Secrets of the Tudor Court (9 page)

“You are a good girl, Mary,” she tells me. “Stay that way.”

I nod with a small smile. At once our heads turn toward the door as we hear footfalls approaching.

“It is His Grace,” says Bess. Her tone registers something between panic and anticipation; her eyes reflect both fear and expectation. She rises. “I must go, my lady.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you more on the morrow, Bess,” I tell her.

She throws me a kiss and exits. I hear her and my father exchange a few words outside my door.

“Damn stubborn woman is what she is,” Norfolk is saying. “We will see if tonight’s exertions have brought about a change of heart.”

Bess says nothing. I realize I am not breathing. I wonder what he meant by “tonight’s exertions.” Part of me wants to run to my mother to check on her welfare, but I daren’t.

“Come, now, Mistress Holland,” Norfolk says in a tone I never hear used; it is almost solicitous. Almost loving. “Let us to bed.”

My heart sinks. I do not want to hear that.

I return to my lavish supper set on my little table. My room is so spacious, the furniture and tapestries so vibrant with beauty.

But I am alone and do not appreciate the food anymore, nor the surroundings. I take to my bed, escaping my loneliness the only way I know how, through sleep.

In the morning I am summoned to Mother’s chambers. I make certain to appear neat and proper, my hair brushed, my hood straight, my face and hands clean. I enter her rooms hoping we might break our fast together, but am surprised to find her propped up in bed. I have never seen my mother in her nightdress before—when I was little I believed she was born clothed. Yet now she is clad in a simple ivory nightgown with ruffles at the neck and wrists, appearing childlike in her large four-poster.

I curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

She nods in greeting, regarding me with a stern countenance. With a thin hand she beckons me toward her. As I approach I note that her eyes are surrounded by puffy purple shadows. Looking closer, I realize they are not shadows but bruises. My heart begins to pound as I realize what last night’s “exertions” must have been for her.

“You are growing up at this court of Henry VIII,” she says.

“Yes, my lady,” I answer.

“You are attractive enough.” She reaches up to tuck a curl that strayed from her ruffled night cap behind her ear. As her sleeve slips down her arm I see her thin wrist is also encircled with dark bruises, imprints of my father’s fingers.

“Thank you, my lady,” I say, trying to fight off tears as I regard her condition. What else did he do to her?

“Things are happening,” she says. “Great changes, as well you know. Many will be asked to compromise their beliefs, abandon their principles. Whatever you hold sacred, Mary, whatever you believe in your heart, keep it there. Keep your own counsel. Tell them what they want to hear, believe what they want you to believe, and keep your opinions to yourself. Do you understand?”

I nod, frightened.

To my surprise tears fill her eyes. “It is too late for me.” She shrugs, bringing one thin finger to tap her chin in a nervous gesture. “I cannot stray from my convictions. If you had known Her Majesty…” She shakes her head. “She inspires devotion. But devotion is becoming rather passé in this day and age.” She sighs. “Yet I remain so at great expense. It does not matter. I must cling to something.”

I reach out and take her hand. “You have me, my lady. Always.”

At this a tear spills onto her fair cheek. Frustrated, she shakes her head and wipes it away. “No. I never had any of my children. Perhaps that is where peasants are most fortunate. They keep their children; ours are sent away as chattel to be bartered for political gain. But such is our lot, I suppose. No, I do not have you, Mary. Not now, not ever.”

I blink away tears at the reality of the thought. I recall my father’s words about the advantaged, how sentiment cannot be considered if one wishes to keep one’s position. I begin to wonder if any position, no matter how exalted, is worth such emotional sacrifice.

“I’m so sorry about Catherine,” I tell her. “Both Catherines. My sister and Her Majesty.”

Mother averts her eyes.

“I met Her Majesty. She was most kind to me,” I say. “Oh, my lady, if only things were different.”

“Don’t waste time wishing for things you can never have.” Her voice is firm. “Life is short enough as it is. Not one moment should be spent in regret.” She covers her face with her hands an instant before going on. When she pulls them away she clenches them in impatience. “You will carry your cousin the whore’s train at her ceremony. I will not be attending.”

“But, my lady, what of Father?” I begin to tremble. “What will he…?”

“What can he do to me?” she finishes. “Nothing. There is nothing he can say or do to break me, Mary. See this?” With effort she rises from the bed, pulling up her nightdress. I am ashamed at her nakedness; I almost turn but cannot. I am riveted by the bruises that mark her slim frame. She drops the gown, covering herself once more. “It is just a body, a shell. It means nothing to me. He can do as he pleases to it—but all is transient, temporary. I will suffer as God wills it and look forward to the freedom Heaven will surely afford me.”

“My lady!” I cry in despair. I want to embrace her, but am afraid of hurting her. There are so many bruises. Never have I seen such blatant cruelty. I begin to cry.

“Don’t cry for me, Mary,” Mother says, settling under the covers once more. “Cry for yourself, for the lot we must suffer as women, as God’s cursed creatures.”

“Surely we aren’t cursed,” I say. “God does love us, doesn’t He?”

Mother purses her lips. Her eyes are dry. “He tolerates us because we serve a purpose—rather like your father,” she adds with a sound that could be called a laugh.

This makes me want to wail in despair, but I refrain, drying my eyes in the attempt to achieve a semblance of dignity. If God tolerates us, that means He doesn’t have to like us. It means we are just short of a mistake in His eyes. Oh, that can’t be…that can’t be. Mother’s bitterness over her own pitiful lot has caused this view toward God. Doesn’t Her Majesty, the most devout woman in Christendom, see God as a loving benefactor of mercy? If she can harbor such regard for the Lord then so must I, for she is as justified in her sufferings as my mother.

We return to court and I am filled with relief. As soon as I am able, I escape Norfolk and return to the maidens’ chamber. Everyone is in a frenzy of gossip. Trunks are being packed, servants are running everywhere.

No one notices I have returned; indeed, they may not have realized I was ever gone. For a moment I stand a silent observer until Madge Shelton approaches me, taking my hand.

“I thought you had abandoned us,” she says in her light voice. “Are you well?” Her eyes are lit with genuine concern.

I nod. “Much better, thank you.”

She beams. “Are you excited about France?”

“France?”

She regards me as though I had emerged from the tomb. “Of course, France! We are going to accompany the king and Anne after her elevation to the peerage, to meet the king of France and his dazzlingly naughty court!”

“Madge!” I cry in delighted anticipation. “No one told me! When do we go?”

“October,” she said. “So you best pick your gowns out now. We are. Oh, I can’t wait! Mistress Anne is in a huff. She is determined to be accepted by King François—I think she feels that if he openly embraces her she’ll be—”

“Validated?”

We turn at the cool voice. It is Anne herself, regarding us with furrowed black brows and narrowed eyes. “Gossiping about me, Mary Howard, and you have not yet condescended to greet me?”

I curtsy. “My profound apologies, Mistress Anne. I am so happy to see you.”

“Ha!” Anne waves me off with a hand and sits on my bed. “I suppose it’s true enough.” Whether she refers to needing validation or my happiness in her presence, I am unsure. Her face softens. “I have to be accepted in Europe—they must realize I am meant to be queen of England. Once they see me with His Majesty, once they come to know my mind, there will no longer be any doubt which woman is most fit to be by King Henry’s side.”

I say nothing. Something about Anne frightens me. Her eyes glow with a light akin to madness. She is fidgety, unsure of what to do with her hands. Her laugh is painful; forced and edgy. Joyless. I realize as I regard her that I am looking at a nervous wreck.

“So, little Mary is carrying my robes of state,” she says, her eyes fixing on mine. “Such a little thing you are. You had better not trip and make a fool of yourself.” With this she rises and ruffles my hair. “Glad to have you back,” she says as she exits to a flock of curtsying ladies.

My cheeks burn but I do not cry. I imagine she must be under so much pressure. It would be hard to be nice all the time.

My father is also quite direct in his instruction.

“Do anything stupid and childish and I will make certain you are sent to Scotland to marry a barbarian,” he tells me.

I stifle a gasp of fear. Somewhere inside I know this could be his form of jesting, but as I recall my mother’s bruises I decide it may be an error in judgment to laugh.

“You will stand straight, like this.” He rises from the chair behind his desk and grabs my shoulders, pushing them back as he straightens my posture, something I admit is one of my less attractive attributes. As I am usually hunched over a book or my writing, slouching has become habitual. Norfolk places his left palm on the small of my back and his right on my abdomen. “When you stand straight you draw your stomach inward toward your spine.” He stands back to regard me. “And head up.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers. “Proud, like a Howard girl should be. You belong to the greatest family in England. Act like it. My God, girl, who taught you to stand?” He scowls. “Now walk.”

“Walk, Father?”

“You aren’t deaf, are you?” he asks, as though this would be the ultimate inconvenience to him. “Yes, walk the length of this room, to the door, then back to me.”

I do so, shaky and self-conscious.

“Where did you learn that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer—to my good fortune, as I had none that would please him, since the only person I ever tried emulating in gait was Bess Holland. “Take slow, measured steps, toes pointed straight ahead of you. You want to glide, you want to float. You aren’t off laboring in the fields. You are a lady. Now. Walk.”

I walk, trying to emulate as he envisaged, but he stops me.

“Apparently you do have some sort of hearing issue,” he tells me. “Do it again, and this time do it
right
.”

I try again. Again he stops me. “Mary, would you like to be replaced? Is this role too much for you? Perhaps Jane Parker would be happy to—”

“No!” I cry, daring to interrupt him as I envision my sour-faced cousin Jane, wife of cheerful George Boleyn, taking my rightful place in the ceremony. “No, please. It is an honor to carry my lady’s robes. Please don’t take it away from me.”

“If the honor is denied you, it is no fault of mine,” Norfolk says. “Now. Walk. One hundred times back and forth, from me to the door. A thousand if need be. You will walk until you walk like the lady I am raising you to be.”

So I walk. I walk and walk. The sun sets. The night drags on. The sun rises. My legs are heavy and my feet ache.

“Stop,” he says. “That is passable.”

I cease walking and stand, numb.

“Now about your hair,” he says. “It’s one thing to wear it down your back if you take care of it, but if it continues appearing as though you’ve stood the length of a windstorm, I will not allow you to wear it unbound. Who brushes your hair?”

“No one, really,” I say. “Sometimes we brush each other’s hair or a servant will, but everyone is so busy—”

“Come here,” he says, sitting behind his desk once more. I realize for the first time that he has been standing the entire night as well. I wish he would offer me a chair. He doesn’t. He calls for a brush with hard bristles. Once it is produced, he gestures for me to come to him, then removes my hood and turns me around. With hard, relentless strokes he brushes through my thick golden hair, pausing to detangle snarls without care of the fact that I feel my scalp is being torn from my skull.

“This is a mess,” he says, using his fingers to detangle some of the snarls. “You are not the comeliest creature—take pride in your redeeming features.” When he can’t detangle certain stubborn snarls, he pulls at them so hard that they come out in clumps that he drops to the floor beside me. My scalp aches. Each hair seems to have its own individual complaint.

At last—between the pain in my legs, feet, and head—I begin to cry.

“Stop it this instant,” he commands. Immediately it is as though some force has pulled my tears inward, sucking them inside my eyes. My head feels full. My body feels full, full of tears and anguish I dare not expose.

The ordeal takes an hour. When he is finished he puts down the brush and smoothes my hair with his hands. “It glows with a fire from within.” He turns me around to face him. “When you come tonight we shall do it again.”

“Which part?” I ask, dread pooling in my gut.

“All of it,” he says. “You should be flattered that I condescend to such matters, but as no one else seems to be able to fill the capacity, including yourself, I shall have to. I can’t abide you running about court like a peasant.”

“I am…most humbled and grateful, sir,” I tell him, longing to douse my head in hot water to assuage the pain.

“You are dismissed.”

I curtsy and quit the room, knowing that with the demands of the day I will have no opportunity for rest, and praying he will not keep me up the entire night again.

There must be some way to find peace.

As I trudge toward Anne’s apartments I hear someone whisper my name. At first I think my overtiredness is causing delusions, but when it persists I turn my head to find the musician Cedric Dane peering out from a doorway.

“Good morrow, Mistress Howard,” he says with a smile. “How are you?”