Secrets of the Tudor Court (36 page)

“And when the seas wax calm again,

To chase from me annoy,

My doubtful hope doth cause me plain;

So dread cuts off my joy.

Thus is my wealth mingled with woe:

And of each thought a doubt doth grow;

Now he comes! Will he come? alas! No, no!”

At the poem’s conclusion we sit in silence. Tears stream unchecked down my cheeks. I had never read the poem after its completion. I was unaware at the time I had written it that I had all but prophesied such things as Cedric’s death before, or perhaps, as it was occurring. I am stunned.

Surrey takes the poem from my limp hands and reads it over to himself. He then places it in the little casket and wraps his arm about me again, holding me tight.

We say nothing. There is nothing to be said. Somehow I know that I have impressed Surrey, that at long last he finds me a worthy peer, and that is enough for me.

I do not realize until the middle of the night that when Surrey and I parted company I had left the casket behind. Oh, well. Not to worry. I am certain he has not forgotten it.

Indeed, he has not forgotten it. When I overhear courtiers discussing Surrey’s haunting and tragic new poem, “Complaint of the Absence of Her Lover Being Upon the Sea” I begin to tremble with rage.

“Have you heard the poem?” I ask Kate Brandon, my face burning.

“What poem?” Kate asks. “Oh, yes, your brother’s. I think I did.”

“How does it begin, do you recall?” I ask, trying to remain calm. Kate shrugs. “‘O happy dames…’” She cocks her pretty head. “Really, I don’t excel at memorizing poetry. But it is quite good if one can’t find enough things to be depressed about at this court.”

O happy dames…O happy dames…I choke back a sob and excuse myself.

What is there to be done now? Everyone knows Surrey is The Poet; King Henry designated the epithet upon him himself. He is so proficient and skilled in it that there is no doubt it is his calling. I am an amateur, a dabbler at best. No one would believe that it was I, not Surrey, who composed it.

No one would believe now that the renamed “O Happy Dames” is something that I wrote with passion, love, and longing. That “O Happy Dames” was my heart’s pride.

I seek out Surrey in despair. I may have lost all credibility, but I will not lose out on the chance to confront my brother.

He is found in the gardens, arguing with another courtier about something. I do not pay heed. I seize his arm.

“My lord! I will have words with you,” I say in firm tones.

Surrey laughs. “Excuse me,” he tells the receptacle of his tirade. “My sister sees fit to be rude.”

The other man is thrilled to escape Surrey and bows toward me with a smile before making quick strides in the opposite direction.

I have not relinquished his arm. “My lord,” I ask, only now allowing tears to fill my voice. “How could you?”

“To what do you refer?” he asks me, brown eyes wide with feigned innocence.

I shake my head. “Oh, you are Norfolk’s son,” I breathe in horror. “My silver casket, the casket with the poems you stole. If I cannot have the credit for my work, at least return me my property.”

“Oh, that,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mare,” he says. “Really, I am. It’s just that you forgot the casket and I was reading it over again when someone asked what it was and…well, they assumed it was one of my compositions. I would have said something, but once they started attributing it to me, well, it sort of took on a life of its own. And you must admit, the writing is rather like mine. You must admire my style,” he adds with a smile that is meant, I am sure, to disarm me.

I do not acknowledge the last statement. “Yes, it must have been an extremely difficult situation to extricate yourself from,” I say, my tone oozing with the famous Howard sarcasm. “How do you bear it?” I shake my head. “Take the poem. God knows I have lost everything else. I give it to you, Surrey. I did not write it for the world; I do not write for any praise or adulation. I write for myself. The poem will bear your name but I know the truth. I will always know the truth. And you cannot take that away from me.”

“Mary, listen. I’ll tell them—I’ll tell them—”

“It doesn’t matter what you tell them,” I spit. “The damage is done. Take it. It is my gift to you, dear brother. But the rest, the casket. I want it back.”

“It will be returned, my lady,” he replies, his tone thick with an emotion I do not care to analyze.

Later that evening, as I am preparing for bed, a messenger delivers my little silver casket.

Everything is there.

Everything but “O Happy Dames.”

The court is rife with too many other intrigues for me to remain caught up in my own petty resentments. So I let it go. I let go of “O Happy Dames.” I let go of my anger toward Surrey, and with it all feeling toward him as well. If I cannot extricate myself in full from Norfolk, at least I can from my brother, whose impact on my life is far more peripheral.

Now is no time to think of anyone but the queen.

Queen Catherine proves herself to be cleverer than anyone has ever given her credit for. She soothes His Majesty’s suspicions with a word; all of her religious debates, she tells him, indeed anything she may have said or did to upset him, why, it was all to serve as a distraction from his bothersome leg. He rewards her with his signet ring, the ring he had given Cranmer to save him if he were unable to.

It is on 13 July when they come for her. She is sitting in the gardens with His Majesty, quite reconciled, when Lord Chancellor Wriothesley and forty guards throw open the gates to arrest her. King Henry struggles to his feet, crying, “Knave! Knave, beast, and fool!”

Poor Wriothesley, as much as I detest him, must have been scared witless. I am certain it was prearranged that Her Majesty was to be arrested for heresy while taking her leisure with the king in the gardens, but King Henry, ever the role player, wanted to act the part of hero and neglected to tell his lord chancellor that plans had changed.

And so, upon the presentation of His Majesty’s signet ring and a strident objection from the king against Queen Catherine’s arrest, she is saved.

Saved!

I can breathe.

But only for three days. Only until Anne Ayscough and John Lascelles, the man who accused poor Kitty of her adulteries at Lambeth, are burned at the stake at Smithfield. Anne was so weak and crippled from her months of torture that she had to be carried to the stake and chained to it in order to keep her body upright.

I pray that her death was quick. Even Master Lascelles did not deserve such a death, whatever hand he may have had in Kitty’s fate. No man is fit to judge another, and as much as I mourn my little cousin I cannot harden my heart against this tragedy.

No, there is no breathing at this court of Henry VIII. There is nothing to be done but count the heads that roll, sift through the ashes at Smithfield…oh, God, this is madness. Truly Hell cannot be much worse.

I will flee. I will go anywhere, I decide. I will do anything it takes, if only to get away.
Self-preservation, Mary
…Mother’s words, uttered to me a lifetime ago when I could not comprehend their meaning. Now I know too well the significance of this advice and I will adhere to it.

To my surprise it is Norfolk who proposes to me my way out.

It is the first time I have been summoned to his apartments since the night I dared go against his wishes. Now, with both plots to seize power having failed, Norfolk sits behind his desk, his face drawn with weariness. He appears as any ordinary old man, an old man who stayed too long at the feast and longs for nothing more than to take to his bed.

“Sit, Mary,” he says in a soft voice.

I do so without a word.

He removes his cap. His hair, once black as ravens’ wings, is now streaked with silver. He leans forward, folding his arms on the desk.

“The Seymours will be in power before long,” he tells me, as though this is something I have not known all along. “I am certain Edward, Queen Jane’s brother, will be named regent once the little prince…once he…” He trails off. He cannot seem to finish the sentence. “In any event, it has become prudent to ally ourselves to the Seymours.”

If it is no longer prudent to ally myself to one, I ally myself to another…

I nod, indicating for him to continue.

“We have worked out an agreement, a sort of triple alliance,” he says. “Hertford and I.” He refers to Edward Seymour’s title. “Two of his children are to be wed to two of your brother Henry’s. And you—you marry Thomas Seymour.”

Tom Seymour! Tom Seymour, the supposed rapist. Tom Seymour, Cat’s true love…

Yet was it not Surrey who told me of Seymour’s dark past? I am no longer as willing to believe a word that comes out of Surrey’s mouth. But, whether Seymour is a rapist or not, to marry him is to wed the man my dear friend loves. How can I do that to her?

Yet…yet…Cat married another. I cannot think of her. I cannot think of anyone else right now. It may be wise to accept the offer. Tom Seymour is good-looking, not that that should be my chief concern, but it would be nice to be married to a good-looking man. And he is a reformist…There could be advantages.

“Does Surrey know?” I ask.

Norfolk shakes his head. “Not yet. You are the first.” He says this as though I should feel privileged.

I do not take much time to think about it. Maybe Tom Seymour will allow me to live at Sudeley Castle, away from court. I could have children of my own. The little prince is bound to come into power soon. And I do not believe the Seymours will continue King Henry’s reign of terror, which is another mark in their favor.

I cannot afford to look at the matter as a girl avowed to a promise made at seventeen. I am getting older, twenty-seven already. I cannot live like this much longer. I do not want to be alone. It will not be a love match, but few matches are.

“Yes, my lord,” I say, my tone hard. “I am agreeable. Tell Lord Hertford to recommence preparations for my wedding to Lord Sudeley.”

Norfolk closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Good girl,” he says, reaching out to take my hands in his. “Good girl.”

Surrey does not take the news as well as I did. Indeed he is enraged that all the arrangements were made in his absence from court, a fact I did not realize, but should have, since Norfolk’s ability to juggle various plots is unrivaled.

In the long gallery at Westminster, before the whole of the court, Surrey approaches me, seizing my arms.

“Plan on marrying Seymour, do you?” he seethes. “Didn’t I warn you years ago of what you’d be getting yourself into should you get into bed with that upstart?” He shakes me slightly. All eyes are upon us. “Despite this, you still contemplate marrying into that clan? You want power that badly, do you?”

“Henry—please—” In vain I try to wrest myself from his clutches.

“Whore yourself out to whom you please, Mary, but I’ll be damned if any of
my
children marry into that lot!” He releases me. I have lost my balance and stumble a bit, staring at Surrey in horror. “You know,” he says as he turns to walk away, “if you want power so badly, you should aim a little higher. I’m sure the king isn’t abhorrent to the idea of taking on a new mistress!” He collects himself, as though taking a liking to his suggestion. “Let him congratulate you on your betrothal to Seymour and while he’s at it, charm him with those feminine wiles of yours—”

“Lord Surrey!” I cry, scandalized; not only because he is speaking the words aloud and in front of the entire court, but because I barely escaped becoming the very thing he suggested.

In those few moments, with those few words, Surrey has destroyed any chance at a Howard-Seymour alliance. It is over. All over. The dreams I dared seize are gone.

I stand alone and dejected amidst a court that laughs and whispers behind their hands, all playing at being appalled, when in truth they cannot recall a humiliation so delightful in years.

A True Howard

T
here is naught to do after Surrey’s outburst but keep to ourselves. I do not seek out Her Majesty, too ashamed am I now for having considered marrying the man she loves, and Norfolk avoids court altogether. I return to Kenninghall, to my mother, returned of late from Redbourne, and Bess, and try in vain to seek peace.

Peace is not ours to hold; it eludes us with the grace and speed of a butterfly.

In December we are awoken by thunderous knocking on the door. They have come for us…it is over. They have come for us. Visions of the block swirl before me. I blink the disturbing image away as I scramble out of bed, dressing hurriedly as the soldiers advance into the house. Before going down, Bess and Mother—my strong, certain mother—congregate with me in the hall outside my chambers.

“An unlikely faction of allies we have become,” says Mother as she squeezes both Bess’s and my hands. “Whatever happens, save yourselves. Remember, there comes a time when it is us or them.”

Us or them.
Norfolk’s words. When did he say them? Was it after betraying Anne, or Kitty? Anne. Yes, it was Anne. Oh, God, I am losing my mind…

I choke back a sob as I take in her words.
Save myself.
Save myself for what?

We descend to the dining chambers, where wait our “guests.”

They are familiar faces, all courtiers led by the strong, well-muscled John Gates, and Sir Wymond Carew.

I am trembling with fear. Bile rises in my throat.

They inform us, as they gaze around our luxurious surroundings with hunger in their eyes, that Surrey and Norfolk have been arrested. From what I am able to gather, Surrey had bragged to his friend George Blagge that no one but Norfolk was fit to serve as regent to the little prince when he came to power; a family without establishment, riding on their late sister’s glory, has nothing on the Howards, whose great line can be traced back hundreds of years. Not only did Surrey brag about all that the Howards would achieve once ruling through little Edward, but it was rumored Surrey had quartered his arms with those of St. Edward the Confessor, a right reserved only for kings.