Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  “Have you forgotten that I am the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, not one of your common whores? I bear as much if not more royal blood than your scurvy lot!” Mother cries, but her face still bears that wicked smile. Both are smiling, in fact, and I find this to be a most disturbing discourse. I am unsure as to whether they are enjoying their little banter. “And I haven’t forgotten my ‘predecessor,’ ” she goes on, her tone biting. “I haven’t forgotten that your marriage to Lady Anne Plantagenet was steeped in poverty and that you lived off the pity of relatives. I haven’t forgotten that all that royal blood combined couldn’t sustain any of your offspring past age eleven, and it certainly couldn’t sustain your ‘princess’!”

  Norfolk shakes her till her teeth chatter. I hear them click together like dice cast against the floor. “Venomous little bitch!”

  Mother does not stop. Her voice is uneven as he jars her. “Royal blood is as red as everyone else’s and spills even easier.”

  In one quick movement, Norfolk whirls her around so her back is to him as she kicks and writhes against him. He pulls her to the sedan. I stand stunned. I want to cry but cannot. I just watch, fascinated. As wiry as he is, he has the strength to hold her arms behind her with one hand and maneuver her over his knee. He hikes up her skirts and strikes her across the bottom like a naughty child. My face burns in shame as I listen to the resounding crack of skin striking skin.

  What inspires the most fear in me is that Norfolk’s face bears so little expression given the severity of his actions. No anger, no malice. No remorse.

  When he finishes he pushes her onto the floor in a crumpled heap. She struggles into a sitting position. Norfolk has turned his back on her and folded his arms across his chest, drawing in a deep breath. Well done, his bearing suggests. I shudder. Mother crawls forward. To my complete amazement she wraps her arms about his leg and rests her head against his thigh. They remain like this a long moment before my father reaches down and pushes back her hood to ruffle her wavy brown hair. Like a dog, I think, my stomach churning in revulsion.

  She raises her head to him, smirking. “When shall we tell Lady Mary?”

  “I knew you would see it my way, Elizabeth.” Norfolk’s tone is quite pleasant.

  I turn around and lean against the wall a moment for support. Tears flood my eyes. The circlet is clammy in my cold hands. It is all right, then, what just happened? Is it some game between them? I take in a few shuddering breaths. I should not be so upset. I have much to look forward to now, it seems. Whatever occurs between my parents is best left to them. This may be how all couples relate. Should this be the case, I shall pray fervently that I am admitted into a convent. But one does not have babies in a convent! I begin to wring my hands in panic.

  “My lady?” a gentle voice queries. Hands white as lilies rest upon my shoulders, and I see through a veil of tears the sweet face of my favorite maid. Her wide-set brown eyes are filled with familiar tenderness. “What is it, lamb?”

  I attempt to still my trembling lip. “I … I do believe I’m going to court,” I say, not wishing to confide the disturbing scene between my parents to Bess.

  Her full, rosy lips curve into a radiant smile. “But that’s wonderful!” she cries, guiding me down the hall into the nursery, where we sit on the settee. She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs my eyes. Her other hand seizes mine and strokes my thumb in an absent fashion.

  “It is wonderful,” I agree, but the words are empty. I am nervous. I need to do something. I take the handkerchief. I am far too grown-up to allow her to continue blotting my tears away, and it will occupy my fidgety hands. As I bring it to my face I find the monogram, embroidered in the lovely shade of Tudor green. “T H,” I say. The corner of my mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Now, what lad would have given you this, Bessie Holland?” I reach out and tug one of her white-blond ringlets.

  She flushes bright crimson and lowers her eyes. Such a demure creature, I think to myself. She is everything I want to be.

  “ ’Tis nothing,” she says, snatching it from me.

  “But, Bess, it’s so romantic! You must tell me!” I cry, taking her hands. “Is he very handsome? And kind?” I add. After what I just witnessed it is now vital that he be kind to my gentle Bess.

  Bess offers a slow nod. “Yes,” she says at length. “He is kind to me.” She rises and begins to stroll about the nursery, picking up knickknacks and setting them down in a distracted manner. I admire how her voluptuous figure swaggers a bit as she walks. “I shall miss you, my lady.” Her voice is wistful. “Now it will just be little Thomas, and he’ll be sent away soon enough for his education. What fine ladies and gentlemen I have attended these past years! And think—soon you shall be among the finest.”

  “I can hardly wait to see what the ladies of the court are wearing,” I muse, perked up by the thought of glittering jewels and cloth of gold.

  Bess’s tone grows quiet. “Take care around Anne. I used to attend her before coming here. She is the loveliest of women, but her mind is … unquiet.”

  “I don’t remember her. I have not seen her since I was a child.”

  Bess laughs and I gather it is because she still considers me a child. I puff out my chest in indignation, imagining the breasts that will soon erupt from the flat landscape of my girlhood. I break into giggles.

  “She is much favored by the king.” Bess sits down again. Her eyes are alight with intrigue. “You know that she usurped her sister’s place in that—”

  The door bursts open, interrupting her tale, and I am disappointed. I want so much to learn of this world I am about to enter and know I cannot ask anything of my father.

  “Mary.” It is Norfolk himself. He offers a smile as he enters. “We will be leaving for court directly. Why don’t you see to the packing of your things? Just a few things, mind you. I shall have new gowns ordered upon our arrival.”

  “Can Bess come?” I ask, clinging to her hand.

  He bows his head, clearing his throat. “No, not just now.”

  I pout a moment before seizing Bess’s hands and kissing her cheeks. I exit but do not run this time. Something keeps me rooted in place outside the door and I wonder if this is my fate, camping outside of doors, listening to things I do not want to hear, for surely what I am hearing now is out of a dream.

  Sweet murmurs assault my ears. Yes, assault, because they are not exchanged between those who should utter them. I turn. My father has Bess’s head cupped between his hands. She is smiling up at him with the unadulterated adoration of a love-starved child. He gathers her in his arms, kissing her with the same fierce passion he used in striking my mother. When they part they are breathless. They lean back on the settee and I watch his hand snake down her stomacher.

  T. H. Thomas Howard. So the handkerchief she offered me was his. On what occasion had he lent it to her? Had she been crying over her undesirable role as mistress? Had she been demanding that he rid himself of my mother to set her, wicked Bessie Holland, in her place? I picture the whole scene, my cheeks hot with rage. My father wrapping his arms around Bess and consoling her, promising her the world if she’d only be patient a little while longer. He gives her his handkerchief and she clutches it to her ample bosom just to lure his eyes to that ripe spot wherein beats her sinful little heart. Oh, the seducer!

  Bile rises in my throat as I quit the mental imagery. A firm hand grips my shoulder. How is it he can move so swiftly and silently, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut against whatever is to come. But when I open them it is into my mother’s face I look.

  “So. Now you see,” she says in her low voice. There are no tears in her eyes. She is a strong little woman, her angular jaw set in a line of determination, her challenging gaze stormy blue. She is not like Bess—soft, round Bess—who is made of honey and cream. Mother cannot afford to be honey and cream. She is fighting, always fighting. Now I know what she is fighting for.

  “Yes,” I say with profound sadness. “Now I see.”
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  “You will be careful at this court of Henry, the Eighth of That Name.” I nod at the gravity of this formal order. “You must know that when you are there you will not see His Grace your father very much at all, and I will be busy attending Her Majesty. Be quiet. Watch and learn. Never tattle on anyone else, no matter how tempted you are by the promises of others. Be still. Keep your own counsel. Self-preservation, Mary, is of the utmost importance at this court.”

  “Yes, Mother.” My throat contracts with tears. I want her to enfold me in her arms the way Bess does when I am sad or frightened. But I am angry at Bess and remind myself to admire my mother’s cool sense of control rather than long for the embrace of that vile betrayer.

  Mother nods to me. I nod back. We part company.

  This is how true ladies conduct their business.

  I am leaving. Bess catches me before I descend to the great hall.

  Sensing my coldness, her soft eyes make their appeal. She clings to my hands as if she does not know of her transgression. I snatch them from hers and scowl. Her face registers her sorrow as she seizes my wrists.

  “My lady.” Her voice is almost a whimper, stirring my heart. “Your father is a powerful man. We can only all of us do his bidding. My family … they depend on His Grace.” Tears stream down her cheeks with abandon. “I … I have no choice, my lady.”

  I blink several times to keep fresh tears at bay. “Such topics are not suitable for my ears,” I say, thinking myself to be quite dignified, but feeling a fraud. I disengage myself and turn around to go meet my parents.

  “Mary!” Bess cries.

  The unchecked agony of her voice causes me to stop.

  “I love you like my own,” she says, her milky voice edged with desperation.

  I burst into tears and run to her, flinging myself into her arms. “Oh, Bess, dearest Bess,” I sob. I forget the coolness of my mother and the wantonness of Bess’s actions. All I know is I am in the arms of the one person I have trusted to love me without reserve—my Bess. I cannot fault her for anything now, nor can I blame my father for loving her. My sense of right and wrong has been thwarted. I do not know what game I have been thrust into. I have yet to ascertain the character of the players.

  I only know that I am one of them. My mother’s words ring in my ears. Self-preservation, Mary …

  With effort I extract myself from Bess’s embrace and know that as I leave her I am leaving all vestiges of childhood behind me.

  3

  Farewell to Kenninghall

  I ride away with my father’s armed retinue, watching my childhood home become a small black speck on the horizon. Mother rides in a covered litter with the curtains drawn. I asked to sit beside her but was refused, as she prefers her privacy.

  “Soon you will not see it at all,” Norfolk says in reference to Kenninghall as he sidles up beside me. He looks formidable on his black charger, though in lieu of armor he wears the fine furs and velvets of a much-favored courtier. The heavy cloak envelops his slight personage and he appears more solid. He holds the reins with one slim-fingered hand while the other rests on the hilt of his sword.

  “Stop looking back,” he tells me. “Howards do not ever look back; we press onward. No matter the circumstances. Onward.” He gestures for me to look ahead and I do, taking in the fields that surround us; they are barren and gray. Winter is pondering its arrival. It teases us with a scattering of snowflakes now and then. I shiver. I wish we were traveling in the spring when the landscape has more to offer.

  So far what is ahead looks bleak. I am at once clutched in anxiety’s sadistic fist. What if I do not fit in at court? What if no one likes me? Kenninghall may not have been an exciting place, but along with Tendring and Hunsdon—my other childhood homes—it was familiar. I had my lessons. I played with my brother and Bess. Now I am plunging into a life alien to me. My father is foreign to me. I have only seen him a handful of times. I want to impress him; I want him to be proud of me. Yet he frightens me. His brutality toward Mother, his tenderness toward Bess … I cover my mouth to stifle a sob.

  “Are you ill, Mary?” Norfolk asks.

  “No, my lord,” I say quickly. I avert my head. I do not want him to see my tears.

  “You have not been made accustomed to long rides,” he comments. “You must be tired. Come.” In one effortless movement he leans down and scoops me right off my saddle, setting me in front of him. I stiffen, unsure of how to conduct myself. He is my father, but he is also the intimidating soldier-duke. He is the man who beat my mother and made love to my maid in the same afternoon. But he is also the man we are taught to worship and long for.

  I lean back, giving in to the need to rest against something. His chest is warm; I feel his beating heart against my back. I look down at his hand, a hand of such perfection it could have been the model for a statue, with its strong tapering fingers and subtle blue veins snaking like rivers beneath his tanned skin. It is the hand of a scholar and soldier. The thought sobers me. This hand is capable of much cruelty.

  Now it rests about my waist, quite nonthreatening. In a moment forged out of the desperate need for reassurance, I reach out and take it in my own.

  “I am so glad to be with you, Father,” I tell him, and in that moment I am filled with the utmost sincerity.

  He pauses. “I have been shown your embroidery. Quite fine,” he says. “And I am told you have a nice ear for the virginals and dance prettily. At court you shall learn all the new dances. It is vital that you study all the womanly arts, Mary. It is also important to keep up with your education. It pleases me to learn that you are a good reader and know your letters.”

  “In English and Latin, sir,” I brag, trying to mask my hurt that he has not yet told me he is glad to be in my company. Perhaps, because he is first a soldier, he does not know how to return a compliment.

  “The most important thing to remember, Mary, is to keep your cousin Anne happy. Serve her, please her, whatever she wants. She is favored by the king and our family’s hopes lie with her,” he goes on to advise. “But as high as Anne is raised, never forget who the head of this family is. Never forget who your first allegiance is with; that it is your goodly and Christian duty to obey your father always. Swear to me, Mary. Swear to me your obedience and fidelity in all things.”

  “I swear,” I say, unnerved by the intensity of his tone.

  “Good,” he says. “Very good.”

  He squeezes my hand.

  I shall be everything he wants, I think to myself. I shall work very hard so that someday he will look at me and say Mary, I am so glad to be with you.

  4

  London!

  How is it I, little Mary Howard, can be so fortunate as to enter this fairest of cities? My heart is swollen with joy as I behold all the sights and smells of this magical place. It is so very big! Tears sting my eyes as I behold beggars on the street, but my eyes are filled with as much excitement as compassion when they are drawn to the fine ladies and gentlemen that stroll the market, many of whom I have been assured are mere servants from the palace. If the servants are garbed in such finery, then how must it be for the true set!

  Most of the streets are dirt but some are cobbled, and I love the sound of our horses’ hooves as they strike against them. I ride my own pony now, sitting straight and proud. Some of the fishwives and other ladies of the market shout blessings out to me and I imagine that this is how the Princess Mary must feel when she travels about in the open.

  I firmly believe that God chose England as the spot to place His most beautiful river, the Thames. In its shimmering waters float barges and little rowboats. I squirm in delight, longing to be a part of it. Ahead I can see London Bridge and the approaching Tower, where all the fair kings and queens stay upon their coronations.

  “It’s not all a tale from faeries’ lips,” one of Norfolk’s pages tells me. He is young; not much older than my brother Henry. I estimate him to be about fourteen. “See that river? Every day they pull hundreds
of bodies out of it. And the pretty Tower? Below it are some of the most gruesome dungeons ever constructed. They torture people on the rack and—”

  “Enough!” I cry, urging my pony forward. I refuse to think of anything unpleasant as I make my debut into London.

  But somehow the day is a little less sunny, the river a little less sparkly.

  And the Tower is a lot darker.

  Westminster is a bustling palace! There are people everywhere. Up and down the halls rush servants and heads of state, foreign dignitaries, and courtiers more beautiful in person than I could ever have imagined. As we walk down the halls, I note that my father is greeted with a mixture of aloofness and what I would call sugared kindness. He greets them all the same; with no expression and a grunt of acknowledgment.

  I have to refrain from skipping. Norfolk walks with a brusque, determined step and I am all but running to keep up as it is. My face aches from smiling as I take in all the beauty around me.

  “Don’t be a fool, Mary,” Norfolk says sotto voce when he catches my expression of bewildered joy. “You haven’t just stepped out of a stable. Behave as though you’re accustomed to some level of refinement.”

  I sober immediately, swallowing tears. He is right, I remind myself. I must do the family proud. It would not do my father much credit to appear ignorant before the court.

  As we walk we encounter an older woman accompanied by a small entourage of ladies. She wears a somber blue gown and a long mantilla over her graying auburn hair. Her blue eyes are soft and distant. She clutches a rosary in her thin hand and every step she takes seems laden with weariness.

  My father sweeps into a low, graceful bow. “Your Grace,” he says in a gentle voice.

  I sink into a deep curtsy before Queen Catherine of Aragon.

  “Returned from your business?” the queen asks. Her voice is low and sweet—motherly. I imagine it would be very nice to sit at her feet while she reads.