Secrets of the Tudor Court (16 page)

Norfolk has his way and the gown is not disappointing. His taste is impeccable. It is ivory lace with a cloth-of-gold kirtle and gold ribbon at the hems of the sleeves and train. The gown is covered in gold roses with a matching stomacher. My veil is pinned over my hair, which Norfolk himself has brushed to a golden sheen while I swallow tears, gritting my teeth against the pain of his ministrations, thinking how wonderful it will be to have my own servant attend me when I am wed. My veil is lace, reaching my feet, which are adorned with gold slippers.

November 26, my wedding day, has arrived. The ladies fuss over me. Margaret Douglas, the king’s delightfully naughty niece, informs me of all the things that occur on the wedding night, which instead of filling me with anticipation, sends shivers of dread through me.

“But that sounds awful!” I cry as we gather in the maidens’ chamber. My spirits are dampened. “Who would want to do such a thing?”

“If you want a baby, you have to do it,” says Margaret. She smiles. “Besides, it isn’t all bad after the first pain of it, they say. Some women love it as much as men do.”

“Truly?” I ask. I am intrigued by the thought but feel too naughty entertaining such notions, so divert myself by dressing for the ceremony.

As a last touch, under my veil I add the little circlet that Norfolk presented me years ago when I first came to court. Though it is silver, no one should notice it beneath the intricate lace of the veil.

“So beautiful,” Margaret Douglas coos as she arranges my veil over my shoulders. I look into her face, searching for sincerity. She is so beautiful herself, with her Tudor red hair and sparkling blue eyes, that for her to compliment me is most flattering.

“I’m scared,” I say to her, clutching her hand.

“Don’t be, Mary,” she reassures, squeezing my hand in turn. “Just think—soon we will be cousins!”

I smile. A tickle arises in my chest—that strange feeling one gets when about to laugh.

“How is our bride?” It is Anne. She sweeps into the chambers in all her glory and I know, looking at her, that no bride can compete with her beauty.

“She’s afraid, poor dear,” says Madge Shelton, rubbing my arm.

Anne’s face is soft. “You’re going to be all right, little Mary,” she tells me, taking me by the upper arms and gazing into my eyes. Hers are lit with tears. “You’re going to be
happy
.”

She draws me forth into an embrace and I hug her tight. “Thank you, dearest Majesty.”

She pulls away and touches my chin in a gentle gesture. “I must be off. His Majesty is waiting. The ceremony is about to begin.”

I am trembling now. My step-grandmother the dowager duchess has come. She is a flustered old lady, grossly overweight so that she hobbles with every step. She is quite absentminded and farts a lot, which sends the ladies into fits of giggles. I can only imagine how my father, so strict regarding behavioral proprieties, handles being in her presence. Yet he does visit her now and then, so there must be some attachment.

“A fine bride you’ll make,” she is saying. “Pretty little girl that you are. You’re the image of your mother, you know. She was a fine lass when she was young, before she started pissing off His Grace.”

I am shocked at the language and stifle a giggle. Certainly her candor helps ease my nerves. I loop my arm through hers and purse shut my twitching lips. I do not voice my other thought: what did my mother ever really do to anger Norfolk so? No, I simply take amusement in my lady duchess’s bawdy talk.

We proceed to the chapel where I am met by Norfolk. Hot tears fill my eyes as I take his proffered arm. He is smiling; it even reflects in his eyes. Together we progress down the aisle. The chapel is filled with immediate friends and family. Anne and the king sit in the front, smiling and exchanging words that I imagine to be about Harry and me. Surely their happiness extends beyond our match. Marrying Harry to someone beneath his station ensures his removal from the succession, securing Anne’s children their place in the royal line.

All eyes are riveted toward me. I am at once flattered by and self-conscious of the attention. I lean on Norfolk’s arm, turning my eyes to look up at him as we reach the altar where waits my intended, my Harry.

He is splendid, dressed in gold and white to match my gown.

Norfolk raises my veil and kisses my cheek, then lowers it again, drawing back to be seated beside his stepmother. It is then that I notice someone is missing.

My mother. She did not approve of Anne’s hand in the marital arrangements, I am told later. This prevented her from joining in my happiness. Bess is in attendance, however, and chases my disappointment away with her reassuring smile.

I look to Harry and offer a nervous half smile, which is returned with an equal amount of anxiety.

The ceremony proceeds in a blur. Our vows are exchanged and it isn’t long before the rings are slipped onto each other’s fingers. I hold my hand out to admire the simple gold band, my lips quivering with unshed tears.

Harry lifts my veil and brushes his lips against my cheek.

We are married. I am a wife. I am Lady Richmond.

There is feasting that night to celebrate our union; a small gathering, but I do not require more. Harry and I are seated together. I have trouble eating due to nerves, but he seems to have overcome his and is enjoying the dinner as much as his father.

“Are you happy, Mistress—I mean, Lady Mary?” Harry leans over to ask.

“So happy,” I tell him. My cheeks are rosy from wine. My limbs tingle pleasantly.

After we dine there is dancing. I notice that Cedric Dane is not among the musicians this evening. Somehow I am sad not to see him strumming his lute and singing to our happiness, but the thought is a fleeting one as Harry takes me in his arms to lead me in a dance. I have never felt so sure of my steps. I am married! I am truly grown up now. I look to my husband. I long to stroke his gentle young face, kiss the soft red lips. Oh, to be so lucky!

“How now, we can’t have this,” says a jolly voice. A large hand falls on my shoulder and I turn to see the king. I dip into a curtsy, afraid I am about to be scolded. Perhaps His Majesty has seen the longing in my eyes and deemed it too bold?

He is laughing, however. “You’ll have time enough with your bride. Give us a dance,” says King Henry, taking me in his strong arms.

How can one describe dancing with a king? I am in the arms of the sovereign of England, the man who has changed the world for his bride. This man and my father-in-law are one and the same.

I offer a sweet smile. “This is the most wonderful day of my life, Your Majesty,” I tell him.

“May every lass in England pray for your sweetness, Lady Mary.” The king smiles, holding me tight. We circle the floor a few times before he barks, “Norfolk! Come dance with your little angel. It would please us to see a father and daughter love each other well.”

Norfolk hesitates, then comes forward, encircling my waist with one arm, holding my hand with the other. Of course he is the perfect dancer. There is not one element of his life that he has not mastered. Together we glide about the floor.

He reaches up to finger the circlet about my head. “Look at this,” he comments. “You still have it.”

“I’d never forget it,” I tell him, hoping he takes from the statement what I intend. Hoping he knows I shall never forget him and the good that is in him. I reach up and stroke his cheek. He flinches. “I shall always be your daughter, my dear lord,” I tell him.

He wrinkles his nose. “Of course you will,” he says as though I had just uttered something ridiculous.

The dance ends and we part. Once again I am led into a dance with Harry, my lord and husband, giving me little time to ponder Norfolk’s dismissive attitude.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry breathes, holding me as tight as he dares. “How wonderful our life will be. I hope to make you very happy, Mary.”

“I know you will,” I tell him, believing it. As I regard his gentle countenance a thought strikes me. “Harry, you will be kind to me?” I shrink back from his startled gaze. “You’ll—you’ll never hit me?”

He laughs as though this is the most preposterous suggestion I could have ever made. Already relief begins to surge through me. “Hit you? Why would I hit you? Never,” he says, daring to reach up and cup my cheek. “Never will I lay a hand on you, sweet Mary. You have my word.”

Tears fill my eyes.

“How I wish you could come with me to Sheriff Hutton,” Harry is saying now.

My steps falter. “What do you mean?”

His face is drawn, sad. “You were not yet told? Your father says you can’t live with me as my wife till you are older.”

“What?” I ask, my voice feeling as though it is being pulled from somewhere else. “No.” Tears fill my eyes. I feel my fists clench. “But I
am
old enough! So many other girls take on their…their marital responsibilities at my age. Often a baby comes within the year!” I feel unladylike discussing this sensitive topic with Harry, but I am burning with fury. The idea of holding off motherhood is unthinkable.

Harry rubs my back in an effort to soothe. “Talk to him. Maybe you can influence him.” He smiles. “Who couldn’t be influenced by you? You’re so beautiful, Lady Mary. Mary. My Mary.”

I want to embrace him but know it isn’t proper. We take to the table again for more food and wine, but both of us are disheartened.

I cannot imagine influencing Norfolk any more than influencing the sun to shine.

True to Norfolk’s word, I am not led to a bridal chamber but to the maidens’ chamber, where I dress into a simpler gown. I am too angry to sleep. The other girls sense this and offer their sympathies.

“I can’t understand why he doesn’t grant you your wedding night either,” says Margaret Douglas. “We were counting on you telling us everything.”

“Margaret, really!” cries Madge. “Poor thing has been heart-broken tonight.”

I am so angry that their words have little effect. I wind my hair about my silver circlet under my hood, as is fitting for a married lady to do, then it is off to Norfolk’s apartments to use whatever influence I can in the hopes that he will grant me the life I long for.

Norfolk is abed when I come to him. He dresses hurriedly, never being the type to receive anyone in an undignified manner. He is without his cap, however, and whenever I see him thus I am always surprised at what nice hair he has—thick and black, without a fleck of gray. A shame he does not show it more often. The lack of the austere black cap makes him appear a little more human.

“I’d have thought you’d be worn out,” he says by way of greeting as he allows me into his privy chamber.

“Why can’t I be with Harry?” I ask, too angry for nonsensical banter. “Why are you preventing our marriage from being made true?”

He purses his lips, folding his arms across his chest and leaning on the desk. “Why should I have to explain anything to you?” He sighs. “But being that it doesn’t appear you will leave anytime soon, I shall tell you: you are too young, Mary. Bearing a child at this stage in your growth wouldn’t be healthy. You’re too small—”

“I may always be small, and Lord knows there have been smaller women than I to give birth!” I cry. “Why did you allow me to marry at all if you didn’t plan on letting me be a real wife? What is to become of me now?”

“You’ll stay here and serve the queen until I deem you ready for all that marriage entails,” he says in his cool voice.

Tears burn my eyes. My brow aches from furrowing it. “When will that be?”

“When I say and not before,” he tells me. “Why the hurry, Mary? Are you so hot you cannot contain yourself? Do I have to worry about your virtue?”

Appalled, I can only stare at him. He has struck me to the core. “How can you not think it natural for me to imagine such things when I learn I will be married? Don’t you think I’ve spent hours planning my new life, dreaming of babies—” I cannot go on. A lump swells painful in my throat.

“You will have babies. You have years for that,” he says, echoing Anne. “Go to bed now, girl. You’re overtired.”

“I will not go to bed until this is resolved,” I say, filled with sudden bravado. “If you do not let me go to Harry, I shall appeal to the queen.”

“Do that and I will make sure you suffer for it,” he tells me.

“Will you?” I cry. “How? What more can you possibly do to me? Kill me? Say I met with an unfortunate accident?” I feel a bit of my mother in me as I say the dangerous words. I cannot seem to stop myself. “You married me off, my lord. I am not beholden to you any longer. I am to honor my husband before all others. It is to him that I belong now.”

Norfolk grabs my shoulders, shaking me till my teeth chatter. “Don’t get high-minded with me, miss! Cease this madness at once!”

“No!” I cry, pulling away from him. I remove my silver circlet, throwing it to the floor; it lands at his feet with a delicate clatter. He stares at it, his expression changing from annoyed to almost surprised that I should dare demonstrate my displeasure. He stoops down to retrieve it.

“You cannot escape who you are,” he says in calm tones. “You are a Howard first, do you hear me? First, last, and always.”

My control is ebbing away like the receding tide. I am sobbing with abandon. “I curse the day God chose for me to be born a Howard!”

This is too much for Norfolk. He hauls off and with a closed fist strikes my temple, knocking me off balance. I trip on the hem of my gown, falling toward the desk. From somewhere I hear a loud crack, my head meeting with the hard wood surface…

The world is black.

I am revived by my throbbing head. Something is caught in my throat. I am gagging. I roll onto my side and retch. Hands are on my shoulders.

“Mary…”

I cannot rise. I lie on the floor, my eyes fluttering. I cannot draw anything into focus. I must not pick up my head. It is fractured, I know; part of it will remain behind if I attempt to raise it. I cannot speak. I slither my hand across the floor, not knowing what I am reaching for. Perhaps I just want to see if my arm will obey me.

“Mary!” Norfolk’s voice, panicked.