Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  “But we must figure out a way to differentiate between all the Marys,” Anne comments. “Is it the only name in England?” She rises, flinging her grand hair over her shoulder. “My sister shall be big Mary and you shall be little Mary.”

  “What about Princess Mary?” I ask.

  Anne’s face darkens and I curse myself for mentioning the princess’s name. I have so much to learn about this court and I just cannot take it in fast enough!

  Anne bats her eyes and adopts a playful expression. “Ugly Mary.”

  The room erupts into titters of girlish laughter and I stifle the guilt that churns in my gut as I imagine Princess Mary, rumored to be plain and studious, alone and unloved in her own father’s court.

  But I am sworn to the Howards. I am sworn to the preserving of Anne’s happiness. It is not for me to fret over the princess.

  Yet late that night, after I am settled into bed with my cousin Madge, I find myself mumbling a prayer for her.

  No one should ever be without a friend in the world.

  It does not take long to realize that there exist two courts here. One small faction remains faithful to Queen Catherine and the other—the younger, more flighty set—flocks to my lady Anne, the star ascendant. I am caught up in all the excitement. There is nothing but merriment when around Anne. We recite poetry and sing, her favorite musician, Mark Smeaton, accompanying us on his lute, playing with slim deft fingers. We playact together, rehearsing masques we will perform for the king.

  The king! What a dazzling figure! He is so big and charming one cannot help but be rendered speechless in his majestic presence. One afternoon while we are readying ourselves for a picnic in the gardens, he struts into Anne’s apartments with the confidence and beauty of a peacock, decked out in his finest velvet and ermine.

  As he enters I am brushing my lady’s hair, as she prefers my hand to her sister’s when they are in disagreement, which is often.

  “And how now, Brownie?” he asks her.

  She laughs at the endearment and shoos me away. I manage to put the brush down but am too awed by His Grace to move, so stand transfixed.

  “Who’s this little beauty?” he asks, directing his gaze at me.

  “Surely Your Grace met my cousin Mary, Uncle Thomas’s daughter.” Anne’s voice is flat.

  “No, we would remember encountering such a fair child,” he says, stroking his tawny beard.

  While it is true I have seen the king from afar at meals and entertainments since coming to court, and even bear some vague childhood memories of him, I have never been formally introduced.

  He reaches out and places a bejeweled hand on my head. “Bless you, little one,” he says. “How do you find our court?”

  “It is the most splendid place in all the world, Sire,” I say, breathless.

  He laughs, a robust sound as mighty as he is. “You see? From the mouths of babes! May you always find happiness here, young Mary.”

  I am delighted by the encounter. He is so strong and cheerful I allow myself to imagine being held against his doublet, snuggled up safe and warm in my sovereign’s arms. I wonder if his relationship with Princess Mary is affectionate.

  His relationship with Anne certainly is. Now he is kissing her hand, turning it palm up to devour her little wrist. She pulls back. It is her bad hand, the one with the nub of a sixth finger on it, a very subtle deformity she hides well.

  It withdraws into her voluminous sleeve. She distracts him from the gesture by fluttering her thick dark lashes at him. “And to what do we owe the honor of this impromptu visit, Your Majesty?”

  “We would like to present you with a gift,” he says, his crisp blue eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to the mass of courtiers eavesdropping. “Ladies and gentlemen, why don’t you prepare for the gardens? We will join you shortly.”

  We have no choice but to do as we are told.

  Madge Shelton is now my best friend at court. She is not altogether attractive, but is spirited and full of a vibrancy that creates an aura of beauty that deceives the untrained eye. She and I stand in our maidens’ chamber gossiping over His Majesty’s “gift.”

  “No diamonds or rubies for Anne,” Madge says, laughing. “But Wolsey’s own Hampton Court!”

  I bow my head a moment. “I can’t help but feel sorry for the Cardinal…”

  “Shhh!” Madge puts her finger to my lips. “Don’t say such things. We aren’t permitted opinions. He failed in granting an annulment and proving the invalidity of the king’s marriage, so suffered the price—confiscated lands and a confiscated title. He’s the archbishop of York now, remember?”

  “But he was so close with the king,” I continue in genuine puzzlement. “It’s frightening to think one he loved like a brother can be thrown down so fast. And so far.”

  “This is strange to you?” Madge’s tone is incredulous. She is a true Howard, I think. There is a hardness in her voice that echoes of my father. “Haven’t you observed how he treats his once-beloved wife? How many tales have we grown up listening to, of the king’s love-madness for Queen Catherine—that once, before his affairs and neglect ruined her, she was the loveliest princess in Christendom? Still he manages to throw her aside. Strange, Mary?”

  “Now we are ruled by two queens,” I am compelled to say. I tremble at the thought, not because I am afraid but because it is so odd.

  “Not for long,” says Madge. “Not now that Mistress Anne is granted Hampton Court!”

  We burst into another fit of giggling, all pondering dissipated. It is all such a game to us, two girls barely out of the nursery, still naïve enough to enjoy the intrigues of the court.

  “Will we all move, then?” I ask.

  “I imagine the Anne faction will relocate to the palace. It sounds as though His Majesty plans on making it the new London residence,” says the all-knowing Madge.

  “How terribly exciting!” I breathe.

  “Oh, Mary, you’re such a little girl,” Madge scoffs, but there is no malice behind it and I respond with a smirk. “Do you think old Wolsey left all his red fabric behind?” she adds.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “To swathe the halls of Hampton Court, of course!”

  I laugh in approval, remembering the very rotund Cardinal Wolsey.

  Still, the laughter is a little forced. I do believe even cynical Madge seems to pity King Henry’s poor discarded adviser, and it takes away from the excitement of our move.

  A little.

  I am tired. I am so caught up in this faerie world that I do not sleep at night. I toss and turn, anticipating what wonders will await me the next day. What games will we play? What songs will we sing?

  We await our move to Hampton Court. We gossip in voices that ring out like the tinkling of little chimes. We drink wine. Anne thinks it’s funny to see my face get flushed.

  We all congregate at supper and I can’t keep my eyes open. My father sits far out of my reach with the other members of the council. As Mother predicted I do not see her, but I catch glimpses of the duke at court. We do not speak, not until he lays a hand on my shoulder in the hall on the way back from an evening’s entertainments, pulling me aside.

  I am thrilled to be acknowledged. “How now, Father?” I ask with a cheery smile. It is Anne’s smile. I practice it whenever I’m alone.

  “Wipe that stupid grin off your face. You look like a harlot,” says Norfolk. He grips my shoulder and guides me down the hall toward his apartments.

  He takes me to his privy chamber and sits behind his austere mahogany desk, folding his hands before him and regarding me, one eye squinting, as though I am a diamond he is examining for flaws. “How is Anne?” he asks after a long pause.

  “I think she is well, sir,” I say.

  “Has she slept with the king?”

  I am shocked at the question. My face burns and I bow my head.

  “Don’t play innocent. I know how maidens talk.” He has not raised his handsome voice; it is thin and impati
ent but not loud.

  I still cannot look at him. “She does not speak of that,” I say.

  “Don’t you listen, fool?” he demands, slamming his hand on the desk. “Do you think you’re here for your own entertainment? Do you realize your task in this? You are to be my ears, Mary. I depend on you to report to me all that is said and done in those chambers.”

  “What am I to do if she does…if she is…” I cannot say it. I don’t even know what it really means.

  “Nothing,” he says. “It is not your place to advise her, not that she’d take it from the likes of you as it is. You are my ears, Mary, that is all. I will expect a nightly report from this day hence. It seems she is weakening under his pressure. No doubt with Hampton Court now dangling before her, she feels secure in her position and thinks she’d have nothing to lose by giving in. Fools, all of them.” The fist on the desk clenches and my eyes are drawn to it. A melding of perfection and anger. “She is difficult to manage,” he says now, more to himself. “It would have made life easier if he’d have settled for that dolt of a sister of hers; she’s already proven her capacity for childbearing.” He shakes his head, then returns his black eyes, eyes that are much like our Anne’s, to me. “It is vital that Anne understands the king’s fickle nature; that he tires of his playthings once he has them.”

  I do not know how to respond to this monologue so remain silent, wondering if he will dismiss me.

  “Do you understand, Mary?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

  I nod. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

  “Go on, now. It’s late,” he says. “To bed with you.”

  I turn to leave, but he raps his hand on the desk. I turn.

  Without raising his head he says, “News from Sir Edward Stanley.” My brother-in-law? What news could there be of him? Was my sister with child? My heart leaps at the thought of being an aunt. “Seems your sister Catherine passed from the plague.”

  I am dizzy. My head tingles. Catherine…my fair sister, Catherine, newly married. She was going to have a happy life; a quiet country life with many children. She was so gentle and sweet…Catherine. How could he tell me like this? How could he just sit there and mention my sister’s death with the same dismissive tone he’d describe a failed crop or broken axle?

  I approach the desk, trying to remind myself that he is a soldier. It is not in a soldier’s nature to show emotion; they see death all the time. Should they cry, I imagine their tears would never stop.

  Rounding the desk I inch closer to where he sits. He has not raised his head. He is looking through some documents. Letters from Stanley? From behind I wrap my arms about his shoulders in a feeble embrace, leaning my head against his cheek. He stiffens, every muscle growing taught beneath my touch. I drop my arms and bow my head, tears burning my eyes.

  “Will we go to her interment?” I ask hopefully.

  “Of course not,” he answers, his tone gruff. “It’s foolhardy to go where the plague has been.”

  For a moment I just stand before him, helpless. There’s so much I want to say but cannot articulate. “Should we say a prayer for her?” I ask at last, my voice small.

  He sets the document on the desk, facing me at last. “Prayers never brought any of my other children back. I don’t expect it will work for her. Off with you now.”

  I turn once more.

  “Mary.” His voice is low.

  I do not face him this time. I do not want him to see the tears paving cool trails down my cheeks.

  “Your hair is your finest feature,” he says, reaching out to finger a tress of my thick, honey-blond mane, which falls unbound to my waist in keeping with the fashion of unmarried maids. “See that you brush it every night,” he instructs. “A hundred strokes.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I answer as I quit the room.

  In the maidens’ chamber my tears cannot be hidden. I walk in with my face covered. I do not want to see the other girls. I want to be alone; I want to think about Catherine, about her sweet, lilting voice, her delicate features, her patient smile. She was everyone’s perfect lady, far more suited to court life than I could ever be. Perhaps it is better this way; court life seems every bit as deadly as plague, and uglier, too. Catherine was too pure for it. She was elegant, charming, composed. She was to be a country wife…oh, how I cried when she left. How I longed to accompany her. Waiting on her would have been far more gratifying than service to any queen.

  Swirling unbidden through my mind is a memory, far more like a dream to me now. My head is tilted up toward her. She crowns me with a garland of flowers. I close my eyes. I can almost feel the flowers about my head. I take in their sweetness, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the love of my sister Catherine. The queens of Kenninghall, Bess had called us. How ill-fated is our reign.

  At once Anne’s voice hisses into my reverie. “Where were you, little Mary? Reporting my behavior to your father, little spy that you are! Do not think I don’t know what you’re about, little innocent!”

  I cry harder, great gulping sobs as I throw myself on the bed I share with Madge, burying my face in my pillows.

  “Little Mary…?” Anne’s voice bears a gentler note. “Mary, what is it?” The mattress sinks down with her weight as she leans over me and touches my shoulder.

  “My sister,” I sob. “My dear sister Catherine…she’s dead of the plague.”

  At once Anne is moved to tears, gathering me in her thin arms with a fierceness that almost frightens me. She rocks back and forth with a franticness that is not soothing, but I applaud her efforts just the same.

  “Damn bloody plague,” she seethes. “Why is it all so unfair? Why do we have so little control?”

  It is a question that I realize has very little to do with the loss of my sister, but it doesn’t matter. I allow Anne and the other girls to soothe my tears and offer their sympathies. I soak up their embraces, wondering why it is only during tragedies that people are driven to physical demonstrations of love.

  That night Madge tries to distract me from my grief by telling me stories of King Arthur.

  All I can think of is my father as he imparts the news of Catherine’s death.

  He did not even look up.

  Because my mother has not condescended to talk to me since my arrival at court, I write her a little note and send it by messenger to her chambers.

  My dearest Mother,

  I am so aggrieved by my sister’s passing that the joy of court life has been sucked out of me. Filling my mind are memories of us as children, writing poems and singing songs, picking out the names of our future children. Life was simple then. Why does it all change?

  All my sympathies are with you, Mother. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose a child. I pray for you every night and hope you are finding comfort in the Lord.

  Your loving daughter,

  Mary

  Daughter,

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. We have no control over our fate. We can only press on. We are Howards.

  Bless you,

  Mother

  Dearest little Mary,

  My heart breaks for you. I know how close you and Catherine were, growing up. How well do I remember all of your childhood antics! You were such beautiful sisters. She was fair and good and sweet. I pray for her soul and for you as you grieve. Remember, my dear little love, that God is merciful and kind. His ways are mysterious and beyond our understanding. Now Catherine celebrates with the angels and knows no suffering. Her good soul is put to much better use than it could have ever been down here. May she watch over all of us.

  I hope you are well and that you are making many friends at court. I hope to see you soon and that all is well between us.

  With much love,

  Your Bess

  In the maidens’ chamber, I clutch Bess’s letter to my breast. I have read it over and over and it is stained with my tears. Bess knew us best. She loves us best. But thinking of Bess only makes me sadder, so I tuck the l
etter in my little silver keepsake casket along with the one from my mother, a letter I have read only once.

  Mary Carey tells me she lost her husband to the sweating sickness. Many other girls come forward and confide of their losses, how one parent or sibling perished to the plague and other terrible things.

  I feel less alone but the sadness remains. There is so much unresolved. If I had only been allowed to see her interred, perhaps there would be more closure. It would seem real. As it is, it’s still as though she is off in the country, married to Lord Derby.

  Norfolk never mentions her name again. He does not say much of anything during my nightly reports, which consist of nothing since Anne is careful with her words. I tell him she knows why I am there.

  “Of course she does—she’s not a complete idiot,” he says. “May you serve as a reminder.” He pauses. “She spends quite a bit of time with her brother George, does she not?”

  I nod, smiling at the thought of her handsome brother, who is the picture perfect courtier. “He’s very fine,” I tell him.

  “See to it that they aren’t alone too often,” Norfolk instructs.

  “They’re not alone,” I say in confusion. “Mary Carey’s with them most of the time.”

  “The court is talking,” he tells me, but I have that feeling I often get when he’s speaking; that the words are never directed at me. “Jane Parker’s jealousy is…twisted.” He refers to George Boleyn’s wife, an anxious sort of woman who seems just the sort to be “twisted,” always lurking about in doorways, or hovering just beyond a circle of friends in the hopes of attaining some juicy piece of gossip. Mary Carey warned me of her before, saying that her mind was poisoned with all manner of perverted ideas. Despite my curiosity I never pressed her for particulars. There was more than enough perversion at court without becoming preoccupied with hers.