Secrets of the Tudor Court (20 page)

But these girls are around Kitty's age and they play together and dance about Hampton Court, making merry, giggling and teasing, and no one seems a happier queen than Catherine Howard.

"'No other will but his,'" she tells me one night, her smile bright. She is in her big bed of state, the bed that once belonged to Anne of Cleves, her sumptuous covers drawn up to her shoulders. "That means I am the king's obedient little miss. How do you like that? It's my motto. It's a good motto, don't you think? Except it does echo Jane Seymour's 'Bound to serve and obey,' but I suppose everyone's forgotten her by now, except for that she is little Prince Edward's mother." She scoots up against her pillows. "Strange to think I am stepmother to people almost as old as I am. Lady Mary is older! Fancy that!" She shrugs. "Queen Anne--Anne of Cleves, I mean--adores the children. She sees them whenever she can--except Mary, since she's out of favor again, her being such a papist and all." She sighs. "I suppose it will be very hard trying to be stepmother to her. I hope not to see her very much. Once I give the king babies of our own I imagine he'll forget all about them." She considers. "Except Lady Elizabeth. We cannot forget her. She is our cousin, after all, and it would be good to see her restored to favor."

I nod, my eyes misting over at the thought of the abandoned little princess. "Indeed it would."

Kitty sits up, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them, her adorable face scrunched up in delight. "Do you want to know a secret?"

I'm not sure. "Yes," I answer, as I'm certain there is no getting around it.

"I may be with child even as we speak," she says. "It is early, however, and I have never really been--well, on course, but there is a good chance."

I take her slim hands in mine. "Oh, Your dearest Majesty, I pray it is so." As I look into her sweet face I recall a similar confidence exchanged between Anne Boleyn and me so many years ago...I blink away the memory.

"You never had a child, did you, Mary?" Kitty asks me.

I shake my head, my throat constricting with painful tears.

"But you were my age when you married the duke, were you not?" she asks.

I nod. "I was not allowed to be with him," I tell her. "My father...he would not permit it."

She reaches out and strokes my cheek. "How dreadful for you." Once again she favors me with her bright smile. "I shall help find you a husband if you wish it."

I shake my head. "My fondest wish is to remain here and serve you, Your Majesty," I tell her.
And keep you safe,
I add to myself.

"Then serve me you shall," she says. "And be richly rewarded! Can you believe I'm saying that? 'Richly rewarded'? I have the power to reward people! Isn't that something?"

I nod. "Yes, Your sweet Majesty. It is really something."

At once the king enters, the stench of his ulcerated leg causing my stomach to turn. I dip into a low curtsy.

"Lady Richmond!" he exclaims as though there's never been a quarrel between us. "How now?"

"I am quite well, Sire," I answer, keeping my head bowed so he cannot see me swallowing the urge to gag. I cannot imagine how Kitty stands night after night of his intimate company.

He chucks my chin. "Well, good night to you, then."

"Good night, Sire."

I hurry from the room before I retch in revulsion.

To my delight I meet Hans Holbein, the court painter, again, in Norfolk's apartments, when he is commissioned to render his likeness.

He bows, offering a bright smile. "My lady Richmond," he says. "You know I have an unfinished sketch of you somewhere. We shall dig it out and finish it one of these days."

"I would be most honored," I tell him, flattered the artist should remember drawing someone as insignificant as I am, when some of the greatest nobles and heads of state in the world have sat before him.

Norfolk is thrilled to be sitting for him, or standing as the case is. He dresses in his finest ermines, piling clothes onto his slim frame so that he appears sturdy and broad of chest. He carries his staffs of office as lord treasurer and earl marshal, wearing his heavy garter chain about his shoulders and consummate black cap that hides his nice hair--but I suppose that's his affair. As it is, I am stifling laughter beholding him standing before the artist like an overstuffed doll about to topple over for the weight of his clothing. The only indication of his true bone structure is his hands, his handsome hands that clutch his staffs with such pride.

He stands for what seems like hours, not moving a muscle, and I can't help but marvel at his discipline. When Holbein finishes with the rudimentary sketching, Norfolk leaps down from his platform to admire the drawing.

"What do you think, Mary?" he asks me, his voice as excited as a child's. "Do you like it? Do I look good?"

It is the strangest question I've ever heard coming from someone who could never include vanity in his long list of negative personality traits.

"It's a very handsome rendering, Father," I tell him, rubbing his arm. "You make quite a royal personage."

He wraps his arm about my waist, drawing me as close as his ermine cloak allows. "I think so, too," he says. Then to Holbein, "Well done, Master Holbein. I like what I see so far."

Master Holbein bows again and my father toddles out of the room; so heavy are his robes of state that he doesn't realize the comical effect his walk has on us. Upon his exit we burst into controlled giggles, hoping he does not overhear us.

"Well, my lady, what do you really think?" Holbein asks as we stand before the portrait in its most nascent state.

"It is his likeness," I tell him. I can't say it is handsome; if Norfolk was ever a good-looking man it was too long ago for me to recall. "His clothes are beautiful. And one cannot tell how big they are on him in the drawing."

"Yes, I modified it a little," Holbein says, swallowing a chuckle. He squints an eye as he examines his work. "There's something about him...something I tried to capture...I do not know. Would I offend you if I asked your opinion about something, Lady Richmond?"

"Of course not," I tell him, interested to know what he is thinking.

He pauses. "Have I captured...well, have I captured your father's expression? I mean, when you look at him do you see that--that sort of...how do I put this without sounding offensive--"

"Please, you must not worry about offending me," I assure him. "What is it, Master Holbein?"

"His lifelessness," he says. "Have I captured his lifelessness?"

I behold the portrait once more, staring past the beautiful robes of state, the ermine, and the gold. I look into my father's face. A memory stirs. He is holding me. I am very little, looking into his eyes, those hard black eyes...I shudder.

"Yes, Master Holbein," I tell him with certainty. "You have captured his lifelessness."

Never have I heard a more apt description of my father.

The court is merry again. Kitty sees to it. Though it is not a philosophical court, it is filled with young people whose only desire is to have fun. I am caught up in it, just as I was when my Anne was in power.

The only intellectual stimulus comes from Cat Parr, and together we have many a long discussion on church reform and the Bible. I enjoy her calm presence immensely. She is neither the prettiest nor liveliest of women, but when I am around her I feel a measure of comfort foreign to me. She is a friend I can confide all to; unlike most of the set she is not a gossip, waiting for the next morsel of wicked news to be thrown to her like a ravenous dog. She is very unhurried, thinks everything through, and, despite the love she confesses for Tom Seymour, is very devoted to her aged and ailing husband, John Neville.

There are many cliques at court. It is no surprise that because I am all of twenty-one I am excluded from the younger girls who surround Kitty like drones to their queen. I am content to keep company with Cat--and Margaret Douglas, who fancies Kitty's brother Charles.

There is not a soul at court besides perhaps Kitty herself whom I pity more than Margaret. It seems she is fated to fall in love with all the wrong men. For her daring to give her heart to Charles Howard she is sent to Syon Abbey to repent. Charles removes to France, where he dies unmarried and brokenhearted.

The scandal delights the court, who prey on such things, and I am short a dear friend, a friend I have considered kin since my marriage to Harry Fitzroy. Kitty is glad to have Margaret gone and I can see why. Margaret is a blood royal, and made no secret of her annoyance with my frivolous cousin.

With Margaret's disgrace to keep the court's tongues wagging, no one sees Kitty's eyes sparkle as they behold a young gentleman of the king's privy chamber, her cousin Thomas Culpepper.

Though Kitty has not become pregnant yet, she has managed to survive almost one year of marriage to the king.

"He loves me so much, the silly old man, that I don't think he even cares just yet if I even have a child," says Kitty in the spring of 1541, laughing. We are sitting in the gardens and she is picking the petals off of a pink rose, rubbing them between her fingers before letting them drop to the ground. "He is a dear; his greatest pleasure in life is to see me happy." She leans her head on her knees. "And I don't think he loves me like a wife--not to say that he doesn't lust after my body and all that--but when I think of it really...really I think he loves me like I'm his own little girl. Is that strange?"

There is nothing stranger, but I do not say so. "I think older men often are given to such fancies," I say instead. "Just be wary, Your Majesty."

She nods. "Oh, yes. I am quite careful in all I do. Your cousin Lady Jane is most good to me and always watches out for me. As long as His Majesty is happy, as long as he thinks me his faithful little rose--well, there is nothing to worry about, is there?"

I do not want to entertain Kitty's inferences. Why would she be worried, why must she be careful, if she is the king's faithful little rose? And what does vicious Jane Boleyn have to do with anything?

I shudder. "Your Majesty, may I beg your leave? I am not feeling so well."

"Of course, Mary. Do feel better. There is to be dancing later."

I nod as I curtsy, then leave her to a group of adoring courtiers as I seek out the one man who can answer my questions.

"Mary, you can't be this ignorant," Norfolk says when I confront him in his chambers. He is rubbing his forehead and squinting at some documents. "Tell me you're not this ignorant. You know as well as I do that His Majesty is too sick to beget any more children. So it is up to Kitty to find another to"--he arches a brow and smiles--"fill that place."

I draw in a breath. "Culpepper."

Norfolk shrugs. "Really, I don't care if it's the stable boy so long as he gets a babe on her."

"And Lady Jane?" My voice is shaking. "Lady Jane cares nothing for her, you must know that. She is in this for her own gain. She's always been in it for her gain. That's why she betrayed Anne and George, so she could have everything--the lands, the titles..." Tears stream unchecked down my cheeks. "My lord, please. Don't encourage this."

"I don't encourage anything," he says. "I don't discourage anything. Lady Jane, on the other hand, is most eager to act as go-between--run a note here, a note there, 'Stand outside the door a while, Lady Jane, while we...'" He chuckles. "She probably has a stiff neck from peeping in the keyhole."

"And the queen? Does no one care about what could happen to her?" I whisper in terror. "Does no one care about
her?
"

Norfolk stares at me. "In fact, I was going to summon you, Mary. I need your help in this. Our little kitten could use more alibis."

I shake my head. "No. I will have nothing to do with it. I would rather die."

"We are all going to die, Mary," he says, and I swear for a moment his face has contorted into that of the Devil himself. I draw back in horror. Am I losing my mind? "It is just a matter of when and how." He returns to the original topic. "You would be doing a royal service, unbeknownst to His Majesty, of course."

I shake my head. "No. No. I will have no part in this. This, whatever comes of it, is yours and Lady Jane's responsibility."

Norfolk rises and lunges at me, gripping my shoulder. Like all his movements, it is so sudden it captures my breath. He backs me up against the wall. "Do you think I am
asking
for your help? Do you think when I talk to you I'm just making suggestions? When I tell you something I expect my will to be done. You
will
help me, Mary, and your cousins."

"Like we helped Anne?" I cry. "Look where our help got her!"

Norfolk's hand has seized my throat. I begin to sputter and cough. This is the end...he has chosen my death. He will explain it away. Tomorrow I will be lying in a pile of straw in a wagon somewhere while he attends to matters of state. He will keep scheming and plotting and I will be dead...

His hand is tightening about my neck. Little specks of light dance before my eyes. I begin to ponder necks. Mine is small like Anne's, so delicate, in fact, that it is easy for Norfolk to grasp the whole of it in one slender hand. My face is hot. I cannot breathe...

Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I cannot choke; I cannot gasp.

At once Norfolk's face goes slack. His eyes are wide. He slides his hand from my neck to my heaving chest.

"Mary...?" he asks in a low voice.

I begin to sputter and cough. "Wh...why?" I gasp, taking in a deep breath. "Why?"

Norfolk has backed away from me. He is staring down at his hand. It is trembling. He returns stricken black eyes to me. "Mary..."

I am rubbing my neck. "Oh, my lord. For God's sake, why didn't you just end it?"

Tears light his eyes. "Mary!" He reaches for me.

I turn on my heel and run.

I am blind as I weave my way through the halls. I want to make it back to the maidens' chamber and find some semblance of peace. As I am running I meet with the obstacle of a man's chest. Arms encircle me. I am gasping and sobbing with abandon.