Secrets of the Tudor Court (14 page)

My father, though not pleased at the precise order of events (he believes in marriage before children, but then he also keeps true to his mistress, so I decide not to use him as my moral compass), is more than happy with the outcome.

The four-year trial over the validity of the king’s marriage to Catherine is concluded in March, and Thomas Cranmer is invested as archbishop of Canterbury. A proxy made the oaths to the pope in Rome for him (though Cranmer still wrote a letter of protest to the swearing of them), so it wasn’t really as though Cranmer was swearing allegiance to His Holiness himself, which I guess reconciled his conscience to his actions with King Henry, whom he swore his allegiance to first. Before God, before country, before anything.

I wonder at the rightness of this, but only for a moment.

On the Saturday before Easter I carry Anne’s train to Mass, where she is prayed for as queen and consort for the first time in public.

She is radiant. Nothing can destroy her happiness now; nothing can stand in her way. She is married, she is pregnant, and she is
queen.

In May, King Henry’s marriage to Catherine is pronounced null and void. Thomas More, the former lord chancellor, protests this without reservation, a move I do not think to be wise at all. King Henry is too happy to think about his old friend, however, and I am glad that his words are, at least for the time being, ignored.

Pope Clement is another to object to the state of affairs, and without further ado excommunicates the king. This development doesn’t upset the happy couple in the least. They are making their world, fashioning a religion that has no need of a pope or Rome, changing time-honored rules and traditions as is their wont.

I know now that Henry VIII is truly the greatest king to ever sit a throne. No one in history has ever changed so much in so short a time.

And all because of a woman. All because of Anne.

The coronation is a spectacle to behold. We are a fine procession of barges, each containing the king and queen’s favorite ladies and lords, making our way from Greenwich to the Tower, then to Westminster Hall where my lady will be crowned. Her barge, once Catherine’s, is beautiful and bears her falcon symbol.

We reach the Tower and I am itching to disembark. Everything is so exciting that as much as I want to enjoy the moment, I find the most pleasure in pondering events after the fact, when I can snuggle under my blankets with paper and quill, writing verse.

We are shown to the queen’s apartments, which have been redecorated on Anne’s insistence and are beautiful. We will stay for two days’ entertainments and ceremonies to celebrate King Henry and Anne’s great triumph.

We are lavishly entertained at the feast by the finest musicians and bards. The food is rich and savory; meats so tender they fall apart on the tongue, sauces so creamy and tasty that I close my eyes in rapture that I should be treated to such a decadent display.

I am so full and lazy after eating that it is an effort to dance. I want to sit back in my chair and think about the happy day, but know it is disrespectful not to enjoy every aspect of the evening.

As I take to the floor with some of the other girls, I become conscious that I am being watched. I turn my eyes to meet those of the musician Cedric Dane. He is plucking a lute and singing, his voice melding in beautiful harmony with a small group of others as they launch into a cheerful song about marriage and love.

I avert my head, my face flushing. He is far too bold, staring at me like a peasant.

When the dance concludes I make my way through the crowd in the hopes of getting back to the high table where I can nibble on some cheese as a distraction, but Cedric catches up with me. He sweeps into a bow.

“Mistress Howard.” His voice is deep, melodious as his singing. “I have not seen you about in some time. Are you well?”

“Quite,” I say in short tones. I try to avoid his startling violet eyes but cannot seem to look away.

“Seems our king and queen are in a thrall of delight,” he comments. “The world is theirs for the taking—his, anyway,” he adds with a half smile.

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask, catching the note of anxiety in his tone.

“We have given him ultimate power,” Cedric tells me in a near whisper. “In acknowledging his marriage to Lady—Queen Anne and putting Catherine of Aragon aside, the country is assuring him that his every whim will be met. His actions are without precedent. Do you think anyone will dare cross him now? I cannot help but wonder if we have been wise. Have we just set a lion loose in an arena filled with lambs?”

I shudder at the analogy. “The king is wise and just. He is the next thing to God on earth,” I say as I have been taught to say. “If he is a lion, he is akin to the lion in the Bible, who lies beside the lamb in peace.” The words seem empty. Indeed, Cedric’s points appear valid, but I do not want to believe him. “We must remember that he has acted with good reason. He needed an heir for the throne.”

Cedric’s eyes are downcast. “Oh, Mistress Mary, tell me you have not been convinced that those of your sex are inferior to rule?”

I am about to comment that I am not sure. I have not been told otherwise my entire life. I want to ask him how he came to adopt such liberal views. I want to ask him why he insists on challenging my thinking all the time. I want to ask him why he is so kind.

But I cannot say anything for he has lightened the topic with a bright smile. “How is your song coming along—‘O Happy Dames’? I have not forgotten it.”

I bow my head. “I have not worked on it. You were so rude, after all—”

“I was not rude.” He laughs. “I was truthful. Someday you’ll come to appreciate it. Indeed, you’ll find it refreshing.”

I choose not to take offense. He is too likable. I offer my courtier’s smile. “Perhaps what we see is truth enough,” I tell him. “Like looking at a rainbow. We know it is an illusion, but oh! how lovely it is for that brief moment of its existence.”

“You must remember, Mistress Howard,” says Cedric, his tone still light, “that rainbows are transparent. Storm clouds lie in wait on the other side.”

Before I can respond my eyes are drawn to another in the room, whose stare bores into me like a dagger. I shiver as I meet the eyes of the Duke of Norfolk. I look down at my ring, my rainbow, a symbol of such hope for me, now clouded by Cedric’s cynicism.

I curtsy. “I must go now,” I say.

“I have offended you again?” he asks with a smile.

“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. But I must go. Please. Do continue to entertain us. You are very talented.”

I turn away from Cedric’s puzzled expression to make way for the high table, but am caught fast by my father, who grips my arm, his fingers pressing into my flesh like the talons of Anne’s symbolic falcon.

“Forgetting so soon my advice?” he asks in a low, smooth voice that one would mistake as almost cheerful if one did not know his meaning.

“Of course not,” I assure him. “Master Dane was only discussing some poetry he is composing for Queen Anne. He was hoping I might be coaxed into collaborating with him.”

“You shouldn’t involve yourself in such drivel,” Norfolk cautions, loosening his grip. “Words appreciated today can be used against you tomorrow.”

This is true enough, I suppose. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I say.

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Norfolk says as he guides me to the table.

He watches me the rest of the night. My heart sinks. My stomach is upset, whether from the rich food or his stern vigilance I do not know. My only reassurance comes from the fact that at least in the Tower he cannot draw me aside to beat me.

Anne proceeds down the streets of London, though Secretary Cromwell thought this to be dangerous, since public opinion of her isn’t high, to say the least, but she does not heed. She rides through the streets to show them all that she is queen. She has triumphed over Catherine. She has won Henry and the crown of England.

“I shall
make
them love me,” she cried this morning. She started the day in bad spirits. I imagine she fears the crowds and what could go wrong. It does not seem an impossibility that someone would try to assassinate her. She trembled and retched, but after taking some wine calmed somewhat and allowed us to finish dressing her in her violet robes.

Now through the streets of London we ride, met by tableaux depicting amusing scenes, and choirs of little children at St. Paul’s Churchyard. We wind our way through the streets to Fleet Street through Temple Bar. Up the glorious Strand then, where all the wealthy have their grand houses, to Charing Cross; past Hampton Court to Westminster Hall, where Anne is feasted again.

Life is a flurry of joyous activity. I am tired but tingling with excitement. How breathtaking it is to be young and bearing witness to such wonders! After the feast, my head groggy with wine, I fall into a blissful slumber.

The next day I again have the privilege of carrying my lady’s train as Archbishop Cranmer crowns her queen of England, setting the heavy, bejeweled crown of St. Edward upon her dark head. It is so large and ostentatious that her head looks weighed down, but she holds it high, proud.

She is queen. My cousin Anne Boleyn is queen!

I think the summer of 1533 is the happiest of my life. I am surrounded by ladies to play with, and court life is like a faerie tale. Bess Holland has been added to the queen’s household and I delight in her warm, soothing presence.

I have turned fourteen and am growing a little. My breasts are small and high, sufficiently filling out a bodice to offer a modest view of my décolletage. My waist is still tiny and I have nothing in the area of hips; indeed, I am between woman and child now, but I am satisfied enough with my body to find it adequate.

Norfolk has been kinder of late. Perhaps it is because of Bess; perhaps he is more unperturbed in the aftermath of Anne’s victory. It does not matter from whence the kindness comes, only that it is there. No more does he quiz me on Anne’s every move. No more am I expected to report verbatim conversations that always seemed so meaningless and time-consuming, not to mention hard to remember. He does expect me to tell him about arguments the queen may have, especially if they involve the king, or of any other behavioral issues that he would not approve of, but other than that his stricture has been much relaxed.

When we move to Windsor for Anne’s confinement, I am called to his apartments one night. I have not seen him alone since my birthday in June, an event, like most of my birthdays, that proceeded without gifts or acknowledgment, save a little tablet from Bess, faithful Bess, which I keep in my silver casket of treasures.

I am dressed for a picnic in a white and pink gown bearing a large length of ribbon that ties under the breasts and flows behind me atop a lacy train. My kirtle is also pink, along with the undersleeves that peek out at the wrists, and I wear little pink slippers inlaid with seed pearls. My broad-brimmed bonnet is also adorned with a pink ribbon, tilted at an angle I find to be jaunty yet sweet.

“Well, if you aren’t the picture of summer. Pretty as a Tudor rose,” Norfolk comments as I enter his rooms. As usual they are outfitted with an austere desk and sturdy, overstuffed chair. He sits in it now, regarding me with a smile—an actual smile—on his face.

I about choke in shock, unsettled and pleased by the rare compliment. I return a smile of gratitude. “My lord.”

He rises and approaches me. I begin to tremble. I do not know what he wants—if this is some new way of beginning a lecture, or worse. His pleasantness is disconcerting. I do a quick review of my recent behavior, trying to recall if I have done anything that could incur his wrath. It is so difficult to predict what will set him off. But he does nothing of the sort. To my increasing astonishment he draws me forward by the shoulders, kissing my cheeks.

When he pulls away he is still smiling.

“How would being a duchess suit you?” he asks me.

My eyes are wide. My heart is pounding. So this is it. He has chosen a husband for me. My thoughts are racing. Who? Where does he live? Will I be sent away? Will he be kind? Will I know happiness?

Noting my pallor, Norfolk strokes my cheek and continues. “You are to be married to the Duke of Richmond in November. How is that? You will be the premier duchess in England; the king—the king, Mary!—is to be your father-in-law.” His eyes narrow. “And if there are no male heirs there is a possibility…” He trails off. To voice such thoughts aloud is treasonous. No one would want to be accused of putting oneself too close to the throne; the consequences for such an offense are almost always death.

“Harry?” I ask in awe, referring to my lord Fitzroy, not his father. “Harry…” Indeed, fortune could not be kinder. I can imagine Harry being the dearest of husbands. I don’t care so much about the possibility of being queen, knowing it to be quite remote. I can only give thanks to God that I will marry someone as fun and nice as Harry. Already I begin making plans. I think about babies and where we will live. I know he has a residence at Sheriff Hutton. So far from court! But we will have a court of our own. I will have my own ladies, nurses for my babies, and wonderful tutors. I will read and write poetry and there will be entertainments all the time. We will talk about religion and philosophy and art. All opinions will be appreciated and welcome. None will be condemned for their beliefs.

“How generous of the queen to arrange this for me,” I say, and know immediately that it is the wrong thing. Norfolk drops his hand and scowls.

“What makes you think it was Her Grace’s doing?” he demands. “The king approached me back in twenty-nine, asking after you or Catherine for Lord Richmond.”

“As far back as that?” I ask. No wonder a marriage to Lord Bulbeck faded to nothing. It suddenly occurs to me as strange that my fate was arranged for me without my having any knowledge of it at all. Strange and frightening. What else don’t I know?

“One thing we can thank the queen for is that she convinced His Majesty to waive the dowry,” Norfolk says, sitting in his chair and pouring himself a drink. “Do you know how much that saves me? He likes you, Mary. Thinks you’re a…what the devil did he call you? A ‘sweeting’ or some such nonsense.” He downs the glass of wine, then reaches for my hand. I take it; he presses it while pouring another glass of wine, which he hands to me. “A toast,” he says, clinking glasses with mine. They are crystal, he tells me, from a place called Venice. “Fine and delicate—like you,” he says, pulling me close to kiss my cheek again.