Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  The king nods. I am impressed by his regal bearing. Between the queen’s loving influence and the masterful governance of the Seymours, King Edward VI shows a great deal of promise.

  “You are dismissed, Lady Richmond,” he tells me. “And may God keep you.”

  I retreat from the throne room of my new sovereign and, upon leaving him, depart the life of a courtier as well.

  It is a life I am most content not to return to.

  Most of Norfolk’s lands are seized by the Crown. He had willed them to his godson, King Edward, but his wishes were not carried out, and many of our manors are divvied up between the Seymours and other favorites in their faction. I can only imagine what Surrey would have made of that.

  It does not matter so much to me. As long as I am left with some living family members I care not for landholdings.

  I am certain Norfolk would not agree. Most of his lands were gained from the dissolution of monasteries or granted from the elevation of his two nieces, my beautiful cousins, to the English throne. To lose them signifies how low he has truly fallen in the eyes of the Crown.

  I am sure it is this that he ponders most while sitting in the Tower. The loss of the lands, the grand manors, the things. I wonder, does he ever once think about the people?

  In February I am permitted a visit.

  I do not know how to describe walking through the Tower, that place that held captive so many members of my family. As I am led to his cell I recall the fate of my uncle Thomas, who wasted away behind these cold stone walls for the simple crime of loving Margaret Douglas. Will that be Norfolk’s fate as well?

  I am so nauseated I have to keep swallowing back burning bile as I look about this dismal place. I have been inside the Tower before, on numerous occasions. But I have never seen this; I saw only the grandeur of Anne’s lovely remodeled apartments when she prepared for her coronation in the years of my innocence.

  There is no grandeur or luxury to be found in these damp and darkened halls that carry the echoes of screaming prisoners all too well.

  Before entering Norfolk’s cell, the lieutenant offers me his arm. “Are you quite well, madam?” he asks in solicitous tones.

  I can only stare at him. Tears strangle me. I must gather control. Norfolk would not like to see me this way. It would only annoy him. I nod. He opens the door.

  The room is barren of any comforts. No wall hangings or tapestries warm the damp stone walls. There are no books to entertain my lord, not even so much as a blanket for his bed. There is nothing but a little window to let in the light.

  He must have hours to spend in introspection; hours to go over a long list of what I hope to be regrets.

  Norfolk’s back is to me. He is staring out the window. It affords nothing but a view of a gray sky and the moat below.

  I clasp my hands together in a moment of uncertainty. “My lord…”

  No response. He does not turn toward me.

  My lips quiver. There is naught to do but run to him as I always have. I embrace him from behind and lean my head on his back, sobbing. “Oh, my lord, my lord…what have we come to!”

  He emits something like a laugh.

  I pull away, turning him about by the upper arms so that he might face me at last. He stares at some fixed point above my head.

  I reach up, cupping his face between my hands. “You…know about Henry, Lord Surrey, my lord?”

  At last his eyes travel downward to meet mine. He takes my hands, lowering them from his face and placing them at my sides before taking a few steps backward.

  “Yes,” he says. He draws in a shuddering breath. “You know, it is strange. When I was married to the Lady Anne Plantagenet and we had our first boy…” His black eyes gaze beyond me into the distant planes of the past. A trace of a smile curves his lips. His eyes sparkle. “I was in my twenties, optimistic about life, as most young men that age are. My boy was my pride. He was so filled with promise, my first little Thomas. Next came Henry, the first Henry…I held him aloft like so.” He holds out one arm, fingers splayed as though supporting a baby’s fragile head. “And, you know, Mary, I just loved to look at him. He had blond hair—the softest hair, like down. His eyes were so clear, and when he looked at me…he would study me. Anne used to laugh at me, holding him like that, the two of us staring each other down for hours at a time.” He laughs but there is no joy in it. “He was so dear.” He squints at his arm as though any moment the baby will appear on it. “All I could say to Anne was, ‘Look at those little feet.’” He drops his arm. His Adam’s apple bobs several times before he continues. “Those…perfect little feet. Such an insignificant thing.” He turns to the window once more. “When he died I would sit and hold his shoes and just stare at them, those…empty little shoes.” He squares his shoulders. “Then came William. Such a solid little lad. Surely”—his voice catches—“surely nothing would happen to him. But then—then—suddenly there I was again, left with another pair of little shoes.” He shakes his head in a moment of frustrated disbelief. “But I still had my little Thomas. He was thriving. We—Anne and I—we explained things as best we could. His brothers were in Heaven, you see. That was when I believed in such nonsense.” He turns to regard me, his eyes hard as onyx. “Little Maggie was born, then. I didn’t mind so much that she was a girl. She brought Anne delight and was a lusty little thing. But she died in my arms when she was six. They had to wrest her away from me. I…couldn’t…let…her…go…” His shoulders heave as he chokes back a sob.

  Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked. What can I say to all this? How can I begin to grapple with the profundity of his losses?

  Collecting himself, he continues. “Then little Thomas…oh, God, little Thomas. He followed not a year later. All of my babies—all four of them, gone by my thirty-fifth birthday. And what do I have to account for them? Little pairs of shoes.

  “When Thomas went I could not stop screaming. I screamed and screamed till my throat bled. The servants had to hold me down and force a sleeping posset down my throat.” He laughs his bitter laugh. “When I awoke, he was still gone, Anne not long in following.” He draws in a breath. “So you see, that is why this should be so easy for me.

  “Except for one thing…” His face is void of calculation. It is open, bewildered as a child’s; the complete picture of vulnerability. “I am thinking, despite it all, Mary, can you believe it? I am not thinking about your brother’s valor on the battle field or of his poetry. I’m not thinking about Tower Hill. I am not even thinking about the stupidity and recklessness that brought me here.” For a moment he opens his mouth. No words come forth. And then in a strangled voice he says, “I—I am thinking about his little baby feet.” He covers his face with his hands.

  “Oh, Father,” I say, knowing any words uttered now are feeble at best. “Would that I could have saved you both…. I—I didn’t know what to do. I had no counsel. I did what I thought was right. I tried to save you…”

  He says nothing as he removes his hands, revealing a calm, cool countenance.

  My shoulders slump. “There was no saving my lord Surrey. But God has seen fit to spare you, and I swear by all that’s sacred I will try to get you out. I shall petition His Majesty and the Council—whomever I have to in order to secure your release.” I reach out to him again, taking his cold hands in my own. He is shivering. “Oh, my dear lord, you are so cold…” I lead him to his bed, where we sit. I wrap my arms about him and rock back and forth, but the movement does nothing to soothe either of us. It is wrought with sorrow.

  Norfolk reaches up and holds my wrist. I lean my head on his shoulder and sob. I sob for Surrey, for all of my brothers and sisters who went before, for my cousins, for the Howards’ ill-fated ambition. I sob for Norfolk and all the empty pairs of shoes.

  The lieutenant knocks on the door to signal that my time has expired.

  I rise. Norfolk has not released my wrist.

  I whisper, “I will come back to you. I will get you out. You have
but to wait.”

  His hand slips from my wrist to my hand. He squeezes it.

  I squeeze his in turn. “I—I would stay with you if I could,” I tell him in vain.

  His mouth twists into that bitter smile I know so well.

  The lieutenant enters, offering his arm.

  One last look at Norfolk and then the door is shut. I am led away.

  The lieutenant sighs. “You know,” he says, “I think I believe you, Lady Richmond.”

  “I beg your pardon?” My voice is tremulous with tears.

  “You really would stay with him, wouldn’t you?” He stares at me in befuddled admiration.

  I blink back tears. “Yes,” I tell him. Where else would I be?

  “You’ve a great deal of heart, my lady,” says the lieutenant as he shows me out.

  I quit the Tower and commence to my London home, Mountjoy House, one of the few Norfolk holdings allotted us, where I proceed with the first of my petitions appealing for the freedom of Thomas Howard.

  I have betrayed my family once. I must find a way to mend what can be mended.

  I will not be remembered as a Jane Boleyn.

  I will not be remembered as a Thomas Howard, for that matter.

  I want to be remembered as the woman who with all her heart tried to hold her fragmented family together. That has to count for something.

  In March my father is granted clothing and appurtenances befitting his station. Still viewed as too much of a threat to be freed, it is clear that the Seymours and their like plan on his being a long-term resident of the Tower, and it hurts no one to make him a little comfortable.

  In May, with a mixture of delight and apprehension, I learn that Cat Parr has married her longtime love, the man I twice rejected, Tom Seymour. Delight because for so long this was all she ever wanted. Delight because maybe now she can have the normal life Henry VIII denied her. Apprehension because despite Tom Seymour’s looks and charm there is something about him, something shady and restless. Old rumors echo in my mind; old questions are raised. Was he a rapist?

  It occurs to me that I do not want to know. My days at court have provided me with a lifetime of horrific memories, and I am more than pleased to be excluded from everyone’s dark secrets.

  I want to be happy for Cat. I admire her so. She has no care of the scandal she has created in marrying so soon after the king’s death, halfhearted scandal though it is. Anyone surviving marriage to Henry VIII should be immediately elevated to sainthood and be privy to whatever happiness that is to be found. No, Cat’s marriage is just another episode to provide the court with further gossip, and as Norfolk so accurately said, gossip is the court’s sustenance.

  I find myself envying Cat. She has no one to be beholden to—no parents, no overbearing siblings, no children. She controls her own fate. Perhaps it was her life my Harry wished for me, a kind of independence he could never have predicted would be so difficult in attaining.

  I send her a little note of congratulations but hear nothing back. I suppose it is prudent for her not to associate with me any longer, with our history, yet I am saddened just the same. I never set out to be her rival. God above knows I never wanted the king. I never really wanted Tom, for that matter.

  All I’ve ever wanted was a little normalcy.

  Cat has been given charge of my cousin Elizabeth. Perhaps in the future I will be permitted a visit to my little princess. Cat and I will have a long talk, then. Time will have passed and put any residual tension behind us. She will have babies to show me and we will discuss the New Faith just like we used to. She will show me the book she is writing.

  We will discuss common things; wonderful, common things.

  Yes, someday that is how it will be. In the meantime, I will pray for her happiness and that of my dear cousin, the Princess Elizabeth. Perhaps Cat and Tom Seymour can give the child the family she was denied for so long.

  That same spring Mother arrives from the country for a visit to Norfolk.

  “We shall go to the Tower together,” she tells me.

  I stare at her in shock. At fifty she has never looked better, dressed in her deep red velvet gown, brown curls framing her strong jawline, her blue eyes fierce and alert. She is in fine figure as well, and could pass without effort for a woman ten years her junior.

  I lay a hand on her arm. “Mother, with all due respect, what would make you want to see him?”

  She offers her wry little smile. “There is much to be said.”

  It is not too often anymore that I find myself beset with curiosity, but when I accompany Mother to the Tower that day I am fidgety with it.

  When the lieutenant, John Markham, shows us in, Mother maintains a cool countenance. Her back is straight, her shoulders are square, her head is held high. She is the quintessential noble-woman.

  The lieutenant permits her entrance, maintaining a discreet distance since he must be present for any and all of Norfolk’s conversations, lest the duke take up his habitual plotting again.

  “I buried our child,” she tells him. “At Framlingham.”

  I close my eyes as an image of the children sobbing before Surrey’s tomb swims before me. Frances stands hopeless before the cold effigy of my brother, laying her hand upon its face. So much does the vision disturb me that I am swept up in a spell of dizziness. I lose my footing over nothing.

  The lieutenant reaches for my arm, squeezing my elbow. “Madam?”

  “I’m quite well,” I assure him in hushed tones.

  Norfolk stares at Mother, his expression cool as moonlight. “Well, where else would you have buried him?” His voice is thin with impatience.

  As I watch him now I cannot believe he is the same man who months ago allowed me the briefest glimpse of humanity. Watching him I wonder if I imagined the entire exchange.

  Mother purses her lips. “I wanted to tell you…” Her blue eyes are dancing. My heart begins to pound. She clears her throat. “I wanted to tell you, my lord, that Elizabeth Holland—you remember her, I see—it seems she is to be married to a Henry Reppes.”

  Norfolk’s face offers nothing.

  My heart skips in a moment of terror, but the presence of the lieutenant assures me that no beatings will take place today. I try to contain a smile. Bess to be married! At last some joy will be afforded her after twenty years of near indenture!

  “How many months have you been imprisoned, my lord?” Mother asks, her tone light with conversational amicability. “Six, is it?” She smiles. “Yes, six. Mistress Holland wastes no time.”

  She surveys the room: the second-rate tapestries, the sparse furnishings. “Are you quite comfortable here, my lord?” She strolls to the window, casting her eyes to the moat below. “I see you have a view. It is good to have a view. Reminds you there is still a world out there.” She turns around, laying a hand on his arm. “All my prayers and sympathies are yours, my lord. Was a time I recall being locked in a tower myself, with none of the proper accoutrements. It is a most difficult adjustment. But you’re a Howard. I believe you will be quite capable of adapting to any living conditions.”

  If I were watching from a place where they were not permitted to see my reaction, a place such as the faerie country perhaps, I believe I would have danced a little jig. Despite my love for both parents, the taste of my mother’s small victory over Norfolk after his years of cruelty is indeed very sweet.

  “While it has been a pleasure to have this lovely discourse with you, my lady, I am certain we all have more pressing matters to attend to,” says Norfolk in response.

  “Do we?” She turns to me. “Do you have anything to attend to, Mary? I certainly do not. I had hoped to spend as much time as possible with my lord, reassuring him of his family’s loving support during his travails. Unless of course you were implying that—oh, how foolish of me—you must have been implying that you have something to attend to. What is it, my lord? You must tell me if I can be of any assistance.”

  “No.” Norfolk clears his
throat. “You have done quite enough, thank you.”

  “Well, then, perhaps you are right. Perhaps we should be off.” She takes in a breath. “It is such a lovely day. Would that you could join us outside.” She feigns a most convincing pout. “But then of course you can’t go outside, not even to take in a little exercise. Such a pity.”

  To my complete surprise Norfolk laughs. He reaches out, taking her hand. “Ah, Elizabeth…” His voice is beset with a mixture of amusement and despair. “Take your delight, my dear. Take your delight while you can.”

  Mother cocks her head, gazing at him a long moment. She steps forward, laying a hand on his chest, running it up his shoulder then down his arm. “You’re still in fine form, Thomas Howard,” she says, and I swear there is affection in her tone. She leans up, bestowing the gentlest of kisses on his mouth.

  Norfolk stares at her, amazed. If she had hit him he would not be more shocked.

  “Good-bye,” he says in soft tones.

  She nods, then turns.

  I offer a curtsy but my lord has already turned to the window, to his view of the big world outside.

  The year 1548 offers little progress in my efforts to obtain Norfolk’s release, but it does bring about a unique development regarding my late brother’s children. It has been decided by good King Edward and his Council that they shall be warded to me, so that they might begin their education.

  “We can think of no better place for their virtuous education,” the king said, to my delight, “than with their honored aunt.”

  Before the Privy Council arrived at this conclusion, twelve-year-old Little Thomas had spent a lonely year in the care of Sir John Williams, treasurer of the Court of Augmentations, and was left to grieve the death of his father alone at Rycote while Sir John occupied himself in London. His sisters and brother, eight-year-old Henry, were taken into the custody of Lord Wentworth, a man who, while kind, does not have the time for four young children.

  I am beset with joy. They are good children. I feel it in my soul. I look at each of them, searching for traces of my own family in them. Young Jane has my mother’s fierce blue eyes and set jawline. Catherine, much like my own sister, is a beauty as most Catherines seem destined to be, with her sun-kissed blond hair and hazel eyes. Baby Margaret, a wee girl of five, is a chubby cherub with round, inquisitive brown eyes and an eager smile. Henry, sweet little Henry, is the picture of his father, with brown hair curling about his ears—so soft that I must refrain from reaching out to finger its silkiness. His sleepy brown eyes are soft and gentle but filled with awareness.