Rivals in the Tudor Court (10 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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I divert myself with hunting. I watch the crimson blood of my kill stain the snow and try not to remember the blood of the princess against the stark white of her cheek. It is no use. Sometimes I sink to my knees with my bow amongst the silence of the trees, watching the sun filtering through the canopy of branches above. I watch a chipmunk scamper across the moss. Does he talk to the faeries? Does he know my princess? Can he tell her . . . What would I have him tell her? There is so much, and all left unsaid.
I abandon these strange fancies and at Shrovetide remove to Thornbury, where I must fulfill my obligation to my family and choose a bride.
The pre-Lenten celebrations are in full tilt when I arrive. A feast is laid out in my honor and though food holds little appeal for me now, save for the fact that it is what keeps me alive, I partake of the lamb in mint jelly, peacock, cheese, warm bread, and sweet comfits with feigned enthusiasm.
It is very strange, this choosing of a wife. My first marriage was arranged for me, which was most appropriate for that time in my life. I did not have to fret about a thing. Negotiations were made above our innocent heads and all we had to worry about was pleasing each other. That was easy to do.
But now it is different. Now I am in control of my fate and I must choose a wife, mother, and helpmate. And I have one night to do it.
I assess the girls. They are quite young. I recall the one called Elizabeth from our few encounters at court. Though she is on the thin side, she has grown into a beautiful young lady with her long waves of chestnut hair threaded with auburn tumbling loose down her back. Her blue eyes remain fierce and determined and she has retained that set jawline. Her smile is slow in coming but worth waiting for.
The younger sister Catherine is a beauty as well, though a little too plump for my liking. It is pleasant now, but I imagine once she drops a pup, she will give herself over to resembling the broad side of a ship, which just wouldn't do.
Yet there is a sweet element in Catherine that seems lacking in Elizabeth.
How does one know what is right? We eat and make small talk but they say little. I converse more with the duke, who proudly lists his daughters' talents and virtues, and I listen attentively. Catherine excels at embroidery, but Elizabeth can sing like a bird. Catherine is a beautiful dancer, but Elizabeth is a skilled equestrienne.
I will just have to see how this night goes.
Elizabeth Stafford
Look at him narrowing his black eyes at us as though he is assessing jewels for scrapes and flaws! Oh, I remember him right enough. A well-intended man but an arrogant knight nonetheless. Well, I shan't do a thing to impress him tonight. I will be myself and say and do exactly as I like and if Father is displeased with me, so be it. Let him have Catherine. I love her and I truly don't want to make her a sacrifice, but if it comes down to her or me . . .
“So, Mistress Elizabeth,” he begins, leaning forward to look down his long nose at me. “What is your favorite thing to do?”
“I enjoy passing time with young people,” I tell him in sharp tones. “Young, merry people.”
Mother shoots me a warning glance.
Lord Howard's lips curve into a half smile. “Yes. We all delight in that. And what do you do while passing time with these young merrymakers?”
“We are not all about frivolity, Lord Howard,” I tell him. “But as we are of an age, we have much in common to discuss that people of . . . well, a different age would not be able to understand.”
He laughs. “Of course. Because people of a different age have never been where you are, is that it? Or have we in our dotage forgotten, perhaps, since it was so very long ago?”
I pause. I do not seem to be the victor in this battle of wits. “Perhaps,” I say at last.
Lord Howard rises, extending his elegant hand toward me. “Dance with me, Mistress Elizabeth.”
“My sister is the pretty dancer,” I tell him. “I do not like to dance.”
“Dance with Lord Howard,” Mother snaps, then offers a quick smile at the haughty knight.
“You mean to say you, the young merrymaker, do not like to dance?” His tone is mockingly incredulous. “Come now.” He takes me in his arms and turns me about the floor.
It is then I recall the first time I danced with Lord Howard, when at twelve years old I felt that strange energy flowing between our joined hands. It is there again. At once my body is not obeying me. It begins to tremble and tingle. A frightening heat surges through my veins.
Lord Howard's face is soft, sort of wistful. I meet his eyes and wonder what it is like to be a man having to start completely over at his age when he should be enjoying his children and maybe even a grandchild or two by now.
I must not pity him. I must not give him any indication of warmth.
Thomas Howard
She's shorter than I, this Elizabeth. The other one looks like she has a few inches in her yet and I definitely do not need a woman who is both tall and fat. This one's drawback is in her slight frame, but from holding her, I have been able to assess her hips with a reasonable amount of discretion and they seem round enough to facilitate childbearing.
And that face! The challenging eyes, the sarcastic little smile . . .
Of course there is absolutely nothing to love in this girl. She will look lovely on my arm, but she does not inspire the madness I once felt for—enough of that. No, if I lost her, I would not be sorry. I could replace her.
But there is something about her face. . . .
After I allow Elizabeth to be seated I dance with the other one. She is a pretty dancer, far exceeding her sister's abilities, and all of Stafford's guests stop to gaze and compliment the fleet little steps.
This one is a bit dull, however. Her face is as docile as a cow's and her eyes lack any real intelligence. I imagine she will be quite fertile, however, and, as I feel her hips, know without doubt that if I choose her, I would beget a veritable empire.
She makes pleasant conversation if one likes to talk about weather and shoes and food, but after a while the shrill little voice begins to grate on me. Perhaps I am being a bit unfair.
I suppose I knew from the moment I saw her again that I would choose Elizabeth.
Elizabeth Stafford
“No!” I cry when Mother tells me the next afternoon that it is I, not Catherine, whom Lord Howard has chosen to wed. “I won't do it. I . . . I am to marry Lord Neville.”
“Did he give you a ring?” asks Mother in soft tones as she strokes my hair. “Did you plight your troth to one another?”
“We—we—” I sob, falling against my bed, burying my head in my pillows, knowing it is all useless. Mother leans over to gather me in her arms.
“Darling, I understand how disappointed you are,” she tells me. “We have all been in your position.” Tears light her gray eyes and I find myself wondering who she gave up for my father. Strange to think one's parents loved and dreamed and hoped with the same passion as oneself. “But this is God's will,” she continues in practical tones. “If you were meant to be with young Ralph, the way would have been provided for you. However, it is not to be. You will marry Lord Howard at Easter.”
Easter! Why does it all have to happen right now? Why does it have to happen at all? My heart is racing. I want to scream in protest but know it is futile. My father is the premier duke in the realm. What he says is law.
Still, I cannot help but ask, “Why didn't he want Catherine? She's so sweet and agreeable; she's what every man should want.”
Mother bows her head. “I'm sorry, Elizabeth. He wants you. It's all settled. Even now they are arranging the dowry.”
“Yes, God forbid they wait a moment on that,” I say, my tone laced with bitterness. “So that's it, then. I will go to him with however many marks Father sends and you will be rid of me. And what of. . . of Lord Neville?”
“Other plans will be made for him,” Mother says, averting her eyes.
“What other plans?”
Mother returns her gaze to me. The gray eyes are hard, impenetrable. “Other plans.”
I bury my face in the pillows once more and give way to the release sobbing provides.
Despite the urge to suggest running away to Ralph, I resist. I will not shame my family with such nonsense. There is naught to do but say good-bye.
We stroll in the gardens hand in hand. The air is crisp but the sun is shining, warming my tearstained cheeks.
“Do you believe in the will of God?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “It is what we have been taught.”
“It is the easiest explanation,” I say. “Easy to say God is responsible for this and that and not us.” I swallow the tears in my throat. “Oh, Ralph . . .” I lean my head on his shoulder.
He offers a heavy sigh. “I want you to be happy, Elizabeth,” he says at last. “I hope you have many children.”
“Please don't speak of it,” I tell him. “I can't bear to think of all that just now. Let us be silent and take comfort in each other's company while we can.”
Ralph nods. We sit on one of the garden benches. He wraps his arm about my shoulders and draws me near, holding me thus for a long while.
There is no kiss good-bye.
It would not be proper.
It is not the grand ceremony I hoped for. My dress is beautiful enough, yards of soft pink damask inlaid with seed pearls, fitted sleeves, and a five-foot train. But everything else is wrong. It is so rushed. No one, not even my own parents, seems to be in a celebratory mood. Lord Howard kneels beside me at the altar, his face drawn with solemnity. I steal glances at him throughout the ceremony, but his expression does not change. There is no reassuring smile, no squeeze of the hand. Nothing to indicate he is happy with our match.
He slips a tiny gold band about my finger and I hear the words of the bishop pronouncing us man and wife. I hear myself being introduced as Lady Elizabeth Howard.
I turn to my lord. It is over. I have given myself over to the wills of my parents and God and whatever other cruel forces have a role in these decisions, and I am his. He leans over, offering me the briefest of kisses on my cheek.
I begin to tremble with fear. I have just wed a forty-year-old man with experience and I am a fifteen-year-old maiden. I try to still my quivering lip and blink away the tears but find as we quit the chapel, my arm looped through his, that they stream down my cheeks unchecked.
If Lord Howard notices, he says nothing.
Thomas Howard
Well, I did what my father wanted so will hear no complaints from him. I am married. Strange to say it, knowing the wife to which I refer is not the princess I shared seventeen years of my life with.
The girl is a reluctant bride, that much is clear. Her father informed me, with a face flushed in embarrassment, that she had a little infatuation for their ward, Ralph Neville, which explains the boy's stony countenance and brusque manner whenever I tried to converse with him. I am assured, however, that the girl comes to me intact. Whatever childish feelings she holds for the lad will soon subside when distracted with the duties of marriage.
We retire to our bridal chamber. I am pleased to be unaccompanied by the court this time, so I can conduct this business in private. The girl wears a white nightdress of satin trimmed with pink ribbons.
For a while we lie side by side in the darkness. I have not been with many women, but I cannot say I was faithful to the princess. Things happen when a man is at war. She never questioned me; as much as she did not belong in the world, she knew well the ways of it. Our couplings were filled with tenderness, however, and when I was with her, there was no other woman on my mind.
Now, faced with a new bride, I must force the princess from my thoughts.
The girl trembles beside me. She clutches the covers over her shoulders. I do not know how to approach her. I do not know what to say.
At once I decide the best tactic is to just get it over with. With abruptness I draw the covers back and roll on top of her, attempting to raise her nightdress over her hips. She cries out. I cannot rouse my desire looking into those terrified blue eyes, knowing they are not the eyes of my princess, knowing there is no love to be had in them. What am I thinking? I knew well there would be no love in this match when I chose her. I must put aside these infantile fantasies.
I offer a frustrated sigh and roll onto my back.
“I'm sorry,” she mutters. “I just didn't expect—”
I grunt and rise. Perhaps it is best if I spend my wedding night in my own chambers. I have the rest of my life to consummate this marriage.
Elizabeth Howard
I lie alone in the big bed, feeling the vacant spot beside me with my leg. I was monstrous. I should not have demonstrated my fear. I rise, fetching my wrap. I am not about to fail in my duties. I cannot dwell on Ralph Neville now. I have married Thomas Howard and I will be his wife.

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