I am so overwrought from sobbing that every move is sluggish. It is as if I am wading through water, pulled down by my heavy skirts. If I wade deep enough the water will take me to its breast where waits my love…
I curtsy, resisting the urge to sink to the floor and remain there in a defeated heap.
“In the event of Cedric Dane’s death,” he begins, causing my heart to leap, “an event that apparently has transpired, it was his express wish that you have this.”
I rise, accepting the box with trembling hands. I do not think to ask how he came about acquiring it.
“I took the liberty of going through it,” he tells me. “To make certain it contained nothing harmful to your reputation.”
I open it, taking in a breath. It is a necklace, the pendant of which bears the perfect likeness of his face. The signature of the artist is tiny but decipherable. Hans Holbein. I close my eyes a moment, warding off fresh tears for kind Master Holbein, also in the next world, almost two years dead of the plague.
Holbein, whom I always felt a special rapport with, saw beauty in my Cedric. Indeed it is his eyes that are most pronounced in the miniature, those startling violet eyes that behold me even now with an expression of the utmost compassion and love.
At last I allow my tears to stream down my cheeks unchecked. “Where did you get this?” I breathe.
“Intercepted the messenger,” he confesses.
“W—was there anything else?” I ask. “Anything at all?”
He shakes his head as I look at the empty box as though if I squint hard enough something will appear.
“You tell me the truth, my lord?” I ask him.
“I tell you the truth, Mary,” he says. What is it I detect in his voice? Is it, could it be, that there is a note of gentleness there? Sympathy?
“You knew,” I state in awe.
He nods.
“And yet you did nothing.” I clutch the miniature. “Why?”
“It could come to nothing,” he says.
His one gift to me, then. A season of happiness.
I regard the miniature a long moment, memorizing every feature of Cedric’s likeness, wishing that somehow it would spring forth into life. I hold it up to the light; the chain twirls about a moment, and something catches my eye. Three words, not in Holbein’s hand, are painted on the back:
Sing. Write. Pray.
I clutch the pendant to my breast. All those years ago, after the loss of my Anne, when I had to hide my grief, he told me…he told me…
I begin to sob.
Norfolk wraps his arm about my shoulders and ushers me to the window.
“Look outside, Mary,” he says in his soft voice. “Look out at the beautiful new day.”
I cannot see through the tears.
“Look, Mary,” Norfolk urges. “It is misting today. Look, child. Do you see it? Look to the river. Do you see the rainbow touching the water?”
I blink away my tears. Indeed, a rainbow, vibrant in its color, stretches down from the heavens to greet her soul’s mate, the water, the river…the river that leads to the sea.
It is both of them, then. Harry and Cedric together, guiding me, blessing me…
I lean my head on Norfolk’s shoulder and watch it fade into the mist.
He never asks, not once, about Cedric, though he does deny my request to leave court. I do not fight him. It takes too much energy. Instead I drift through the days in a sort of altered state. The queen, in her unending capacity for understanding, lets me be. She asks for nothing. She makes no demands of me. She is surrounded by her own circle of devoted ladies, Kate Brandon being a favorite of both Majesties, and they provide all the entertainment and stimulation she needs. I am content to circle on the fringes.
I am not suited to this life anymore.
While the world presses on about me I am still, suspended in reverie. I think of Cedric, of what was and what can never be. I think of his children. Do any of them have violet eyes? Do they sing and play the lute? Do they know what a wonderful man their father was?
I would not know how to find them. The Danes of Cornwall are as the magical island of Avalon, hidden by an enchanted mist. I have no access to their world.
Tears stain my pillow every night. Pain grips my belly. He is gone. I am empty. He is gone.
And yet, I think to myself, I would not have married him. He would have returned and still I would have adhered to my convictions. I would never have thought that I would have to live without him completely…I believed he would always be there. I am a fool and curse myself for mourning my foolishness as much as I mourn Cedric.
Cat and Kate Brandon discuss religious reforms, hoping to arouse some sort of response from me, but all I can do is smile and add a few comments here and there. Though I am still passionate about the topic, I am too numb to be an enthusiastic contributor. It takes too much effort to offer an opinion on anything; regardless of my thoughts the world will go on, and all will occur as God ordains, whether He be Catholic or Protestant. I imagine our battle over the issue is very minute to Him.
Christmastide comes and goes and there is little joy to be found, both because of the great French failure and, for me, my personal loss. It is a bitter winter. I spend many a night snuggled deep in my blankets, blowing on my fingers to keep warm.
Lent arrives, and we pass our guilt-ridden days of deprivation until at last it yields itself to Easter, and Easter to spring. A year ago Cedric and I were making merry at this court. We had no life plan; we lived for the present, and how we enjoyed every moment! Now that present is swallowed by the past, and I cannot wrench free of it.
A strange distraction arrives in the form of Anne Ayscough, a young reformer who has more courage than I could ever hope to possess. Not only has she defied her husband by not taking on his surname when they married, but she has dared preach against transubstantiation, the idea that the Host transforms into the Body of Christ during the sacrament of Holy Communion. It is a belief I happen to agree with, but unfortunately am not brave enough to discuss. Anne has even distributed banned Protestant books, which gets her arrested, to my queen’s regret. Upon Her Majesty’s intervention she is released, only to be arrested later that year for her passionate Protestant sermons.
This time there is no mercy. Sir Kingston, the same constable of the Tower of London who observed my Anne in her last days, is ordered to put the girl on the rack. Though he obeys, her courage and eloquence under duress touch him so that he cannot continue torturing her, leaving Lord Chancellor Wriothesley, a ruthless man who hides behind a handsome façade and dear friend of my father, to proceed in his stead. The girl is tortured until she is so crippled she is without use of her limbs. I am certain they hoped she would name more Protestants, perhaps even people such as the queen, Kate Brandon, maybe even me. But this Anne is stubborn, as devout as any martyr, and implicates no one.
The court follows the saga on tenterhooks. Indeed, we had all known Anne. She was an intimate of Cat, and though I sometimes feared her fervor, I admired her. But now is not the time to be sympathetic to those who are considered heretics. Gardiner is far too eager to have any and all arrested for daring to disagree with the king. There does not seem to be a day that goes by when we do not hear of so-and-so burned at the stake or hanged or beheaded for some unfathomably inane crime. Even Archbishop Cranmer is not exempt. To his great fortune the king gave him his signet ring to safeguard him should such an instance arise, and it was that which saved him from the stake when his reformist sympathies were called into question.
The king’s insatiable thirst for blood causes my belly to churn and ache in despair.
I take pleasure in neither court life nor the passing holidays and feast days, nor do I delight in the entertainments and the tourneys. The small things, all the small things that Harry told me to derive joy in, are too far out of reach at this place where fear and distrust reign supreme.
I begin to fret for the queen. It is no secret that Cat leans towar
d the New Faith; she is even authoring a book some could call heretical, though in my mind I can see nothing about the devotional that does not support Scriptures. In any event, she is brave to compose such a thing; I cannot imagine how she can continue to hold herself with such an extreme measure of composure.
It is now summer, 1546. Cedric has been gone almost two years, and yet every day I expect to see him among the musicians, strumming his lute or playing the virginals. I walk past the practice room, that room so filled with bittersweet memories, that room I have dared not enter, not once, since his death; and still, still I hope to hear his voice on the other side of the door.
It is more than I can bear.
What I need, I decide at last, is a visit to Mother. She may not be the warmest of women but she is wise. Perhaps she can offer me some respite. And if she cannot, there is always Bess, sweet Bess.
When I approach Norfolk with the request I find he is not alone. Bishop Gardiner is there, seated at his breakfast table eating comfits. He is an altogether unattractive man, his features so nondescript I could not tell anyone what he looked like had I seen him but a minute ago. He is not as fat as the king, but round enough to huff about and look uncomfortable wherever he is.
The two men seem to be involved in an intense conversation. Norfolk is leaning forward, elbows on the table, hands folded in front of his mouth as he watches Gardiner touch almost every dessert on the plate before choosing one.
Fear grips me. Gardiner is one of the men to evoke the most anxiety about the court, so eager is he to catch someone in a heretical moment.
“You must leave this to me,” Norfolk is telling him in low tones. “You must trust that I know how to handle the delicacy of this matter.”
I offer a deep curtsy, deciding it best to speak before learning whatever dark task Norfolk is handling now. “The guards did not tell me you were entertaining, my lord,” I say, forcing a smile. “I shall come back—”
Gardiner shifts his weight, leaning back in his chair, licking his fingers and smiling. “No, no. Not at all, my dear. Won’t you sit with us?”
I inch forward and sit in the chair the bishop has pulled out for me.
“There’s a good girl,” says Gardiner. “Tell us how you are faring, Lady Richmond.”
“Well, Your Grace,” I answer, casting my eyes to my folded hands.
“You attend Her Majesty?” he asks me.
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“And how find you the queen?”
What is he asking? If he means is she with child? I can assure him the answer is no. If he is asking how I like her I can assure him I like her well. I love her well. Somehow, with gut-churning certainty, I know he is not asking me either of these questions.
I offer a little laugh and a shrug, which appears girlish and silly. “She is very fine, sir,” I tell him. A diplomatic response, I think.
Gardiner smiles. “And you enjoy court life?”
“It is a busy place, my lord,” I say.
“Your father tells me you are a most learned girl,” Gardiner continues. “He says you are a pretty dancer and gifted poet and musician as well.”
Why would Norfolk discuss me with Gardiner? To what purpose? My heart is pounding. I turn my eyes to Norfolk, who is staring at the plate of comfits. He swallows and reaches out, suspending his hand over one, then another, until settling on a sugared almond. He stares at it a moment, as though pondering the possible consequences of ingesting something Gardiner has touched with his slick fingertips, then shrugs and pops it in his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, avoiding my eyes the entire time.
“I thank my father for his gracious compliments,” I say, returning my eyes to the bishop.
Gardiner rises. “Well, I suppose,” he says, nodding to Norfolk, “I best leave you with your daughter. We shall continue our discussion later.”
Norfolk has risen as well. He bows. “Indeed, I shall look forward to it. Good day.”
Gardiner bows to me, taking my hand and offering upon it a slimy kiss. “You have a most beautiful daughter, Thomas,” he tells him.
I shudder.
“Yes,” says Norfolk in affable tones. “I am quite aware.”
When Gardiner takes his leave I wipe my hand unceremoniously on my gown.
“I was hoping for a word, my lord,” I begin.
“Let’s have something to eat,” Norfolk suggests, his tone as sugared as the comfits. I look about the room to see if there is still someone present he is trying to impress. There is no one. “I, for one, am ravenous. What shall we have?” He strolls to the window. “I shall have something brought up. Anything you like.”
He returns to the table and sits, leaning his hands on his thighs so his elbows jut out in opposite directions. “Well, what will it be?”
I blink back a strange onset of tears. I do not know from where this kindness comes, but am grateful for it. I am too tired for suspicion and resentment. I welcome his attentions. “Whatever you like, my lord,” I say with a small smile.
Norfolk steps out of the room to exchange a few words with a servant, then returns to sit beside me. He stares at the sweets. “The man ruined it for me. Touched them all.”
I laugh. “It is tasteless, my lord,” I say. “But I am sure they are fine.”
Norfolk pushes the plate away. “Now.” He leans forward. “What did you want to discuss with me?”
As he is in such a rare mood of amicability I am loathe to bring up anything that will upset him. I proceed with caution. “I…I was hoping to visit”—I swallow—“I was hoping to visit Mother. I have not seen her in…many years.”
Norfolk waves a hand. “No. There is too much at hand here.”
“If I may ask, my lord, why am I needed? I hold no office; I am of very little import to anyone. Why may I not be allowed a brief sabbatical?” I implore.
Norfolk pauses. “You are of more import than you realize,” he says, then slaps a hand on the table. “Now! Closed subject. Moving on.” He rises and removes my hood, running a hand through my hair. “Still a mess, I see,” he says. “That will have to change. You must attend yourself better, Mary, for God’s sake.” He rounds the chair, standing above me, placing his fingers beneath my chin and tilting my face up toward his. It is amazing how well preserved the man is; he appears the same to me now as he did when I was but three. “Still, I must say, you are rather attractive.” He taps my nose. “Though you have my nose.” He laughs, and I recall that it is one of the first observations Anne made when I joined her court sixteen years and a lifetime ago. I swallow tears. “You and your brother both. Not quite as comely on a girl, however, but I wouldn’t say it detracts.”
He pulls me up by the hands, holding them as he surveys me from head to foot. “And you are of fine figure.” He nods as though concurring with some ghostly counterpart. “Perhaps not as…rounded as Kate Brandon, but a fine figure, nonetheless.”
I do not know what to say. I have no idea what the aim of his assessment is.
“You’re every bit as intelligent as Lady Suffolk,” he says, referring to Kate by her title. “Tell me, Mary, do you have any sort of”—he cocks his head as he searches for the words—“any sort of sense of humor?”
I am taken aback by the unusual question. Not only because it is strange a man such as Norfolk should concern himself with anything humorous, but because…because if one knows someone as he should his own child, he would never have to ask such a thing.
I furrow my brow, annoyed by the question. “I suppose so, though I can’t imagine I can conjure up a sample of it at this precise moment.”
Norfolk erupts into laughter at this, as though this statement in itself is all the sample he needs.
He drops my hands when the food arrives and watches the servant lay the table; set forth are trays of brawn, eels, cheese, bread, and tarts. Norfolk pulls my chair out and I sit. He follows suit and folds his hands, bowing his head.
“Lord, bless this bounty for that which we a
re about to receive,” he says. “Bless my king and country, my family”—he raises his eyes—“my Mary. In Lord Jesus’s holy name I pray, amen.”
I am startled by the prayer, not so much by the incongruity of Norfolk communing with God; though he is a convinced Catholic and author of a great many religious papers, I still cannot consider him a devout man. No, it is that today his praying flows forth in such a relaxed manner that I am taken aback by its…normalcy. It may be the most ordinary few moments of my life, and that in itself is of the highest irregularity.
Norfolk begins to eat with an enthusiasm he has never shown for food before, at least not in my presence. As far as memory stretches he has been a man of moderation, never taking more than what he needed. Now he is helping himself to generous portions of our little feast.
“I am thinking,” he says. “It is time you had some new gowns.” He studies me a moment. “How is it you never have new gowns made for yourself?” He breaks off a piece of bread and sops it up in some juice from the boar. “We shall have made for you a gown of Tudor green. How would that be? Green to bring out your eyes. They will shine like emeralds.”
The knot in my chest, the knot that has strangled me for almost two years, begins to relax as I search his black eyes. They seem a little less hard, a little less calculating. I want so to believe this is our new start, that in his old age he is becoming more…what is the word? Mellow.
I take a tentative bite of some bread, the thing least likely to upset my stomach. “Yes,” I say. “I would love some new gowns.”
“New hoods, too,” he says, reaching out to catch my chin between thumb and forefinger. “And slippers—whatever you need.” He strokes my chin a moment before dropping his hand. “It’s time you were made merry. Far past time.”
I stare at him in awe. I cannot believe what I am hearing. Can it be Norfolk has the desire to see me happy just for the sake of seeing me happy? My heart pounds. No. He wants something; he has to want something. Nothing can ever be this simple; nothing can ever be without some kind of attached expectation.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 26
