“Do you ever think of marrying again, Mary?” asks Peggy one evening as we lie in the hammock. “You would make such a wonderful mother.”
I shake my head. “I have seen none too happy a marriage in my day, Peggy. I know what I am missing but, strangely, I am content.”
“God bless you,” she says, patting my hand.
Indeed, it is this brief conversation that brings about the epiphany that I am content.
I begin to let go of my infatuation with Master Foxe and after a while we are able to keep company without discomfort.
For the first time in my life, I realize that it is all right to be alone.
Rainy Days
In 1552 my sweet Uncle Will is called to Calais, where he has been named lord deputy and governor. We send him off with a feast and he and Peggy vacate the manor with their children, leaving behind a void no one can fill. But I still have “my children,” as I often refer to my nieces and nephews, and we adhere to our routine. Master Foxe, now an ordained deacon, remains with us and Agnes and I have grown closer.
But it is quieter. I miss singing with my uncle and chatting with the gregarious Peggy. I miss our long evenings in the gardens together.
Nothing stays the same.
My petitions for Norfolk’s release fall on deaf ears. Now and then John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, responds that he is, in so many words, entertaining the notion of letting him free.
But he never does.
The year 1553 brings home my uncle Will, and I am thrilled he is once again at Reigate. Peggy and I cry tears of joy for hours. Though she enjoyed Calais, she informs me that she “detests French people!”
I recall my Anne and her adoration for all things French. I smile at Peggy. She is too earthy to hold fast to their love of the superficial. Indeed, it must have been an uncomfortable year for her.
To Uncle Will’s delight he has been named lord high admiral, a position my father once held, and though we are pleased, it will take him away from us all too often. But I take pleasure in the fact that at least Peggy and the other children will remain. My nieces and nephews enjoy a happy reunion with their cousins and the house is made merry again.
Until July when, to our horror, the bells toll again, that same old mourning song.
Master Foxe finds me in the gardens without Peggy and Agnes. He seizes my hand. “The young king is dead, Lady Richmond.” He draws in a wavering breath. “God save the king.”
I shake my head as I recall the kindness in my brother-in-law’s eyes when years ago he awarded me guardianship of the children. “He was but sixteen,” I breathe in saddened awe.
Almost the same age as his half brother when he passed.
“Oh, dear God, how did it happen?” I whisper as I sink onto the garden bench.
“They say it was the consumption,” he tells me.
Consumption. The same supposed fate my Harry succumbed to. Was that it, then? Or was his death, like his brother’s, wrought by much darker forces?
“What happens now?” Agnes asks. “What will this mean for the church? Once the Catholic takes the throne it is all over for us.”
I shiver as I think of Princess Mary, who is indeed so ardently Catholic that there is no doubt any strides we have made in reform will be put asunder by her and her supporters.
Master Foxe reaches out to his wife, taking her hand, letting go of mine. “We must wait and see. Nothing has been decided.”
“But King Henry’s will…” I say. “It has named her as successor to Edward.” My voice catches when saying his name. “Who will dispute it?”
“The Dudleys, another group of upstarts,” says Peggy, utilizing my least favorite word. “We shall see what happens.”
And so we wait.
True to form, there are few transitions of power that can ever go smoothly. It seems King Edward signed a document on his deathbed in the presence of the Duke of Northumberland naming the Lady Jane Grey his successor, claiming she has more a right to the throne through her Tudor-Brandon connection than his sister, who is little more than a bastard. Of course anyone with cognizance knows Northumberland is behind the entire scheme. Jane is his daughter-in-law, having married his son Guildford by force. He probably guided the king’s failing hand in the signing of the document himself.
Another Norfolk.
On 10 July Lady Jane is proclaimed Queen of England. I can only imagine what she is feeling right now. I remember her in the days of Cat’s reign, serving as her little maid. She was sweet and intelligent and keen on the ideas of reform.
We listen to the unfolding of the events from our safe vantage point at Reigate, each of us unsure as to what our hopes are for the outcome of the situation.
“I, for one, wish they’d dispense with all of this nonsense and name Princess Elizabeth queen,” mumbles Uncle Will.
Peggy shushes him. Now are not the days for free opinion. We do not know what is coming. Oh, to fear those dark days of Henry VIII come to life again…
We wait.
We do not have to wait long.
On 19 July Princess Mary wins the day, dispersing Lord Suffolk’s army that was sent to detain her, with her own loyal troops and imprisoning poor, used Queen Jane and her pitiful husband in the Tower of London. There is little doubt who the next ruler of England is to be.
I fret for poor Lady Jane, nine days a queen, and wonder how she will be punished. Surely Queen Mary will be merciful; surely she will realize that the girl was a tool of men’s ambitions, men who hoped to rule through her just as Norfolk hoped to rule through me. Oh, God…please let her be merciful…
When Queen Mary enters London in early August, my mother is pleased to come from Kenninghall to attend the daughter of her beloved Queen Catherine of Aragon. Touched by the longstanding loyalty, the queen decides it is now expedient to release from the Tower the high-profile prisoners incarcerated during the reign of her late brother.
At long last Norfolk is free.
I am in London when he is released along with Stephen Gardiner, that man I so detest. They kneel before her, the picture of humility, while she exclaims, her voice filled with tears, “These are my men!”
She rests her hands on my father’s shoulders, smiling down at him while he lifts his face to her as though staring at the Blessed Virgin herself.
He will forget—no doubt he will forget—my years of petitioning the Crown. All will be lost in the light that surrounds the daughter of his Catherine of Aragon like a holy aura.
Despite my resentment I find myself running to him, as I always do. I think of all the wonderful liberties he will now be able to indulge. At last he can ride without an escort. He can come home to Kenninghall and hunt, visit whomever he pleases, and enjoy the remainder of his life, free.
I look to the Tower, that dreaded place, and think of little Lady Jane, wondering if she will ever enjoy her freedom again. I force her from my mind. As cold as it sounds, it is not my worry.
Now I must attend Norfolk. I throw my arms about his shoulders, our tears mingling against each other’s cheeks.
“You are free!” I cry. “My dearest lord, you are free!”
He pulls away, offering a rueful smile. “Gracia Dei sum quod sum,” he says. His voice is filled with energy. “There is much to be done. Meet me at Mountjoy House.”
Much to be done. Not a day of freedom without moving on to his favorite pastime: plotting.
Gracia Dei sum quod sum. By the grace of God, I am what I am.
At Mountjoy I arrange a small supper, my father’s first as a free man. I make sure all of his favorite things are served. He eats little. He is so thin now that it must be difficult for him to consume much.
“Mary, I am being reinstated to the Privy Council. As many of my lands are to be restored to me as possible, along with my titles. We are in the ascendant once more.” His eyes are alive with that old sparkle and I admit being caught up in it.
I reach out, taking his hands in my own. “I am so gla
d, Father.”
“You must realize that your days of playing the reformer are over,” he says then.
My heart sinks. I begin to tremble.
“This is a Catholic court now. Queen Mary plans on restoring England to the True Faith once more,” he tells me. “I am telling you this because I do not want you to come to harm. Your views could compromise you if you are too vociferous.”
“I appreciate your concern,” I tell him.
“Do you understand what I am saying, Mary?” he asks, leaning forward. “I am telling you that there are going to be some changes.” He draws in a breath. “I have taken it upon myself to dismiss your friend Foxe. I will be taking the children in hand now.”
My heart has stopped. I swear it has stopped. I cannot breathe. For a moment I think I have gone blind. The world is black. My gut lurches violently. I blink several times, trying to restore my senses.
“I do not think you understand…” I begin. “You cannot understand. I have engaged the best tutor possible for the children. They—they have flourished under his instruction.”
“I will not have them partaking of this radical education any longer,” he says, his soft voice firm. “I will do nothing to offend Her Majesty. I am free now and I will remain so. Thomas, as my heir, must receive only the best, and I am instructing Frances to send the others here to Mountjoy House.”
“But they love Reigate,” I whisper, too stunned to say anything else. “That is their home. The city is not good for them. The air carries too many illnesses. They need to stay at Reigate. They need to stay with me!”
“Mary—” Norfolk’s voice is almost gentle. “You are not their mother. Frances deserves to be with her children. It is time.”
At once I am filled with rage. “As if that means anything to you at all! You, who will tear families apart as soon as create them! No, this is all about pleasing the queen. It is all about proving how Catholic the Howards have remained. Well, I will tell you, you can play the devout Catholic all you like, but nothing will change who I am and what I believe. Nothing will sway me from my faith!”
Norfolk rises, the movement swift and sure, filled with the confidence he has always demonstrated with such ease. He seizes both of my wrists, pinning them to the table.
“Believe whatever you please!” he cries. “Just take care you don’t burn for it!”
The lieutenant is no longer here. There is no one to protect me now. I have forgotten. For so long I have been able to be free in my speech without fear of repercussions, but now, with Norfolk’s face inches from mine, every violent exchange that has ever occurred between us is recalled. My temple begins to throb.
“Whatever your faith, you are no longer to be an influence on my grandchildren,” he continues in his calm voice. “They are to be returned to me if I have to seize them by force. And believe me, I can do that.”
There is no doubt of it. There is no doubt at all.
My shoulders slump in defeat. All the years of work, all the years of striving to be the best example I could be, dashed by a restored duke and a Catholic queen.
I gaze into my lord’s face. I cannot cry. The tears have been sapped from me. They are in the clouds.
“They shall be returned,” I tell him, my voice very soft. “But you must promise me you will not upset them by seizing them by force. Let me bring them to you.” My voice is a pathetic plea and I am ashamed of the desperation in it. “Because I loved them, my lord. They were my joy for…some time.”
Norfolk releases my wrists, cupping my cheek with his hand. “A wise choice, my lady,” he says, sitting back down.
He returns to his supper.
He eats a little better now, it seems.
I return to Reigate while Norfolk commences to do what he does best—wreak havoc. He presides over the trial of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, on 18 August, where his old enemy is convicted of treason for his part in the Jane Grey calamity and, I am certain, attends his execution with a light heart four days later. I am sure he does not even look at the Tower as he watches Dudley’s head roll.
Norfolk presses on.
Pressing on is not as easy for me. I am beleaguered by terrible stomach pain that causes me to walk hunched over at times as I ready the children for their trip to London. The younger ones are excited to return to the bustling city. They do not understand. Perhaps it is better, this shroud of innocence. It will be shed soon enough. Let them be happy, let them anticipate their new life with joy and not dread.
Frances says that I might stay on with them, but I know I cannot. My views are too well known to remain too close to this new court. And if Queen Mary has retained any of her father’s traits, then this is a dangerous court and I am through with dangerous courts.
Master Foxe, famed for his Protestant views, decides it is unsafe to remain in England any longer.
“I have more to think of than myself,” he tells me as he draws Agnes near. “We are expecting a blessing of our own. It must be safeguarded.”
I embrace him and Agnes. “God bless you and keep you. May He watch over you wherever you go.”
They hold me tight.
Master Foxe assists Agnes into the coach then returns to me a moment, taking my hands in his. “I love you, Mary,” he says simply. He drops my hands. And is gone.
I will never see him again.
“There will be a lot of changes,” I tell the children, echoing my father’s words on the day we make for London. I am unable to hide the tears from my voice. I give them a piece of advice that I received years ago. “You must pray as they pray, believe as they believe, but only outwardly. They do not own your hearts or minds. There you are beholden only to God. It is not cowardly to hide your true beliefs in order to preserve your life, no matter how much we all admire the martyrs. Please. Remember, self-preservation is the means to survival. Always.” I draw in a breath, clutching my stomach, doubling over a moment. Catherine clutches my arm, her hazel eyes lit with concern. I right myself, offering a quick smile of reassurance. “I cannot stay with you, but I beg you to remember that these past years I have endeavored to do right by you. I believe in each and every one of you and your capacity to do good. I love you all.”
The children surround me in the gardens and we embrace; they envelop me in their warmth and love. In one another’s arms we draw strength from our present, hoping it will accompany us into the uncertainty of the future.
The journey to London, so unlike that first journey to Reigate all those years ago, is not filled with anticipation or eagerness. I imagine the children are nervous, wondering what kind of world they will find. Thomas asks me questions about his grandfather and I am not inclined to answer him honestly.
I want to make things sound as positive as possible.
We arrive at Mountjoy House, where Norfolk awaits to collect Thomas. He makes a show of exclamations over all of the children; how they have grown, how lovely the girls are, how strong and sure young Thomas seems. He promises them that life will be wonderful here; indeed, if they are only obedient they shall be much favored by Her Majesty…
I do not listen after this point. I have heard it all before.
When it comes time to take my leave, young Thomas embraces me.
“I will never forget you, Aunt Mary,” he says. “I will never forget your grace or your wisdom. I will never forget your love for us.”
“My dear lord,” I tell him, holding him to me. “Never have I been so proud of anyone.”
We disengage.
I do not speak to Norfolk. I do not trust myself, and as I want to avoid violence in front of the children, find it is best to quit Mountjoy House, quit London.
Indeed, quit it all.
I hear tales of Norfolk and the family through Frances. She writes of the beautiful coronation banquet my father supervised for Her Majesty. She writes of young Thomas being the youngest ever to be created Knight of the Bath the day before, and how fine he looked in his regalia.
T
hrough her I learn that Thomas serves Gardiner—vile Gardiner, now named lord chancellor—as his page, while Henry continues his education under the supervision of a stern priest named John White.
Disgusted, I toss the letter aside and lie under my quilt at Reigate, tracing the children’s names, thinking, as I should not, of the past…the magical past…
In October Queen Mary presides over Parliament with the proposal that the marriage between her parents be legitimized. It all seems rather pointless to me, but I am not there and I suppose it is too trying to care.
To my relief, however, I learn that Lady Jane Grey is to be pardoned. At least the queen has some heart. She must see that the girl was a pawn, as most women are. I hope the girl will be released soon and allowed to live out her life in some semblance of peace.
But when the queen pardons Lord Suffolk, the duke proves himself to be as dense as they come, and proclaims his daughter Jane queen again, rallying an army led by Thomas Wyatt to support the claim. It is his hope that the country will support Jane in favor of the “Spanish-loving” Mary, who signed a marriage treaty with Philip of Spain on 12 January.
I retch when I hear of another father’s thoughtlessness toward his daughter. How can he be so foolish? Now there is no hope…
Norfolk is named lieutenant-general of the army sent to disperse Wyatt’s insurgents at Rochester on 22 January—Norfolk, who is eighty-one years old. I cannot believe the queen sees fit to send him, out of all the able-bodied men at her disposal. In Norfolk’s triumphant letter to me, he tells me that no one is quite as capable in the area of military strategy, which is why she favored him with this responsibility.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 34
