Rivals in the Tudor Court (18 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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I am so very tired. My body aches and quivers all over. The wet nurses I used to resent I now thank God for. Baby Mary is well taken care of and is set up in the nursery with her brother and sister. It is painful to look at her. When I see her fair face, I do not see my little girl. I see the nightmare of her birth. I see Thomas, wild-eyed and monstrous, waving his dagger about and next . . . next. . .
I squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot stand the memory; I wish to banish it from my mind but cannot. It rehearses itself again and again like one of King Henry's badly performed masques.
What grieves me almost as much as the wound on my head is the servants' inaction. They did nothing to interfere. It is obvious who they are bound to. I am just a woman, a woman to be treated as any other piece of my lord's property. It matters not that I am a countess, a countess who will become a duchess. Nothing matters but the wishes of my lord. If his wish is my demise, then no one will stand in his way.
I have never been afraid of Thomas. I believed I knew his tempers; after all, I've been on the receiving end of his blows before. And despite the countless warnings from experienced friends and relatives about what to expect from a husband, nothing could have prepared me for this.
I thought I knew him better.
Now I do not know what to expect from minute to minute. Will he be kind? Will he be cruel? In the weeks following Mary's birth, he is nothing but solicitous. But for how long? And what will set him off next?
His greatest fear is loss—a dullard could perceive that—and it seems when confronted with that possibility, he loses all reason. Despite my sympathy for him, I cannot bring myself to justify his treatment. I do not care if he's a man mad with grief or the master of this house and my person. There is no claim he can make great enough to make this right.
I wonder if it shall ever be made right between us again.
When Mary is three weeks old, a smiling Thomas carries her into my chambers and sits beside me. She is snuggled tight against his chest and he makes a show of wrapping and rewrapping the blankets about her, swaddling her up tight as a caterpillar in its cocoon.
He has never attended the other children as he does this one. Perhaps the ordeal of her birth coupled with the knowledge that he almost prevented it prompts him to monitor her progress with more interest.
“We should ask His Majesty to be her godfather,” he tells me.
“Whatever you like,” I say in bland tones.
He gazes at me a moment, his black eyes wistful. His smile is forced. “Happy news from Blackmore. Elizabeth Blount has given the king a son,” he announces. “They call him Henry Fitzroy. You know Fitzroy is a name reserved for royalty. It is most intriguing.”
I offer a bitter grunt. “And we are celebrating?”
“The king has acknowledged him,” he tells me.
“Openly?” I ask, my tone sharp with shock.
Thomas nods. “He has not legitimized him yet, but if he does not beget an heir . . .” He looks down at Mary, who offers a little gurgle.
“He has an heir, the Princess Mary,” I remind him in firm tones, then give way to a sigh. “Oh, Her poor Grace! For him to disrespect her by keeping a mistress is one thing, but to display his bastard before her very eyes!”
Thomas shrugs. “It is not the first time such things have occurred.” His tone is absent.
I scowl at him. “And I suppose you support this travesty?”
“I am the king's man, Elizabeth,” he returns. “You know that.”
I bite my lip in frustration. “Of course. First and last.”
“No,” he corrects me. “A Howard first and last. When I say the king's man, I mean the Crown's man. Whoever wears the Crown has my loyalty.”
I stare at him in mingled bewilderment and horror. He does not indicate whether or not he cares if the Crown is obtained by natural succession or by treachery. If his loyalties can shift so easily and with so little regard for what is right . . . I shudder. I do not want to think of it anymore.
I do not want to think of our codes of honor, codes that more often than not seem at odds.
Though I use my slow recovery from Mary's birth as an excuse to avoid intimacy with Thomas, by the time she reaches three months old, I know I cannot shrink from my duties any longer.
What strikes me as most peculiar is that I miss him. His touch, when gentle, affects me like nothing else in this world. I want that back. I want him back, for whatever he is. I have no choice, anyway. If I have to see this through and honor my commitment, it is best to take what pleasure I can from it.
Meantime I shall pray that his horrific display demonstrated during Mary's birth is his last.
By October I am with child once more.
Thomas is delighted. Perhaps it is because I show no signs of the illness experienced during my last pregnancy, giving no indication that he has to fear for my life. He dotes on me, spoiling me with gifts. I am the owner of more strings of pearls, jewel-encrusted brooches, and collars than I can catalogue. And each are delivered to me in caskets of silver, ivory, or gilt. It is overwhelming.
“You may as well get used to it,” he tells me. “You will be a duchess someday and as such you shall be ornamented with only the very best.”
“Fitting,” I tell him with a slight smile. “As I am your very best ornament.”
The smile he offers me in turn is affectionate. “And the most modest.”
We are walking arm in arm through the gardens of Hunsdon. They have little to offer, being that it is January, but one can discern from their expansive layout the promise of beauty that spring's arrival will unveil.
“My little niece Mary Boleyn is to marry William Carey this month,” Thomas goes on to say. “Not so little anymore from what I hear,” he adds with a smirk.
“Indeed not,” I say. “From what I'm told, she is old enough to play the harlot the world over. Why, King Francois kept her as his very own mistress! It's amazing a girl of that reputation can land herself one as promising as young Master Carey.”
“She had some help,” says my husband. He clears his throat. “It seems she has quite a talent for inspiring royal favor. . . .”
“No.” My voice is low with annoyance. “You have to be jesting. Does that man have no shame? And Bessie Blount so recently delivered of his bastard!”
Thomas laughs. “It seems the Careys will be given lodgings at court near His Majesty. Very convenient. And the young William is to be compensated for his—tolerance—by being made a gentleman of the privy chamber. Seems the young couple have come a long way.” This he says through sputterings of laughter.
“Thomas!” I am too disgusted to be amused. “Aren't you ashamed? This child is your family and she is behaving in a manner unworthy of the Howard name.”
“God's body, Elizabeth!” Thomas exclaims, wiping tears from his eyes, his face still ruddy from mirth. “Sometimes I don't understand you at all. Don't you see what this means for us? A satisfied king is a generous one. You must realize how the chalice of his favor will spill over onto all of us. No,” he laughs again, “my naughty little niece is a credit to the Howards.”
“I have been unfair,” I say, my voice fraught with sadness as I think of my own daughters. “Mary Boleyn is but a child.” I heave a sigh. “And what is easier to manipulate than a child? This is a display of the utmost depravity, Thomas, the king being twenty-nine years old and married and the girl but thirteen.”
“We are twenty-five years apart, Elizabeth,” Thomas reminds me.
“That was different. We were able to marry and conduct ourselves as Christians should,” I tell him. “Now this girl will be forever known as nothing but another of King Henry's whores.”
“Not such a bad thing to be known as,” he tells me. “You are wrong, Elizabeth. When serving the king, you serve him body, heart, and soul, reaping all the rewards for your troubles.”
I shake my head but decide not to pursue it anymore. It is fruitless; he will never understand. Instead I say, “And what of Her Grace, the woman who has shown us nothing but kindness and love? What will she make of our—no, your—support of your niece's behavior?”
“She understands the ways of this world well enough to know it is temporary,” he says. “The king's affections are fickle—he'll tire of the little girl soon enough and she will be replaced. Fortunately, the Howards are of fertile stock—we can keep him well supplied!”
“Thomas Howard!” I cry. “Have you no sympathy for the queen, none at all? Doesn't she mean anything to you?”
For a moment his face softens. He averts his head.
We stop walking and turn toward one another. I take his elegant hands in mine. For a moment I stand captivated by them; how is it these beautiful hands can be capable of such cruelty? My eyes remove to his face, pondering his mind, a mind I enjoy, a mind that challenges mine, and a mind I understand no better than his hands. Why must it all be so complicated?
“I am her maid,” I tell Thomas in soft tones. “I have sworn myself to her as you have sworn yourself to the king. You must understand that as such I cannot support this, Thomas.”
He sighs. “Your first obligation, as with every subject in England, should be to the king.” He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. “This makes things very difficult for us, constantly being at odds. I appreciate that you are a woman of principle, but we live in a world where principle has to be sacrificed now and again.” Reading my horror, he continues. “I don't enjoy it! Do you think I like to watch the queen made a fool of? I love her, too!”
At this he lowers his head, as though ashamed to admit such in my presence. It does not affect me with jealousy; I know the love one is compelled to feel for Her Grace. She inspires such an intense devotion that one is rendered helpless by it. But Thomas is not overcome with any such thing. He is not helplessly devoted to anything but his own self-interest.
“You wouldn't understand,” he says with another dramatic sigh. “Your family has always been great. The Howards have had to fight and crawl and drag themselves up out of the ashes of shame. That is why it is essential to attain and maintain the greatness we are capable of.”
“No matter the cost to your soul?”
“Always the soul with you.” His voice is thin with impatience.
“Yes, Thomas,” I affirm. “
Always
the soul. It is more eternal than anything of this world, even the favor of kings.”
“Noble words, Elizabeth, but impractical,” Thomas says as we continue our walk.
“For some,” I say. “Those who are too afraid of the challenge.” I purse my lips. Before he can retort I continue, returning to practicality. “Besides, the Staffords have known their fair share of shame. My grandfather was beheaded, after all.”
“You always had a dukedom,” Thomas says, his voice tinged with bitterness.
I shake my head in frustration. That's all that matters to him: dukedoms, favor, possessions. I do not abhor such things but I'd like to believe I am not governed by my desire for them, either.
“Anyway, it doesn't matter.” Thomas's voice adopts a more conversational tone. “This going round and round is pointless.” He squeezes my hand. “There is more news. After Mary Boleyn's wedding, we are to ready ourselves for an extended sojourn.”
“A sojourn?” My curiosity is piqued. We never go anywhere and I have been restless. “Where?”
“Ireland.”
I screw up my face in confusion. “Ireland? Good God, why would we want to go there?”
Thomas laughs. “I have been appointed lord lieutenant of the rabble. Seems the Earl of Kildare, that damned Gerald Fitzgerald, can't manage a thing and the country is amok with disorder. What's more, Sir Piers Butler has wrongfully claimed the earldom of Ormond since his cousin left no heir, and Kildare doesn't know what to do with him. The Butlers are powerful; there are too many of them, as there are of all those damnable Irish. In any event, Kildare came to London on orders to explain the mismanagement of his island and it was decided someone with a little more experience and wisdom should be given the responsibility of restoring rule to the king.”
“Really, Thomas?” I cry. “Ireland? And who was behind this?”
Thomas scowls at me. “It was a decision made by the king and his council.”
“And who's on the council?” I cry. “Wolsey? Do you think he may have decided this to exile you from court, where things are really happening? You know how he hates you and your father.”
“It isn't exile!” Thomas insists. “The king decided ultimately to favor me with this mission. This is an opportunity to further demonstrate my worth!”
I twist my lips in bitterness. “Well,” I acquiesce, “I suppose it is a nobler cause than the whoring out of your niece.”

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