After a brief silence Margaret Douglas laughs. “You know what I heard? That grandfathers are better to their grandchildren than they ever are to their own brood. It’s sort of a second chance. Do you find it to be true, Lord Thomas?”
Norfolk smiles at the king’s pretty niece. “I don’t know about that. I’ve always delighted in my children.”
“Have you?” she asks, tilting a brow.
I bow my head. I can still feel his hand on my neck, his belt on my back. Still my temple throbs from his fist all those years ago.
I raise my head, meeting his black eyes. “Yes, it’s quite true,” I tell her. “He has certainly taken a great measure of delight in me.”
Margaret leans back, her expression smug.
That autumn Surrey joins my father against the Scots, who are advancing south to personally reject King Henry’s invitation that King James V cast aside the Catholic faith and join the Church of England.
The day my father leaves, Little Thomas mans his own training short sword and follows him through the great hall.
“And where do you think you are going, lad?” Norfolk asks him, his tone so solicitous one would not believe he could summon it forth.
“I’m coming with you,” Little Thomas informs him, his wide brown eyes earnest.
“You don’t believe you’re a little young for such an expedition?” Norfolk’s tone is conspiratorial as he gets down on one knee, placing his hands on the child’s shoulders.
Little Thomas offers a grave shake of the head. “I have to protect you, my lord.”
Norfolk’s lips twitch. “And why is that?”
Little Thomas pauses. “Well, sir…because you are quite advanced in years.”
Norfolk erupts into laughter. “Yes, I suppose so. But still you cannot come along, I’m afraid, though I’ve no doubt you would make an excellent soldier.” He casts his eyes toward the rest of us, who linger by the table. “I will give you your own mission, my dear Lord Thomas. I order you to watch over my estate while I am gone fighting the Scots. Watch after the fair ladies living here, and your little brother. Be diligent in your studies, for a good soldier must also be a learned scholar. Can you do that for me?”
Tears light the large brown eyes. “Yes, my lord. You can trust me with this task.”
“Good lad,” says Norfolk, ruffling the black curls and rising.
Long after his departure, Little Thomas clings to his short sword, standing outside the manor watching for intruders, and nothing we can say will coax him indoors.
During his grandfather’s absence Little Thomas stands guard, circling the manor every day, short sword in hand, waiting for news from the North.
It comes soon enough.
Norfolk proves successful in the beginning, razing the borderlands with little resistance, but retreats before the battle of Solway Moss, the decisive encounter that grants England her smug victory over the Scots.
Little Thomas believes Norfolk had a part in the victory, however small, and tells him so. Coming from anyone else, these words would be interpreted as an insult, but Norfolk embraces the boy and tells him he is a very wise lad and will be a credit to the Howard name.
“I am proud to be a Howard,” Little Thomas tells his idol.
“As well you should be,” says Norfolk, but he is looking at me.
Norfolk returns to court for a while, which grants us a measure of peace until the spring of 1543, when he comes home with the news that the king will take a new bride, the newly widowed Catherine Parr.
I ache for my friend whose heart belongs to Tom Seymour. As misguided as that may be, he is far more preferable a pick than Henry VIII. I can only imagine how it must have been, accepting his proposal. One does not say no to a king unless it is with the express purpose of eventually saying yes, as it was for my Anne and Jane Seymour.
How she must have lamented over being free at last to marry Seymour, only to be betrothed to the portly, beady-eyed, rotting king!
It is no surprise that the king chose Catherine to be his next wife. She is comely, learned, calm, and very maternal. She will make a wonderful stepmother, and, if God grants it, mother to more bonny princes. She tolerates the king’s tempers and has even tended his leg as far back as his marriage to Kitty.
The couple is married in June, and once again I am at court, attending another queen—not as lady-in-waiting, but as a friend. I pray this queen meets a better fate than her predecessors.
If she is as terrified as everyone else, she hides it well. Her face is the quintessence of composure. She dotes on her husband even as she dares to challenge him about religious reform.
As is the case with all of his brides in the beginning, His Majesty is smitten. Cat is showered with jewels and gifts.
“I do wonder if the king ever thinks it’s a little eerie,” says pretty Kate Brandon, the young second wife to the aged Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, and close friend to the queen.
I arch a questioning brow.
“Well,” she continues. “Her Majesty has received nothing but dead women’s jewels.” She shrugs. “With the exception of Anne of Cleves’s, I suppose. Still…it is rather tasteless, is it not?”
I nod. I know Kate well enough to realize that despite her husband’s relationship with King Henry, she can keep a confidence. I’ve always sympathized with Kate Brandon. She is the daughter of Maria de Salinas—honored friend and lady-in-waiting to Catherine of Aragon—and Baron Willoughby. Upon Willoughby’s death, she was brought up in the Brandon household since the age of seven and betrothed to the duke’s son, Henry. But when Charles Brandon’s wife Mary Tudor passed, the old buzzard married her himself. He was short of funds and not only is Kate beautiful and witty, with curves to spare, she is one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. It is a move so cold and calculated I wonder if he is part Howard.
Kate knows what it is like to be trapped in a loveless marriage to an old man, and it is this, along with their shared reformist convictions, that forges her strong bond with Cat Parr.
I think of every queen I have been both cursed and pleased to serve, even my Anne and my Kitty, I find serving Cat the most rewarding. At last my dreams of serving an intelligent woman, who encourages religious debates and devotions, are realized. For hours we sit in her apartments or the gardens and discuss church reform.
She is not dramatic or flirtatious, and though she holds her own religious convictions she is not overbearing. She is most regal, and as strange as it is for a woman common born, her manner and deportment suggest she was never meant to be anything but queen.
“Look at those diamonds,” says Kate, drawing me forth from my reverie.
I glance at Cat’s lovely throat and shiver. I cannot seem to look at anyone’s neck without an accompanying sense of dread.
“Do you remember those?” she asks me. “You should. They belonged to your cousin…this last one, not the first one.”
I avert my eyes. My stomach churns.
Kate shivers beside me. “I know. Positively eerie.”
I rise from the window seat where we were to be busy at sewing shirts for the poor, and curtsy low before the queen.
“May I be excused?” I ask.
“You’re looking pale, Lady Mary,” she says in a voice soothing as honey, rising to rest a hand beneath my chin and tilting my face up toward her gentle one. “I hope you are well.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I answer. “Just tired.”
Cat nods. “You may be dismissed, Lady Mary. Rest, my dear.”
I offer another curtsy and quit the apartments, trying to stave off dark visions of little Kitty’s neck encircled with diamonds, her pretty neck…
I am obliged to walk past the musicians’ practice chambers on my way to my own rooms and stop just short of the door. I want to go in. I want to see if he is there. My hand trembles, then closes in a fist, ready to knock. I close my eyes and drop my arm, deciding that as Duchess of Richmond I do not have to knock. I shall walk in. If he
is not happy to see me again then…
I do not find him behind the virginals, however. No one is here.
No one but His Majesty. His bulk is seated on the bench, the stink of his rotting leg filling the chambers with the sickeningly sweet stench of dead flesh left too long unattended. My stomach lurches. His fat bejeweled fingers are busy on the keys, plunking out a lively melody. He is a competent musician. I cannot say I have not enjoyed his compositions at times. However, his estimation of his musical talents is, like everything else he views himself accomplished at, inflated.
I begin to tremble at the sight of this large, fearsome man I can only compare to a beast. If there is anyone under God’s sun I fear more than my father, it is he, this Henry VIII, this tyrant king of England.
“I—I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” I stammer, sinking into the deepest of curtsies. “I was—I was—I do not know—”
His Majesty stops playing, resting his hands on his fat thighs, the hose stretching so taut over them the material seems as though it will rip at any moment. The face he turns toward me bears a jolly expression; his smile is broad. If one did not know what he is capable of one would think him a merry old man, not a savage thing swinging on the pendulum of madness.
“Lady Richmond,” he says. “Rise, dear child. Come here—don’t be shy. You are not bothering us. Come.” He pats his leg and I inch forward. There is no room on the bench, and if he tries some lecherous move like pulling me onto his lap I’ll run screaming to the axman for my salvation.
“We have wanted to have words with you for quite some time,” he tells me in his gruff voice. “All those years ago when we had that bit of nastiness over your inheritance…well, you must know it was political. It had nothing to do with you personally. We always were quite fond of you and wanted to see justice served.”
Justice! Now I know I am talking to a madman, as if there was ever any doubt. Justice! Justice…a bit of nastiness! If it would have served His Majesty politically to starve me to death in the Tower, in the Tower I would have starved. Justice. My head is tingling with anger.
I curtsy once more. “I—I am obliged, Your Majesty,” I say in tremulous tones.
“We have always enjoyed your brother, hotheaded lad that he is,” he goes on as he places his hands on the keyboard again and begins to play. “His wit and poetry amuse us mightily. How many children does he have now?”
My heart stirs at the thought of my treasured nieces and nephews. “Five, Your Majesty. Three girls and two bonny boys.”
“Children are a blessing, aren’t they?”
This coming from a man who declared his two daughters bastards.
“Indeed, Sire,” I concur.
“A blessing you have been denied far too long,” he tells me. “You should marry again, Lady Richmond. Perhaps your father and I can come up with a new match. You’re a beautiful young woman.” This statement is accompanied by his eyes roving my body up and down. “A beautiful and no doubt fertile young woman.”
I shiver. “Th—thank you?”
He laughs. “I remember your own talent at poetry. Can you sing as well?”
I offer a slow, frightened nod.
“Then sing for me while I play,” he says.
I obey, sweating and trembling and wanting this moment to end. If it were ten years ago I would have been thrilled to be in His Majesty’s presence accompanying him with my voice. But then ten years ago Anne was alive. She would have been singing, too, singing and laughing and dancing. Life would have been merry. That was long before the shadow of the axe fell on the Howards.
Now I derive no joy from singing with my father-in-law, the king. I want to run. I want to be anywhere but here. As I am singing I hear the creak of the door. His Majesty stops playing and laughs.
“Ah, Cedric, my lad!” he cries as Cedric doffs his cap and offers a deep bow. “We suppose it is prudent to leave the music to the musicians. We are weary.” He rises, leaning heavily on the virginals. If he collapses, the beautiful instrument is a goner. “This cursed leg…I must find my Cat. She will know what to do.”
I curtsy.
He smiles at me, resting a heavy hand on my head. “And we have enjoyed your company immensely, little girl. We should like to be entertained by you more often.”
I swallow the rising bile in my throat as His Majesty calls forth his guards, who help him from the room, staggering under his heavy frame.
When I am certain he is gone my shoulders slump as I sit on the bench, which is wet with the king’s sweat. I wipe my hands on my gown in disgust.
“Well,” says Cedric, his tone cool. “At last I am not looking at you across a crowded room.”
I turn toward him. “I’m sorry I have not sought you out sooner.”
Cedric sighs. “How are you, Mary?”
“Right now?” I ask with a nervous laugh. “Right now I am longing to bathe. Between the stink of His Majesty’s leg and the fact that I’ve just sat on a sweat-drenched bench…”
“‘Sweat-drenched bench’…I like that,” Cedric says, but he is not smiling. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Mary, I’ve missed you. How long has it been?”
“Well over a year now,” I tell him.
He reaches out, stroking my cheek. I flinch at his gentleness. “Our parting was not a merry one,” he tells me, his voice soft.
“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.
“Perhaps our reunion can be different,” he whispers, pulling me into his arms and pressing his soft warm lips to mine. I yield to his kiss.
When we part I say, “Nothing changes for us. No matter how much time passes, nothing changes.”
“No.” He reaches out, stroking my hair. “It will never change.” He pulls my head to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around me. I revel in the embrace. “Mary, I won’t pressure you into marriage for now. I won’t ask anything more of you than what you are willing to give.”
“Thank you, Cedric,” I whisper against his chest. “Thank you, my love.”
“For now,” he stipulates. “Just for now.”
That is good enough for me. All I live for is now.
Cedric and I meet whenever possible. They are not the love-crazed meetings we knew when we were on progress with King Henry and Kitty. Our encounters are calmer; we share the comfort and familiarity of old friends coupled with the passion of young lovers. We talk about religion and art and poetry. We compose music. There are three things I have forbade him to discuss: marriage, politics, and Norfolk. So far he is happy to oblige.
These are happy days. What’s more, they are peaceful days.
But in the summer of 1543 my father, in an attempt to stir up royal favor, declares war on England’s on-again-off-again rival, France, in King Henry’s name. It is around this time that I learn of the death of my cousin Mary Carey, now Stafford. She was not yet forty. I recall the last time I saw her, how she vowed that she would be the only Howard to know true happiness despite poverty and exile. I hope with all my heart that she did so.
“All of them are gone now,” I lament to Norfolk one night.
He is staring at a map of France splayed out on his desk, marking it here and there, completely uninterested in my commentary.
“Anne, George.” My throat catches. “And now poor Mary.”
“Yes, now I suppose they hold a merry little court in Hell,” quips Norfolk as he draws another line on the map. “And Jane Boleyn is probably there, too, circling about in a frenzy of lust-fueled jealousy.”
I stare at him in awe, though why comments such as these coming from him should continue to surprise me I have no idea.
He sits back in his chair, waving the quill between thumb and forefinger so fast that he creates the illusion of its bending in the air.
“Still, I suppose she was the best of them,” he says in soft tones. “She was very honest.” He offers his bitter laugh. “King Henry’s honest mistress.” He pauses, staring at the quill he now holds still before him. “Fools,
all of them,” he says, then returns to his maps.
I blink back tears and rise, dipping into a curtsy. It is not the Anne years or the Kitty years, so there is nothing to report, no orders to carry out. There is only but to excuse myself.
“Good night, my lord,” I say in weary tones.
He does not look up from his maps. I swear his shoulders are shaking in excitement over his new mission.
As I turn to leave he says, “Mary.”
I turn my head toward his voice.
“Remember. We move forward. We are Howards.”
“Yes,” I say. “We shall always be that.”
As I depart I can think of nothing that means less to me than being a Howard.
Norfolk is given the rank of lieutenant-general of the army and makes ready his campaign. By the spring of 1544 he is ready to cross the Channel.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” I find myself lamenting as I behold him standing smart in his military regalia, waiting to board the ship. “War should be left to younger men.”
“War is left to younger men,” he says. “But it is the older men who must arrange things.” His lips curve into the smile I know so well, that sardonic, lifeless smile. “Tell me you are not worried I shall meet with a cruel end in the fields of France,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “No fretting, daughter. I am in finer form than most men half my age—indeed, than most men in general. I will return no worse for wear.”
Though he is inarguably in fine form for a man of his years I cannot, despite everything, fight the tears filling my eyes. “Be safe,” I whisper as I embrace him.
His arms remain at his sides. He reaches up and pats my back in an impatient gesture and I pull away. I remember the time Kitty threw herself in his arms in a hug of complete adulation, how unaware she was of his response. I recall how she looked up at him, how she told him she loved him, how her eyes were lit with such innocent affection. Never at any time had the thought entered her pretty head that this man she loved would be her ultimate betrayer. No, he was her uncle and she loved him. She told him she loved him so he must love her in return.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 24
