Secrets of the Tudor Court (37 page)

Blagge knew treason when he heard it, and presented Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, with the information. Hertford ran with it and when the report was laid upon the royal ear in November he threw in the rumor that Surrey was also planning on kidnapping little Prince Edward until after the king’s death, which would ensure the Howards’ management of him when he took the throne.

Norfolk, who I can only imagine was in a panic, composed letter after letter, begging every friend he had at court for information regarding Surrey’s behavior. The letters, each and every one, were intercepted.

On 1 December Surrey was arrested and detained at Lord Chancellor Wriothesley’s town mansion. It must be awkward, I find myself thinking in spite of everything, for Wriothesley to detain the son of his good friend.

He did not keep him long. On 12 December Surrey was marched through the streets to the Tower of London. Some jeered him, they are happy to report, but I imagine that others with any heart watched in sadness as another of the king’s victims went to meet his fate.

And Norfolk, my Norfolk, was stripped of his titles and honors that same Sunday. His golden chain signifying his rank as Knight of the Garter was seized along with his staffs of office. Gates smiles as he tells me Norfolk had the audacity to claim himself the most loyal servant the king ever had and proclaim complete mystification over his arrest. I am certain he is convinced of every word. My cheeks burn in shame for him.

After this statement, my lord was escorted to the Tower, that horrific place to where he has condemned so many himself.

I take in this information, tears of despair filling my eyes as my mind scrambles for the best way to approach this situation while keeping my own head intact. I sink to the floor on my knees, not only out of feigned respect, but because if I stand any longer I believe I will swoon.

“My good lords, I…” My voice catches. I swallow, keeping my head bowed. “I am constrained to love my father and brother…but my lord Surrey is a rash man. I will conceal nothing, but declare in writing all I can remember.”

Gates spreads the parchment on the table. “Be frank, my lady, and truthful. Leave nothing out; we will know.” His voice takes on a gentler tone. “And do not despair. Nothing has been decided yet.”

I stare at him. Both of us know everything has long been decided. This is just a formality before they commence going through Kenninghall, seizing up whatever they can to fatten the Crown’s coffers.

I hesitate. Anything I say can send Surrey to his death. Yet to lie or cover for him in any way could mean the signing of my own death warrant.

Save myself…

I think of my brother. Perhaps the king will be lenient toward him. King Henry loved Surrey; whenever he saw him he’d ruffle his hair and exclaim over his poetry or military prowess.

If there is anything nostalgic about the king, perhaps he will also remember that my brother was the companion of his son, my Harry, all those years ago. How well they loved each other! How could he bear to hurt the best-loved friend of his son?

If I had the heart I would laugh at my own naïveté. This is a man who has murdered more people he claimed to love than can be counted. Why I would think he might spare Surrey, for some pretty words and a bit of sentimentality toward an illegitimate child long dead, is nothing short of ridiculous.

I can only pray. Please, God, whatever love has been lost between Surrey and me…Please, please spare him…

With a trembling hand I begin to write out my statement, prompted by Gates’s persistent leading questions. Every petty incident between Surrey and me, save “O Happy Dames,” is recounted, including what occurred in the long gallery when he suggested I become the king’s whore. I make certain to repeat the strident sentiment that I would rather slit my throat than take part in such villainy, though I do not confess the origins of the proclamation. I will tell no one of that terrible night, not ever.

My evidence cannot have amounted to much, I am certain. After all, I didn’t know much about the quartering of his arms with Edward the Confessor’s. I’d never seen it personally. I am certain I came across as vindictive and paltry, but in truth I am hoping my vagueness on the matters at hand will help save both my brother and father from harm. There is nothing to be said regarding Norfolk’s involvement in the “plot.” All he was doing was seeking information regarding his son’s arrogant and impulsive behavior. Surely he cannot be condemned for that.

Mother’s testimony does little to help clear Norfolk of suspicion. She is all too happy to fling open the floodgates of dark secrets long kept hidden.

My heart swells in admiration as I watch her.

With a small smile she reveals every horrific evil.

“He can dissemble with the best of them,” she says as she writes her account. “He is as amicable to a friend as he is to an enemy. A more self-serving, driven man you will not find. Nor will you ever encounter a more brutal one.”

It is then she reveals Norfolk’s cruel side. The beatings administered by both him and his servants, endured all these years, are brought to light at last. It is now that I learn the circumstances of my birth; that he had dragged my mother through the house by the hair while she labored with me, all this before an assemblage of servants who did nothing to save her.

His ruthlessness knows no bounds. And despite this, despite all of this, I tremble in fear for him. Despite all of this, I do not want him to come to harm.

Bess does not testify to physical violence, but reveals incriminating statements Norfolk made in the past: that my father often confided that the king was not bound to live much longer.

As we all know that statement in itself is treasonous.

We have all, it seems, stayed true to ourselves first, betraying lover, son, brother, husband, and father.

Us or them.

Bess’s lands and jewelry are seized. Kenninghall is stripped of anything considered valuable, but so happy are we to have our heads that no one protests. Mother expresses little emotion one way or the other concerning the turn of events.

And I wait.

I wait out the absolute worst Christmastide of my life, as the fates of my brother and father are decided, all the while reviewing my testimony. I told them the silly names Surrey had called me in every trivial fight we ever had. I told them…I told them…What did I tell them? Oh, God…what is going to happen to them?

I spend the majority of the Christmas season rocking back and forth wherever I am, fretting. I interact with no one. I wait.

It is a new year: 1547. New years are when we are supposed to be filled with hope for brighter times ahead. How many New Year’s Eves have I passed, wishing for that, in vain?

I am not so foolish as to wish for a bright new start now. There are none to be had for the Howards.

In the first few weeks of that year I sit in the very hall where my cousins Anne and George were condemned to their deaths. There, despite Surrey’s eloquent arguments, his sentence is pronounced: he is to be hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn. My brother, the brother I used to hold hands with as a child, the brother I lived with and played with and fought with, is to die.

Frances de Vere has arrived from the country for the sentencing. When it is pronounced, she screams. I clutch her hand, squeezing it hard to silence her.

“Make no sound, lest you implicate yourself as well,” I tell her.

She turns helpless eyes toward me. “It’s all over, isn’t it?”

I nod, wrapping my arms about her, allowing her to sob against my chest.

On 19 January the court assembles at Tower Hill rather than Tyburn. The king is feeling merciful. He has decided to spare my brother the sentence in favor of a quicker death by axe.

The wind is bitter, whipping against my chapped face. My eyes are swollen and puffy from sobbing and it is an effort to keep them open. I struggle for composure as I try to catch Surrey’s eye in the hopes of conveying my remorse for my part in his death. My part in his death…yes, in whatever small way, I have played a part in it. I have that to ponder for the rest of my life. I suppress the urge to emit a laugh as edgy and maniacal as Anne’s. All my life I condemned Norfolk for playing the betrayer, and here I am, my father’s daughter after all.

I stand with Frances now. At the other executions—imagine I can say that, as I have attended so many now!—I would bury my head in Surrey’s shoulder and clutch his hand as I heard that sound, that sound that never really evacuates the consciousness, steel cutting through flesh and bone and muscle. Now I must be here for his wife; I must be the strong one.

I look to the Tower and wonder where Norfolk is being held. Is he watching his son draw in his last breaths? What is he thinking? Is he even now scrawling his last desperate appeals to the king to save his own skin, while cursing Surrey for bringing us to this dark place? Or does he weep for the little baby he held in his arms, now a twenty-nine-year-old man standing on a platform awaiting the fall of the axe, a young man whose only crime was being too proud, just as he was taught to be.

Surrey meets my gaze and holds it, offering a sad little smile. What is in it? Apology? Regret? I search for hatred, for anger and bitterness. There is none. I remind myself to breathe.

He kneels on the platform, placing his head on the block. I find myself wondering if it is the same block George and Kitty…no, I do not want to think about that.

He spreads out his arms in a gesture of supplication, commending his soul to God. I keep my eyes on the block. The axe swishes through the air, meeting with my brother’s neck…my brother’s neck…

I do not flinch or blink. I watch as his head is slashed from the bloody trunk and tumbles into the straw.

It is over. I draw in a shuddering breath. It is over.

Frances clings to me, burying her head in my shoulder.

“There, there,” I coo in a tone so calm it is as though Norfolk is speaking through me. “We must be brave,” I say. “We are Howards.”

The king is failing fast, but will pull down with him as many as he can before leaving this world. No mercy is shown. On 27 January an act of attainder is passed against my father.

Norfolk is to die.

They will not let me see him…they will not let me say goodbye…

I cannot leave my bed. I lay curled up, sobbing. I have put him in this place; he is innocent, but I have betrayed him. Oh, I tried to save him but he will never see it that way. I bore witness and that is enough.

I have become everything I loathe. I killed my brother and now my father…my father…

Yet wouldn’t he betray me were he in my place? There is no doubt of it. He came close to killing me once; I am certain betrayal would have been nothing to him.

But it is something to me.

I am a betrayer. I will live with this sin the rest of my life. There is no expiation for it. There is no absolution to be found.

I am a betrayer.

A true Howard.

Long Live the King!

H
e is dead! On 28 January in the year of our Lord 1547, the king, that rotting, vile, putrid mass, succumbs to his mortality at last!

The news is not announced for three days. When the bells at last begin to toll, the palace of Whitehall is in an uproar. It is real. The rumors are true. The king is dead.

I cannot imagine that many tears are shed over the loss of His Majesty. I wonder if anyone has told Norfolk and, if so, how he reacted to the news. Is he saddened at all over the loss of the man whose life was so inexorably tied to his own?

No tears are shed here. Indeed, I could dance for joy. I would congratulate Cat Parr for outliving him if I were brave enough, but refrain. Outlasting Henry VIII is such a victory that the observation is too obvious to require reiteration.

The little prince, nine-year-old Edward, is now King of England. The streets are lined with merrymakers cheering the accession of the little boy now to reign over us all.

“Long live the king!” they cry, their voices raised in jubilant chorus. “God bless and keep His little Majesty!”

Indeed, this little boy is a king who, I pray, will reign a good long time. He is a sweet child, not much loved by his father. He was so coddled, for fear some harm would come to him, that he was never allowed to prove his athletic abilities to old King Henry, which created a chasm between them. But that is in the past; the king left Edward a throne, and no more will anyone have to fret about the production of heirs, at least not for quite some time. In this regard, the king saved one last act of kindness before passing. He reinstated his daughters as princesses and placed them back in the succession. Should, God forbid, something happen to little Edward before he had children of his own, Mary would take the throne, and then my cousin Elizabeth.

It seems at last everyone has what they want. Everyone but the Howards, who have been left to scramble about on the periphery.

I wait for news of my father. Have they murdered him in secret, as went one rumor? If so, then what did they do with him? Is there no one to care for his body, to take him home and lay him to rest? Desperation seizes my heart. I am drowning in helplessness.

Edward Seymour is named lord protector of England. Called to mind are images of Surrey, insisting there would be no regent other than the great Duke of Norfolk when little Edward came to power. Oh, foolish Surrey. Would he have kept silent had he known his words would not only implicate himself as a traitor but send his beloved duke to the Tower as well?

There is no use going back. No use trying to warn a dead man of his fate. Instead I wait, as it seems I have spent the majority of my life doing.

At last, the same week the nation learns of Henry VIII’s passing, I am informed that Norfolk has been spared. Tears stream down my cheeks as I thank God for allowing one member of my family to escape the executioner’s axe, even if it may be the one person most deserving of it.