Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  I nod. It is not me nodding. I am powerless in the face of my greatest desire. “Yes. Yes. I will marry Tom Seymour. Let us begin the preparations for my wedding.”

  Norfolk slaps his hands on the table and emits his almost laugh. “Well done! Let us drink to it!”

  So it is done. I am to be remarried. I have broken my promise to Harry.

  I do not know what kind of person this makes me.

  Arrangements commence for my wedding. My servants are in a thrill of delight. I admit to a little excitement myself as I think about the babies Tom Seymour and I will have.

  I begin to plan my dress. I will have the sleeves I want this time. I will have it all this time.

  “I’m so happy for you, my lady,” says dear little Lily Rose. “Finally you’re getting some happiness!”

  A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “I am happy, Mistress Lily. This is the right decision. I can feel it.”

  Then I receive a passionate letter from Surrey. He tells me Tom Seymour is the worst scoundrel of the entire upstart Seymour clan. He is manipulative and cruel. He even raped a girl when he was younger, he reports. I’d be a fool to marry him, a fool to give up my title. Norfolk may think the alliance is sound, but in his dotage forgets that the Seymours are the greatest enemies of the Howards. Surrey believes sidling up to them is a risk I should not take. What’s more, do I really want a man such as Tom Seymour siring my children? he asks.

  I read the letter again and again. Tears course icy trails down my cheeks. Could it be true that he is a rapist? Oh, God…

  My heart is pounding. My cheeks are hot. My stomach aches. I try to think. Is Surrey cautioning me because of his devotion to me, or because of his devotion to his own self-interests? Both, most likely. Still, if he didn’t care he would not have sent the warning.

  He is a rapist. I repeat the vulgar word to myself. Rapist. Even if it is a rumor, something has to be behind it. Rumors are fed by grains of truth, after all. And yet I think of my Anne, and the vicious rumors King Henry was all too willing to perpetrate until he ended up believing them himself. Witch, whore…none of these things was my Anne. Could it be that Tom Seymour is in a similar situation? This court is fraught with wrongful accusations…

  And yet I cannot shake the thought. The thought that he might be a rapist is enough to chill me to the core. I cannot give myself to such a man. I would never be able to think of anything else when we…

  Then there is my forgotten promise to Harry. I squeeze my eyes shut as I recall his blood-flecked lips, his blue eyes lit with fevered urgency as he exacted my pledge. Oh, my Harry. How can I have dismissed you so easily?

  I heave a deep sigh, then summon a messenger.

  “Please go to the Duke of Norfolk,” I instruct. “Tell him Lady Richmond has decided against the wedding to Thomas Seymour.”

  The messenger’s eyes are wide.

  I shoo him away with an impatient hand. “Yes! You heard me—the wedding is off! Go!”

  When he departs I am alone, disillusioned and despairing.

  I rest my head in my hands. “Forgive me, Harry,” I murmur. “I was weak….”

  Norfolk’s response is brief.

  You are a fool. If you insist on living life the hard way, then by all means continue.

  The words do not affect me as much as a beating would, so I continue living “the hard way.” As much as I long for the life of a wife and mother, I know I made the right choice. I could not have sustained living with such a rake as Tom Seymour.

  I pass the summer. Her fire yields to the repose of autumn, then to winter’s sleepy embrace. Christmas comes and goes. Lent begins. Spring emerges from the mist, dusting the world with dew. Flowers begin to turn their heads up to the sun and in March I learn that at last I am to receive a grant from the king.

  I have survived this fight. Almost three years after my husband’s passing, I am awarded my inheritance.

  The German Bride

  After being rejected by numerous European princesses—including Christina of Milan, who quipped, “Had I but two heads I would risk it, but I have only one”—the king has found a new bride in a sister of the Duke of Cleves. Cromwell urged the match, seeing the alliance with a Protestant duchy as a way to bolster England’s reputation as a reformist country. Though I am unsure of her personal religious convictions, I cannot imagine being from Germany and not having a reformist bent. Anticipation stirs my heart at her possible ability to influence King Henry in church reforms.

  The Duchy of Cleves is not the worst of allies. They are emerging as a rival to the Netherlands in trade, and may prove quite useful to England. Cleves stood against Charles V of Spain over some duchy called Gelderland as well as both France and the Habsburg Empire, both of whom were disgusted with King Henry’s declaration of supremacy over the Church of England. It was a good move, Cromwell said, to be united with the duchy that is allied with Saxony and the league of Lutheran princes; they can prove most helpful should war break out. I see the reason behind the match; indeed it is the most political union the king has ever made. May it end in love.

  When Hans Holbein returns to court with portraits of two fair Germans, Anne and Amelia, the king chooses Anne. She is twenty-four, four years older than I. I admit the name sends a shiver of terror through me and pray she does not meet the same fate as the last wife bearing that name. At the same time I am excited at the prospect of a new queen. I hope she is everything the king wants, that she will prove her worth in childbearing, and that they will stay married forever, leaving England’s heartbreaks behind.

  Norfolk sends an armed retinue to escort me back to court. It seems the Howards are in favor again. I have been chosen as one of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting. Though I thought the last thing I’d ever do was return to King Henry’s court, I find I am bursting with anticipation at the thought of serving her. I hope she is clever and cheerful and leads her ladies in spirited discussions about religion and poetry.

  I hope hers is a merry court.

  It seems that the threat of war with France and Spain has passed, and the king decided against fighting Charles V for Anne of Cleves’s brother, which puts to sleep the political urgency of the match. Despite this, the king goes ahead with the wedding and the couple is wed by proxy that November. We now refer to Anne of Cleves as Queen Anne and await her arrival. The weather has been dreadful in Calais, according to reports, and delays her crossing for two weeks. The king is in a fury of impatience.

  On New Year’s Day we wait in the queen’s tent at Hampton Heath, that we might be sheltered from the elements. The court is in a thrill of excitement.

  Everyone is there, including musicians to welcome Her Majesty with compositions praising her beauty, and it is among them I see Cedric Dane. He is older, filled out, and as beautiful a man as there can be. A strange warmth flows through me at the sight of him.

  When he sees me he makes his way over, bowing and removing his cap. His violet eyes are sparkling. “Quite a day, is it not, Lady Richmond?”

  I offer a bright smile, extending my hand. “Still at court, I see, Master Dane.”

  He kisses the proffered hand, sending a shiver up my arm. “Through it all, it seems.” His expression grows somber. “My lady, if I never told you…I’m so sorry about Fitzroy.”

  Tears clutch my throat. I shake my head, forcing a smile. “I press on.” I blink several times. “Do tell me how your wife is faring.”

  “Quite well,” he says, a smile of pride touching his lips. “She’s given me three bonny lads.”

  “Three!” I cry. I choke down my envy. “In so brief a time!”

  “The first two came as a set,” he says with a chuckle.

  I laugh. “Twins! How delightful. I’m so happy for you, Master Dane.”

  “And you? Are you happy, my lady?” he asks, his eyes alight with genuine concern.

  I avert my head. I cannot bear to look at him. “It is good to be back at court,” I say.

  He clears his thr
oat. “Well. I suppose you must rejoin the ladies before you’re missed. But I do hope to see you. We shall have to practice together.”

  I want to say “for what?” but refrain. It would be fun practicing with him for the sheer joy of his company, for whatever joy I can take in it. I offer a smile in parting and return to the queen’s tent, his smile seizing my heart with joy and something else…that agony—that agony he described to me years ago.

  Forcing him from my mind, I concentrate on my present company. There are several ladies-in-waiting. Jane Boleyn is among them and I make sure to ignore her. There are others more cheerful than Lady Jane, some of whom I have been acquainted with since my Anne’s time, and I hope to win their friendship. I am relieved to see Margaret Douglas among them. In her wistfully tender expression she communicates that she is my ally. I nod to her, hoping to convey my sympathy; we have suffered much, Margaret and I.

  “I hear Queen Anne is very fair, with hair as blond as corn silk,” says one of the girls next to me.

  I turn to regard her and my breath catches in my throat. Never have I laid eyes upon a more exquisite creature in my life. She is small and soft, her skin creamy and delicate. The sun weaves golden streaks through her lush auburn hair, which falls in waves down her back. Her wide blue eyes dance with youth and eagerness, as though bidding the world to come hither. Her gown clings to each supple curve and I imagine many a lad falling under her spell.

  Her full lips curve into a smile. There is something vaguely familiar in it.

  “I have just come to court for the first time. My name is Kitty…well, Catherine, actually, but everyone who likes me—I don’t know if that’s really that many people—calls me Kitty,” she says, extending her slim hand.

  I take it, delighted. “I’m Lady Richmond but you may call me Mary.”

  “Lady Richmond?” she asks, cocking her head. “Oh! Are you something terribly grand? Are you a countess or something?”

  I giggle. Her blatancy is most endearing. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Richmond.”

  “Dowager? You’re so young to be a dowager!” she exclaims. “Richmond…Richmond…why, I know who you are!” She claps her hands in delight. “Here we act as strangers and we are first cousins! You are Mary Fitzroy, are you not, formerly a Howard?”

  “Always a Howard.” I laugh. “How are we related?”

  She offers an enthusiastic nod. “My daddy was Edmund Howard, but he died—he was quite poor. I was raised at Lambeth by my step-grandmother.” She scrunches up her shoulders and giggles. “Such a naughty household that was! I suppose it is good preparation for court!” She takes my hand. “So your daddy is Uncle Thomas then?”

  I nod.

  “You are so lucky! He came to visit me these past few months at Lambeth and helped secure my place at court,” she tells me. “He is so kind! He said I was very pretty and amusing. He bought me some new gowns.”

  Oh, God. What does this mean? Where does this sweet girl fit into his plans?

  “How old are you, Mistress Catherine?”

  “Do call me Kitty,” she insists with a laugh. She grimaces. “‘Mistress Catherine’ sounds like an old spinster!” She beams. “I am going to be fifteen soon. How old are you? You look terribly young, but you must not be if you’ve already been married and widowed.”

  Her refreshing candor brings nothing but a smile to my face. “I am just turned twenty.”

  “So you are six years older than I am? That isn’t so bad,” she decides. Her voice is musical and filled with vibrancy. “You are young enough to be my friend. We shall have such a merry time at court together, dear cousin!”

  I wrap my arm about her shoulders and draw her near. “Indeed we shall!”

  “Just get used to Wiener schnitzel!” she adds, which sends us into such a fit of giggles that Jane Boleyn sends me a wicked glance.

  At last Queen Anne’s golden coach arrives and she is assisted out. Kitty and I lean this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

  “Ugghh, who dresses her?” Kitty asks.

  Indeed, German fashions are worlds apart from ours. Her gray gown looks as square as the strange headdress she is wearing. In all she looks like a box.

  “Oh, no,” I whisper to my cousin. “But her hair is pretty, at least.”

  I wonder what the king will think of her. His obese frame is draped in his finest ermines and velvets today; jewels bedeck every fat finger. His beady eyes are narrowed at the lady who approaches him. He steps forward, takes her hand, and offers a brief kiss on her cheek.

  “D’you think he likes her?” Kitty asks in hushed tones. Then she shrugs. “Not that he should set his standards too high. Look at him. He’s so fat he could sink a barge!”

  “Kitty!” I admonish, though I agree. “You must not say such things too loud. Such words could fall upon the wrong ears and you will find the king’s court can be quite merciless.”

  “Oh,” says Kitty, disappointed to have her observations cut short.

  When it is time for her ladies to be introduced, I curtsy before the queen, studying her through my lashes. She is not a small woman to be sure, but she is fair, with sparkling blue eyes and a merry smile.

  “You?” she asks, her accent decidedly German.

  “I am Mary Fitzroy, Dowager Duchess of Richmond,” I tell her.

  She nods. “Most pleased.” Poor girl! I don’t think she knows much more English besides that!

  The ladies parade before her and the king shamelessly ogles us all.

  But no one captures his attention like my cousin Kitty Howard, who dips into a perfect curtsy, giving His Majesty ample time to appreciate her perfect décolletage.

  I shudder. He is the last person I would want admiring me.

  The slap rings in my ears long after it has been issued. My cheek stings and I bring a hand up to it to soothe myself.

  Norfolk stands before me. “That is for the Seymour debacle.” Then, in a movement just as swift as the slap, he draws me forward and kisses the same cheek he struck. “And this is for what you will do to make up for it.”

  I begin to tremble. Now I remember perfectly why I hated serving at King Henry’s court.

  “I want you to make certain our little Kitty is in the king’s view as often as possible. Be subtle, of course,” he says.

  “To what end?” I demand, pulling away from him, disgusted. “He has made a good match with the German. May they have an eternity of happiness together and many bonny princes.”

  “Are you insane?” Norfolk spits. “He hates the German. She repulses him. He can’t even bed her, for God’s sake.”

  I know that much. Poor Queen Anne is so naïve that she believes sleeping in the same bed together is enough to conceive a child. She is far too innocent for the likes of our lusty king.

  Norfolk’s expression is the quintessence of slyness. His black eyes are narrowed, his lips are twisted into that sardonic smile; he is a fox about to pounce. “I wonder, does his inability to bed his queen mean he is cursed in some way?” His tone oozes with sarcasm. “Really, Mary, it’s almost too easy.”

  Norfolk is not a superstitious man, but he knows our king, and our king is as paranoid as they come. Norfolk knows exactly how to play this new game.

  “Don’t do this,” I caution. “Please don’t do this. Queen Anne is innocent, as innocent as a body can be. Let her get used to our ways. Once she learns our customs and masters the language better, they will be a happy pair. You will see…”

  “Oh, get out of here. You vex me to no end,” Norfolk says. “Just remember to do what I said. Keep that delicious little Kitty in the foreground.”

  I dip into an exaggerated curtsy and flee his rooms, swallowing the rising bile in my throat.

  Poor Queen Anne’s German attendants are sent home and she is left with us. I know I should be glad to be rid of the gossiping gaggle, but my heart churns in sympathy, for the poor queen is so far from anything familiar to her and is so obviously disliked by the kin
g. His comments about her appearance and even their intimate bedroom habits have been spun into well-known tales.

  He hates her figure and accuses her of being older than she is. Her stomach is not flat, her breasts are sagging, and her face…! His words are completely lacking in human decency. But this is the man who had one of his wives beheaded, so I cannot expect more.

  We try to amuse Her Majesty by teaching her English, though she has a tutor come and instruct her every day. She seems to have a marvelous affinity for it and is determined to acclimate herself to our land.

  “I will be good queen, no?” she asks us with a timid smile.

  I swallow my misgivings. Dashed are all hopes of illuminating conversations of religion and art. We can barely get past salutations.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I say sweetly. “Of course you will.”

  Jane Boleyn draws me aside. “What’s this friendliness toward the German? Your father said—”

  “So you’re his agent, too?” I seethe. “I do not want to know. Stay away from me, Lady Rochford. I do not want to retch in the queen’s apartments.”

  Jane Boleyn scowls and returns to her sewing.

  When not fretting over poor Queen Anne’s situation, I revel in a new friendship with Catherine Parr, Lady Latymer. An understated beauty, with rich auburn hair swept under her hood in a fashionable chignon and a trim figure, she is set apart from the other maids by her quiet dignity and soothing presence. Her impeccable manners and posture have even won Norfolk’s admiration. Often he has pointed her out, nudging me in the ribs, saying, “Now, if you carried yourself like her…” But of all Lady Latymer’s charming attributes, it is her eyes that strike me as most endearing. The soft brown orbs are filled with compassion and sincerity, inspiring a trust too rare in an environment where betrayal is as commonplace as daily prayer.