Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  Frustrated that he is this perceptive, I avert my head. “I am obligated first to my queen.”

  He nods. When I meet his gaze again I find no mockery there.

  “And have you done any more writing?” he asks.

  “Not recently,” I tell him. “Though some of the ladies and I have put together quite a collection.” I smile at the thought of it. “It was a delightful way to pass the time.”

  “I shall be practicing tonight,” he goes on to say. “I have been working on a new composition on the virginals. I’d love for you to hear it…. I shall be there late into the evening if you—”

  “Master Dane, you must cease trying to seek me out,” I tell him in firm tones. “It is inappropriate for one of my station to associate with you.”

  I break away from him then, stunned by my harshness. I swallow a painful lump in my throat as I rejoin my circle, never feeling quite so isolated as I do in this crowd.

  That night in the maidens’ chamber we are readying for bed when a servant informs us that Norfolk is waiting outside.

  I begin to shake. Has he discovered me conversing with Cedric? Oh, God…

  But no. It is to Madge Shelton that he wishes to speak. Relieved but puzzled, I watch my cousin saunter outside. I hear a happy exchange outside the door.

  “How now, Uncle Thomas!” she cries in her bubbly voice.

  “Ah, the delightful Madge,” I hear my father say with a chuckle. “Come share a cordial with me. I do not think I have taken the proper time in acquainting myself with you.”

  I draw the coverlet over my shoulders and roll on my side, confused.

  When Madge returns I am fraught with curiosity. Reading it, she climbs under the covers, her smile broad.

  “The king is feeling a little restless,” she whispers. “Uncle Thomas is hoping I can…divert him.”

  “But His Majesty loves Anne!” I whisper back, shocked the king would go to all this trouble only to take on another mistress.

  “That may be so, but love certainly doesn’t equal faithfulness for Henry VIII,” Madge goes on in smug tones. It is easy to see her task excites her, even when she wrinkles her nose and adds, “Though it will be ghastly. His Majesty has become quite portly this past year.” She draws in a breath and squares her shoulders in a perfect imitation of Anne. “But I can give him what he needs for the duration of her pregnancy and keep his eyes from straying toward other factions—the Seymours, for instance.”

  I see my father’s strategy at once. “Best to keep it all in the family, I suppose,” I admit, knowing that the acceptance of such behavior indeed makes me a Howard.

  Knowing it is all a game to Norfolk. He will move us about the playing field as is his wont; we are inanimate, no better than wood or pewter. We do not feel or think or dream.

  We only have this name, this Howard name, and that is the most important thing, a name that cannot be touched, smelled, or tasted. A mere sound and assortment of letters that mean, in God’s grand scheme, nothing.

  Who will remember the Howards, really?

  Knowing that Madge is the new bait for the king keeps me awake. My stomach hurts. My legs are restless and twitch under the covers. Madge kicks me and mumbles for me to settle down. I decide the best course is to get up. I don’t know what to do with myself. I try to embroider, to no avail, pricking my fingers and growing more agitated with each passing second.

  It is easy for me to leave the maidens’ chamber. Everyone knows of my frequent visits to Norfolk, so my whereabouts are not questioned. I dress in a light pink gown and plait my hair—ensuring that my father will not look upon my mane and decide to bring the dreaded brush through it—then wrap about my shoulders a soft white cloak to ward off the chill damp of evening.

  I do not know what I will say to him, but will endeavor to do what I can to help Anne. She deserves better treatment than this. She is our queen and possibly carrying a prince; how could anyone so flagrantly disrespect her? I do not blame Madge. She is flirtatious, bred for such intrigues; she is also following my father’s orders. Very few dare cross Norfolk.

  As I make my way down the hall I hear the sound of virginals; it is a bittersweet melody. I am not conscious of following the sound until I am standing outside the door of the musicians’ informal practice room. I hear nothing but the music. There is no male chatter; no one is pausing to say “wait,” the all-time favorite phrase of musicians the world over while figuring out chords and the like.

  I know who is behind the door; I remember his invitation. In my mind’s eye I see him sitting there, eyes closed, weaving in time to the music, his slender fingers upon the keys, bringing them to their full potential. I cannot help myself. I push open the door.

  He is as I envisaged. I enter. I know I should not be here. I should either go to Norfolk or back to the maidens’ chamber. I should go anywhere but here.

  But I do not go. I remain, transfixed by his song.

  “Well, at least you can’t accuse me of seeking you out,” says Cedric without opening his eyes.

  “I heard the racket,” I say in my haughtiest tones, “and wondered who would be so rude as to play at such a late hour.”

  “The door was quite closed. And the court keeps late hours, my lady,” Cedric returns. His hands fall silent on the keys. The room is too quiet now. Our voices echo against the stone walls. He is smiling, a brilliant mocking smile that fills me with a strange ecstasy.

  “So the music is a ‘racket,’ eh?” he asks, rising and approaching me. “Then I shall cease with that composition so as not to offend your fair ears.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t say it was a complete racket….” I say byway of apology. My face is flushing. There is no escaping it. I do not bow my head because it would only draw more attention to it. “Do not cease the composition. Who is it for?”

  “A lady,” he confesses. He stands before me now. I tremble at his nearness. He is by far the most handsome man at court; even more handsome than my cousin George Boleyn or the poet Thomas Wyatt.

  “Who?” I ask, my voice breathy and tremulous.

  “My betrothed,” he answers.

  My heart sinks. Betrothed? Cedric? I curse myself. Why shouldn’t he be betrothed? I am married, to the king’s son, no less. I am almost a princess. And I love my Harry. He is my husband; it is my duty to be his loving little wife, even if I never see him.

  I offer a frosty smile. “My congratulations to you, Master Dane,” I tell him. “Might I inquire as to the identity of your future bride?”

  He laughs. “She isn’t gentry, so I suppose it does not matter to the likes of you.”

  I am hurt at this, even though I know it is true. What gives us the right, I ask myself, to look down on those more humble? Are they not the ones who will inherit this earth? Perhaps it is far more of a blessing to be humble than noble.

  “You mustn’t say that,” I tell him, feeling thoroughly wretched.

  “It is a fact,” he says. “In any event, her name is Helen Duncan.”

  “A Scot?”

  “Half a Scot,” he says with a chuckle. “Does it make a difference? Her family has lived in England these past hundred years. Their ties to Scotland are quite severed, I believe.”

  Unexplained tears fill my throat. I swallow them. “I wish you much happiness. Will you remain in the king’s service then?”

  “Yes,” he says. “For some reason His Majesty likes me, so I shall stay on. He has given me a little home in London as a wedding present.”

  “How generous,” I comment. “Your betrothed…is she very lovely?”

  “Quite lovely,” he says. “A hard worker. Very real.”

  I do not understand the last attribute. Real. What is it to be real? Perhaps he does not think those of us in this glittering world of the court live in reality. Then where do we live? I am filled with panic at the thought that I am missing out on something crucial and unattainable.

  “I’m sorry you scoff upon our world,” I say in a huff.
“I’m sorry you do not think us real enough for you.”

  Cedric takes my hands. His are large and warm. I do not withdraw. I do not want to withdraw, even in my annoyance.

  “No, I do not think you’re real enough,” he tells me, his tone heated, “but you could be. If you were not so afraid of the beautiful, strong-willed woman you are inside.”

  I want to retort but find he is drawing me toward him. His lips are on mine, his arms enfolding me to his broad chest. I embrace him in turn, yielding to his soft, warm kiss. Thoughts run wild as stags through my head, wicked thoughts. I think of what lovers do, of what I am told they do. Of what my body yearns to do.

  I think of Harry. Of the kisses I am not allowed to exchange with him, my lawful husband.

  I pull away, breathless. He still holds me. We regard each other in a moment of mingled shock and longing. My hands rest flat on his chest. I do not want to leave this embrace. But I cannot stay. He is not mine. He can never be mine.

  What do I tell him now? Do I thank him for awakening my youthful passion, or curse him for it?

  I reach up, cupping his face between my hands. “I cannot see you alone again,” I whisper.

  He nods in understanding.

  Tears burn my eyes. “May your marriage bring you much joy,” I say as we disengage.

  His Adam’s apple bobs several times. He averts his head. He takes my hands. “Good-bye, Mistress How—Lady Richmond.”

  He drops my hands and turns away.

  I quit the room, strangled by a sob.

  That night I ponder the kiss. I relive the moist warmth of his lips pressed to mine. I chase away the guilt even as I try to chase away the rising passion.

  I do not see Norfolk that night but confront him the next. “Confront” is probably too strong a word for what passes between us, as indeed it is a fool who seeks to confront Norfolk.

  “I did not send for you,” he says in greeting as I enter his rooms.

  I try to stay calm. “My lord, I know you are wise and good,” I begin.

  “Oh, God,” he interjects, his tone thick with annoyance. “What is it? Out with it. I’ve no time for meaningless flattery.”

  “My lady Madge Shelton,” I confess. “I do not think—”

  “No, Mary, you do not think,” he tells me, his tone firm. He approaches me. His face is inches from mine. I shrink back in terror. “I do the thinking. While we are on the topic, I should inform you that not only do you not think, you do not question, or criticize. You say, ‘yes, my lord’ or ‘how may I best serve you, my lord?’ Do you understand?”

  I have stepped a few feet out of his arm’s reach to better my chances of eluding him should he feel the urge to physically illustrate this point. I am nodding. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

  I leave in a hurry.

  I failed. I cannot intercede for my cousin.

  At once there are very few things that seem fair in this life.

  Madge serves as a good distraction, keeping the king’s eye on the Howards, with her swaggering walk, rippling laugh, and quick wit. Together they go hunting and hawking; under Norfolk’s instruction she is everything a king’s mistress should be. But Anne is quick to protest the plot, and despite Norfolk’s impatient explanation of its logic, lets everyone know where she stands, including His Majesty.

  “I will not have it!” she cries to the king, clutching her rounded belly as though to remind everyone that she could be the mother to a prince and should not be crossed. “I will not have you parading about with your whores while I suffer for the sake of carrying on your line! How dare you flaunt that slut where I can see her?”

  “A fine day it is when you call your cousin a slut after you yourself used to play cards with Catherine while we were in the midst of our divorce!” King Henry returns in his thundering tone.

  I am frightened and cower in the corner while this transpires.

  “You will not see her,” Anne seethes. “Or I swear I will not come to you as your wife again.”

  The room is stunned silent. How can one pretend to be busy in the face of this display?

  “You would not dare,” says the king. “You are my subject, madam. You are at my command, just as any dairy maid or soldier or anyone else is.”

  “I will!” Anne cries in desperation. Her black eyes are wide. Her breath comes quick. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. Her hands are clenched at her sides. “I swear I will!” She dissolves into tears. Her eyes are lit with a genuine sense of betrayal. “Oh, Your Majesty, how could you? After all we’ve been through, how could you?”

  King Henry cannot resist her tears. Indeed, I do not think many can. I want to run to her and wipe them away myself.

  “Now, now, sweetheart, you know it is meaningless,” he tells her in a rich, soothing tone. “I have no great designs on Madge Shelton.” He approaches Anne and takes her in his arms. “I love no one but you. Always.”

  “Promise?” Anne asks in a small voice as she tips her lovely head up to regard him.

  “On my crown, I promise,” he answers, kissing her cherry red lips.

  When she pulls away her eyes are dry, her smile is bright.

  I am relieved. The king will stray no more. Anne will receive the respect she is due.

  I return to Kenninghall with Norfolk and Surrey for a brief visit. I am thrilled that we shall all be together as a family. Perhaps my brother’s presence will ease the tension in the house. In the very least, his eyes might be opened to the nature of our parents’ relations, dimming Norfolk’s halo.

  It is not to be. Apparently Norfolk has Surrey’s complete adulation. Surrey offers Mother a cool greeting of acknowledgment, yet fawns over Bess Holland whenever she is present. Fortunately for her sake as much as Mother’s, she has remained at court for this trip.

  Surrey takes the opportunity to go hawking, leaving me to take supper alone with Norfolk and Mother, an affair that is accompanied by its usual strain.

  Mother’s jaw is set as she sips her wine, her eyes fixed on Norfolk as he picks at his beef.

  “I want you to leave Mistress Holland,” she says, lingering over the word mistress.

  I almost choke on my bread. I bow my head, applauding her bravery and fearing for her at once. The words that she has longed to speak are out at last; they cannot be retracted.

  This is not going to be good.

  “Really?” Norfolk’s tone oozes with disdainful mockery.

  “I cannot have this anymore. It’s her or me,” she says.

  “All right, then,” he says, his tone calm. He addresses two portly female servants. “Take her.”

  Mother is seized. I begin to tremble. My stomach churns and lurches. My mouth is dry. Mother’s eyes are wide and search mine out.

  “Go, Mary,” she says as a servant takes her arms and pins her to the floor. One is sitting on her chest, as though Mother is a beast that needs such rough handling in order to be mastered. Norfolk stands above her. She is coughing. Blood spews forth, flecking her lips. The most frightening thing about it, even more frightening than the spectacle itself, is that it seems practiced. Routine.

  “You will not advise me on with whom to keep company,” says Norfolk in his soft voice, regarding my mother as though she were an unsightly insect to be squashed.

  I scan the room, wishing my brother would come now. Why isn’t he here to see this?

  “Please!” I cry, running forth to take Norfolk’s arm. It is a risk, I know, but what kind of daughter can stand by and watch this transpire? Could I ever forgive myself if I just walked away?

  Norfolk turns to me, his black eyes afire with the same madness Anne’s adopt when she is in a temper. He draws his hand back and slaps me. It is my bad side, the side that has ached ever since he struck me on my wedding night almost a year ago. I stumble, dizzy. My vision is a blur.

  “Run, Mary!” Mother cries. “Just run!”

  I am a coward, I decide, for I listen to her. I run. I run from the great hall to m
y chambers and lock myself in. I do not want to see anyone; not Surrey, not even my poor wretched mother.

  I want to disappear.

  Surrey claims to have witnessed the whole thing. He came home to find Mother seated at table, listening to my father’s tirade, her expression bored and “completely disrespectful,” as Surrey phrased it.

  He did not see her pinned down by the servants, coughing up blood, and told me I was exaggerating when I relayed the story.

  “You women are so soft,” he tells me. “It’s natural for you to ally yourself with her; natural but not wise. Our father is the greatest man alive. The punishment he doles out is as just as God’s.”

  I want to hit him then as I never wanted to hit anyone before. I curse his single-minded devotion even as I curse my own.

  We are leaving now.

  There is no one to safeguard my mother from the brutality of my father’s own servants, who are well paid to demonstrate their loyalty to their master in this repulsive fashion; indeed, if I have learned anything about human nature, some may be glad to perpetuate her suffering. Norfolk has her locked away in her chambers, without clothes or jewelry or any accoutrement that could bring my poor lady comfort. I do not know how long his orders are to keep her there, and am terrified to ask.

  My brother takes residence at Kenninghall, justifying Norfolk’s actions with his whole heart.

  Mother is eventually moved to Redbourne in Hertfordshire. I am not allowed to see her.

  Norfolk and I return to court. We do not speak of Mother except for him to inform me that he is seeking a divorce.

  “She is a fool, your mother,” he tells me over and over. “I would give her whatever she wanted—her clothes and jewels, whatever, if she’d just grant me this one thing.”

  “I admit, it escapes me as well,” I dare to say, but not because I sympathize with his plight. I cannot imagine why Mother would not be thrilled to sign divorce papers, freeing her of this man and giving her the life she so deserves.