Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  She offers a slight laugh, turning to face me. Her blue eyes are soft with tears. “Those old crones were stealing my sleeves when you rescued me. I thought you were a hero then.”

  I bow my head. I cannot bear looking at her. “Elizabeth . . .”

  “Yes, Thomas?” she asks in a small voice. If I closed my eyes, I’d believe she was the little twelve-year-old I rescued all those years ago.

  What is there to say? Sorry? Am I sorry? If I had the chance to do it all again, wouldn’t I do everything the same way? There is no going back, no righting wrongs. There are no second chances.

  “Take care, Elizabeth,” I tell her.

  She turns her head and nods before quitting the room, leaving me alone again.

  Bess Holland Reppes

  I am married! I am a bride and a happier bride cannot be found. The world is full of beauty and hope and my husband’s gentle love. I am thirty-seven years old but run with the love madness of a girl. Within six months of marriage, my womb has quickened with his child and we await the birth of our baby with joy. The midwife—how I wish it were Tsura Goodman—is a woman ten years my junior, but she is capable and kind. I tell my husband—oh, the pleasure of saying that word, husband—I will have no wet nurses about. I will care for my own child, and all the children who follow, myself. He does not fight me on a thing. How strange to have such an agreeable partner!

  I have not forgotten the duke or his family. Henry is teaching me to read and write, and Mary Fitzroy and I keep correspondence. She is very patient with my poor spelling and worse handwriting! She tells me she has been awarded custody of her late brother’s five children and has removed to Reigate to raise and educate them. There she has found respite with her aunt and uncle and is enjoying a friendship with the children’s tutor, John Foxe. She is most happy with the religious reforms King Edward VI’s government is making. Always a devout girl, Mary is finally allowed the freedom of practicing the Protestant faith. She has found peace at last, and my heart surges with happiness for my dear friend.

  I have not made many new friends yet. My husband and I have been far too involved with each other to socialize, which suits me well. There will be plenty enough time for that later.

  This pregnancy is too hard on me to entertain as it is. Often I have the queer sensation that the baby is going to fall out of me. It sits so low in my belly that I am fraught with discomfort. Unlike my easy confinement with Jane, I am ill most of the time with bad bile and cannot take in much nourishment. My husband dotes on me, feeding me broth with his own hand and swabbing my burning forehead with cool cloths whenever I take a fever.

  I thank God on my knees every day that He has been so forgiving, that, despite my past sins with the duke, I am still allowed to know this great love.

  “You are happy, Mrs. Reppes?” my husband likes to ask as he rubs my swollen belly.

  I look up into his gentle blue eyes, eyes that do not know how to deceive, eyes that cannot conceive of cruelty, and tell him, “Yes, Mr. Reppes—there is no woman on earth so happy as me.”

  And there isn’t.

  Elizabeth Howard

  Antagonizing Thomas in the Tower assuages my grief for Surrey; indeed it is about as close to Heaven as I have ever gotten. I cannot help it. I thrive on our visits. Knowing he is a prisoner as I was for so many years fills me with a sweet sense of satisfaction that I know is unholy. Despite this I cannot deny myself the immense pleasure I derive from his misery.

  And yet when I see him, my breath catches in my throat. I kiss him, I embrace him, we fire back our timeless witticisms and insults and I know that whatever has been between us, I am relieved he has not been killed. I am glad he is safe and made to reflect upon his many sins. I pray he will receive forgiveness. As time passes I realize that I do not wish any more ill will on Thomas Howard.

  When not with Thomas, I enjoy the freedom I have not known these past thirteen years. I visit my sisters and their families. I have even called upon Catherine and Ralph. No more does my heart race for the earl of Westmorland. I am at peace.

  In the spring of 1548 I receive a most unusual dispatch from a breathless messenger of one JP called Henry Reppes. The name rings familiar. Reppes. Yes, of course. Bess Holland’s husband. What on earth could they want with me?

  I take the dispatch with trembling hands.

  Lady Norfolk,

  I do not write well and my hand is very poor but I knew I must find some way to reach you. I have taken ill unto death. I have no right to ask anything of you but I pray God works forgiveness in your heart and you will see me. Please come straight away. There is much to say and little time.

  Your obedient servant,

  Elizabeth Reppes

  Bess is ill—gravely ill. I repeat this to myself several times. My rival of twenty years, the woman who put me out of house and home, the woman who claimed my husband’s heart almost above all others and drove him to distraction, wants to see me. Why? Does she seek absolution for her many grievous sins? What gives me the authority to grant it?

  And yet if I do not go to her, what kind of Christian am I? Does not the Lord command us to forgive in order to be forgiven? What kind of courage must Bess possess to seek me out and make peace?

  But do I forgive her? I want to be a good Christian. Catherine of Aragon forgave Anne Boleyn and the king even as she rallied against their ill-fated liaison. Have I not always striven to follow my long-suffering queen’s example? Is this not what she would want me—no, command me—to do?

  I am not going to her of my own will. As I call for my cloak and coach, I realize a force much stronger than I is drawing me to the deathbed of Elizabeth Holland Reppes.

  I go in secret, taking only my most faithful servant to attend me. I do not know what my family and friends would make of the visit so decide discretion is the best course. I laugh at the irony. For years I did the unthinkable, railing against a cherished system and airing my grievances to God and the king and anyone who would listen. And now I choose secrecy. Now my purpose is veiled in anonymity. But it is as it should be. God knows I am here, after all, and His is the only opinion that matters.

  When I arrive at Mendham, I am led to Bess’s bedchamber. She lies there, white-blond hair matted to her forehead with sweat, eyelids fluttering as she mutters something incoherent to the nurse who swabs her forehead. Her agonized husband sits beside her, gripping her hand, tears streaming down his handsome face.

  “Oh, Bess, Bess, Bess,” he murmurs over and over. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. . . .”

  “The Duchess of Norfolk,” announces a servant as I am shown into the room.

  Henry Reppes rises and offers a bow.

  I curtsy. “Dear sir, how sorry I am to meet you under these circumstances.”

  “There are no words to express my gratitude that you have chosen to come,” he tells me. “Bess has been calling for you these past three days.” His voice catches. “It has been a terrible time, my lady.”

  “It is childbed fever.” It is not a question.

  He nods as he dissolves into sobs.

  “The baby?” I ask.

  “Our son was born dead,” he informs me, burying his face in his hands.

  I rush toward him, enfolding the poor man in my arms. “Oh, my dear, trust that God has taken him to His bosom,” I tell him, stroking his blond hair. “And understand from one who has lost much that you will know happiness and peace again. That you can get through this.”

  He draws back, regarding me with bewildered blue eyes.

  “Now go rest and take in some nourishment. I will keep company with Bess and send for you should her condition change,” I tell him.

  In a haze the man allows himself to be escorted from the room by a doting steward.

  I relieve the nurse, taking the cool cloth from her hand and swabbing Bess’s forehead. Never in my wildest fantasies would I ever have seen myself in this place. And now that I am here, I derive no satisfaction from it, no perverse p
leasure in my rival’s suffering. I look upon her, this wronged girl, and see nothing but a woman who reached out for happiness. To my surprise I thank God that she found it, if only for a little while.

  “Bess,” I say in soft tones. “Bess, it is the duchess of Norfolk. Can you hear me?”

  Bess flinches at the word Norfolk and stirs, forcing her eyes open. The brown orbs are glazed over; the whites are yellow. She stares at me a long moment, drawing me into focus, then offers a timid smile.

  “My lady . . . you came,” she murmurs.

  I take her hand, nodding. She offers a faint squeeze.

  “I did many bad things to you,” she tells me.

  “Yes,” I agree. I will not lie but neither will I treat her with a malice I no longer feel.

  “But the very worst thing was that . . . I never stood up,” she says. “I never stood up . . . instead I stood by. I stood by while the duke tortured and imprisoned you. I stood by while he ruined my own life, a life I turned over to him for the sake of a girlish infatuation that turned cold all too quickly and ended in hate.”

  “It’s all right now,” I tell her. “The duke cannot hurt anyone anymore.”

  “My lady.” Her voice is very weak; it is pulled forth in a raspy whisper. “My lady, I have lost my son and I have lost my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” I tilt a brow in confusion. Is she yielding to delusions?

  “Oh, my lady, yes . . . the very worst thing. I stole from the duke a daughter. She was born in forty-three. Her name is Jane Goodman and she resides at Norfolk House.” Bess takes in a deep breath. “I never got to say good-bye. Will you see her for me? Will you tell her . . . ?” She gasps. Her eyes are wild with fear as she grapples with the reality of leaving this world.

  “I’ll tell her,” I say in urgency. I stroke her burning cheek. “You must not worry, Bess. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “I’ll not ask your forgiveness,” Bess goes on. She raises her hand and removes from her finger a heavy signet ring bearing a lion with an arrow piercing its tongue. I recognize it in an instant as the ring my duke bestowed upon each of us at different times in his turbulent life. “But I will give you back another thing I stole. Please take it. It belonged to you first and belongs to you last.”

  I take the ring but do not put it on. Instead I tuck it into the pocket of my gown.

  I rise. “I shall send for your husband now, darling. He will want to be beside you.”

  She smiles. “Oh, yes. My husband . . . my dear, sweet husband . . . how I love to say that word. . . .”

  In that instant I realize that for years Bess was as much a prisoner as I. Charity and compassion surge through me as I seize her hand in mine and press it to my lips.

  “Bess, you do not have to ask for my forgiveness,” I tell her. “Because you have it. Always.”

  Tears stream down Bess’s cheeks unchecked. Her hand relaxes in mine. She closes her eyes. Her head lolls to one side.

  I kiss her hand once more, then lay it at her side.

  Quietly, I quit the room as her husband brushes past me screaming, “Bess, no! Oh, Bess, no!”

  My steps quicken as I make my retreat. I reach in my pocket. The signet ring is warm in my hand. Hot tears stream down my cheeks for Thomas’s former mistress, tears I never thought I’d shed.

  Oh, God, take her home. Put to rest the sweet soul of Bess Holland Reppes.

  Gratia Dei, Sum Quod Sum!

  Thomas Howard

  When Mary imparted the news of my Bess’s death I cried. I did not think I would cry. After my daughter left, however, and I was quite alone, I found the tears that fell for my betrayer would not stop. Now she is dead. I cannot even restore her our daughter. It is too late. Like all my life, too late.

  I had loved the girl in my way. She was pretty and sweet. She gave me a semblance of joy for many years. I cannot say I did the same for her. Her betrayal made it clear that things were otherwise.

  It is just another wrong I cannot right.

  The years put themselves between her death and me, and I live out my imprisonment taking pleasure in the few visitors I am allowed to see: Mary, Elizabeth, and my son Thomas, who, though we never had much use for each other, treats me with a begrudging respect nonetheless.

  And then in 1553 my godson, King Edward VI, dies of consumption. The bells toll and London erupts into chaos as another resident joins me in the Tower. Her name is Jane Grey, so-called queen of England. Edward had named her his successor and for nine days she rules with her husband, Guildford Dudley—of course she does no such thing. Her ambitious father-in-law, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, rules through her.

  It is short-lived. Mary Tudor takes London by storm and the Tower that little Jane Grey was to celebrate her coronation in now serves as her prison. The daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon conquers with the spirit of her royal parents, and one of the first things she does as queen is release a group of prestigious prisoners from the Tower.

  I am among them.

  The day of 4 August dawns bright and sunny. As I kneel at the Tower gates beside old friend and fellow inmate Bishop Gardiner, Queen Mary, the image of her Spanish mother, leans down and places a gentle kiss on my forehead. I look up at her. My liberator is obscured by the sun.

  She holds my face in her hands. “Rise, Duke of Norfolk. You are free and you will be restored to our council. You will serve as our earl marshal and lord high steward as well.”

  “God bless and keep Your Majesty,” I say automatically as I immediately begin to make plans for the grand coronation banquet I will throw her. I will prove indispensable to her; she will never regret freeing me.

  It is almost too much to digest. After six and a half long years, I am free! Free! With effort my aching legs permit me to rise and I stand straight and proud as I survey the crowd of cheering onlookers. I search out the faces of my Mary and my Elizabeth, who wait for me in the throng.

  When we find each other, Mary embraces me fast and I hug her in turn.

  “Gratia Dei, sum quod sum!” I cry. “By the grace of God, I am what I am!”

  Mary pulls away, her face alight with a radiant smile. The cloak of her beauty envelops me, warming my soul, and all I can do is stare into her face. Oh, Mary . . . my dearest girl. At last I force myself to turn away and face my longtime adversary.

  Elizabeth stands composed and calm, her smile filled with the same mockery that has sustained me through my years of imprisonment.

  “I have been called to wait upon Her Majesty,” she tells me.

  “I am glad of it,” I tell her with sincerity as I reach out to squeeze her hands. It is quite a relief to have my wife in favor with the Crown once more.

  I turn about a moment, invigorated and rejuvenated. I have survived. I have survived!

  I begin to laugh.

  Of course I have survived, I think to myself. I am Thomas Howard.

  Elizabeth Howard

  Thomas has swept in with his usual confidence and commences with as much speed as possible to prove himself the same coldhearted bastard I love to hate. One of the first things he is called to do is oversee the trial of the Duke of Northumberland, whom he is happy to condemn to death for his part in the Jane Grey fiasco.

  Thomas did not forget Northumberland’s part in securing his imprisonment, nor did he forget the lands he stole from him afterward. For these crimes more than anything else, Thomas ordered a traitor’s death for the poor duke.

  After the demise of Northumberland, Thomas decided that the education our Mary was giving his grandchildren was inadequate and radical, removing them from her care. The heartbroken girl delivered them herself and Thomas set to making plans for his heir, Surrey’s son Thomas, by placing him in Lord Chancellor Gardiner’s household as a page.

  He is at the top of his form.

  Together, Thomas and I attend Her Majesty at her coronation banquet, an exquisite affair my lord arranged for her pleasure.

  At one poin
t in the evening, the queen seeks me out and embraces me. “I want to thank you, Lady Norfolk,” she tells me as she pulls away. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  “Your Majesty!” I exclaim. “Please don’t cry. ’Tis such a happy day.”

  She bows her head. “If only my mother had lived to see her dream come true at last. I have been rightfully restored and I triumphed over her enemies. I will never forget your faithfulness to my mother, Lady Norfolk. Know that in turn you will always have my gratitude and protection.”

  “I thank Your gracious Majesty,” I say as I dip into a deep curtsy. I send up a prayer to my queen Catherine that her daughter may rule with the same grace and conviction that she did.

  In early 1554, Queen Mary sends my husband to quell Thomas Wyatt’s rebellion against her impending marriage to Philip of Spain along with the plot to reinstate Jane Grey as queen of England. He is unsuccessful in his military engagement, but the rebellion is squashed after his retreat and he is celebrated as a hero nonetheless.

  Queen Mary comes down on the rebels with the mercilessness of her ruthless father, condemning Thomas Wyatt to death, imprisoning her sister Princess Elizabeth in the Tower for her suspected participation, and even ordering the deaths of poor little Jane Grey, her father, and her husband. Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley had been residing in the Tower since the beginning of her reign and it was thought by all they would be released and pardoned. It is an unjustifiable tragedy. All knew the girl was completely innocent and perished only because of her father’s ambitious plotting. The parallels between him and my Thomas cause me to shudder in revulsion.

  I begin to fear this queen. She does not demonstrate her mother’s understanding or forgiving nature. The years spent under her father’s cruel shadow took their toll, and the queen who has emerged from the abused girl is a terrifying one.