Rivals in the Tudor Court (21 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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“I am well,” I say. “And the children are fine. Our Cathy shows a great deal of promise. Mayhap I can present her to you someday? She would make a fine maid. She has all the makings of a great lady.”
“We should love to meet her,” Her Grace says with a little nod.
I expect she is weary of people pursuing her favor regarding placement of their children at court, so I do not persist in the matter.
“And Lord Surrey?” Her Grace's voice takes on a softer note. “How is my champion?”
I laugh. “He is well, I suppose. Off fighting anyone he can. He . . . loves to fight.” My voice cracks on the word
fight
.
The queen pauses a moment, as though giving the phrase consideration, then continues in a different vein. “We are sorry to hear of your lord father-in-law's ill health this year. But it is just that he favors your husband with his duties.”
“Yes,” I say. “But it does keep him busy. I do wish he were home with me. I miss him so.”
“You really love him, don't you?” asks Her Grace.
I meet her face. It is softened through the veil of my tears. “Yes,” I tell her. “I really love him, for all that he is and isn't. I cannot help it. Sometimes I do not know why I love him. God knows there are times when he doesn't deserve it,” I add, shuddering as I recall my Mary's birth. “But yet . . . yet . . . it is as though he is the vine and I am the fruit. He sustains me; even with all the challenges he presents, his life flows into me and sustains me. Without him I would fall to the ground and wither away. And I truly believe without me he would shrivel and dry up just as a vine unattended. I cannot believe that he doesn't need me.”
“He does need you,” says the queen. “You are a clever girl, sometimes I think a little too clever. But he values you for it, even if he does not know it.”
“I hope so,” I tell her. “Oh, I hope so. Meantime, all I can do is wait for him.”
“That is all we can do,” Queen Catherine says. “It is our lot in life, waiting on men.”
And so I wait.
Then at Christmas of 1523, my Thomas returns to me merry and in good spirits. We pass a happy celebration at court among family and friends, ushering in a New Year filled with hopes and dreams for our future.
The Duke of Norfolk
Thomas Howard, May 1524
H
e is dead! My father is dead! Just when I thought the old man was going to live forever, he passes into the next world at Framlingham on 21 May.
I am not completely without heart. I did like him, for what I was allowed to. He was a good man, a good knight, and servant to his kings. But I've no time to grieve. He was in his eighties after all, had lived a fruitful life, and brought the Howards from shame to triumph. For that I owe him a debt of gratitude. But I cannot dwell on any of that. What's done is done. Now I must remove from the wilds of the north to London to organize the funeral and claim my title.
I shudder with delight. I am the Duke of Norfolk now. Me, Thomas Howard! I think of my grandfather, remembering the beatings, the hatred. I was nothing to him, nothing but an undersize child with little hope for a future. He was wrong, oh, how he was wrong!
I am the duke of Norfolk now. I, Thomas Howard!
I am the duke of Norfolk, the wealthiest peer in England.
As I go through my father's papers, I am overwhelmed by the amount of wealth I am inheriting. Though my stepmother retains a bit of property and moneys as the Dowager Duchess, I still will be taking in four thousand pounds per annum.
I think of my son, now the Earl of Surrey, and of the legacy I will pass down to him and his sons and his sons' sons. I will hold this dukedom fast.
I am the Duke of Norfolk!
Elizabeth Howard
“My duchess!” Thomas exclaims as he picks me up and twirls me about like a child.
I cannot laugh. He is too happy about his accession and has not once expressed grief over his father's passing. It seems unnatural to me, inhuman.
He sets me down. “How do you like the sound of that?” he asks breathlessly, his black eyes sparkling.
“It is very fine,” I say quietly.
“It does not seem fine,” he observes. “What is it?” he demands, his voice threaded with impatience.
I bow my head. “Thomas. Don't you feel anything at all? Your father has
died
.”
“It is the order of things,” Thomas tells me, screwing up his face in genuine confusion. “Everyone dies, Elizabeth. The living cannot waste their time mourning something they cannot change.”
A shiver courses through me and I hug myself to ward off the chill.
“I am to return to the north to settle a matter regarding the Earl of Angus,” he goes on.
“Leaving again,” I mutter.
“What do you think I am going to do? Retire to the country?” He shakes his head. “Don't you realize what this elevation means?” he asks. “I am the Duke of Norfolk!”
“So you have said,” I say. “And I am very proud. But as a duchess, I now require a home of my own. It is far past time.”
“Upon my return, my lady, we shall take to renovating Kenninghall,” he says, taking my hands and squeezing them. “On my dukedom, I promise.”
And he departs.
I watch him go, proud and straight on his black charger. My knight, my husband, my duke.
It is on that day that I cease to think of him as Thomas.
No bridge can cross the chasm between us.
He is not my Thomas anymore.
He is Norfolk.
He does not take to renovating Kenninghall upon his return, for he is immediately called to pursue other matters more pressing to His Majesty. I am alone, waiting, watching the children grow without being able to understand them. Thomas has hired a staff to care for their every need. They adore their nurses and tutors and have very little need of me.
Perhaps it is better. Perhaps it is as Thomas once told me: Leave the maintenance to the nurses, then the brunt of the inevitable heartbreak shall be on their shoulders.
In 1525 we are pleased to attend the elevation ceremony of Henry Fitzroy, who is created Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Earl of Nottingham at six years old. He is a bonny little boy, I must admit, and is his father in miniature. Thomas grumbles about Suffolk being made earl marshal for the ceremony, not necessarily because he relishes the duty held by his father and grandfather before him but because it was denied him by Wolsey. I am just as glad not to have him participate. Though the child is pretty, he is still a bastard, and in truth these elevations are a slap in Her Grace's face, just as his new little half sister, Catherine, by Mary Boleyn is. I attend to support my husband, but my heart churns in sympathy for the open display of recognition by His Majesty.
Richmond is even made admiral of England on 16 July as well as warden general and lord lieutenant of the North Marches. While the boy runs and plays and learns about the world in which he is to enter as a peer, his council performs his responsibilities.
It is a heady thing being the king's natural but not legitimate son. Acknowledged and spoiled but not quite a prince.
I shrug. He is north now. I suppose he matters very little in the grand scheme, save that he is just another pawn for King Henry's use.
At last in 1526 my Thomas returns to me. Wolsey has ousted him at nearly every turn in his political pursuits and my husband is frustrated and exhausted. Pain stalks him daily and he hobbles about on legs that protest being stood upon. I urge him to rest, but he tells me rest leads to death and he is not an invalid. He will get better. He just needs a distraction.
“Then let us renovate Kenninghall,” I tell him.
He smiles at me then. “It is long overdue, isn't it?”
I offer a nod.
“Then we shall. We will make a grand palace for ourselves, Duchess Elizabeth,” he says.
I soften at his affectionate tone.
And so the renovations begin and I wait, but this time it is in joyous expectation of my first true home.
BOOK THREE
Bess
Mendham, Suffolk
Bess Holland, January 1547
I
have been in a daze since the arrest of His Grace. Now he is in the Tower alongside his son, the attainted Lord Surrey, and together they await their fate. I do not know how to feel. Everything has been taken from me: the jewels I tried to hide in the vain effort of securing some kind of life for myself, my lands . . . though I suppose none of it was ever really mine.
All my life I have been given everything without ever really having it.
For the first time, I understand how quickly one can testify against those they love most when the axe is in question.
So I testified along with Mary Fitzroy and the duchess. What choice did we have? We are not complete idiots, as much as His Grace may want to think so. I told them everything they wanted to know. The guard patted my cheek and told me I was a good lady—fancy someone still thinks of me as a lady, let alone a good one—and that my property shall be returned to me.
So I wait. For the first time in my life, I do not wait for the duke. I wait for my property, my things, all that I have in this world, and I think about the new start I will make.
I am overcome with a peculiar emotion most foreign to me these past twenty years. Hope. It surges through me, filling me up, spilling over at last in the form of relieved tears.
I have a future. Poor or rich, I have a future.
What will I do? What will I be?
Suddenly the world does not appear a big and empty place waiting to swallow me up in its vastness. It is a world full of people waiting to meet me, adventures waiting to be had, a world where all that has been lost can be reclaimed. . . .
I have a future.
A Real Live Duke
Bess Holland, Hever Castle, 1526
O
h, it is a wonderful day! Today is my birthday and the future yawns before me vast as the sparkling sea! I am fifteen years old and I am wearing a new gown. It is not really new but a used gown from my mistress, Anne Boleyn. I had to patch it up in a few places and take up the hem as I am so ridiculously short, but I love it anyway. It is pink with a white stomacher and kirtle. The lustrous sleeves hang nearly to the floor in the French style Mistress Anne is so fond of, and I twirl about, feeling as though the breeze shall catch me and I will take to flying about Hever with these grand winged sleeves.
Today is a busy day. Anne's uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. is coming to visit so we are all to be on our best behavior. My brother George says I am not to talk too much and appear my dumb self, lest I repulse the duke with my stupidity.
I allow my white-blond curls to fall down my back under my French hood and apply a little vermillion powder onto my lips, which I think, besides my full breasts, are my loveliest feature. They are like a little bow, full but small. Kissable, I think. Then I apply a little of the powder to bring a blossom to my cheeks. I look into the glass, offering a smile. My round, long-lashed brown eyes stare back at me, filled with anticipation. Oh, I do love birthdays! I hope in the excitement over the duke's visit, no one will forget and I will receive more presents.
When the duke arrives, his entourage of servants and liveried guard take their rest while he sits to a meal provided by his sister and niece. He seems most dark and mysterious with his wild black hair and eyes to match.
“Oh, he's dreadful,” Mistress Anne tells me upon her return from dinner. We are in her chambers and I am brushing out the veil of long raven black hair that is her pride. “He's always complaining about his sore legs and eats like a bird. And he's always scheming and conniving! You should hear how he talks about my sister Mary! He's a boor.”
“I think he's grand,” I breathe, feeling my face flush.
Mistress Anne turns to me, screwing up her pretty face in confusion. “Are you insane? Him? You haven't looked at him up close. He's old, Bess. Fifty-something.” She makes a show of shivering. “He's nasty!”
“I think you look like him,” I venture.
Mistress Anne's black eyes turn to ice. She scowls.
“In a good way,” I say, smiling. “He's handsome. Really. You just don't see it because you're related.”
“Oh, Bess, really! You're such a silly little girl!” Mistress Anne cries. “He's . . . he's short and skinny! Have you looked at his legs? There's nothing to him!”
“He has fine legs; they're thin but well formed,” I say.
Mistress Anne begins to laugh. It is akin to the tinkling of a thousand chimes. I bow my head, ashamed. I feel a fool to have confessed my admiration of her illustrious uncle to her.
“There's nothing more amusing than a girl infatuated,” she quips and I wonder if she is referring to herself as well, since it is well known King Henry has shifted his fancy from her sister to her. “I shall charge you with the task of taking fresh linens and herbs to his rooms. You can have the privilege of dressing his bed,” Mistress Anne says with a wink.
I am delighted with the order. “Thank you!”
And with that, I dash off to carry out the chore.
The duke is not in his chambers when I arrive with a basket full of fresh-smelling linens. I set to work, dressing the large canopied bed in which he'll be sleeping during his stay and placing under the mattress sweet lavender, hyssop, and junipers to ward off the bed bugs.
I try to think of something else I can do for him, but there is nothing. My task done, I leave his chambers and head down the hall, so lost in thought that I do not notice the duke himself approaching. He is alone, walking the halls with his cloak thrown over one arm as his eyes scan the doors on the left and right.
I sweep into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace!” I cry, my voice wavering in awe. “Are you lost?”
He smiles. “Yes, actually. Everyone here goes to bed quite early, I must say, and I never thought to inquire as to the location of my rooms.”
“I know where they are! I just came from them!” I say, rising and smiling.
He may be a slight man but has the presence of a king and I am trembling before him.
“And what were you doing there?” he asks. I cannot tell if he is pleased or annoyed at my confession.
“I made the bed,” I tell him proudly. “And put some herbs under the mattress to chase away the vermin.”
He laughs. “Ah, yes. Well, thank you, Mistress . . .”
“Holland,” I tell him. “Elizabeth Holland, but everyone calls me Bess or Bessie. I like Bess better, actually. It sounds more grown up but it isn't as formal as Elizabeth. I never felt that name belonged to me; it seems fit for a much grander lady.”
Oh, I'm such a fool! I can't believe I'm prattling on this way! He must think me as idiotic as my brother does.
The duke takes my hand. His is warm and fine boned and I stare down at it in wonder as he brings mine to his lips.
“Bess,” he says in low tones. I shudder. It seems the heat from his hand has surged through my arm and straight to my heart.
“Your Grace,” I whisper, lowering my eyes. “Would . . . would you like me to show you to your rooms?”
“Very much,” he says, releasing my hand.
I turn and, trembling, lead the duke to his chambers.
“Good night, Bess,” he says with a slight smile as we stand outside his doors.
I curtsy once more. My face is flushing, I am sure of it, and I must appear a grand fool. “Sleep well, lordship,” I say, hoping he cannot hear my heart racing.
The door closes.
I shrug and depart for my own quarters, thinking once more about my birthday and hoping my family has not forgotten me.
Oh, my wretched family! No one cares about me at all! George did not wish me so much as a happy birthday, and Father is so distracted with his own household affairs that he has not said two words to me! They are all I have, George and Father. Mother has been dead so long I cannot bring her face to mind, though I do remember her laugh. It was a happy, spontaneous little burst of joy that was so contagious it set the most restrained of people into fits of giggling. She made everyone feel comfortable and nurtured. I know this without having to be told.
But she died of the sweating sickness when I was just a wee lass and now I am left to nothing but these thoughtless men. Most aggravating!
Oh, well. At least Mistress Anne gave me a new gown and I was kissed on the hand by a real live duke.
I suppose the day was not a total loss.
My father has just informed us that he has accepted a position in the duke's household as his treasurer! According to Father it was an unexpected surprise, but it seemed Lord Norfolk was so impressed with him that he could not suffer returning home without him. Oh, I am so proud!
How wonderful it shall be, living in a duke's household. I am told he has four children, one my age who I can keep society with and wait on, and three younger ones who I shall delight in playing with and caring for. George will be occupied in service to the duke as well, so it will be a comfort to know I will be surrounded by these children.
I do hope Her Grace the duchess is kind and that we become friends. I bet she wears beautiful gowns and is covered throat to foot in gems. It must be overwhelming and wonderful being so wealthy!
I bet there are no forgotten birthdays in their household.
That night I chance to meet the duke again as he heads down the hall to his chambers. I admit I have been lingering, sort of waiting to catch another glimpse of him. He is so grand. . . .
“Well, well, little Mistress Bess,” he says. “It seems you shall be coming home with me. What do you think of that?”
“I like it very much,” I tell him. “I cannot wait to see Kenninghall and meet your children. Thank you for giving my father the opportunity to serve Your Grace.”
He laughs. “You're most welcome, my girl,” he says. “You like children?”
“Oh, yes!” I cry. “I hope to have a dozen of my own someday!”
“Well, being related to Lord Hussey assures you a match among the gentry,” he tells me. “Perhaps sooner than later you'll be living in a country manor, rocking your very first baby.”
“You paint a lovely picture, Your Grace,” I tell him with a smile. “But I am delighted to serve you first. I cannot wait to see your grand home. Is it really shaped like an
H
for
Howard
?”
He laughs as he opens the doors to his rooms. “Indeed, it is.”
“How marvelous!” I cry once more, awed by the thought of someone building a house shaped like a letter.
At once the duke grimaces, clutching the door a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. The color drains from his face and he bites his lip.
“Are you ill, Your Grace?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, righting himself. “No, no. Just hounded by this pain. Too long a knight, I fear. It's taking its toll.”
“What hurts?” I ask as I imagine him in a suit of armor.
He laughs again. It is a low rumbling sound, like distant thunder. “My back, my shoulders, my legs . . . nothing seems exempt.”
“I have a salve,” I tell him. “It's lavender and mint oil that cools the skin and helps ease pain. Would you like me to mix some up for you?”
He pauses, considering me a long moment. His eyes affix themselves to my face and I bow my head, flushing. Perhaps I have been too bold.
“That sounds very nice,” he tells me. “Let yourself in when you are finished.”
I curtsy and scurry to the still room where I make up my little potion, then hasten back to his chambers. He is seated on his bed, a small smile playing on his lips.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks me.
I offer a nervous giggle. “Well, I suppose you should remove your shirt if you are comfortable . . . that way I can apply it. Unless of course you wish to apply it yourself,” I add quickly.
“No, methinks I should entrust myself to your skilled hands,” he says with a smile, removing the velvet doublet and unlacing his shirt before pulling it up over his head to reveal a slim, well-muscled torso. I turn my head away. My cheeks burn. Somewhere inside I realize he is married and it may not be right, I alone in his rooms, about to rub salve on his body. But I think, really, what could be wrong? I am a servant and I am just helping ease his pain. I'm not making after him. I'll just rub the salve on him and be gone.
“Now?” he asks, his tone very soft.
“Uh . . . lie down on your belly,” I tell him.
He laughs, then follows the order, leaning his head on his folded arms. His long hair grazes his shoulders and he appears either a god or the very devil, lying there like that. Most likely a devil—but such a handsome devil! Oh, I must get these thoughts out of my mind!
I sit beside him and dip my hand in the salve, then rub my palms together. They tingle. The smell of lavender and mint assails my nostrils as I dare to massage the oil onto his back. He quivers beneath my touch as I work the knots out of his taut muscles. He begins to relax, heaving a deep sigh of contentment as I rub his shoulders and upper arms.
“Your hands are like velvet,” he comments.
“Does it help, Your Grace?” I ask.
“Mmmhmmm,” he answers lazily, turning his head so he can see me. “Now if you could only cure my legs . . .”
I shudder. “Would . . . would you like some applied to your legs, too, Your Grace?”
He nods.
I turn away so he can remove his hose and cover himself with the blanket so that only his fine, lean legs are revealed. I am trembling in terror. There is nothing separating me from the nakedness of the greatest peer in the realm but a flimsy blanket. I try to force naughty thoughts away as I begin to rub the salve on his thighs, then his well-defined calves.
“Hallelujah, that's good!” he murmurs with another throaty laugh.
When my ministrations are complete, he rolls onto his back. The blanket still covers him, but I am forced to admire his chest. He brings his hands up to cup my face. They are warm against my cheeks.
“Bess Holland, you have a goddess's touch,” he tells me in an urgent voice, and I shudder at the intensity in his black eyes.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I say in breathless tones.
He brings my face toward his and at once I find that our lips have met. Hungrily he devours my mouth and I cannot help but yield to it. Oh, I am a wanton! But he is so handsome! And what if I did say no? I would risk my father's position. And his kisses do feel nice. . . .

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