You must not think of these terrible thi
ngs anymore, my lord,” I tell him. “You must think of the future, your great future. Haven’t you always been able to rise above the rest?”

  He stares straight ahead, determination replacing the tears in his black eyes.

  “Now,” I tell him, pouring him a large draught of red wine. “You’re going to drink some wine and I am going to make you feel better like I always do.”

  “My sweet Bess,” the duke murmurs, pulling me to his chest. Despite everything I know about this man, I wrap my arms about him. He has for years been the only home I have ever known and likely will be for life. Never will I understand why I love him, why in his absence there is relief and yearning, and why, even when I am angriest at him, he can almost justify the vilest of actions. What choice did he really have but to betray those poor girls? He can’t die. He is the head of the Howard family and God knows young Surrey is not ready to fulfill that obligation yet. In his situation, would I not be forced to do the same?

  After the duke has partaken of his wine, I turn down the covers and pat the vacant spot beside me. He crawls in, pulling me into his arms and covering my face with soft, gentle kisses.

  I smile. I have not forgotten the dual purpose of this evening and as I give myself to His Grace, I know I am taking at last what has long been owed me.

  Blossom of Hope

  Bess Holland

  It has worked! I am with child at last! His Grace has not been informed yet, though the baby has long since quickened. To my good fortune, my full figure conceals my pregnancy for the first four months and I do not share the news with a soul, not even Mary Fitzroy, who is too busy entertaining the king’s niece Margaret Douglas to notice the changes in me.

  But I cannot hide it forever. When my duke notes my weight gain (wrinkling his nose and declaring I shall have to watch myself) I offer my sweetest smile.