Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  I do not care about this new piece of information, nor that his motives for sending me home have more to do with protecting himself by disassociating with me than his desire to see me recovered from my grief. I only care that he is sending me home.

  “Away from this place?” I ask, my voice small. “You will take me away?”

  He nods. “Yes, Mary. I will take you away.”

  I fall against his chest once more. I bury my face in his doublet and sob tears of relief.

  Let Norfolk have King Henry VIII. I am through with him and his court.

  The Fight

  I start the journey home in a litter, so weary am I from the exertions of grief, but find creeping upon me the sensation of being trapped, so request a horse that I might ride in the open air. I chase away thoughts of Harry and me riding in Calais. I take in the warm summer air, the green fields, the flowers in bloom—all those little things Harry told me to derive my joy from. Norfolk rides beside me for a while in silence. He is unsure of me, I think. Perhaps he believes I’ve gone a little mad. Perhaps he is right.

  At last I draw in a breath and ask in low tones, “How did you sort out the loss of your first family—Anne Plantagenet and—” I swallow a painful lump. “And all those poor children?”

  He is silent a long while. “I went on. I am a Howard. That is what Howards do.” He meets my eyes. “And that is what you will do. You shall see.”

  And so we go to Kenninghall, where I shall endeavor to do just that.

  I am alone here. Both Mother and Bess are at other manors now; Mother as a prisoner of sorts, Bess as lady of the house. I am not to seek them out, Norfolk instructs before taking leave the day after our arrival. I am to stay here, he says, and manage my affairs while he tries to repair relations with the king.

  And so I remain. I lie abed most of the time in the beginning. I think about Harry and Anne. The servants try to coax me into eating, but I cannot ingest anything but broth and pottage. My stomach aches. I hear them talk about me, the servants. They believe I will be dead within the year; they take bets in the kitchens.

  I do not pay them any heed. Little by little my strength returns. I begin to eat a bit more.

  I keep company with one of the servants’ daughters, a young girl named Lily Rose. She is sweet, easy to talk to, and very interested in the New Learning. She is fearful, however, because as I was once an esteemed member of King Henry’s court I might condemn her for studying the Scriptures and turn her over as a heretic for her forward thinking.

  I assure her that I am so low that the king can’t even condescend to grant me my rightful inheritance. The last thing I have is influence over His Majesty. I am so interested in the topic myself that it would be hypocritical to condemn her as a heretic. If she is, then, I think with a shudder, so am I.

  Lily and I take to reading the Bible together. It is amazing reading it in my own language. I love to ponder Psalms and Proverbs without the bother of translating from the Latin in my head. I read the traditional stories that brought me joy as a child, stories about Noah’s Ark and Jonah and the big fish. I delve into the teachings of Jesus and the meanings behind the parables. Our discussions are animated and filled with good-natured debates. We talk about the overindulgent priests of the Catholic faith, how things should be simplified, how their coffers should be emptied. As we speak of these things I recall my Anne, sitting in her luxurious apartments, sparking my interest in the topic for the first time. I blink back tears of anguish.

  Despite this, the discussions, along with Lily’s gentle company, prove to be my salvation. But I remember my mother’s warning. I keep my faith to myself and await better times.

  Perhaps I should have realized that Norfolk was not going to support me, that I am expected to run this household, pay my staff—and buy food and clothing along with the rest of life’s necessities—by myself. Yet I did not. My debts accumulate. I have no concept of how to handle finances. I never had to before. I am fraught with anxiety as I try to learn. At night I lie awake and think of ways to pay the servants. I cannot dismiss them and live in a large manor by myself. And no one else is willing to take me in. Surrey is busy with his wife and children. There is no room for me in his life.

  I write to Cromwell, appealing for my inheritance. But he is a busy man with much to think about. The widow of Henry Fitzroy is not a priority. I am told the king is reconsidering the validity of my marriage on the grounds that it was not consummated. My gut churns as I recall his “invalid” marriages to Catherine of Aragon and my Anne.

  I write to my father. In his brief notes he tells me he is doing all he can, that I will just have to wait. But he offers no personal assistance.

  And then in October begins the Pilgrimage of Grace, a revolt that started in Lincolnshire to protest the king’s dissolution of the monasteries as well as his other religious reforms—the only innovations the king has made that I actually agree with, save for the inevitable bloodshed that accompanies King Henry’s every move.

  It becomes a widespread rebellion in the North and I fear for all those involved, for no one deserves to suffer. Norfolk is given charge of the king’s forces but does not utilize them at first, hoping to coax the rebels into peace with promises of pardons if they stop the violence. I believe he sympathizes with them to a degree, being that he is a Catholic himself and does not want to resort to carnage. The rebels begin to disperse and the situation seems quite encouraging.

  But in January more rebellions break out. My father does not waste any more time negotiating with anyone this time. He supervises executions in five counties, brutal murders that send me into a panic of nightmares.

  All I can see is Anne’s beautiful head being severed from her body, the crimson blood pouring forth from the stump of a neck. To me, all the rebels are Anne, innocent Anne. I envisage Norfolk among them, rows and rows of Annes, watching them die and calling it a job well done.

  He is rewarded richly for his work. Even his rival Cromwell helps him acquire some of the former monastic properties. He has redeemed himself and retained favor.

  I have not.

  I continue my appeals, drafting letters that all come to nothing. No one will see me. No one will hear me. I begin to sell one jewel, then another, then another to cover the costs that living incurs.

  My brother pays a call with his wife, Frances de Vere, and I am thrilled with the company. I give a feast in their honor and, though it is modest, Surrey is polite enough to comment on the tenderness of the stuffed capons and creaminess of the cheese.

  Surrey was alongside Norfolk in fighting against the Pilgrimage of Grace rebels, and I am eager to hear his perspective on the issue.

  “We did what had to be done,” he says of the executions. His eyes are sad, however. He shakes his head. “No one wanted it. But it had to stop. We have to have uniformity in religion, Mary. We have to support the king.”

  “Yes,” I agree with reluctance, thinking of His Majesty’s unwillingness to part with a few pounds to support his son’s widow. “He is making progress but it is slow. He seems torn between making England reformist or adopting this strange hybrid of Catholicism.” At Surrey’s alarmed expression I add, “I am not saying we have to be a Protestant country. But how nice it would be for Mass to be conducted in our native tongue!” My cheeks flush in excitement.

  “Mary.” His expression is grave, a younger portrait of Norfolk. “You must curb this reformist bent. You cannot afford to be viewed as anything but compliant. Your position is precarious.” He pauses. “You…heard about Uncle Thomas?”

  I shake my head, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. “Tell me.”

  Surrey swallows. “He is dead, Mary. Wasted away in the Tower.”

  I bow my head. Uncle Thomas dead—and all for love. Poor Lady Margaret! How must she be coping with his loss? Tears pave slick trails down my cheeks. “Well,” I whisper, my voice husky, “God bless him, then.”

  We are silent a moment. Poor Frances sits wi
th her head bowed, picking at her food. I decide to engage her in a lighter conversation.

  “And how is the baby?” I ask.

  She raises her head. She is beautiful, with her delicate features, full lips, and wide brown eyes. “Our little Thomas is a delight. He is just now beginning to smile.” Her face softens with the pride of motherhood, and I swallow the painful lump that rises in my throat as I recall my promise to Harry. How could he have encouraged me to have children out of wedlock? Oh, why did I promise him I wouldn’t marry again? But he did say it would be hard for a while; he was far too honest to suggest my path would be an easy one. Though I have a long fight ahead of me, I must not lose heart. Perhaps he was right; perhaps I can know more happiness in the single estate.

  I try to swallow my envy as Frances tells me about the baby and Surrey chimes in with, “Oh, it transforms everything, being a parent. Your whole perspective is altered. I know my writing has changed as a result; I feel a new depth…” His eyes are sparkling. I wonder if he is trying to hurt me, then dismiss the thought. Surrey is not heartless.

  “Do you have any of your poetry with you?” I interpose. Suddenly I can’t bear to discuss babies a moment more. I curse myself for my jealousy, but no amount of chastisement seems to dampen it.

  “Here is a recent one,” says Surrey, leaning back in his chair and laying his head back as he begins the recitation.

  “The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,

  With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale.

  The nightingale with feathers new she sings;

  The turtle to her make hath told her tale.

  Summer is come, for every spray now springs,

  The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;

  The buck in brake his winter coat he slings;

  The fishes flete with new repaired scale;

  The adder all her slough away she slings;

  The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;

  The busy bee her honey now she mings;

  Winter is worn that was the flowers bale.

  And thus I see among these pleasant things

  Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!”

  I clap my hands at its completion. Frances offers her husband a proud smile.

  “What do you call it?” I ask him.

  “‘Description of Spring, Wherein Every Thing Renews, Save Only the Lover.’” He sits up in the chair, smiling. “And what of your work, Mary? Still attempting poetry yourself?” His eyes sparkle in mockery.

  I hesitate, then laugh. “Oh, yes,” I tell him, deciding not to take offense. “It is a great way to pass the time.”

  He nods but says nothing.

  I cry when they leave.

  “You mustn’t worry, dear,” assures Frances as she embraces me. “We’ll be back time and again; this is our home, too. And soon you will be awarded that inheritance of yours and things will be set right. Be patient, love.”

  But they never once offer to help me.

  Within a few months I learn that my brother struck a man at Hampton Court who accused him of being sympathetic to the insurgents of the Pilgrimage of Grace, and was arrested. My father’s rival Cromwell, however, sees to it that he does not have to appear before the Privy Council and Surrey is sent to cool his heels at Windsor.

  I curse Surrey’s hot head and inability to rein in his impulses, and pray he will not end up in our late cousin’s place.

  I wonder if Norfolk will remember Cromwell’s kindness to our family and soften toward him somewhat.

  From my safe vantage at Kenninghall I am afforded a neutral view of the court and am just as glad not to be in the thick of things. I still write to Cromwell, hoping that since he was successful with my brother’s case he will have some influence over mine.

  But I hear nothing.

  I continue my routine; my secret reformist discussions with Lily; long horseback rides through the countryside, where I visit the tenants, bringing them food and clothes sewn by my own hands, and collecting herbs and flowers from my little garden. They are peaceful days if they are poor ones.

  I learn that the new queen is expecting. My heart lurches in anticipation. Will this at last be the prince His Majesty craves, or will it be another cursed princess he will soon render a bastard? I put aside my dislike for Queen Jane and pray for her with an urgency I haven’t felt since Anne’s last days. I fear for her. If she does not produce an heir her life is at risk, I have no doubt.

  That spring I receive a note from Norfolk saying he will pay a visit. As angry as I have been at him, I am thrilled at the news. I order the slaughter of an ox and new lambs for the occasion and supervise the efforts in the kitchens to make certain everything is perfect for his visit. I sell more jewels to purchase the finest cheeses and wines. The manor is sweetened with new rushes and his rooms are cleaned top to bottom.

  At the hour he is to arrive I dress in my prettiest mourning gown, allowing my hair to cascade down my back in the fashion of a maiden, as I do not need to wear it up any longer. It falls about my shoulders in a honeyed cloud.

  The hours pass. He does not come. I grow worried. Where is he? Has he met with harm? Have his enemies cut him down at last? I begin to tremble as I torture myself with one tragic scenario after another.

  I stroll down the drive. I stroll back. I wander the halls of the manor, drumming my chin in thought as the servants shake their heads and sigh.

  At last a messenger arrives to tell me that Norfolk will not be coming. He has changed his mind. When I ask why, he shrugs.

  “Just changed his mind, my lady,” he says. “No real reason. Just didn’t feel like making the trip, I expect.”

  My cheeks burn in rage. Tears fill my eyes but I blink them back. I draw in a breath as I think of the cost of this feast. “It’s all right,” I tell the messenger. “You will stay and be my guest. I have set a great feast.”

  I invite some of the tenants into the manor and tell all of the servants that they must indulge themselves tonight. They are all my guests of honor and this feast is a gesture of thanks for all of their hard work.

  They are appreciative and the evening is lively, ending in singing and storytelling. Some of the tenants are gifted musicians and lead spirited country dances in which I participate, despite the fact that I should be a grave widow.

  “A toast, then,” says one of the servants, raising his goblet. “To Lady Richmond—a more generous duchess cannot be found!”

  “God keep Her Grace!” the room choruses as goblets clink together.

  Tears of delight warm my eyes. I suppose it is a success of sorts.

  It is a prince! A prince at last! Little Edward is born 12 October and Norfolk has the honor of being named godfather when he is christened at Hampton Court on the fifteenth. I breathe a sigh of relief. Queen Jane is in the clear.

  And then the gravest of tragedies. The bells toll a deep mourning song, a song I know all too well.

  The queen I once loathed for taking my Anne’s place dies of childbed fever on 24 October, twelve days after the birth of her son. She was twenty-eight years old. I cringe when I learn that wretched Jane Boleyn was at her bedside during her final hour while the king was not.

  I lie abed and cry for her. She will not see her son grow up to become king. She will not watch him smile and crawl and play. She will never marvel at his little dimpled hands and feet.

  Fate is not kind to the wives of Henry VIII.

  In the spring of 1538 Norfolk arrives at Kenninghall, his long face bearing a bright smile that appears as awkward on him as armor on a goose.

  I greet him with a smile in turn. He is my family, after all, and I cannot be uncharitable toward him. He may have news of my suit.

  We sit to a very modest supper, where he leans forward and places a hand on my wrist. His black eyes are sparkling with intensity.

  “I have found a husband for you,” he says.

  My heart begins to race. A husband? I cannot sort throu
gh these feelings. Am I excited at the prospect? Can I so quickly abandon my promise to Harry in the hopes of seizing a life of my own? My breathing is shallow.

  “Wh—who?” I whisper.

  “Thomas Seymour, the brother of the late queen, uncle of the future king,” Norfolk answers in satisfied tones. “King Henry is enthused about the arrangement and gave his permission for you to be wed. Seymour seems pleased as well.”

  My pounding heart seems to have lodged itself in the base of my throat. Thomas Seymour. Yes, Father mentioned him before, but in my grief for Harry I scoffed at the suggestion. He is handsome enough but known to be quite the rake…No! What am I saying? I cannot be so dishonorable as to break my promise to Harry, he not even two years gone.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know…” Tears clutch my throat. “I can’t. My lord, I thank you for your attention to this matter but I cannot—”

  Norfolk seizes my hands. His grip is excruciatingly tight. “Mary. You must think. This match serves everyone. King Henry, for obvious reasons, is pleased. He will no longer be financially obligated to you, and you will be free of that whole situation. The Seymours and I are pleased. It is a sound alliance.” I wince at the word alliance, though why I would ever think myself to amount to anything more than that in Norfolk’s eyes, I do not know. When he sees this vein is unsuccessful he continues. “You’ll be supported in the manner you should be. And you will have your babies, Mary. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Babies? Think of it.”

  He has me. Babies are what I want more than anything in this world. Oh, to hold a little lamb of my own…Tears burn my eyes as I feel my promise to Harry fading away like a rainbow in the sun.