Secrets of the Tudor Court (39 page)

As I watch him now I cannot believe he is the same man who months ago allowed me the briefest glimpse of humanity. Watching him I wonder if I imagined the entire exchange.

Mother purses her lips. “I wanted to tell you…” Her blue eyes are dancing. My heart begins to pound. She clears her throat. “I wanted to tell you, my lord, that Elizabeth Holland—you remember her, I see—it seems she is to be married to a Henry Reppes.”

Norfolk’s face offers nothing.

My heart skips in a moment of terror, but the presence of the lieutenant assures me that no beatings will take place today. I try to contain a smile. Bess to be married! At last some joy will be afforded her after twenty years of near indenture!

“How many months have you been imprisoned, my lord?” Mother asks, her tone light with conversational amicability. “Six, is it?” She smiles. “Yes, six. Mistress Holland wastes no time.”

She surveys the room: the second-rate tapestries, the sparse furnishings. “Are you quite comfortable here, my lord?” She strolls to the window, casting her eyes to the moat below. “I see you have a view. It is good to have a view. Reminds you there is still a world out there.” She turns around, laying a hand on his arm. “All my prayers and sympathies are yours, my lord. Was a time I recall being locked in a tower myself, with none of the proper accoutrements. It is a most difficult adjustment. But you’re a Howard. I believe you will be quite capable of adapting to any living conditions.”

If I were watching from a place where they were not permitted to see my reaction, a place such as the faerie country perhaps, I believe I would have danced a little jig. Despite my love for both parents, the taste of my mother’s small victory over Norfolk after his years of cruelty is indeed very sweet.

“While it has been a pleasure to have this lovely discourse with you, my lady, I am certain we all have more pressing matters to attend to,” says Norfolk in response.

“Do we?” She turns to me. “Do you have anything to attend to, Mary? I certainly do not. I had hoped to spend as much time as possible with my lord, reassuring him of his family’s loving support during his travails. Unless of course you were implying that—oh, how foolish of me—you must have been implying that
you
have something to attend to. What is it, my lord? You must tell me if I can be of any assistance.”

“No.” Norfolk clears his throat. “You have done quite enough, thank you.”

“Well, then, perhaps you are right. Perhaps we should be off.” She takes in a breath. “It is such a lovely day. Would that you could join us outside.” She feigns a most convincing pout. “But then of course you can’t go outside, not even to take in a little exercise. Such a pity.”

To my complete surprise Norfolk laughs. He reaches out, taking her hand. “Ah, Elizabeth…” His voice is beset with a mixture of amusement and despair. “Take your delight, my dear. Take your delight while you can.”

Mother cocks her head, gazing at him a long moment. She steps forward, laying a hand on his chest, running it up his shoulder then down his arm. “You’re still in fine form, Thomas Howard,” she says, and I swear there is affection in her tone. She leans up, bestowing the gentlest of kisses on his mouth.

Norfolk stares at her, amazed. If she had hit him he would not be more shocked.

“Good-bye,” he says in soft tones.

She nods, then turns.

I offer a curtsy but my lord has already turned to the window, to his view of the big world outside.

The year 1548 offers little progress in my efforts to obtain Norfolk’s release, but it does bring about a unique development regarding my late brother’s children. It has been decided by good King Edward and his Council that they shall be warded to me, so that they might begin their education.

“We can think of no better place for their virtuous education,” the king said, to my delight, “than with their honored aunt.”

Before the Privy Council arrived at this conclusion, twelve-year-old Little Thomas had spent a lonely year in the care of Sir John Williams, treasurer of the Court of Augmentations, and was left to grieve the death of his father alone at Rycote while Sir John occupied himself in London. His sisters and brother, eight-year-old Henry, were taken into the custody of Lord Wentworth, a man who, while kind, does not have the time for four young children.

I am beset with joy. They are good children. I feel it in my soul. I look at each of them, searching for traces of my own family in them. Young Jane has my mother’s fierce blue eyes and set jawline. Catherine, much like my own sister, is a beauty as most Catherines seem destined to be, with her sun-kissed blond hair and hazel eyes. Baby Margaret, a wee girl of five, is a chubby cherub with round, inquisitive brown eyes and an eager smile. Henry, sweet little Henry, is the picture of his father, with brown hair curling about his ears—so soft that I must refrain from reaching out to finger its silkiness. His sleepy brown eyes are soft and gentle but filled with awareness.

Little Thomas is the prize, however. He is the most beautiful child I have ever beheld, with his curling black hair and intense obsidian eyes, fringed with thick long lashes. His set mouth is full and rosy, his skin light olive like a little gypsy. At twelve he already boasts a fine form, and I am certain he will make some young lady a good husband.

God has placed these children in my care. By His grace there is nothing in this world I want more than to do right by them. They will learn the best of everything—everything! Latin, Greek, all the useful languages. They shall learn music and dancing. I will share with them their father’s poetry and tales of his valor. I will tell them all the good things about the Howards, the good things about their cousins Anne Boleyn and Kitty Howard…all the good things about their illustrious grandfather, the Duke of Norfolk.

Only good things.

They are brought to my London home, Mountjoy House; a home no longer to be condemned to loneliness and isolation. And though they are acquainted with me, the move has been unsettling. They long for their mother, I imagine, and do not understand why they must be fostered out. In truth it is a fact I never agreed with either, but I do not question it.

“I am not your mother,” I tell them their first night. “I will never try to replace her. But I am your aunt and your friend. I will guide you and be kind to you always. In turn I require respect and obedience. If you can adhere to these two requests I believe we shall get on quite well together.”

It seems these are requests that are not too difficult for them to follow and I am treated with courtesy and, after a while, affection, which is returned in full.

At Lord Wentworth’s advice I send for a former fellow of Magdalen College at Oxford, a man named John Foxe, whom I had heard of from Cat. He made quite the scandal when in 1545 he resigned his post at the college for not adhering to their strict guidelines of taking holy orders within seven years of their election; chapel attendance; and enforced celibacy. Indeed, Master Foxe even took a wife, Agnes Randall, stunning them all.

His Protestant convictions, coupled with his audacity and courage, are enough to win my admiration and I follow Wentworth’s suggestion. I offer him a position as tutor for Surrey’s children. I am eager to have discourse with such a learned man as he, and hope he will be a merry addition to the household.

To my delight Master Foxe accepts the position. He is an earnest man, self-contained, a picture of discipline and reserve, but despite this is quite easy to talk to. His wife, Agnes, however, is silent and difficult to engage in conversation, though I do try. When confronted with people such as her I grow intimidated and pull back, and to my dismay Agnes does not seem to mind at all. She keeps her distance, taking up residence in the apartments they have been allotted, where she sets up her home and is seen as often as a mouse in hiding. Master Foxe assures me that she is not unkind; she is just terribly frightened of meeting people and must adjust to the new living situation in her own time.

With Agnes segregating herself to the periphery, I am given more time to observe my investment. Master Foxe is as intelligent as was reputed, winning the children’s respect and admiration within the first week of lessons. His soft, unassuming manner can be made firm and uncompromising, teaching them that he is not a man to be pushed or made fool of. Nothing escapes him.

The children discover they do not want to pull any pranks on him, that indeed they like him too well. Thomas adores Master Foxe and develops an excellent rapport with him; they spend hours in good-natured debate and intense philosophical discussions. Foxe enjoys introducing the children to great philosophers such as modern-day Erasmus, ancient Plato and Socrates. Under his guidance, they translate Greek and Latin; they read plays, some of which have been written by the master himself. They are taught their arithmetic and literature, military strategy and history, and as I watch their progress I find myself most pleased.

I introduce him to John Bale, a controversial allegorical playwright who sought me out upon learning of my support of the Protestant cause. The two men strike up an instant friendship and exchange their manuscripts along with other writings, and we spend many a jolly evening discussing the strides of the reformed church.

Master Foxe and I speak of many things: the children—who are the most studious, whose antics are the most amusing, another’s keenness for Latin or proficiency in mathematics. We talk of religion, by and large our favorite subject. We read together. His gentle, nonjudgmental nature makes him an easy confidante.

To my dismay, Master Foxe is a handsome man, tall and lean, with wavy blond hair that falls to his shoulders in layers, and a beard to match. His eyes are blue as cornflowers and manage to convey alertness and sweetness at once. I had hoped to be above noticing such things and pray not to be swayed by it too much. Instead, I endeavor to concentrate on the beauty of his soul.

It is he who first helps me grapple with the intensity of my guilt for having sent Norfolk to the Tower and my brother to his death.

We are alone in the parlor one evening. Agnes has taken to their apartments and the children have long since dispersed, their merry voices echoing through the halls as they ready for bed.

“For one, my lady, you did not send either of them to their fates,” he tells me, and though this is something I have oft heard, it does little to reassure me at first. “That was a decision made by the government of King Henry. You told the truth as you are sworn by God to do. You did nothing wrong, Lady Richmond. I pray God allows you to see that.” His voice is thick with emotion, his eyes are alight with compassion. A vision of Cedric is called to mind as I gaze at him. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to will it away. “God teaches us that in order to attain forgiveness we must first forgive others. Do you understand?”

“No,” I tell him, feeling ignorant and helpless as a child.

“Lady Richmond, God forgives. All those who seek Him through His son, our Lord Jesus Christ, find mercy and forgiveness. He does not discriminate or exclude anyone from His grace. If God the Almighty can forgive your father for his sins, if He can forgive your brother, and even King Henry if he sought it, then he certainly can forgive you of any sin, real or imagined. Not to forgive is to insult God and hold yourself above Him. My lady, you must draw from yourself the strength to forgive.”

“But I do!” I cry. “My whole life all I have ever done is forgive!”

“Indeed,” says Master Foxe. “You have. You have forgiven everyone. Everyone but yourself.” He reaches out, taking my hand. I study it a moment; it is strong and slim-fingered, not at all the hand I would imagine a scholar to have. It is the hand of a warrior. “Please, my lady, please forgive yourself. In truth you are the least offensive personage to be found.”

I blink back tears. He averts his head, staring at the fire burning low in the hearth, disengaging his hand and moving on to other more comfortable subjects.

He is reverent of those he considers martyrs, calling to mind the tragedy of Anne Ayscough and others who have perished at the stakes of Smithfield. His intention is to write a comprehensive book on the subject, including any martyr he can think of who suffered for our Lord’s sake.

“There are living martyrs as well,” he tells me. “Those who go about their existence in a constant state of sacrifice without bitterness or complaint.” He is silent a long moment. “Those like you, Lady Richmond.”

I bow my head. He rises. “I hope you come to realize how good a woman you are, my lady,” he tells me.

I blink back another onset of tears. “I thank you for your generous words,” I tell him huskily. “Good night, Master Foxe.”

“My lady,” he says as he departs for his wife and his bed.

I sit alone, thinking of the compassion in his blue eyes.

The Reigate Years

T
o my delight, we have been invited to remove to Reigate, my uncle William’s estate in Surrey, beautiful Surrey! I believe the country air will be better for the children. As it is, London bears so many memories for all of us that I am most eager for a change of scene. And so the household commences its passage to the south.

Never have I taken a more wonderful journey. Here we are, a train of loud, happy Howards. I am as excited as the children and find myself alive with animated conversation. I promise my nieces pretty new gowns, and to the boys new ponies and trips to the sea where we might play and watch the waves roll in.

We arrive at the bustling manor of Reigate, the most beautiful place I have ever seen, with its gardens and endless paths, its ponds and rolling green vistas. And the people! There are people everywhere! Servants with happy countenances go about their work as though they are actually pleased to be in their occupations. Animals—cats, dogs, and livestock—roam about as though they have as much claim to the place as their masters. Everything has an aura of welcome and I cannot help but embrace myself as I step out of the litter and gaze about.