by G Lawrence
“Mother, it was a disgrace!” I stormed around her room as she sat calmly on the floor near to the fire on a cushion. “Those children are of noble blood, Howard blood, and they look like paupers; thank God and Jesu that the servants are loyal or they would be starved and naked running around the place like savages!”
My mother sighed. “My brother Edmund was never fortunate, it seemed,” she said wearily. “He was ever apt to feel sorry for himself, and to turn to drink more than he should, hindering any possibility of success as he was so weighed down by the burden of his own self-sorrow.”
“Well, nothing seems to have changed there,” I spat. I was furious. During the ride back home to Hever I had become angrier and angrier thinking of those children in their wasted finery and of their father drowning in wine and self-pity falling all over the floor.
“My brother, Edward, tried to help him several times,” my mother continued, her face clouding with sorrow as she thought on her dead brother, killed in the last English-French war. “But somehow Edmund always ended up back where he started; in debt and desperation.” She looked up at me. “I will write to my stepmother of Norfolk and ask her to take the girls into her household. My brother, Thomas, can take at least the eldest boy and there are others that I know that will take the other boys. They will be taken off of Edmund’s hands and then he may be able to cope with the rest of his debts. Come now, Anne, play something for me, I have such a headache this night and this talk saddens me. We will do all we can to help Edmund, but I fear that unless he attempts to help himself, that there is little we can do.”
I acquiesced and took to the virginals in the room. Playing on them soothed me and soon I was lost in the music, thinking no more of my poor Howard cousins and hearing only the music as my lithe fingers slipped and plucked from note to note.
Chapter Twenty
Hever Castle
1524
The days moved slowly for me at Hever. I was desperate for news of court, of new dances and new music… of anything really. My days felt long as I read, sewed and hunted. I wrote to Margaret and to Bridget, telling them of my sorrow at being so far from them and received answers which warmed my heart. I rode out every day but even the thrill of new falcons or books, sent by George, could not lift the dull sheen that had fallen over me since I was banned from the brilliance of court. I was not made for a life in the country.
In January, as harsh winds battered about the castle and snow fell in wide droves blocking the lanes and passes, Percy was married to Mary Talbot. There were reports almost immediately that the marriage was a horrible failure. The couple despised each other, it seemed, and could not keep that fact from others. They argued in public, and Percy was so obviously miserable that all who saw him noted it. In some ways, although this will not charm you, I felt better for knowing that. Percy had refused to fight for me, and now he was in a match he loved not. In some ways, I believe I thought it served him well to be unhappy. I loved Percy no more. In many ways, I believe I hated him. I felt resentful towards him. He should have fought for me! He should have stood up to his father, to the Cardinal, even to the King! But he had not had the strength to fight, and I bore a grudge against him for it. In my mind, I murdered both Percy and the Cardinal many times… I did not wish to be matched now with such a witless worm as Percy, but that did not mean that I wished him well… Oh, my temper was resentful indeed.
Tom rode over to see me at times from Allington Castle, the seat of his family; he took time away from court whenever he could during the days of my banishment. He read me his poetry and we rode out, or played at cards with my mother who always enjoyed his company when she was strong enough. Tom did not question me about Percy; perhaps he feared riling my temper, so ever near the surface in those days of my exile. Perhaps he did not want me to remember Percy at all… I was grateful, to be honest. I did not want to talk of Percy to another person. I was sick of Henry Percy. The thought of him made me almost nauseous now. Such a worm! Such a boy!
When Tom came to visit, I was reminded of my first days in England, when I came, new, fresh and furious to have been removed from my beloved France. I remembered how he had made me feel then… As though I were welcome, as though I were a part of this new land I had come to rest on. And without the rest of the court, I felt as though I were a butterfly to his flower, flying to him once more. I believed I relied a lot on Tom Wyatt in those days of my banishment from court, perhaps more so than I would have admitted at the time. I was still attracted to him; I never sought to deny that I was not. But nothing had changed in his situation, nor in mine. At such times, when I saw him, I had to remind myself over and over that the reason he excited me so now was that there was so little in my life that was exciting. I had to remind myself that I was not in love with him, that I could not love him for he had a wife already and all I could be was his mistress.
I had to talk to myself a lot in those days; reminding myself that here was a friend, a courtly admirer… and nothing more. I found myself comparing him to Percy, and finding much that was better about Tom Wyatt than there was about Henry Percy of Northumberland. But still, there was nothing for me in a match with either. I must look elsewhere if I wanted to contract a marriage, find love… have children…
My mother was recovering, but the strange illness had left her weak. She was visited by doctors that my father sent from London, who bled her regularly, saying that her illness was caused by an imbalance of the humours. But the blood-letting only seemed to make her weaker still, and I worried for her often. They left little sugar-sticks of medicine, infused with rose water, but these medicines seemed to do her little good either. A strange old woman from the nearby village was a frequent visitor at my mother’s bedside too that winter. She came often, bringing baskets of dried wild herbs and instructing me in their use. I tended to mother, fed her chicken broth with powdered almonds and rice, a good food for invalids. I gave her bread soaked in wine and kept her warm, for she was often cold. At night I would sleep in her chamber, and read the Canterbury Tales to her, an old favourite of hers, as she lay in bed and I sat by the fire. In the nights she would shiver despite the good layers of woollen blankets, and I would climb into her bed from my pallet on the floor to keep her warm. It was as though she could just not hold the heat in her own body.
I was scared for her, my sweet mother. But soon and in parts, she became better. Well enough to walk in the gardens and ride a little, although we had to be careful about wearying her. Tom would come and keep her spirits merry, telling us snippets of court gossip to make her smile. I was grateful to him once again for that.
And as my mother started to recover, I longed more and more to return to court. The affair with Percy felt like a hundred years ago and I felt like a fool for having given my heart to such a weak and ineffectual boy. I wanted to return to the dances and intrigues, to the life and excitement. My blood sang for the candle-light and the sunny gardens, for the gossip and the talk… for anything other than more months or years of constant embroidery, locked away in this castle that I had once loved, but was now a prison for my soul.
After six months of languishing in the country at Hever, my father returned home to announce two things. The first was that talks of my engagement to James Butler were officially dissolved. Due to the lack of enthusiasm on my father’s part, Piers Butler had walked away from the match, but my father still had hopes that the title of Ormond would be his with time. The second announcement was that the Queen had requested my mother’s presence and mine at the Christmas celebrations at court, adding a kind note that we were only to come, “should we both have recovered from our late illnesses.”
Apparently, and unbeknownst to me, my family and friends had circulated a rumour that I had left because I had contracted the same illness as my mother, and that we were both recovering from this sickness in the country. Although many knew the true reason for my banishment, this lie had been allowed to live, and grow, until most people had accepted it as
a truth. Strange how a lie that is told often may come to be known as truth, but that was the way of the court…
My mother was better recovered now and I think to a certain extent she, like me, longed to be back at court. But she was not totally recovered and I feared that the Christmas celebrations may be too much for her to undertake.
“Oh, nonsense, child!” she laughed, and drank deeply of her wine as we sat at the table with our father upon his return. “Who is the child and who the parent here? If I say I am well enough to return to court, then I am well enough!”
My father looked steadily at her, trying to read her. “If it is too much, Elizabeth, then I would rather you regained your strength here.”
She scowled at both of us. “Should you order me to stay, husband, then I shall stay at Hever as a good and obedient wife. If you do not order me, and you value my own opinion, then I shall return to court, by your side, where I wish to be.”
Father looked down at the table and I saw what looked like the glimmer of tears in his eyes. But when he lifted his face there was nothing there to suggest that he had felt any such emotion. “It is settled then,” he said. “You, Anne, are to return and take up a place in the Queen’s chambers as maid of honour, as you were before. You, Elizabeth…” He paused, looking at her, and for a moment there passed between them a flash of what once had been so strong, of what once had been theirs alone. I wondered again on what the trouble had been between them. Neither would confide in me, so I was left much to wonder.
“You, Elizabeth,” he repeated, “will return with me to court as you wish and we shall be a family together for the celebration of Christmas.” He took her hand and smiled at her. “I could think of nothing I should like more,” he said and clasped her hand tightly. It hurt her, but she didn’t mind.
I returned to the court that winter and nothing was said about my disaster with Percy or my months of absence. In fact, it was as though the whole thing had never happened, and that was just the way that I wanted to think about it too.
The court and I had always understood each other well. I fell in line with its fabrications on the reality of life.
My circle of friends was reconvened; when I met with Bridget and Margaret again I rushed to them, embracing them with a happy laugh. There were new additions to our circle, too, Will Compton and Henry Norris were much in the company of George now. New voices and new talents; our ring of poets and courtiers was strong and vivid. We ruled the heart of the court. I was in love once again, but with no man, not even with Tom, who had, over these months, become more like a brother to me. Much as I had fallen for the Court of Margaret of Austria as a girl, I was now in love with the Court of England. I was just so pleased to be home, at the court, where I belonged! My circle moved much with that of Mary Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk. She loved to surround herself with the youth and wit of the court, perhaps because with a husband like Charles Brandon, she saw little of wit within her own home. Mary and I often played in masques she devised, and she delighted in talk of the old days in France when she had been Queen.
Since we now moved in circles that included royalty within them, and the King’s mistress also, it was not surprising that Henry himself was a frequent and active member of the group. He seemed to have all but forgotten his anger at me, and when we met, he was charming and polite. We were a lively bunch and it was with us that the themes and music for the court’s dances and masques took shape. Mary of Suffolk was often given credit for ideas that came from our heads, but that mattered little; princes take what they wish of their servants. All knew that it was more often George and I, or Tom and others who came up with the entertainments. The circle was a hive of ideas and games. We were the ones to watch at court, we were the bright young things.
My sister Mary’s pregnancy was advancing and her belly was swollen; no one could doubt the condition she was in now. The Queen was gentle and gracious to my sister and was interested, perhaps rather too interested, in the advancing stages of the pregnancy. When my sister came to the Queen’s chambers to serve her, Katherine would hover over Mary’s belly in a strange manner that often disturbed my sister. Despite the fact that Katherine must have known the child may have been fathered by her own husband, she seemed attracted to Mary, as she was to any woman with the lump of a babe in her belly… She was drawn to Mary in a fascinated, if desperate, manner.
Queen Katherine now was known all over the court to have lost her monthly courses; she could not keep something as momentous as that secret for long. It was not made known by proclamation of course, but gossip in the halls of court carries as much weight with courtiers as the Great Seal of the King, and so everyone knew. No one spoke of it around Katherine; within her chambers we had to pretend that her signs of ceasing to breed were but symptoms of other things. But Katherine had passed her days of bearing children, and we all knew it.
Katherine still prayed daily, thrice daily at least, and silently at every Mass she attended, for a child to be given to her, a son to grant the King, though we all knew that it would have to be some miracle indeed; for not only was she without monthly bleeding, but Henry had ceased visiting her bed at night. There were rumours that should she die, for in many ways she seemed quite frail and old, he would marry again and quickly, to provide an heir to the throne. There were other rumours also, more dangerous than the first, that perhaps Henry intended to annul the marriage between he and Katherine, to send her to a convent as previous kings had done with wives who could not bring them the sons they wanted. If the Queen went to a convent, then the King could marry again. There were many whispered conversations on whether a princess could be found in Spain, or even France, who could bring the long-awaited heir to the King of England. The last rumour seemed the most fantastical; that the King intended to place the bastard-born son of his mistress Bessie Blount on the throne. Henry Fitzroy was now a fine, well-grown lad of six, who seemed hale and hearty. Bastards had assumed the throne before in the absence of a legitimate male heir; would the base-born son of Bessie Blount become next in the Tudor line to the throne?
We knew not what the King’s plans were, in truth, but often I saw my father regarding Mary’s swollen belly with a speculative look, as though he were imagining those very things I had said to Mary in Hever; what if her child were a boy born to the King and what if he should acknowledge it as such? Henry was in need of a male heir… what if my sweet sister should provide him with another? Would the bastard born of the Boleyns be acknowledged by the King and stand the same chances as Henry Fitzroy? We knew not, but I could almost hear the hope in our father’s heart beating like a drum.
All anyone could say for sure was that the Kingdom was without a male heir, and if Henry wanted a son to follow him, he would have to get one from someone other than Katherine.
Both Henry and his nobles feared what might happen to the peace of the realm if the King died. His only legitimate child was his daughter, Mary, and no woman had ever ruled England in her own stead. The one time that a woman had tried to do so, the country had been plunged into years of civil war. Without a legitimate male heir, the future of the country was in peril. There were too many possible distant claimants to the throne who might all stake a claim, if the one who inherited the throne after our King was not strong enough to hold it. There would be a war, just as there had been before the Tudors ruled, just as there had been when Matilda, grand-daughter of the Conqueror, had tried to rule England.
And so Katherine prayed. She prayed on her knees until her flesh broke and her skin bled. Her knees wept and split from hours spent on the cold floor of her chapel. She prayed until her voice broke and her heart wept. As the celebrations of Christmas sounded around us that year, Katherine took herself to her personal chapel to pray to God and the Virgin over and over again. Asking them to grant her a son, as God had done to the Holy Mother of Christ.
Unless God favoured her with a miracle, there would be no more children born of this royal bed. And it seemed that God was no
t listening to his most despairing daughter, Katherine. It seemed that God had turned his face from her pain, and would not grant her the most frantic wish of her heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Greenwich Palace
1524
In March, the King ordered a new piece of equipment from the workshops at Greenwich; a new harness and saddle for his horse. It was his own design, and Henry was sure it would turn out to be a wonderful modern achievement. So great was his enthusiasm for this new creation that he ordered a tournament to test the harness, and celebrations to follow in the wake of the joust. Henry could be rather boyish in his enthusiasm for new things, especially new things that he had had a part in designing; but the court needed little encouragement to enter into a new entertainment.
All the court turned out in the chill of the early morning to the brightly coloured jousting rings at Greenwich, our eyes bright with the expectation of enjoyment. The air smelt keen and clean; a heady scent of England as she withstands the last of the winter and looks to the first days of spring. Our gowns and cloaks were lined with furs and our undergarments were thick with wool to hold off against the cool air that whipped around us. It was a fine March day; cold, bright and brusque and the thrill of the coming contest was in our veins. Katherine was to preside over the entertainments as the Queen of Hearts, and her drawn, pale face was shining with happiness to resume her traditional role as Henry’s object of desire. He rode to her side and took a token of her colours upon the edge of his lance. To see her face rekindled with happiness for this public proclamation of his loyalty to her was dually a sweet and wretched sight. This public show may have honoured her openly, but in private we all knew that the King did not seek to make love to her wasted body. She was the Queen of Hearts here, but he did not show that same affection to her in private.
