Rivals in the Tudor Court (11 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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At last I arrive at my lord's bedchamber. I enter on soft feet. He is lying on his side, back to me, giving no indication that he has heard me. I pad toward the bed, drawing in a breath before turning down the covers and climbing in beside him. For a moment we are still. From the rhythm of his breathing I discern that he is awake.
Trembling, I move closer to him. I wrap my arm about his middle and snuggle in between his shoulder blades, folding my legs against his so we resemble a pair of spoons.
“I did not marry to sleep alone,” I tell him in low tones.
He rolls toward me, cupping my cheek with his hand, stroking idly. It moves to the back of my neck, drawing me forward so that he might offer soft little kisses on my cheek, then my jawline, till at last he reaches my mouth. His lips are soft and warm but filled with urgency rather than gentleness. I return the kiss with equal ardor. His other hand explores my body, bringing about sensations I have never experienced before. I tremble when he encounters my bare leg with his fingertips. I dare run my hands over his chest. Through his nightclothes I feel the warmth and strength ebbing through him. I run my hand down his side to his hip, reaching under his gown to feel the strong leg everyone admires. It is now mine. He trembles beneath my touch.
At once he pulls away. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. I am so startled I can think of nothing to do but sit up with him. I stare at our feet. His are as well sculpted as his hands. Mine are tiny and delicate. I move one toward him; our ankles entwine.
“Do I displease you?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. The moonlight filtering through the window reveals the tears glistening off his cheeks. My heart stirs.
“It will not be the same,” I tell him in soft tones. “But I will try and be a good wife to you.”
Lord Howard turns to me, offering a sad little smile.
He wraps his arm about my shoulders.
We sit out our wedding night in companionable silence, watching the sapphire sky through our window give itself over to indigo, then pink as the sun rises and brings with it a new day.
Whatever overtook my lord's ability to carry out his wedding chore is more than compensated for that morning, and half of the day is occupied with the activity. It isn't the worst of ordeals and I imagine I could grow to like it were not my husband's eyes so distracted and my thoughts on Ralph Neville.
It is fruitless torturing myself with these fantasies. They do not serve any purpose. One of us has to be cognizant of the fact that we are married to each other and not to the ones occupying our hearts. And I cannot bear dreaming about Ralph, pretending it is he and not Thomas Howard caressing me. Perhaps if what Lord Howard did could be called caressing, it wouldn't be so difficult, but he is such a rough, urgent lover that I am forced into awareness. It is he and not Ralph who is destined to be my reality for the rest of my life.
So I will be the kind of lover I imagine he wants. I will meet urgency for urgency, passion for passion. I will try to ignore the fact that there seems to be no joy in our couplings but rather a strange frustrated melancholy that leaves one stifling bittersweet tears.
It has to get better. I must remember he was just widowed and Anne Plantagenet would be hard to forget; she was the consummate lady, the epitome of grace and nobility. Not only did he suffer her loss but that of all four—all four!—of his children. One cannot remain unscarred from such tragedy.
I will be patient. In the meantime I will be the best wife I can be. I will not be Lady Anne. I will see that he values me for who I am, and when our first child arrives, it will serve to abate his pain as well. I am not fool enough to believe I can replace his first wife, that our children can replace his first children.
But I can bring him joy, if he will accept it.
Lord Howard occupies himself with the running of his estates, keeping to himself much of the time. He takes day trips, not arriving at Lambeth until long after I am abed. I am always awake when he comes in, eager to fulfill my marital duties, which have become quite pleasant if nothing else has.
We never talk. There is little opportunity and when we do manage a sparse conversation here and there, it is about the most mundane things.
It will take a long time to know his soul, I think.
We are not married a month when my lord learns of his brother's death. Lord Admiral Edward Howard, everyone's favorite little Neddy, was trying to avenge his brother-in-law Thomas Knyvet's death in Brest where the English fleet had been holding off the French navy.
“Not Edward!” Lord Howard cries after shooing the breathless messenger away with a distracted wave of his hand. I send the lad to the kitchens for refreshment, then take to my husband's side.
He shakes his head. “Not Neddy,” he says in soft tones, sinking onto the bench in the dining hall. I sit beside him. “He . . . he always defended me.” His voice is almost a whisper. He turns his head. After a moment he draws in a breath, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. “I am lord high admiral now,” he tells me.
I think this is a strange way to follow up the lament for his slain brother but say nothing.
“I will have the power to avenge his death,” he goes on, his voice so calm it is eerie. His black eyes are burning with the same fire present when making love.
“I'm so sorry about Ned,” I tell him, daring to rest a hand on his arm. “He was much loved.”
Lord Howard withdraws his arm, rising with such speed he rocks the bench off balance, and only my catching the table behind me with my elbows saves me from falling on the floor.
“Yes, everyone loved Ned,” he says, his voice taut. “The king especially. What will he do without his favorite Howard? Rely more on Wolsey and Charles Brandon, I suppose.” He draws in a sigh. “But no matter. There are other ways we can retain his favor.”
“How can you think of such things and your brother not even buried?” I breathe in awe. “No wonder you worry about retaining the king's favor with deeds—you will not win him with personality!”
Before I can say another word, Lord Howard leaps toward me, pulling me off the bench by the shoulders. “I did not ask for your opinion, madam,” he seethes.
“Release me!” I cry, wrenching free, appalled by such barbarous tactics.
His chest is heaving. He is pointing—actually pointing!—at me, his finger inches from my face as though I am a disobedient child. “You cannot understand,” he says. “You will not speak of things you do not understand.”
Rather than inspiring my silence, this treatment causes a surge of anger to course through me. “I will say as I please!” I cry. “I am your
wife
—”
“That is right!” he returns, drawing back his hand, and before I can dodge or deflect the blow I find I am being struck on the cheek. The slap resounds in my ear with a high-pitched ring; my face tingles with such intensity it seems to hum.
“And what is expected of a Christian wife?” he asks in calm tones that are so incongruous with the violence he just exhibited. “To obey thy husband.”
I am far too enraged to think. I respond to the slap with one of my own, enjoying the sound of my palm striking his skin. Lord Howard stands rubbing his cheek in a moment of befuddlement from which he quickly recovers, adopting an expression of impenetrable hardness.
It is an expression I have no trouble matching. I fold my arms across my chest and scowl. “I will obey you, God knows,” I say in low tones. “No wife in the realm will be as obedient. I promised to be faithful, to take care of you, and to endure by your side. Endure I shall. But nowhere in the Bible does it say that I cannot speak my heart. Part of being faithful is telling the truth at all costs and, Thomas Howard, I will
always
tell the truth.” I close my eyes a moment. My cheek is hot from the slap. I shake my head. “And now the truth we are facing is that your brother, the favored brother, is dead, and you are as angry about his place in the king's heart as you are about his death.” I open my eyes to find that my husband's face has traded its ferocity for attentiveness. I dare continue. “If you do not take time to mourn him and sort out your resentment before seeking your revenge, you will be poisoned with it; your judgment will be clouded and you will fail. When going into battle, go in with a cool head. Plan your objective. You want the king's favor? Then you must learn to be what the king loves best: merry, humorous, useful, and intelligent. Above all, indispensable. We already know you are useful in battle, which requires an intelligence of sorts. But there is another kind, a sort of emotional element that you clearly need to improve upon. You have to learn to be in sympathy with the king in the ways he appreciates.”
“One would think you to be quite the seasoned adviser,” he comments, his tone a mingling of sarcasm and admiration. His black eyes are lit with a kind of approval that I relish.
“You did not marry a fool,” I tell him with an annoyed click of the tongue.
He says nothing to this but offers a half smile. “While we are on the subject of truth, do enlighten me with another. Tell me about Ralph Neville.”
My heart lurches in my chest. How does he know? I have not seen him since we were wed; I am innocent of anything he could accuse me of, but Lord Howard's expression indicates he does not care whether I am innocent or not.
But I will hold to my creed. I vowed to speak the truth and so I shall. I draw in a breath. “What about him?”
“You loved him,” he says.
I nod, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”
What is it softening his eyes? Disappointment?
“You did not want to marry me,” he states, his voice very quiet.
I shake my head.
He turns toward the window, looking out at the gardens. Spring has arrived. Little green shoots push their bare heads through the soil to greet the sun with the promise of donning their flowery headdresses.
“But I have married you,” I tell him, my voice gentle. “And as I said, I will be a good wife. I will be faithful and steadfast as is required of me.”
“Yes. As is required.” He sighs. He clasps his hands behind his back, turning toward me once more. “Your father warned me of your plight; I do not know why I asked for a recitation. Besides, I was required to marry you as well. Were it expedient, I would have remained in the single estate.” He chuckles. “Worry not, my lady. There is no love lost between us. But if you obey me, plan no dalliances, and behave as befitting your station, we shall get on quite well.”
I swallow a lump rising in my throat.
He approaches me, reaching out to stroke the cheek still stinging with his slap. “I rather appreciate your honesty,” he says offhandedly. “In turn I shall favor you with your own philosophy. I will always tell you the truth, Elizabeth.”
He drops his hand. I stare at him in a moment of confusion. Now that we have promised to tell the truth at all times, there are too many to impart and most of them are unwanted. I do not want to know that my lord has a side to him that is dark and cruel. I do not want to know that he is filled with irreparable bitterness. I do not want to know that our marriage has very little chance of being loving.
“And now the truth is I must excuse myself and prepare for my excursion to Plymouth, where I will prepare my fleet,” Lord Howard tells me, rubbing my cheek a moment more before quitting the room, leaving me quite alone and wretched.
In all these confrontations with truth, I have neglected to inform him of one that could have changed everything.
I am carrying our child.
Thomas Howard
I sit on my bed and stare at the hand that struck her. I close it into a fist. I hit her. I hit my fifteen-year-old bride.
What would the princess make of this?
It is the grief that made me do it, the grief and the anger about Neddy. The girl called it. She is not a fool, this Elizabeth, that is certain. I rather like her. But she needs discipline. Regardless of her desire to adhere to her code of truth, she cannot use that as a cloak for disrespect. I am her husband, after all. And she is far more child than woman yet, requiring a bit of reining in. Buckingham must have overindulged her, causing her to become too accustomed to expressing unwanted opinions.

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