Secrets of the Tudor Court (7 page)

“Do you think it’s true? Do you think Catherine and Prince Arthur consummated their marriage?” she asks with a wicked gleam in her eye.

I shrug and turn my back to her. “Only she knows. I think it’s silly, really. Jesus says if your spouse dies you are free to marry again, which means it was divinely permissible for her to marry King Henry—”

“The Church goes by the Old Testament, clinging to the claim that a man cannot marry his brother’s widow,” Madge reminds me.

“They should go by what Jesus says, not some nameless scribe from Leviticus.” I am surprised at my passion regarding the matter. But I feel the queen has been wronged, so terribly wronged…I must watch my words.

“Don’t say that too loud,” Madge says in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ll put you in the Tower for being too sympathetic to the qu—I mean, the princess dowager.”

I shiver and she rubs my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Mary.” She laughs. “You’re Norfolk’s girl; your interests are attuned to Anne. No one could accuse you of papist sympathies.” She pauses, then returns to the original topic. “I’d love to know if it were true, though—about the consummation, I mean. Wouldn’t you?”

“Not really,” I say, not only because it seems a sacrilege to think such about the noble Queen Catherine, but because I already know the answer. No one who behaved with as much conviction as Queen Catherine could be clinging to a lie. She is the most pious, devout woman I know, as well as the most honorable, which means it is exactly as she insists. The marriage to Arthur was not consummated; her marriage to the king is valid.

I sigh. “It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t,” I say. “Because the king will get what he wants in the end.”

“He always does,” Madge agrees with a yawn as she drifts off to sleep, leaving me to ponder these great things in a mind that, to me, feels very small.

I have become interested in writing verse. Though I do not find myself to be of any unique talent, I am compelled to scribble my little observations and feelings to give them vent. There is a solace in it, an escape. Even bliss, when the words flow right and inspiration surges through my limbs like the aftereffects of mulled wine. I even set some to music, as I am quite accomplished on the virginals and lute, but I dare not say a word about it. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hear me sing, anyway.

The only person I cannot wait to discuss my newfound passion with is my brother Surrey, who once told me I had a “poet’s heart.” Like him. I would be glad to be like Surrey.

This is a poetic circle, and the ladies and gentlemen often share their compositions. I do not share mine, however. I keep them to myself, in my little locked casket with the few letters and other treasures it is my privilege to hold dear.

Often I write about God, His love, His mercy and kindness—traits I feel are not exalted enough. Everyone knows about His wrath and judgment, but not many sing the praises of His gentler virtues. Anne has talked a lot in secret about the New Learning, aspects of church reform that I find myself agreeing with. Anne believes everyone should be allowed to read the English Bible that William Tyndale translated in 1525. I admit I would love to study the Bible myself, lowly girl that I may be. I would love to read the Psalms and get lost in the poetry of those so inspired by the Spirit that they commended their hearts to timeless verse.

But these are thoughts kept to myself, and when I am not writing about the Divine I write about Anne: her temper, her wit, her beauty. When I feel frivolous I pick out one handsome gentleman or another to spark my muse, careful not to assign them with a name in case my poems are ever discovered.

To keep everyone amused during these tense times while the King’s Great Matter persists (his Great Matter being Anne), the other courtiers make a show of their poetry, and it is not long before Anne catches on to the fact that I am concealing my own.

Unfortunately it is in front of the king himself that she chooses to point this out. Everyone is engaged in gambling in her apartments; there’s a sort of laziness about it. People are drinking and conversing idly; in a corner a young musician is playing his lute and singing in a soft, sweet voice.

As I am, for the most part, invisible at court, I do not think anyone will call attention to me, curled up in a corner near the fire writing my verse, least of all Anne herself.

“What is little Mary Howard doing over there? Has she taken in too much wine?” she asks, her tone light and musical. “Come here, little Mary, and bring whatever it is you’re writing with you.”

I clutch my verse to my chest, my cheeks blazing as I approach the table. I sink into a deep curtsy before the king. “Your Majesty,” I whisper, ever awed by the man.

He laughs. “She’s a dear lass,” he says. “Do tell us what you were doing all by yourself.”

“Oh, she’s always by herself,” Anne informs him. “Except for Madge and her little pup, our Mary is as silent as a mouse.”

I stand before them, my legs shaking so hard that my knees are knocking together. I am grateful they are concealed by my voluminous blue skirt.

“Won’t you read us what you were writing?” she asks. “Or is it a love letter?”

I cannot discern if Anne is being kind or if she is trying to humiliate me. Now and then when in a temper, she derives a strange pleasure from the humiliation of others. I am spared this fate most of the time because of my “mouselike” virtues, but now and then her black eyes fall upon me with a wicked glint and she sees fit to wrangle me into an oral beating that brings me to my knees. Most of the time it is over my clumsiness; if I drop something or trip over my gown (or worse, hers), it unleashes a tangent so full of venom and curses the likes of which would make sailors blush, that I do nothing but murmur a terrified apology. I am at a loss in verbal warfare, much to hers and Norfolk’s advantage. And yet with Anne, whose tempers are as changeable as the weather, her vinegar can be transformed to honey in the space of seconds. I can only hope for her honeyed words now.

“Yes, little one, do read to us,” says the king, and since this is as good as a command, there is nothing I can do. I must obey.

I try not to stutter or stammer, remembering who my father is and how he would be most displeased to hear if I dishonored myself before the king.

I concentrate on the parchment before me, never once meeting the eyes of my cousin or sovereign.

“Love she hath not served me so well,

God’s pleasure doth see me alone.

Though all my efforts have I strained,

He is here yet ever gone.”

I look up. It is a stupid poem and I am embarrassed. It is written for poor Queen Catherine, though I dare not admit that. I suppose it is for every lady who fancies herself alone; my mother, Princess Mary (I should say Lady Mary), even my own Bess Holland.

Perhaps even me.

Yet when at last I meet Anne’s eyes they are lit with tears.

“So young to have a head filled with such tragedy,” observes the king, but his voice is tender as he beckons me near with a hand. “You have a gift for verse, little Mary Howard.”

“You are most kind, Your Majesty,” I say in genuine gratitude, offering another curtsy.

Anne’s manner changes abruptly. Again her eyes shine with that dangerous light. “She is a charming girl,” she says with a dismissive wave of her slender hand. “It is getting rather late, isn’t it, Mary? You should go bid your father good night.”

Again, I dip into a curtsy. My legs hurt and I am grateful to be dismissed. Gambling bores me, to be truthful, and I am quite cautious with what money I am allowed, so do not wish to squander it foolishly.

As I quit the room the young musician who had been strumming his lute approaches me. He is a short man, but well made; lean of muscle, with fine musician’s hands. He bows, and upon righting himself I am struck by his eyes. They are the most unusual strain of gray-violet, like an unquiet sea beneath the ensuing purple dawn. Never have I seen such eyes. His dark hair curls about his strong shoulders and his smile reveals straight white teeth.

“I hope I’m not being too forward, Mistress Howard, but I must tell you that I was moved by your poem,” he says in a low voice boasting a Cornish accent.

My cheeks burn. I am certain he sees them reddening. I bow my head. He must be at least fifteen. I cannot believe he deigns to talk to such as me!

“Thank you, sir,” I say, shuffling a little awkwardly from foot to foot.

“You
are
as humble as you appeared!” he cries then, slapping his thigh with his fine hand as though he had just won a bet. “I thought to meet you just to find that out. Most ladies of the court, you know…well, humility doesn’t run high in noble blood.”

“True enough,” I admit with a little laugh before realizing I should be defending my set—a group, it is clear, to which he does not belong.

“Do you write songs as well?” he asks.

“Oh, yes!” I cry with enthusiasm, forgetting I vowed to keep it to myself. “But I couldn’t play them for anyone. They’re so silly and childish—”

“Oh, then I wouldn’t want to hear them,” he says, cocking his brow.

I screw up my face in disappointment, my heart sinking at once.

“Did you expect me to beg your favor, that my ears might be treated to something you, the composer, find unsuitable?” he asks with a warm chuckle. “Always be proud of your work, Mistress Howard. Everything in this life is an illusion; everything can be taken away. Except our talent, our intrinsic gifts from God.” He shrugs. “Given, there are times we compose things that are less than worthy. What do we do with those? Scrap them. And start over. That’s the best part. You can always start over.”

I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.

I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”

“I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”

It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.

“My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a…fascinating place.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is that.”

“Well,” he says, doffing his feathered cap, “the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions—only the best ones, of course.”

“I shall make certain of it!” I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.

I leave Anne’s apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king’s great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle mockery. I whisper his name to myself over and over.
Cedric. Cedric. Cedric Dane
…Never have I felt this way. I know what occurs between a man and a maid, and that I am expected to make a marriage soon. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that there was talk about my betrothal to Lord Bulbeck, son of the Earl of Oxford, but whether that will ever come to fruition I have no idea. Marriage—my marriage at least—is the farthest thing from my mind. But romance…This court, not to mention my own father, are all shining examples that you do not need to have marriage to have romance. My heart leaps at the naughty thought, sinking just as quickly as I realize where, almost against my will, I am now headed.

My father’s liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.

He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.

“It’s been a lovely night, Father,” I tell him. “I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good.”

“Who are you to tell me what is good for me?” he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. “How goes it with Anne?”

“She is well,” I say, though I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.

“I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very…affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”

“Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.