Rivals in the Tudor Court (19 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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Thomas turns me to face him and wraps his arms about me, drawing me close. “We'll have a lovely house in Dublin with all the amenities for you and the children.”
“What of Kenninghall? Now our plans for that will be put off even longer,” I say with a girlish pout I am ashamed of.
“Kenninghall will always be there. We will commence with the renovations upon our return,” he says. “It will be our palace and there you will be my prin—” He stops himself, casting his eyes to the snow-covered ground. “My little duchess.”
“A countess suits me fine for now,” I tell him, not wanting to bring about the death of his father by speculating on our inevitable elevation.
But it is easy to warm to my husband's fair words. I put off my fears of removing to the wilds of Ireland, my disgust over the situation with Mary Boleyn, and my frustration with our constant battle of principle as I wrap my arms about Thomas's neck and pull him toward me, planting a firm kiss on his lips.
I shall try to look at this as a good thing, just as Thomas advises.
I will not look at it as Wolsey's strategy for keeping my husband impotent at court. I will be flattered; Thomas must be a great threat to Wolsey for him to send him so far away.
The Isle of Erin
Thomas Howard, 1520–1522
I
n May, one hundred royal guard accompany my family and me to the island its natives call Erin. It is a beautiful place, this Ireland, a land as green as an emerald and lush as Babylon. If it were not populated with the damnable Irish, it would be ideal. Elizabeth and the children are set up in Dublin. The residence is a mite too modest for our tastes and God knows the girl deserves better, but I remind her to be patient. Someday sooner than later we shall have nothing but the very best.
Elizabeth is proud of my endeavors; she calls me her shining knight. “The great White Howard,” she teases, wrapping her arms about me and covering my cheek with kisses.
Her faith inspires me to carry on with my first task, which is to raid Connell O'More's territory southwest of Dublin. It is successful; the churls are put in their place and now the pretended Earl Butler has joined me, bringing with him other lords to support the cause. Once I return to Dublin, I am joined by still more Irish lords, all of whom have personal quarrels with other Irish lords. It is hard to keep track. One thing remains certain; almost everyone's name begins with an
O
or a
Mc
.
With their help I subdue most of the island. I am alive with that tingling thrill that surges through me whenever participating in a battle. I tremble with excitement as the plans are drawn up and executed. This is what I am meant for; more than anything else, I am a fighting man. I am a soldier.
By July, I am optimistic that if things continue in this vein, Ireland might be governable after all. I seek out Elizabeth, who is now in confinement, to report the latest developments.
“It is this lack of money that will undo us,” I tell her. “The troops are underpaid and griping louder than fishwives in the market. No matter how I entreat His Majesty, he just doesn't seem to understand that they cannot live on four shillings a day.”
“How does he propose you finance this endeavor?” she asks in her low voice. She is lying abed, her dark hair plaited down her shoulders, her alert eyes calculating and keen. I smile ruefully; there is nothing dull about her. She is the picture of cleverness.
“From Irish revenues. But I cannot extricate anything from these bastards without resorting to Kildare's own questionable methods,” I tell her as I sit at the end of her bed.
She purses her lips in thought. “What if you sent someone to plead on your behalf? That Wallop gentleman, perhaps. Everyone always says the king cannot resist a personal appeal.”
I nod. I could do that. King Henry seems to have a weakness for personal entreaties. Perhaps he will endow me with more funds if I send Sir Wallop to London. No use telling her I may employ the idea; she is far too headstrong as it is. But the idea has merit.
“Thank God you weren't born a man,” I say with a light laugh. “Else the house of Howard would really have something to worry about.”
“Without a doubt,” she assures me with a smile. She rubs her belly, closing her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, Thomas . . .”
“Elizabeth?” I reach for her hand. “What is it?”
She opens her eyes; they are wide with fear. “The baby . . . it's time.” She withdraws her hand to clutch the covers and begins to shrink away from me, biting her lip. She averts her face.
I stare at her a moment, then begin to back away.
It is better I am not present for this, better for her, better for me.
“I'll—I'll fetch the midwife,” I tell her as I quit the room.
Our son is born on 31 July after ten hours of labor. She did well, my Elizabeth, coming through as vibrant with health as she was before.
“What shall we call this young Howard boy?” I ask her as I hold my little lad.
Elizabeth regards him through tear-filled eyes a moment before fixing her piercing blue gaze on me. Her smile is tentative. “I thought . . . I thought perhaps we could call this one Thomas, for your lordship.”
My throat constricts with painful tears as I behold our son, his ruddy face scrunched up as though he is thoroughly annoyed by the whole ordeal of entering this world.
I think of my first namesake, the Thomas born of my princess. He was so full of life . . . so full of promise. . . . Is it a curse to name this child such?
Nonsense and drivel. Whatever is meant to happen will occur whether your name is John or William or Charles. It doesn't matter. There is nothing to a name as long as it is affixed to a great surname. And we can assure him that.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“That would be fine,” I tell her in a husky whisper. I hand her the baby. She clasps him to her chest, returning her fond mother's gaze to his tiny face.
“We do have a beautiful family, Thomas,” she says.
I nod.
I cannot speak.
By September, Sir Wallop returns from London with four thousand pounds. But I am told that the king will spare no more; further funds for this campaign will have to be raised on my own. It is his hope that the rents I collect after Christmas will prove sufficient.
The summer triumph is eclipsed by sickness in the Pale, which not only claims the lives of many of my troops but puts morale on the decline. It is not long before they are plotting their escape.
When I catch wind of a plot that eighteen of my men are planning to make off with a boat in order to capture a larger vessel and turn to piracy as an alternative to the honor of soldiering, I am incensed and order their immediate imprisonment.
“I'd hang them all if the damnable lawyers would let me!” I cry to Elizabeth one evening in our parlor. “Damned fools! As if they'd survive anyway! Pirates!”
I pace back and forth before our hearth, running my hand through my hair in frustration.
“It's about discipline, my girl,” I explain to her. “If the men do not have that, they are lost. These men need to be made an example of so as not to give any of the others ideas. Mutiny can be more contagious than the plague.”
Elizabeth raises her eyes from her embroidery. “If only you had the power over life and death that you hold as admiral at sea.”
I stare at her a moment, then offer a half smile before removing to my study to ask my clerk to draft a dispatch.
It's strange how useful this girl has come to be.
Elizabeth Howard
While Thomas busies himself with the rabble both the Irish and his troops are proving to be, I am occupied with the running of my Dublin household. For everything Thomas has against this lot, I must say our Irish staff has been most accommodating. The children adore them and I am grateful their adjustment to this place has not been too taxing.
Through his travels, Thomas is allowed to see the beauty of the island and makes a full report cataloguing its many charms, but as I am tethered to Dublin, I see none of them. I miss Hunsdon and London and the queen. I long for our plans for Kenninghall to be set into motion. I long for our lives to resume at home.
We pass a bleak winter in which the city snow is gray and slushy instead of white and fluffy. Cathy stares down at the street out the window of our parlor and heaves a deep sigh. At eight she is a beautiful girl of slight build, with Thomas's black hair and my blue eyes. Her face is wistful.
“What do you suppose we'd be doing if we were at home?” she asks me.
“We would be at court, most likely,” I say. “Passing the winter with the queen.”
“That would be lovely,” Cathy sighs. She sits beside me, taking up her embroidery. “Do you suppose I shall be made lady-in-waiting to the queen someday?”
My heart swells with pride at her noble desire. She is a good girl; her deportment and carriage is fraught with dignity. She is graceful and gentle, and looking upon her now, I have no doubt that she has the makings of a great lady.
I reach out to caress her cheek. It is smooth and fine as ivory. “You shall. Her Grace will adore you,” I tell her.
Cathy rewards me with a smile.
We have grown quite close during our exile. Were she not with me, I do not know how I'd make it through.
It seems sons are destined to lead lives of glory; to them we hand our fortunes and our names and our titles. But the daughters, they are a mother's salvation. To them we hand our hearts.
Traitors and Lovers
Elizabeth Howard
I
n January, I receive a letter from my sister Catherine. It is the way in which it arrives that sends an uncomfortable chill coursing through me. It is delivered directly into my hands from that of a travel-weary servant, sent from the house of the Earl of Westmorland. Why would Catherine send me a letter through Ralph Neville's servants? My heart skips as I break the seal with a smile.
My dearest Elizabeth,
I hope that this letter finds you and yours well. So much is happening. I must dispense with frivolous chatter in favor of an entreaty for you and Lord Surrey to beg His Majesty your return home. Our honored father is in danger. He does not seem to understand how much. He speaks freely about his place in the succession since he is descended from Edward III. He believes he is the natural, if not obvious choice, and has even dared say that the king will have no sons. You know how fatal that thinking can be. He has raised troops of considerable number. He says they are for protection while he tours his Welsh estates. I can only pray that is true. The good Lord knows how this could appear to His Majesty and Cardinal Wolsey, who has always hated our honored father.
I would not write if I did not believe this to be a matter of the utmost gravity. But I shiver, Elizabeth. It is cold under the axe's shadow.
Lastly, I am compelled to tell you before you learn it from another source that, for no reason other than to honor the wishes of His Grace our father, I have married Ralph Neville, the earl of Westmorland. Forgive me. I know you loved him once. I pray you are occupied with the happiness your honored husband provides.
With love,
Catherine Neville
Lady Westmorland
The letter slips from my fingers onto the floor. This is all too much to take in. . . . My father, the premier duke in the land, has allowed himself to be governed by foolish arrogance to the extent that his life is now at risk . . . and my sister . . . my sister. Catherine Neville. It was not Ralph's servant, then. It was hers. He is hers.
I clench my fists in rage. I have no right. I know I have no right. But tears slide down my cheeks in icy rivulets anyway. She has Ralph, my gentle Ralph, who will never lay a hand on her, my sweet Ralph, who will love her and caress her and give her his children, the children I wanted, the life I wanted. . . . How could she? How could he?
I throw myself across the chaise in our parlor and begin to sob brokenly. What am I to do? Ralph was bound to marry; so was Catherine. He was my father's ward. There was no doubt he would marry one of my sisters. But I had put such an effort into blotting him from my mind that I had not anticipated the hurt and sense of betrayal that would accompany this news.
“Elizabeth.” Thomas's voice. His footfalls approach. His warm hand rests upon my shoulder. “What is it, my girl?”
Before I can retrieve my letter, Thomas has it and scans it with attentive black eyes.
He throws it to the floor. “We are
not
going home. You know that, don't you? If your father's stupidity proves to be his downfall, then so be it. The farther removed we are from his disgrace, the better. I will not be affiliated with it.”
“But, my lord,” I beg, “we must go to him. He is your father-in-law, after all. You must intervene. You must use your influence with your father and your other allies to convince the king and Wolsey that my father means no harm. He is an old man—a proud, foolish old man.”
“God rot proud, foolish old men,” Thomas spits. “No. We will remain here and carry out our obligations. Your father has done this to himself. Whatever happens is his affair.”
“Thomas . . .”
“No!” he cries. “Do you hear me? There isn't even a question.” He furrows his brow, shaking the letter at me. “I wonder . . . what upsets you more? Your father's idiocy or the marriage of your sister?”
I offer a scowl. “Of course that upsets me!” I cry. “But it's neither here nor there now. He has married Catherine and may God give them many years of harmony and joy, unlike—”
“Unlike us,” Thomas finishes for me. His face is stricken.
I am subdued. “I didn't mean it,” I say in soft tones. “We have been happy, Thomas.”
“Now and again,” he says, fixing his eyes on the window behind me. The black orbs become hard again. “There is no more to be said. We will remain here. There are to be no petitions made to the king for our return. I have too much to do here without worrying after your fool of a father.”
I rise. “Well, then remain,” I tell him. “But I am going. I am taking the children and going. My family needs me. I will not abandon them.” As I speak, I realize I have just made the decision at that moment and, having made it, will stand by it no matter the cost.
“You do not seem to understand,” Thomas seethes as he approaches me. He grips my shoulders; his face is inches from mine. “We will remain here.”
I shake my head. “
You
may remain. I will go. I have an obligation to my family.”
“Your first obligation is to me!” he cries. “Why can't you understand that? Before anything! Before your queen and country and children and everything else! I am your
husband,
Elizabeth!”
I shake my head again. “Would you abandon your father in his time of need?”
Thomas narrows his eyes at me but does not answer the question. “Elizabeth, I'm warning you. If you leave me now, you will be making the biggest mistake of your life. There will be no expiation for it.”
“That is on my conscience, then,” I respond with equal coolness. “If there is nothing more, my lord, I have arrangements to make.”
He releases my shoulders. I try to ignore the profound sadness that contorts his expression. It is so brief on his countenance that I tell myself I imagined it.
I curtsy, then brush past him, almost wishing he would grab me and gather me in his arms, wishing he would tell me not to leave because he cannot live without me.
But he can live without me.
There is not a soul on earth whose life and death hinges on the presence of another.
I return to Lambeth with the children and it is only upon my arrival that I realize I can be of no more help to my father here than I was in Ireland. My sister was not appealing for my return; she was asking for my husband. He is the one with the influence. I am just the wife, just the woman.
I pace the house in despair. The duchess, who has grown stout and agitated over the years, is a source of much angst. She criticizes me for leaving Thomas.
“You must redefine your loyalties, Lady Elizabeth,” she tells me. “Before you become undone by them. You are married to Lord Surrey first and last. It is to him that you are pledged. You cannot persist in going against his wishes as you do and hope for any chance at happiness.”
I say nothing. I cannot argue with everyone. Instead I keep to myself. I take Cathy on little day trips and derive what joy I can in our bond, which seems to run deeper than that of the other children, much to my regret.
“I think you did the right thing,” Cathy reassures me in her soft voice.
I offer a sad laugh and clutch my daughter's hand. “Thank you, love.”
The rest of the world may turn against me, but she will remain. It is a loyalty I take comfort in.
In April my father is called to Windsor to answer for his outlandish plot to come before the king concealing a knife so that he might slay him. My heart drops in my chest upon hearing the news. How could he be so reckless? Truly, he must have gone mad.
He never makes it to his destination. He is accosted en route and arrested for treason.
My father, like my grandfather before him, now awaits his trial in the worst place a body can.
The dread Tower of London.
I imagine him there, cold and shivering and underfed. Does he regret his dishonor? Will he make his peace with God before his fate is carried out?
My father-in-law heads the committee that tries and sentences my father to his death by beheading. They say the old Duke of Norfolk wept for his friend.
He may have wept, I reflect with bitterness, but it did not stop him from uttering that fateful word.
Guilty
.
And now my father is to die.
“He has disgraced the Stafford name,” my stepmother-in-law tells me in somber tones. “And for nothing but pride. It is a dangerous thing, pride. Of all the sins, perhaps it is the worst. It leads us to believe in our own illusions of power and the rightness of our own misguided principles.”
I bow my head. I can no longer cry; I am past tears. My father is to die . . . my father is to die. . . . He bounced me on his knee when I was a wee girl. He smiled and joked. I loved him, aloof as he could be. My father is to die. . . .
“I will attend the execution,” I say then, my tone just above a whisper.
“You will do no such thing,” says Lady Agnes. “You will keep away. You cannot be seen to be offering any support to the fallen duke.”
“I am not supporting him,” I assure her. “In no way do I support treason. But I will be there for him when the axe falls. I will offer a prayer and my farewells. There is nothing neither you nor anyone else can do to prevent my going.”
Lady Agnes's face is wrought with sadness as she regards me. “You are far too willful, Lady Elizabeth.” Her tone is wistful.
“I am a Howard,” I retort, my tone hard.
The sun shines bright in a cloudless azure sky the day my father is to die. The grass on Tower Green is lush and green-gold; nature is innocent, ignorant of the fates of those who share its realm. The April air is warm; there is even a slight refreshing breeze. I marvel that such evil can take place on this mockingly perfect day.
Gathered about are some members of my family, the court, and the hoard of observers hungry for gory displays, a crowd crude and rough and without compassion. It is good sport witnessing an execution, and the sounds of laughter can be heard ringing out here and there. It is a travesty. No one cares that the greatest duke in the land is dying. They care about the show, the spectacle of a man cut down in his glory.
As he kneels before the block, he raises his head. For the briefest of moments he locks his eyes with mine; they are bewildered blue mirrors that reflect nothing I had envisaged. No regret, no sorrow, no anger. Just shock. Whether it is over his execution or over his failed plot, I will never know. I bite back a sob, trying to convey in my gaze my love and grief and a thousand other emotions that have every and no name.
And then the axe. A swift whir as it cuts through the air, then through my father's neck with lethal exactness. The head rolls onto the waiting straw, its eyes wide in a moment of mingled terror and surprise. Blood pours from his trunk and I stand transfixed by the sight. I cannot scream or cry or rage. I just stare.
“Come, my lady,” beckons my gentle servant Molly. “Come away from this terrible thing.”
“This . . . terrible thing,” I parrot, still held fast by the atrocity before me.
She takes my arm and leads me to my coach, guiding me away from the stench of death and Tower Green.
I pray never to return.
I withdraw into myself after my father's death. No one offers their sympathies. Who would? He was a traitor and few mourn traitors. Even if they did feel some grain of compassion for me, they would not utter it. It would be treasonous.
Charles V blamed Wolsey for my father's death, saying, “A butcher's dog has killed the finest buck in England.” I could not agree more.
Ultimately, however, the blame falls upon His Majesty. He signed the warrant. He authorized my father's death, and despite any wrongdoing on my father's part, I cannot help but feel my heart stirring in resentment whenever I think of my king.
“We appreciate how hard this must be for you, Lady Elizabeth,” Queen Catherine tells me in her soothing tones one afternoon as I wait upon her at Westminster. “The Duke of Buckingham may have been a traitor to king and country, but to you he was a father. You have every right to mourn him.”
I purse my lips, swallowing tears. We are sitting in her apartments sewing shirts for the poor. I cannot concentrate on my work. My fingers fumble and I prick myself with the needle so much that little dots of blood can be seen on the garments.
Queen Catherine reaches out to still one of my trembling hands. “Don't be ashamed of your grief. The Lord tells us to rejoice in our sufferings, for suffering produces perseverance. That is all we can do, Lady Elizabeth: persevere.”
I shake my head in bewilderment. “But my lord husband . . . he did nothing to intervene. He did not even send word offering his sympathies. Nothing.”

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