Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  The ceremony proceeds in a blur. Our vows are exchanged and it isn’t long before the rings are slipped onto each other’s fingers. I hold my hand out to admire the simple gold band, my lips quivering with unshed tears.

  Harry lifts my veil and brushes his lips against my cheek.

  We are married. I am a wife. I am Lady Richmond.

  There is feasting that night to celebrate our union; a small gathering, but I do not require more. Harry and I are seated together. I have trouble eating due to nerves, but he seems to have overcome his and is enjoying the dinner as much as his father.

  “Are you happy, Mistress—I mean, Lady Mary?” Harry leans over to ask.

  “So happy,” I tell him. My cheeks are rosy from wine. My limbs tingle pleasantly.

  After we dine there is dancing. I notice that Cedric Dane is not among the musicians this evening. Somehow I am sad not to see him strumming his lute and singing to our happiness, but the thought is a fleeting one as Harry takes me in his arms to lead me in a dance. I have never felt so sure of my steps. I am married! I am truly grown up now. I look to my husband. I long to stroke his gentle young face, kiss the soft red lips. Oh, to be so lucky!

  “How now, we can’t have this,” says a jolly voice. A large hand falls on my shoulder and I turn to see the king. I dip into a curtsy, afraid I am about to be scolded. Perhaps His Majesty has seen the longing in my eyes and deemed it too bold?

  He is laughing, however. “You’ll have time enough with your bride. Give us a dance,” says King Henry, taking me in his strong arms.

  How can one describe dancing with a king? I am in the arms of the sovereign of England, the man who has changed the world for his bride. This man and my father-in-law are one and the same.

  I offer a sweet smile. “This is the most wonderful day of my life, Your Majesty,” I tell him.

  “May every lass in England pray for your sweetness, Lady Mary.” The king smiles, holding me tight. We circle the floor a few times before he barks, “Norfolk! Come dance with your little angel. It would please us to see a father and daughter love each other well.”

  Norfolk hesitates, then comes forward, encircling my waist with one arm, holding my hand with the other. Of course he is the perfect dancer. There is not one element of his life that he has not mastered. Together we glide about the floor.

  He reaches up to finger the circlet about my head. “Look at this,” he comments. “You still have it.”

  “I’d never forget it,” I tell him, hoping he takes from the statement what I intend. Hoping he knows I shall never forget him and the good that is in him. I reach up and stroke his cheek. He flinches. “I shall always be your daughter, my dear lord,” I tell him.

  He wrinkles his nose. “Of course you will,” he says as though I had just uttered something ridiculous.

  The dance ends and we part. Once again I am led into a dance with Harry, my lord and husband, giving me little time to ponder Norfolk’s dismissive attitude.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Harry breathes, holding me as tight as he dares. “How wonderful our life will be. I hope to make you very happy, Mary.”

  “I know you will,” I tell him, believing it. As I regard his gentle countenance a thought strikes me. “Harry, you will be kind to me?” I shrink back from his startled gaze. “You’ll—you’ll never hit me?”

  He laughs as though this is the most preposterous suggestion I could have ever made. Already relief begins to surge through me. “Hit you? Why would I hit you? Never,” he says, daring to reach up and cup my cheek. “Never will I lay a hand on you, sweet Mary. You have my word.”

  Tears fill my eyes.

  “How I wish you could come with me to Sheriff Hutton,” Harry is saying now.

  My steps falter. “What do you mean?”

  His face is drawn, sad. “You were not yet told? Your father says you can’t live with me as my wife till you are older.”

  “What?” I ask, my voice feeling as though it is being pulled from somewhere else. “No.” Tears fill my eyes. I feel my fists clench. “But I am old enough! So many other girls take on their…their marital responsibilities at my age. Often a baby comes within the year!” I feel unladylike discussing this sensitive topic with Harry, but I am burning with fury. The idea of holding off motherhood is unthinkable.

  Harry rubs my back in an effort to soothe. “Talk to him. Maybe you can influence him.” He smiles. “Who couldn’t be influenced by you? You’re so beautiful, Lady Mary. Mary. My Mary.”

  I want to embrace him but know it isn’t proper. We take to the table again for more food and wine, but both of us are disheartened.

  I cannot imagine influencing Norfolk any more than influencing the sun to shine.

  True to Norfolk’s word, I am not led to a bridal chamber but to the maidens’ chamber, where I dress into a simpler gown. I am too angry to sleep. The other girls sense this and offer their sympathies.

  “I can’t understand why he doesn’t grant you your wedding night either,” says Margaret Douglas. “We were counting on you telling us everything.”

  “Margaret, really!” cries Madge. “Poor thing has been heart-broken tonight.”

  I am so angry that their words have little effect. I wind my hair about my silver circlet under my hood, as is fitting for a married lady to do, then it is off to Norfolk’s apartments to use whatever influence I can in the hopes that he will grant me the life I long for.

  Norfolk is abed when I come to him. He dresses hurriedly, never being the type to receive anyone in an undignified manner. He is without his cap, however, and whenever I see him thus I am always surprised at what nice hair he has—thick and black, without a fleck of gray. A shame he does not show it more often. The lack of the austere black cap makes him appear a little more human.

  “I’d have thought you’d be worn out,” he says by way of greeting as he allows me into his privy chamber.

  “Why can’t I be with Harry?” I ask, too angry for nonsensical banter. “Why are you preventing our marriage from being made true?”

  He purses his lips, folding his arms across his chest and leaning on the desk. “Why should I have to explain anything to you?” He sighs. “But being that it doesn’t appear you will leave anytime soon, I shall tell you: you are too young, Mary. Bearing a child at this stage in your growth wouldn’t be healthy. You’re too small—”

  “I may always be small, and Lord knows there have been smaller women than I to give birth!” I cry. “Why did you allow me to marry at all if you didn’t plan on letting me be a real wife? What is to become of me now?”

  “You’ll stay here and serve the queen until I deem you ready for all that marriage entails,” he says in his cool voice.

  Tears burn my eyes. My brow aches from furrowing it. “When will that be?”

  “When I say and not before,” he tells me. “Why the hurry, Mary? Are you so hot you cannot contain yourself? Do I have to worry about your virtue?”

  Appalled, I can only stare at him. He has struck me to the core. “How can you not think it natural for me to imagine such things when I learn I will be married? Don’t you think I’ve spent hours planning my new life, dreaming of babies—” I cannot go on. A lump swells painful in my throat.

  “You will have babies. You have years for that,” he says, echoing Anne. “Go to bed now, girl. You’re overtired.”

  “I will not go to bed until this is resolved,” I say, filled with sudden bravado. “If you do not let me go to Harry, I shall appeal to the queen.”

  “Do that and I will make sure you suffer for it,” he tells me.

  “Will you?” I cry. “How? What more can you possibly do to me? Kill me? Say I met with an unfortunate accident?” I feel a bit of my mother in me as I say the dangerous words. I cannot seem to stop myself. “You married me off, my lord. I am not beholden to you any longer. I am to honor my husband before all others. It is to him that I belong now.”

  Norfolk grabs my shoulders, shaking me till my
teeth chatter. “Don’t get high-minded with me, miss! Cease this madness at once!”

  “No!” I cry, pulling away from him. I remove my silver circlet, throwing it to the floor; it lands at his feet with a delicate clatter. He stares at it, his expression changing from annoyed to almost surprised that I should dare demonstrate my displeasure. He stoops down to retrieve it.

  “You cannot escape who you are,” he says in calm tones. “You are a Howard first, do you hear me? First, last, and always.”

  My control is ebbing away like the receding tide. I am sobbing with abandon. “I curse the day God chose for me to be born a Howard!”

  This is too much for Norfolk. He hauls off and with a closed fist strikes my temple, knocking me off balance. I trip on the hem of my gown, falling toward the desk. From somewhere I hear a loud crack, my head meeting with the hard wood surface…

  The world is black.

  I am revived by my throbbing head. Something is caught in my throat. I am gagging. I roll onto my side and retch. Hands are on my shoulders.

  “Mary…”

  I cannot rise. I lie on the floor, my eyes fluttering. I cannot draw anything into focus. I must not pick up my head. It is fractured, I know; part of it will remain behind if I attempt to raise it. I cannot speak. I slither my hand across the floor, not knowing what I am reaching for. Perhaps I just want to see if my arm will obey me.

  “Mary!” Norfolk’s voice, panicked.

  I moan. I cannot answer him. What were we even talking about? What happened?

  I am married, I know that much. Momentary bliss. I danced with Harry and the king. And my father. And then…then…

  He cut it short. The dance, my happiness, now perhaps my life.

  I cannot will my eyes to stay open. It is a strain to hold any image captive. There is too much pain to cry, too much pain to put effort into anything besides breathing. I do not move. I am still.

  Norfolk eases his arm about my back, drawing me into a sitting position. I whimper again, my head lolling against his shoulder, my mouth held agape. If I hold it thus it seems to ease the pain in my temple. I do not look to find reason in this. I only know it alleviates the pain somewhat and that is enough.

  Norfolk rises, pulling me up with him. I have no strength. I will fall to the ground if he does not hold me up. He sits me in his chair, then disappears a moment, returning with a ewer of bitingly cold water. He kneels beside me, winding a cloth about his slim hand and placing it at my temple. I draw in a quick breath. I still cannot focus. I squint in a vain attempt to bring definition to his blurry features.

  “To the maidens’ chamber with you now,” he says. “You’ll have a good sleep and everything will look better in the morning. You’ll see reason then.”

  He holds the cool cloth to my temple a while longer before lowering his arm and helping me to my feet. I wobble, then sink back into the chair. My head is swimming. Bile rises in my throat. I begin to gag again. Norfolk holds the basin before me and I retch till there is nothing left but to heave brokenly.

  “God,” mutters Norfolk, his voice thick with disgust.

  I lean back in the chair, weakened by the exertions. My gut aches. I close my eyes and relax my jaw. If only the pain would go away….

  “Are you quite finished?” he asks, setting the basin down and nudging it away from him with his foot.

  I offer a feeble nod.

  “All right, then. Let’s get you back,” he says, assisting me to my feet, looping my arm through his.

  He escorts me to the maidens’ chamber.

  We do not speak of Harry or my dashed hopes ever again.

  My wedding night is spent with a throbbing head that I claim is due to taking in too much wine. The knot that has formed at my temple I cover with a creative sweep of my hair.

  I sleep beside Margaret Douglas instead of my husband.

  I look at my rainbow ring, at last able to focus on something. But it holds no hope for me now. No longer am I able to push aside the dark thoughts that for so long danced at the fringes of my consciousness. Now they stalk me like ravenous devils, waiting to devour me. I must not let them. I must find something to hold on to.

  I think about the future. It is still possible. I will prove my maturity to Norfolk. I will show I am ready to be a wife and mother, and God willing he will send me to Harry all the sooner, where my life might begin anew.

  There is hope. As long as I am alive, there is hope.

  The next day I receive two gifts: from my husband a beautiful gold comb wrought in the shape of a butterfly, with mother-of-pearl wings and emerald antennae, which I immediately place in my hair; the second is a collar of pearls from Norfolk.

  The ladies fuss over them. Margaret Douglas clasps the pearls about my neck; they are cold against my skin.

  I am still dizzy and ask Margaret if I might lean on her as we go to Mass.

  “Too much wine last night?” she asks with a wink.

  I nod, forcing a laugh.

  We enter the chapel where I see Harry, who offers a bright smile.

  “Any luck, my lady?” he asks before the service begins.

  I shake my head. Tears fill my eyes; even they aggravate the pain in my head.

  Harry squeezes my hand. “’Tis all right, Mary. We’ll be together soon enough. And maybe he’s right. I couldn’t bear it should anything happen to you if…” He flushes.

  I bow my head. Part of me was hoping he’d appeal to his father, who would command Norfolk to allow me to live in my rightful household. His easy acceptance of the situation saddens me.

  I draw in a breath. “Thank you for the comb, my lord.”

  “You like it, truly?” he asks.

  I nod, my smile genuine. “I will wear it every day until we are allowed to be together. Then you shall remove it yourself.”

  Harry laughs. “I shall await that day with great eagerness!”

  He takes leave of me then, returning to his attendants.

  I return to the other ladies.

  And so our lives shall be lived out as such. In separate circles, separate beds.

  I bow my head and pray that the time might pass, that I might grow older and take my proper place beside my lord husband.

  God honors my prayers with the passage of time. Court life is so busy that I haven’t much opportunity to miss Harry, though I am coming to realize it isn’t Harry I miss so much—I do not know him so very well, after all—as the idea of a life and babies of my own.

  I take delight in Princess Elizabeth. Anne brings me with her whenever she visits the tawny-haired cherub and I love playing with her. Her hands and feet are so tiny! I love to marvel at the dimples that serve as knuckles and kiss her smooth chubby cheeks.

  I never speak to Anne about my longing to leave court and set up my own house, nor does she bring it up. I imagine she believes it is my wish as much as Norfolk’s that I remain in her service. No doubt serving a queen is the highest of privileges, one I do not take for granted, but…

  One day as I coo over the little princess, Anne rises from her window seat, her manner distracted. She is fidgety today.

  “They still don’t like me, Lady Mary,” she tells me, looking out the window as though a stream of belligerent citizens will crash through it at any moment. “I had hoped with the birth of the princess, with the proof of my fertility…” She sits back down, pursing her lips.

  I rush to her side, daring to reach out and take her hand.

  She bows her head, gripping her stomach. “It doesn’t matter. This next one will be a prince, I’m certain.”

  “Oh, Your Majesty!” I cry, a stab of pain and delight piercing through me at once. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “And if it’s not,” she goes on, her voice bearing that Howard edge, “the king is busy creating the Act of Succession. None but my children can ever sit the throne of England.”

  “A wise move,” I say, thinking of the former Princess Mary, wondering what she will make of the act.
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  “Pray for me, Lady Mary,” Anne says, reaching out to cup my cheek. I flinch. Even all these months later, contact with the right side of my face causes stabbing pain in my temple. “Pray that I deliver England of a son.”

  “With all my heart, dearest Majesty,” I tell her through my pain.

  I cast my eyes down at the princess, whose own gaze is as dark and alert as her mother’s.

  How wretched it is to be born the wrong sex, I think, stroking the silky red curls.

  As Anne’s pregnancy advances so does the progress of the Act of Succession, which is passed on March 23, 1534. Elated, Anne dances about her apartments, whirling about with one lady or another until, exhausted, she sits back on her chaise and encourages us to continue the merriment. That same day the pope declares that King Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon remains, as it has always been in Rome’s eyes, valid.

  Anne scoffs at this, then proceeds to discuss her ideas about church reform. She believes in simpler things; less grandeur in the chapel, humbler priests with better intentions than those who take indulgences to fatten their own pockets, profiting from the so-called expiation of others’ sins. “How can they intervene on our behalf, anyway?” she asks. “One should not need a confessional to make their world right with God.” She even dares to admit that women should be allowed to study the scriptures to come to a better understanding of God’s Word. I agree with her with a whole heart and enjoy the lively conversations she holds about the topic.

  Yet the day is so merry that we don’t discuss such heady issues as reform in too much detail. Musicians have been called, led by Anne’s favorite, the talented Mark Smeaton, and they erupt into tunes that call the freshness of spring to mind.

  Cedric Dane is among them. He offers a slight smile as he is tuning his lute. “Lady Richmond,” he says in greeting. The name still rings foreign in my ears and I stifle the urge to look about to see if it is indeed me he is addressing. “Still haven’t joined your husband? I’d have thought you’d be eager to start your life as a bride.”