“She was with him all night and the better part of this morning,” Madge Shelton whispers.
“Do you think…?” another speculates.
Madge smirks. “How could she not? It’s been six years now…”
I don’t want to participate in this conversation. I take off my gown and let it dry by the fire, then dress in a warm wrap and lie abed, dreaming of the storm on the beach, the rainbow, and Harry’s smile.
I have never been sorrier to say good-bye to a city than I am to this fair port of Calais. My heart lurches as we traverse the channel, and I find that without Harry and my brother the crossing is dull and I am prone to retching over the side of the rail. When the captain encourages me to go down to the cabin I shake my head. I want to look at the sea. I want to remember the storm…
Norfolk’s face is impassive when we arrive home. Dropped is the façade of amiable courtier, gone is the smiling man who eased Anne’s tension by gambling with her on our trip. I expect he does not have to pretend now. He is only with me, after all.
He guides me to his apartments by the shoulder, his grip unrelenting.
Once we are alone in his privy chamber he sits behind his desk, folds his hands beneath his chin, and stares at me, saying nothing for a long moment. I am unsure if he expects me to speak first, so I smile.
“Wasn’t it grand, Father?” I ask in delight. “All the food and entertainments—”
“It sounds to me as though you kept yourself entertained well enough,” he says. “Riding alone with Fitzroy, for instance.”
I lose expression, feeling the color drain from my cheeks. I know lying is useless. “Henry…Lord Surrey was with us. I wasn’t alone. And there were others.”
“Other men.” Norfolk’s voice is sharp. He rises, circling the desk to stand above my chair. At one time I might have described this as his “towering pose,” but now that I am growing taller I realize Norfolk is small and slight compared to his peers. If one didn’t know him one wouldn’t think to be intimidated by him, based on his unassuming stature. Of course, that’s if one didn’t know him.
I look up at him. “We were in broad daylight, Father. It was an innocent jaunt in the rain.” I find myself getting caught up in the memory. Roses bloom on my cheeks. My smile is dreamy. “It was so lovely. There was a rainbow and the waves were so tall—”
“Are you daft?” he demands in his soft voice. “Really. I need to know. Do you lack some basic element in your intellectual abilities?”
I know now there is nothing I can say to save myself.
He continues. “Mary, you are getting older. You are marriageable now. You cannot go about alone with boys whose blood runs hot in their veins. And you can’t depend on your hotheaded brother to protect you. It was he who made sure the incident was reported to me!”
“Surrey?” I whisper. Tears sting my eyes. “Henry?”
“He says you are growing quite bold in your opinions and your actions,” Norfolk says. “You seem to have a reformist bent to your religious convictions and you flirt openly with the gentlemen. Is it that you are inspired by your cousin Mary Carey?”
“As if Mary Carey is my only example!” I cry in a sudden rush of bravery. “I am surrounded by whores!” I add then. I clamp my mouth shut, stunned at my outburst. Before I can offer a word of apology, my cheek feels the heat of his blow. I am knocked to the ground, chair and all.
Norfolk pulls me up by the arm. I feel a slight pop in my shoulder as he jerks me to my feet. “Do you think I raised you to talk like a common barmaid and behave even worse?” He tears off his cloak in one wild movement, tossing it on a chair. “When I tell you something, Mary, I make good on it. I have never uttered an empty word in my life.”
My heart pounds in sheer terror as I stare at this man who sired me, his chest heaving as he grabs my neck from behind and pushes me facedown on his desk. His voice is still calm, though his breath is short. “I warned you of this. I warned you before we left. Now you will have to be taught to heed.”
With deft hands he unlaces my gown and chemise to the waist. I hear him working at his belt. Once free it whirs through the air as he brings it across my bare back. I cry out. He leans over me, clasping a hand over my mouth. I want to bite him but dare not. Maybe he will kill me. He wouldn’t do that; to think so would prove me as daft as he believes. He has too much to lose, and killing one’s child certainly doesn’t look good. Of course he could cover it up. He is the master of plots…No! Oh, here it comes again. It hurts…Five, six, seven lashes. When will he stop?
As the belt laps across my back I wonder how I am going to hide it from Anne and the other ladies. I will not be able to dress in front of anyone. Or I will have to keep my chemise on at all times and wear it until my wounds heal over. That is what I must do. Of course they may think me priggish, but…
He stops at ten lashes. He is breathless but ever calm as he puts his belt back on. I lay atop the desk, weak, exhausted. Tears fall slick between my cheek and the wood surface. It feels slimy and at once I am filled with disgust.
Norfolk is busy behind me. How much time passes I do not know or care. I hear him call for a basin of hot water, a posset, and some salve. When all is delivered, set behind his door, which remains unopened until he is certain the servant has departed, he retrieves it and sits behind me.
“This should help,” he says in an offhand tone as he dips a cloth in the hot water and covers the welts that have arisen like fat red snakes on my skin, pressing it carefully against my back with the same hands that just beat it. He holds the cloth in place a while, and when it cools removes it, dipping it again and repeating the process several times. I feel my shoulders shake with silent sobs. His gentleness in the wake of such violence hurts worse than any beating.
After the hot cloth is removed, he applies some salve. “There is no bleeding. You’ll not have any scars.”
“You think of everything,” I say in bitter admiration.
He does not lash out as I expect, as I almost wish, so that he might end my pain forever and in it bring about his own demise. Again guilt surges through me. He is my father. I must honor him. I did not. I brought him shame. These are the results. Norfolk takes my hand and winds my arm about his shoulder, reminding me of the pain in my throbbing arm.
“Come, lie down,” he says, bringing me to his bedchamber and helping me onto the bed where I lie facedown. “Leave the back open to let it air. Cloth will be hell when you do have to dress again.” He informs me of this as though from personal experience, and for the first time I wonder how he was raised, who may have executed the same form of discipline on an innocent little boy. Who by starting a cycle of violence inadvertently gave him the right to continue it. “Drink this,” he commands in his eerily gentle voice, handing me a goblet containing a hot posset. “It will help you sleep.”
“Will I wake up?” I ask in a small voice.
He smiles. “Of course you’ll wake up.”
I squeeze back tears. I do not want to wake up.
A few hours later my eyes flutter open to the gentle shaking of my shoulder.
“Up now,” Norfolk is whispering. The room is dark save one brazier. “To the maidens’ chamber with you. The hour is late.”
“No…” I murmur. I do not want to remain, but neither can I bear to face the other girls.
“Sit up!” Norfolk commands.
I struggle onto my elbow, then lean on my hand as I right myself to a sitting position. I am still too small for my feet to reach the floor, though his bed sits so high off the ground I doubt even his do. I stare at him in groggy helplessness. Everything looks so far away and distorted.
Norfolk laces up my chemise and dress. My back screams out in rebellion at being covered and I moan. Norfolk retrieves another object I dread; the hairbrush. At these ministrations I whimper. I am too tired to fear chastisement and he offers none, by God’s grace. He brings the brush through my hair in swift, painful strokes, then sits behind me, drawing it
into a thick plait that he arranges over my shoulder.
I begin to laugh. The sound is strange in my ears. It is the Howard laugh. A laugh void of merriment.
“What?” Norfolk asks.
“I was just thinking,” I say, and wonder if it is the posset that makes me so bold. “Should your ducal responsibilities become too heady, you could consider court hairdressing.”
To my surprise he chuckles, and as my laugh becomes genuine tears fill my throat and course down my cheeks. My gut twists and quakes as I pull my sobs inward.
He places my hood atop my head. “Now what have you learned, Mary?”
I lower my eyes. “I shall always obey you,” I promise, swallowing my tears.
He nods. “Then there shall be no need to repeat this.” He takes my hand and leads me through his presence chamber to the door. “Good night, Mary.”
I dip into a stiff curtsy. My back is searing in pain. I turn and allow a guard to escort me to my chamber. I will not think of this night. I will obey. I will always obey. Then it won’t happen again.
I have learned.
“Where were you?” Anne Savage, another of Anne’s ladies, inquires as I trudge into the chamber and ready myself for bed. Her eyes bear a wicked glint, as though I may have gone where I’m not supposed to and she is hoping for the details.
I force a smile. “Talking to my lord father,” I tell her. “We talked well into the night. It was the silliest thing,” I go on, swallowing tears. “He made me tell him about everything over and over, just so he could feel like he was reliving it all.”
“Funny,” says Lady Savage. “I always thought your father was a severe man.”
“He seems that way, I know,” I tell her and am almost convinced myself. “But he is so gentle. He loves me very much.”
She nods but her expression is sad.
The next morning a little silver box bearing my name is delivered to the maidens’ chamber. Madge Shelton seizes it from the messenger.
“‘Mary Howard’?” She regards me in awe. “A gift for little Mary Howard?” She sits on our bed. I run to her to retrieve it, but she has opened it, pulling out a little silver ring inlaid with a fiery opal. “Look!” she cries to the other girls.
“How sweet,” Anne Savage says, admiring it.
“Come now, girls, let Mary see it,” Mary Carey says as she retrieves the box and ring, handing them to me, her beautiful face wrought with gentleness. “’Tis her gift, after all.”
I examine the little ring, the quintessence of daintiness. On either side of the opal the silver has been wrought into roses. I slip it over my middle finger; it is a perfect fit. I tilt my hand this way and that, admiring the colors the stone gives off as the light hits it from each new direction.
“What a fine stone!” Madge exclaims. “Such fire!”
“No,” I say. “It is a rainbow. A captive rainbow.”
In the bottom of the little silver jewelry box my eyes catch sight of a note. I unfold it and read the few words with care. He who spares his rod hates his son, but he who loves him disciplines him promptly. Proverbs 13:24. Tears fill my eyes. He loves me. He does. That is why he is so strict; he honors God’s Word because he wants me to be the best I can be. Yes, that must be it. My heart lifts. I push away the cynical thought that he may just be placating me with a trinket, assuaging whatever guilt he is still capable of summoning, while buying my loyalty. Nor do I acknowledge for long the notion that by accepting this gift I make this form of discipline permissible. These are thoughts I push from my mind. I will not entertain the idea that Norfolk’s gesture bears anything but the purest intentions.
I look down at my ring, the colors catching in the light; brilliant reds, oranges, yellows, greens, and purples, all shimmering against a pearly backdrop. A rainbow indeed. As God promised Noah not to punish the world with another flood, perhaps this is Norfolk’s pledge to me; a rainbow to ease my sufferings, an assurance that there will be no more beatings if I heed him. If I am good.
I will be good, I vow. I will not contradict him. I will not be like Mother and hold true to convictions that serve me not; and if I do, at least I shall have the conscientiousness not to admit them.
As I regard my opal, my rainbow stone as I call it now, another thought strikes me: the beach with Harry Fitzroy and our rainbow, another promise of youth and beauty and brighter times to come.
I clasp my hands together and hold them to my chest, smiling. Norfolk could not have chosen a more perfect gift.
“Who is it from?” Madge inquires, cutting through my pretty thoughts.
“My lord Norfolk,” I tell her. “Because he loves me so much,” I add with a bright smile.
“A dear man, Uncle Thomas,” says Mary Carey, her voice filled with irony.
Anne’s Secret
So immersed am I in how to conceal my own pain that I do not realize Anne is changing. From Christmas through Epiphany, Anne moves a little slower. Though she laughs and smiles often, joking with her courtiers and ladies, keeping the atmosphere one of constant merriment, she is pale, drawn. She tires easily and naps whenever she can.
One morning I sit at her feet while she plays with my hair. She enjoys experimenting on my thick locks, as if I were a doll, but I do not mind. Her ministrations are nothing compared to Norfolk’s; indeed, she is very gentle and it is soothing to feel a woman’s touch. She is almost motherly, though she is only about twelve years my senior.
“You’re such a pretty little girl,” she says, which surprises me as I still believed she found my nose offensive. “It’s that hair of yours. I will make you a good marriage; you can count on it.”
“I thank you, Lady Anne,” I say.
“A pity you’re so small, though,” she adds. “It will make childbirth difficult. You’re delicate as a bird. It’s from your father’s side, I should think. He’s such a little thing, himself.”
I giggle at what Norfolk would make of her describing him thus. I imagine he would not be thrilled with the depiction.
“I am small myself, though,” Anne goes on to say with a smile. “But endowed with a woman’s curves. I think I’ll do just fine.” At this she rubs her belly, looking down on it with an expression of sheer joy.
I turn toward her, resting my hand on her knee, smiling. “Lady Anne…?”
She nods.
I throw my arms around her. “Oh, my dearest lady, I am so happy for you!”
Anne returns the embrace, laughing, then pulls away. “Thank you, my darling. You mustn’t tell a soul.” Her lips curve into that smile no one can imitate, least of all me. She places a tapered finger to her lips to illustrate her point. “Think, my dear little Mary. Soon you shall have a new cousin who will be the future king of England!”
I squeeze my arms about myself in delight. “Oh, Lady Anne!” I am beside myself with joy. This means that soon all this bother with the divorce from the princess dowager—Anne’s pregnancy has cemented my view of Catherine as the princess dowager now—will be over, and we can celebrate the happiness of King Henry and his forever queen, Anne!
At once Anne’s face darkens. She grips my upper arms tight, her nails biting into my tender flesh. “And don’t say a word to your father. It’s my news. I’ll tell him.”
“Of course, Lady Anne,” I answer with wide eyes. As much as I am beholden to report to him the events of Anne’s life, I cannot betray her in this. A mother, especially a queen, has the right to impart this happy news herself.
Her face softens, her smile warm and charming again. “You’re a good girl,” she tells me, stroking my cheek.
“I am?” I ask her, tears lighting my eyes before I can contain them.
She takes my hands. “You are. Now I want you to dress in your finest. Tonight you will accompany me and some of the other ladies to Hampton Court.”
“Why?”
Her smile widens. It can never be called a grin, however. It is too well sculpted and perhaps not spontaneous enough for that description.
“Another secret. The king and I are to be married tonight.” She waves a hand. “You will witness it, along with Henry Norris and a handful of others.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Then will it be over at last?” I dare ask. “Have you had word on the divorce?”
She shrugs. “It’s as good as done; just a few more legal formalities.” She clicks her tongue in disgust. “That stupid woman!” she says, shaking her head, and I assume she means Catherine of Aragon. She leans back on her chaise then, continuing. “Cranmer is still hesitating. He doesn’t want to be archbishop because swearing oaths to the pope would compromise his reformist beliefs. But Henry will find a way around that.” Her eyes are half-closed, as though she has just partaken of some decadent, satisfying sweet-meat. “He finds a way around everything. Soon we all will have what we want.”
“I do hope so,” I say with fervor.
In a burst of energy Anne sits up, waving her hands toward the door. “Out with you now! Go pick out your gown!”
“Yes, my lady!” I cry in delight as I scramble to my feet and head to the maidens’ chamber, thinking how wonderful everything is turning out.
We all will have what we want, Anne said. I wonder what that means for me. As I make to my chamber I cannot help but question myself: what do I want? What would make me happy? Can Anne, this woman who seems destined to change the world, grant me happiness, too?
At Hampton Court we gather in the presence chamber. Anne is glowing in her white dress with its diamond-covered bodice and state jewels gracing her elegant throat. The priest mutters something about not being able to perform the service without a license, but the king, magnanimous in his furs and velvet, insists he has it “in safe keeping” and so the ceremony commences unhindered.
I carry my lady’s long train, my heart light as I ponder her happiness. As they are joined in holy matrimony, tears stream down my cheeks. Handsome Henry Norris is compelled to lean over and squeeze my arm.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 10
