Secrets of the Tudor Court (31 page)

Justice! Now I know I am talking to a madman, as if there was ever any doubt. Justice! Justice…a
bit of nastiness!
If it would have served His Majesty politically to starve me to death in the Tower, in the Tower I would have starved. Justice. My head is tingling with anger.

I curtsy once more. “I—I am obliged, Your Majesty,” I say in tremulous tones.

“We have always enjoyed your brother, hotheaded lad that he is,” he goes on as he places his hands on the keyboard again and begins to play. “His wit and poetry amuse us mightily. How many children does he have now?”

My heart stirs at the thought of my treasured nieces and nephews. “Five, Your Majesty. Three girls and two bonny boys.”

“Children are a blessing, aren’t they?”

This coming from a man who declared his two daughters bastards.

“Indeed, Sire,” I concur.

“A blessing you have been denied far too long,” he tells me. “You should marry again, Lady Richmond. Perhaps your father and I can come up with a new match. You’re a beautiful young woman.” This statement is accompanied by his eyes roving my body up and down. “A beautiful and no doubt fertile young woman.”

I shiver. “Th—thank you?”

He laughs. “I remember your own talent at poetry. Can you sing as well?”

I offer a slow, frightened nod.

“Then sing for me while I play,” he says.

I obey, sweating and trembling and wanting this moment to end. If it were ten years ago I would have been thrilled to be in His Majesty’s presence accompanying him with my voice. But then ten years ago Anne was alive. She would have been singing, too, singing and laughing and dancing. Life would have been merry. That was long before the shadow of the axe fell on the Howards.

Now I derive no joy from singing with my father-in-law, the king. I want to run. I want to be anywhere but here. As I am singing I hear the creak of the door. His Majesty stops playing and laughs.

“Ah, Cedric, my lad!” he cries as Cedric doffs his cap and offers a deep bow. “We suppose it is prudent to leave the music to the musicians. We are weary.” He rises, leaning heavily on the virginals. If he collapses, the beautiful instrument is a goner. “This cursed leg…I must find my Cat. She will know what to do.”

I curtsy.

He smiles at me, resting a heavy hand on my head. “And we have enjoyed your company immensely, little girl. We should like to be entertained by you more often.”

I swallow the rising bile in my throat as His Majesty calls forth his guards, who help him from the room, staggering under his heavy frame.

When I am certain he is gone my shoulders slump as I sit on the bench, which is wet with the king’s sweat. I wipe my hands on my gown in disgust.

“Well,” says Cedric, his tone cool. “At last I am not looking at you across a crowded room.”

I turn toward him. “I’m sorry I have not sought you out sooner.”

Cedric sighs. “How are you, Mary?”

“Right now?” I ask with a nervous laugh. “Right now I am longing to bathe. Between the stink of His Majesty’s leg and the fact that I’ve just sat on a sweat-drenched bench…”

“‘Sweat-drenched bench’…I like that,” Cedric says, but he is not smiling. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Mary, I’ve missed you. How long has it been?”

“Well over a year now,” I tell him.

He reaches out, stroking my cheek. I flinch at his gentleness. “Our parting was not a merry one,” he tells me, his voice soft.

“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.

“Perhaps our reunion can be different,” he whispers, pulling me into his arms and pressing his soft warm lips to mine. I yield to his kiss.

When we part I say, “Nothing changes for us. No matter how much time passes, nothing changes.”

“No.” He reaches out, stroking my hair. “It will never change.” He pulls my head to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around me. I revel in the embrace. “Mary, I won’t pressure you into marriage for now. I won’t ask anything more of you than what you are willing to give.”

“Thank you, Cedric,” I whisper against his chest. “Thank you, my love.”

“For now,” he stipulates. “Just for now.”

That is good enough for me. All I live for is now.

Cedric and I meet whenever possible. They are not the love-crazed meetings we knew when we were on progress with King Henry and Kitty. Our encounters are calmer; we share the comfort and familiarity of old friends coupled with the passion of young lovers. We talk about religion and art and poetry. We compose music. There are three things I have forbade him to discuss: marriage, politics, and Norfolk. So far he is happy to oblige.

These are happy days. What’s more, they are peaceful days.

But in the summer of 1543 my father, in an attempt to stir up royal favor, declares war on England’s on-again-off-again rival, France, in King Henry’s name. It is around this time that I learn of the death of my cousin Mary Carey, now Stafford. She was not yet forty. I recall the last time I saw her, how she vowed that she would be the only Howard to know true happiness despite poverty and exile. I hope with all my heart that she did so.

“All of them are gone now,” I lament to Norfolk one night.

He is staring at a map of France splayed out on his desk, marking it here and there, completely uninterested in my commentary.

“Anne, George.” My throat catches. “And now poor Mary.”

“Yes, now I suppose they hold a merry little court in Hell,” quips Norfolk as he draws another line on the map. “And Jane Boleyn is probably there, too, circling about in a frenzy of lust-fueled jealousy.”

I stare at him in awe, though why comments such as these coming from him should continue to surprise me I have no idea.

He sits back in his chair, waving the quill between thumb and forefinger so fast that he creates the illusion of its bending in the air.

“Still, I suppose she was the best of them,” he says in soft tones. “She was very honest.” He offers his bitter laugh. “King Henry’s honest mistress.” He pauses, staring at the quill he now holds still before him. “Fools, all of them,” he says, then returns to his maps.

I blink back tears and rise, dipping into a curtsy. It is not the Anne years or the Kitty years, so there is nothing to report, no orders to carry out. There is only but to excuse myself.

“Good night, my lord,” I say in weary tones.

He does not look up from his maps. I swear his shoulders are shaking in excitement over his new mission.

As I turn to leave he says, “Mary.”

I turn my head toward his voice.

“Remember. We move forward. We are Howards.”

“Yes,” I say. “We shall always be that.”

As I depart I can think of nothing that means less to me than being a Howard.

Norfolk is given the rank of lieutenant-general of the army and makes ready his campaign. By the spring of 1544 he is ready to cross the Channel.

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” I find myself lamenting as I behold him standing smart in his military regalia, waiting to board the ship. “War should be left to younger men.”

“War is left to younger men,” he says. “But it is the older men who must arrange things.” His lips curve into the smile I know so well, that sardonic, lifeless smile. “Tell me you are not worried I shall meet with a cruel end in the fields of France,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “No fretting, daughter. I am in finer form than most men half my age—indeed, than most men in general. I will return no worse for wear.”

Though he is inarguably in fine form for a man of his years I cannot, despite everything, fight the tears filling my eyes. “Be safe,” I whisper as I embrace him.

His arms remain at his sides. He reaches up and pats my back in an impatient gesture and I pull away. I remember the time Kitty threw herself in his arms in a hug of complete adulation, how unaware she was of his response. I recall how she looked up at him, how she told him she loved him, how her eyes were lit with such innocent affection. Never at any time had the thought entered her pretty head that this man she loved would be her ultimate betrayer. No, he was her uncle and she loved him. She told him she loved him so he must love her in return.

I know better than this. I have learned.

Norfolk goes to sea and I am left behind.

The tears dissipate. With Norfolk gone, I will be afforded very little supervision…

From May to July, Cedric and I are free to do as we please. We are subtle, we are inconspicuous, but we are together. Almost every night we find time to meet and be merry. I am lighthearted. I am, I tell him, at my personal best.

But in July the king announces he will go to lay siege on Boulogne himself and calls Cedric to be at his side.

“Why on earth do they need a musician in battle?” I cry in rage. “So that you might sing his praises while he is running Frenchmen through?”

Cedric laughs. “I suppose so. You know I am not only an amusing and handsome court musician,” he says, “but a historian of sorts. You see, no matter the end result of this battle, it is my duty to make King Henry sound noble and heroic—even if he does not return home victorious. A bard can make anyone a hero. And that is what I must do.”

“It is bloody ridiculous,” I curse, tears warming my eyes. “I do not understand. Everything King Henry touches he taints, just like his rotten leg. He taints love, his perception of love, and in his misery taints others’ happiness as well. He has taken everyone I have ever loved away from me. And if he takes you…” Though my tone sounds threatening there is obviously nothing I can do about it. But there is some measure of satisfaction to be found in unleashing my venom.

I take Cedric in my arms. “You must be safe. You must promise not to get too close to…anything. Promise you’ll return to me!”

He nods. “I will return to you, Mary,” he vows, his tone grave. “I will always return to you.”

My heart is racing. I feel as Harry must have when extracting his promise from me. I pray that it is not so difficult a thing for Cedric to uphold.

My father takes Montreuil, desperately short of munitions and provisions. I expect he does not even know what the king wants him to do next. While I await news of his and the king’s success or failure on the battlefield, I think about Her Majesty, who has been appointed queen regent in King Henry’s absence, an honor she is proving most capable of. She signs proclamations, manages the Scottish threat, and oversees the finances of the king’s campaign. She hears petitions, devotes time to charitable works, and, in what I believe to be most important to her, offers her heart to her step-children.

She takes the time to acquaint herself better with her step-daughters, both of whom she brings to court from time to time. Her gentle mother’s heart influences the king to at last show his girl children the favor they long for, and despite the fact that Lady Mary is very unlikely to swerve from Catholicism, she seems to respect her reformist stepmother very much.

In the nursery I see my cousin Elizabeth, who bears my Anne’s sharp black eyes and keen wit, along with the Tudor red hair and hot temper. I am delighted. She is a beautiful little girl I cannot restrain from embracing upon seeing her again.

“Oh, my dearest cousin!” I cry when I am allowed into her presence at last.

She pulls away, assessing me with those grave dark eyes, wary. “You are Lady Richmond?”

I nod. “Oh, my lady, I am so pleased to see you again.”

“Your father is the Duke of Norfolk,” she comments, her tone laced with disgust. “He saw my mother to the sword.”

I am stunned by the words. I cannot deny it. I will not defend him. I blink several times. I can only imagine the wicked tales this poor girl has heard, and perhaps has been forced to hear, about her mother. That Norfolk should be counted as one of her enemies is not something undeserved.

“You must excuse me if I am not beset with joy at acquainting myself with your branch of the family,” she says. Her tone rings of one years older than her eleven. I hear she is so advanced in her studies, with her affinity for languages and keen comprehension of logic, that her tutors are constantly looking for new ways to challenge her.

I do not know what to say for a moment. My eyes stray to her hands. They are white, dainty as lilies, her fingers slim and tapering. The hands of a young lady. “You have the Howard hands,” I begin feebly. I do not know if it is wise to stay this course, but do. “Your mother…she also had fine hands. Everyone admired them.”

Lady Elizabeth seems to be torn between offering up something sarcastic in reply or deigning to kindness. Her face softens. “Did you know my mother very well?” she asks, and her voice is sweeter, more childlike.

I nod. It is a relief to be able to talk about Anne with the king away. “I loved her very well,” I tell her. I swallow several times. “Oh, my lady, there’s so much I want to say to you. So much about your mother…how she could come into a room and light it up with her smile…how the moonlight could catch her hair through a window and make it shimmer almost blue.” Tears clutch my throat. “She always knew just what to say. She could charm anyone. Nothing sordid, my lady, but disarming. She could be sweet but fiery. She was the most determined woman I have ever known.” My words are coming out in a rush, as though I fear the king will burst through the door of the nursery any moment and imprison me in the Tower for daring to speak favorably of the witch. “Her views about religion were similar to those of Her Majesty, your stepmother. In fact, your stepmother even served her at one time.”

“She mentioned that,” Lady Elizabeth says. She smiles. It is her mother’s smile, a smile possessing its own radiance, a smile to melt a heart. “She is not afraid to talk about her to me, either. She always tells me whatever she can. But she did not know her as you did.” Tears fill her eyes but she blinks them away with ferocity, determined to maintain her composure. There is no doubt that this ability to summon hardness is a trait attributed to both the Howards and the Tudors. “I am disposed to like you, cousin Mary. We shall meet from time to time and discuss my mother or whatever else strikes my fancy. I have been told you are most learned as well. I should like to have discourse with you on many subjects, if you are keen for such a thing.”