I am with Cedric.
There is no one else.
Together we sink onto the floor beside the blazing fire. I am swept away on a new current, beyond infantile desire and courtly lust. This is not a game of flirtation. Perhaps it is not love, either. But it is a comfort of sorts, a wild sort of comfort. There is urgency, yes, and something more. Passion, pain, pleasure. We merge and meld into one being; his limbs, fingers, lips no longer separate from my own. We are perfectly, irrevocably entwined. I am enveloped in him and him in me.
It is that night I taste love’s sweet bliss at last.
I cannot think of my night with Cedric. I cannot allow myself to go back there. I do not know if it will happen again. Do I want it to? A part of me yearns for him every moment—for his arms, his kisses, his warm flesh pressed to mine…. Another part of mecringes in horror. What am I? A harlot? What have all my religious pursuits brought me to? What must God think of me now?
Cat Parr sees the difference. She reaches out to me the next afternoon as the two of us stroll the gardens. I hear Kitty playing badminton with a group of courtiers, boys against girls. Thomas Culpepper is on the boys’ team. He is laughing and teasing her. I shiver.
“What is it, Lady Mary?” Cat asks me, rubbing my upper arm. Though she is not much older than I she is so motherly that she has even been called to pacify King Henry’s bouts of temper when his leg is giving him a particularly bad time. There is no doubt of her ability to comfort and soothe.
I cannot keep it from her. If I do not tell her I will collapse in upon myself. “I have been wicked,” I tell her.
“Wicked?” She laughs. “You?”
I pause. “I have…I have known…I—”
“Lady Mary,” Cat says, taking my hands. “Whatever you have done, be assured I will not judge you. Does not our Lord command it? ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’? Come now. You may tell me, dearest, and if there is anything I can do to help, you must know I will do so. And if I cannot, you can take solace in the fact that I am your sympathetic friend who loves you.”
I sigh in relief. I should have known I could trust faithful Cat.
“There is a gentleman,” I begin. “I—I—that is to say, we—”
Cat nods in understanding. “If you are wicked then I am damned,” she tells me. She purses her lips. “I tell you this because I consider you a very dear friend and know I can trust you. If you are wicked for trying to steal a little happiness for yourself then we are wicked together, for I too have sought out my heart’s desire.”
“Seymour?” I ask her.
She nods, smiling.
I sigh. “Oh, my lady, but I have made a promise…a promise I cannot seem to keep.” Through a veil of tears, I tell her of my promise to Harry.
“But you have not broken your promise at all,” she points out. “You have found love. Didn’t he want you to find love?” she asks. “You are not married. You are not even betrothed. So you took what is owed you, what you deserve. Yes, it may not be the most prudent thing in God’s eyes, but I cannot imagine He wouldn’t understand. He is merciful to those who love Him. And your Harry…he wants you to be happy. When you are with this gentleman are you happy, Lady Mary?”
“I do not know,” I answer. “Emotions run high when we are together. There is so much intensity…” I shake my head. “I am not unhappy in his presence. He—he is very kind. It is odd. We have been virtual strangers since I was eleven or so, exchanging a few words here and there, and yet I think he knows me better than anyone.”
“Then delight in him, Lady Mary,” Cat tells me. “Happiness is too seldom found in this life. Take hold of it while you can.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes. That is what I shall do.”
While we are sitting there a messenger comes to me with a gilt box. Thrilled, I open it to find a pretty emerald and diamond bracelet set in gold to look like ivy.
“Is that from him?” Cat asks as she lays the bracelet across her wrist to admire it.
I read the note in the bottom of the box.
Mary,
If you are willing and obedient you shall eat the good of the land. Isaiah 1:19.
Your loving father,
Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk
Cat has read the note over my shoulder. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she mutters. “Why on earth wouldn’t he just leave it at ‘your loving father’? As though you don’t know who he is?” She takes the note and rereads it, wrinkling her nose. “What does it mean, anyway?”
I sigh. “He does that from time to time,” I tell her. “To inspire me.”
She puts the note back in the box. “It’s a pretty bracelet. Shall I clasp it on you?”
“No,” I tell her, placing it back in the box. “Thank you.” I lean over and kiss her cheek. “You’re a good friend, my lady,” I say. “Thank you.”
“As you are to me, Lady Mary.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand.
I leave the gardens, walking past Kitty and her games.
I go to Norfolk’s apartments. He is not there. I set the box on his desk and leave a note of my own.
My lord Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk,
But you have become cruel to me; with the strength of your hand you oppose me. Job 30:21.
Your loving daughter,
Mary Fitzroy
Duchess of Richmond and Somerset, Countess of Nottingham
Whatever this earns me, I am smiling at the boldness of my move.
Let that inspire him.
Our personal intrigues are distracted when the king takes ill with a fever. Kitty is sent away for her protection—in case she carries an heir, no doubt—and takes a small handful of ladies, including Lady Rochford.
At night I pray for the king’s demise. It is a terrible thing, a treasonous thing, to pray for the death of a king, but I cannot help myself. Perhaps he will die and free my Kitty. How wonderful her life could be then! She would live as queen dowager, free to surround herself with whatever and whomever she wants. If she wants to marry Culpepper she can marry Culpepper. Oh, if only…
But it is not to be. The king, whose will is still strong enough to command his failing body, recovers and Kitty is called back to court. She is glowing, her cheeks rosy with happiness. Any fool can see she runs mad with love sickness, and anyone with a beating heart knows to fear for her, for this love that causes her to giggle and skip and dance about is not for His Majesty.
Again she suspects she is with child. The king is delighted at the prospect and dotes on his rose like an idiot, promising her a grand coronation at York Minster if her pregnancy proves true. My stomach churns. But I am so immersed in my own newfound happiness that all of my energy is no longer expended in fretting over the royal couple.
Cedric and I see each other as often as possible. Together we play music and share our compositions; we read our poetry along with other courtiers’ works, such as those of Thomas Wyatt and my brother. Cedric causes my cheeks to flush when he says that Surrey is all flowers and no real substance. He prefers Wyatt’s more honest style of writing. I of course defend my brother out of familial loyalty.
“I don’t think there exists a more loyal daughter and sister in the entire realm,” says Cedric one day as we snuggle before the fire. “I hope they appreciate it.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “I don’t care if they do or not. I don’t want to think about them or anything outside of us.”
Cedric pulls me in his arms and I stifle giggles of delight.
“Are you going with us on progress, Cedric?” I ask him as I kiss his neck.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he says, stroking my hair. “I couldn’t, anyway. The king has commanded my presence. It will be a merry progress, Mary. We will have a lot of freedom….” He winks.
My cheeks burn. I feel as naughty as Kitty. “I cannot wait, my dearest.”
The progress through the North is a merry journey. We tour different cities and accept the hospitality of local nobles. Everywhere we go we a
re feasted and celebrated. A court on progress lacks the structure of a mobilized court within the confines of palace life, and everyone behaves like children freed of their studies. We romp and play and I cannot think of a time when I have been happier.
Kitty and Culpepper seek each other out under Jane Boleyn’s watch, and I ignore it. I immerse myself in Cedric and my own intrigues. We find each other at every opportunity and, with as much subtlety as possible, conduct our affair. I do not think of Norfolk or his reaction, should he learn of what he would perceive to be my wantonness; I do not think of Surrey. I think of myself. For once in my life I think about me.
When we return to Hampton Court and Kitty is not with child, I begin to face the situation’s gravity at last. She has been married over a year now. Enemies are circling, eager to see the rose wither. Old “friends” from Lambeth are given positions in her household, the ancient exchange of glory for silence. One is Francis Dereham, a rakishly handsome courtier with black hair and intense features whose hungry eyes follow Kitty with the possessiveness of a man whose blood is running hot with desire. He has been appointed her personal secretary.
“We meant something to each other once,” she tells me, her expression dreamy, as I question the wisdom of having him so close. “Poor chap believed we were married.” Her eyes are wide. “Of course we weren’t,” she whispers. “I don’t know why he insists it was so. I always thought it was sort of a game between us; calling each other ‘husband’ and ‘wife,’ you know?”
“When you played at husband and wife,” I begin in hushed tones, “did—did you do everything a husband and wife would do?”
“Well, yes,” Kitty says, lowering her eyes. My heart begins to pound. Does Norfolk know? Would he have pushed her this far if he knew? Oh, God, save Her precious Majesty…“That’s why he was so put out when I corrected him. But I think we have an understanding now. He is happy as my secretary and is quite over it all, I am certain.”
“Are you certain, Your Majesty?” I ask her. “He doesn’t resent you for…anything?”
She shakes her head. “Why would he? He left me for a year while he became a pirate or some stupid thing like that. What did he expect me to do? Wait for him after I thought he was dead?” She shrugs. “I think he’s more realistic than that. He realizes life just went on and accepts it.”
“Does he know about…about Culpepper?”
“What do you mean?” Her blue eyes flash in petulant anger. “What are you suggesting?”
I kneel before her. “Your Majesty, I…I know about your goings on. And I fear for you. His Majesty is—oh, Kitty, please be careful!”
Kitty’s face softens and she reaches forward, removing my hood. She sets it in her lap, then leans forward to cup my face between her slim hands.
“You mustn’t worry. I am sure to keep His Majesty happy,” she assures me. “I keep everyone happy.”
I want to believe her. How much I do want to believe her!
Thorns
The happiness Kitty promises is short-lived, as I knew it would be. When a man named John Lascelles learns of Kitty’s past with Dereham through his sister Mary Hall, a chambermaid at Norfolk House, he runs with it. It is his moral responsibility, he feels, as he is a reformer against the Catholic faction (in short, the Howards) and takes it upon himself to seek out Archbishop Cranmer, informing him that Kitty had a precontract in marriage to Francis Dereham.
On November 2 at the Mass for All Souls’ Day, Cranmer passes His Majesty a note with the charges. It is kept private at first. I suspect nothing till the king leaves the palace on the fifth.
I keep close to Kitty and the other ladies. Kitty is unaware that anything is amiss, as is most of the court. We make merry in her rooms, dancing and giggling as we always do in her presence, when the archbishop enters, his face somber.
“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing. He sighs. “We have learned the truth about you and Francis Dereham.”
The room is silent. I begin to tremble. My stomach aches. My eyes stray to Kitty’s white throat.
“What?” Kitty asks, smiling. “What truth?”
“That you were precontracted in marriage, that you are lovers.”
Kitty’s little mouth is agape. “It is a lie!” she cries. “I…I want to see the king! I shall explain everything to the king! He will understand. Please, take me to His Majesty.”
The archbishop shakes his head. His eyes fill with pity. “His Majesty has retired to Oatlands Palace, brokenhearted.” He pauses, approaching Kitty, who is trembling. “You must confess, Your Grace. Confess your sins and you may be spared.”
“Spared?” she breathes. “Spared what?” She draws in a breath. “Spared what?” Her blue eyes are wide with terror. “Archbishop?”
The archbishop closes his eyes. All of us know what she may be spared from. Nobody wants to hear her confession. I place a hand on my churning stomach. I want to run to Kitty, take her in my arms and comfort her.
Her face has gone white. “If I confess I will be saved? I will not go to the scaffold if I confess, is that right?”
“That is possible, Your Grace,” says Cranmer.
Kitty lowers her eyes. And confesses. She tells him everything that happened at Lambeth with Dereham, how he took her both clothed and unclothed, how they played at being married. Her words, as strange as they are, are so childish and fraught with innocence that I cannot imagine how a man of the archbishop’s years and experience cannot dismiss them as anything but a childish mistake. Kitty could not have been more than thirteen at the time the incident in question transpired.
“I didn’t even know the king then.” Kitty is sobbing. “What difference does it make if I didn’t even know him?”
Cranmer nods. “That is what we will try to tell him. That because it is a precontract it invalidates your marriage. That if, technically, you are not married now, no further accusations can be made against you.”
“Further accusations?” She sniffles.
“I must go to the king,” he says in gentle tones. “You are not to leave these rooms.” He pauses near the doors. “I will pray for you, Queen Catherine.”
When he leaves we gather around her, patting her shaking shoulders and stroking her auburn hair. Her pretty hair…
“I have to see the king,” she sobs. “I have to see him. He cannot resist me. He loves me so much. Once he sees me I can make him understand. Isn’t he the smartest man in the land? That is why God made him king? If he is so smart, he will understand. Won’t he?” She is near hysteria. “Won’t he?”
“Oh, Kitty,” I whisper, pulling her in my arms, rocking back and forth.
She tilts her face up to me. “Uncle Thomas. Uncle Thomas will help me, won’t he? Will you get him?” She sits up, brightening. “Uncle Thomas loves me well. He protects me and calls me his little kitten. He will help me. Won’t he, Mary?”
I begin to sob.
When I am able to leave the queen, I seek out Norfolk.
“What are we going to do?” I cry. “How are we going to help her? Dereham has been arrested. He has confessed to everything, under torture. Some of the servants have also betrayed her.”
“Do you think you’re telling me something I do not already know?” asks Norfolk in his cool tones.
I pace before his desk in agitation. “We must do something. We must help her. She believes you can rescue her somehow. She has so much faith in you. You must do something.”
Norfolk shrugs. “I think we’re a little beyond that, Mary. It’s over.” He sighs and rubs his face. “Two nieces. Two of the stupidest girls to ever be spawned from Howard loins. For God’s sake.”
“My lord!” I sob. “What are we going to do? We have to help her! We have to stand by her!”
Norfolk shakes his head. “There is no help for her now, Mary. You know it as well as I.” He ponders me. “Do you know what he said when he found out, Mary? He requested a sword, that he might run the girl through himself.” He shakes his head, a wr
y smile twisting his lips. “It’s over, Mary. She’s done.”
I cover my face with my hands and run back to my little queen.
I stay with Kitty, offering what little comfort I can. The archbishop hounds her daily with interrogations. She has no idea how to answer his questions and sobs, begging for His Majesty, till Cranmer gets so frustrated with her that he has to excuse himself. Why he should expect more from a terrified sixteen-year-old girl is beyond me.
At one point, little Kitty throws open the doors and runs from the room down the gallery, screaming, “Henry! Henry! Save me! Henry, save me!”
The guards seize her, dragging her back to the room. She throws herself onto her bed, sobbing herself sick.
“Henry…” she sobs. “I did love him, for as much as I could.” She gasps and gulps like the child she is. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. If we could just talk it over. He would understand. I know he would understand.”
Unfortunately her estimation of her husband is greatly miscalculated, but no one tells her that. No one can bear to tell her anything.
“What of Uncle Thomas?” she asks me, wiping her red, puffy eyes. “Is he going to help me?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, Kitty,” I say, abandoning protocol.
“Will someone send for him?” she asks, her eyes directed at me. “Will someone send for my uncle Thomas?”
No one moves.
She begins to sob harder. “I want my uncle Thomas! Please! Send for him!”
Still, no one moves.
Kitty is removed, with a handful of ladies, to Syon Abbey for more questioning. As she begins her imprisonment, Margaret Douglas is released for her own crime of loving a Howard. She is to retire at Kenninghall for a time.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 22
