Secrets of the Tudor Court (17 page)

I moan. I cannot answer him. What were we even talking about? What happened?

I am married, I know that much. Momentary bliss. I danced with Harry and the king. And my father. And then…then…

He cut it short. The dance, my happiness, now perhaps my life.

I cannot will my eyes to stay open. It is a strain to hold any image captive. There is too much pain to cry, too much pain to put effort into anything besides breathing. I do not move. I am still.

Norfolk eases his arm about my back, drawing me into a sitting position. I whimper again, my head lolling against his shoulder, my mouth held agape. If I hold it thus it seems to ease the pain in my temple. I do not look to find reason in this. I only know it alleviates the pain somewhat and that is enough.

Norfolk rises, pulling me up with him. I have no strength. I will fall to the ground if he does not hold me up. He sits me in his chair, then disappears a moment, returning with a ewer of bitingly cold water. He kneels beside me, winding a cloth about his slim hand and placing it at my temple. I draw in a quick breath. I still cannot focus. I squint in a vain attempt to bring definition to his blurry features.

“To the maidens’ chamber with you now,” he says. “You’ll have a good sleep and everything will look better in the morning. You’ll see reason then.”

He holds the cool cloth to my temple a while longer before lowering his arm and helping me to my feet. I wobble, then sink back into the chair. My head is swimming. Bile rises in my throat. I begin to gag again. Norfolk holds the basin before me and I retch till there is nothing left but to heave brokenly.

“God,” mutters Norfolk, his voice thick with disgust.

I lean back in the chair, weakened by the exertions. My gut aches. I close my eyes and relax my jaw. If only the pain would go away….

“Are you quite finished?” he asks, setting the basin down and nudging it away from him with his foot.

I offer a feeble nod.

“All right, then. Let’s get you back,” he says, assisting me to my feet, looping my arm through his.

He escorts me to the maidens’ chamber.

We do not speak of Harry or my dashed hopes ever again.

My wedding night is spent with a throbbing head that I claim is due to taking in too much wine. The knot that has formed at my temple I cover with a creative sweep of my hair.

I sleep beside Margaret Douglas instead of my husband.

I look at my rainbow ring, at last able to focus on something. But it holds no hope for me now. No longer am I able to push aside the dark thoughts that for so long danced at the fringes of my consciousness. Now they stalk me like ravenous devils, waiting to devour me. I must not let them. I must find something to hold on to.

I think about the future. It is still possible. I will prove my maturity to Norfolk. I will show I am ready to be a wife and mother, and God willing he will send me to Harry all the sooner, where my life might begin anew.

There
is
hope. As long as I am alive, there is hope.

The next day I receive two gifts: from my husband a beautiful gold comb wrought in the shape of a butterfly, with mother-of-pearl wings and emerald antennae, which I immediately place in my hair; the second is a collar of pearls from Norfolk.

The ladies fuss over them. Margaret Douglas clasps the pearls about my neck; they are cold against my skin.

I am still dizzy and ask Margaret if I might lean on her as we go to Mass.

“Too much wine last night?” she asks with a wink.

I nod, forcing a laugh.

We enter the chapel where I see Harry, who offers a bright smile.

“Any luck, my lady?” he asks before the service begins.

I shake my head. Tears fill my eyes; even they aggravate the pain in my head.

Harry squeezes my hand. “’Tis all right, Mary. We’ll be together soon enough. And maybe he’s right. I couldn’t bear it should anything happen to you if…” He flushes.

I bow my head. Part of me was hoping he’d appeal to his father, who would command Norfolk to allow me to live in my rightful household. His easy acceptance of the situation saddens me.

I draw in a breath. “Thank you for the comb, my lord.”

“You like it, truly?” he asks.

I nod, my smile genuine. “I will wear it every day until we are allowed to be together. Then you shall remove it yourself.”

Harry laughs. “I shall await that day with great eagerness!”

He takes leave of me then, returning to his attendants.

I return to the other ladies.

And so our lives shall be lived out as such. In separate circles, separate beds.

I bow my head and pray that the time might pass, that I might grow older and take my proper place beside my lord husband.

God honors my prayers with the passage of time. Court life is so busy that I haven’t much opportunity to miss Harry, though I am coming to realize it isn’t Harry I miss so much—I do not know him so very well, after all—as the idea of a life and babies of my own.

I take delight in Princess Elizabeth. Anne brings me with her whenever she visits the tawny-haired cherub and I love playing with her. Her hands and feet are so tiny! I love to marvel at the dimples that serve as knuckles and kiss her smooth chubby cheeks.

I never speak to Anne about my longing to leave court and set up my own house, nor does she bring it up. I imagine she believes it is my wish as much as Norfolk’s that I remain in her service. No doubt serving a queen is the highest of privileges, one I do not take for granted, but…

One day as I coo over the little princess, Anne rises from her window seat, her manner distracted. She is fidgety today.

“They still don’t like me, Lady Mary,” she tells me, looking out the window as though a stream of belligerent citizens will crash through it at any moment. “I had hoped with the birth of the princess, with the proof of my fertility…” She sits back down, pursing her lips.

I rush to her side, daring to reach out and take her hand.

She bows her head, gripping her stomach. “It doesn’t matter. This next one will be a prince, I’m certain.”

“Oh, Your Majesty!” I cry, a stab of pain and delight piercing through me at once. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“And if it’s not,” she goes on, her voice bearing that Howard edge, “the king is busy creating the Act of Succession. None but
my
children can ever sit the throne of England.”

“A wise move,” I say, thinking of the former Princess Mary, wondering what she will make of the act.

“Pray for me, Lady Mary,” Anne says, reaching out to cup my cheek. I flinch. Even all these months later, contact with the right side of my face causes stabbing pain in my temple. “Pray that I deliver England of a son.”

“With all my heart, dearest Majesty,” I tell her through my pain.

I cast my eyes down at the princess, whose own gaze is as dark and alert as her mother’s.

How wretched it is to be born the wrong sex, I think, stroking the silky red curls.

As Anne’s pregnancy advances so does the progress of the Act of Succession, which is passed on March 23, 1534. Elated, Anne dances about her apartments, whirling about with one lady or another until, exhausted, she sits back on her chaise and encourages us to continue the merriment. That same day the pope declares that King Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon remains, as it has always been in Rome’s eyes, valid.

Anne scoffs at this, then proceeds to discuss her ideas about church reform. She believes in simpler things; less grandeur in the chapel, humbler priests with better intentions than those who take indulgences to fatten their own pockets, profiting from the so-called expiation of others’ sins. “How can they intervene on our behalf, anyway?” she asks. “One should not need a confessional to make their world right with God.” She even dares to admit that women should be allowed to study the scriptures to come to a better understanding of God’s Word. I agree with her with a whole heart and enjoy the lively conversations she holds about the topic.

Yet the day is so merry that we don’t discuss such heady issues as reform in too much detail. Musicians have been called, led by Anne’s favorite, the talented Mark Smeaton, and they erupt into tunes that call the freshness of spring to mind.

Cedric Dane is among them. He offers a slight smile as he is tuning his lute. “Lady Richmond,” he says in greeting. The name still rings foreign in my ears and I stifle the urge to look about to see if it is indeed me he is addressing. “Still haven’t joined your husband? I’d have thought you’d be eager to start your life as a bride.”

Frustrated that he is this perceptive, I avert my head. “I am obligated first to my queen.”

He nods. When I meet his gaze again I find no mockery there.

“And have you done any more writing?” he asks.

“Not recently,” I tell him. “Though some of the ladies and I have put together quite a collection.” I smile at the thought of it. “It was a delightful way to pass the time.”

“I shall be practicing tonight,” he goes on to say. “I have been working on a new composition on the virginals. I’d love for you to hear it…. I shall be there late into the evening if you—”

“Master Dane, you must cease trying to seek me out,” I tell him in firm tones. “It is inappropriate for one of my station to associate with you.”

I break away from him then, stunned by my harshness. I swallow a painful lump in my throat as I rejoin my circle, never feeling quite so isolated as I do in this crowd.

That night in the maidens’ chamber we are readying for bed when a servant informs us that Norfolk is waiting outside.

I begin to shake. Has he discovered me conversing with Cedric? Oh, God…

But no. It is to Madge Shelton that he wishes to speak. Relieved but puzzled, I watch my cousin saunter outside. I hear a happy exchange outside the door.

“How now, Uncle Thomas!” she cries in her bubbly voice.

“Ah, the delightful Madge,” I hear my father say with a chuckle. “Come share a cordial with me. I do not think I have taken the proper time in acquainting myself with you.”

I draw the coverlet over my shoulders and roll on my side, confused.

When Madge returns I am fraught with curiosity. Reading it, she climbs under the covers, her smile broad.

“The king is feeling a little restless,” she whispers. “Uncle Thomas is hoping I can…divert him.”

“But His Majesty loves Anne!” I whisper back, shocked the king would go to all this trouble only to take on another mistress.

“That may be so, but love certainly doesn’t equal faithfulness for Henry VIII,” Madge goes on in smug tones. It is easy to see her task excites her, even when she wrinkles her nose and adds, “Though it will be ghastly. His Majesty has become quite portly this past year.” She draws in a breath and squares her shoulders in a perfect imitation of Anne. “But I can give him what he needs for the duration of her pregnancy and keep his eyes from straying toward other factions—the Seymours, for instance.”

I see my father’s strategy at once. “Best to keep it all in the family, I suppose,” I admit, knowing that the acceptance of such behavior indeed makes me a Howard.

Knowing it is all a game to Norfolk. He will move us about the playing field as is his wont; we are inanimate, no better than wood or pewter. We do not feel or think or dream.

We only have this name, this Howard name, and that is the most important thing, a name that cannot be touched, smelled, or tasted. A mere sound and assortment of letters that mean, in God’s grand scheme, nothing.

Who will remember the Howards, really?

Knowing that Madge is the new bait for the king keeps me awake. My stomach hurts. My legs are restless and twitch under the covers. Madge kicks me and mumbles for me to settle down. I decide the best course is to get up. I don’t know what to do with myself. I try to embroider, to no avail, pricking my fingers and growing more agitated with each passing second.

It is easy for me to leave the maidens’ chamber. Everyone knows of my frequent visits to Norfolk, so my whereabouts are not questioned. I dress in a light pink gown and plait my hair—ensuring that my father will not look upon my mane and decide to bring the dreaded brush through it—then wrap about my shoulders a soft white cloak to ward off the chill damp of evening.

I do not know what I will say to him, but will endeavor to do what I can to help Anne. She deserves better treatment than this. She is our queen and possibly carrying a prince; how could anyone so flagrantly disrespect her? I do not blame Madge. She is flirtatious, bred for such intrigues; she is also following my father’s orders. Very few dare cross Norfolk.

As I make my way down the hall I hear the sound of virginals; it is a bittersweet melody. I am not conscious of following the sound until I am standing outside the door of the musicians’ informal practice room. I hear nothing but the music. There is no male chatter; no one is pausing to say “wait,” the all-time favorite phrase of musicians the world over while figuring out chords and the like.

I know who is behind the door; I remember his invitation. In my mind’s eye I see him sitting there, eyes closed, weaving in time to the music, his slender fingers upon the keys, bringing them to their full potential. I cannot help myself. I push open the door.

He is as I envisaged. I enter. I know I should not be here. I should either go to Norfolk or back to the maidens’ chamber. I should go anywhere but here.

But I do not go. I remain, transfixed by his song.

“Well, at least you can’t accuse me of seeking you out,” says Cedric without opening his eyes.

“I heard the racket,” I say in my haughtiest tones, “and wondered who would be so rude as to play at such a late hour.”

“The door was quite closed. And the court keeps late hours, my lady,” Cedric returns. His hands fall silent on the keys. The room is too quiet now. Our voices echo against the stone walls. He is smiling, a brilliant mocking smile that fills me with a strange ecstasy.

“So the music is a ‘racket,’ eh?” he asks, rising and approaching me. “Then I shall cease with that composition so as not to offend your fair ears.”