Rivals in the Tudor Court (27 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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He shrugs. “It is mine to give. True, it was hers for some time, but she threw it up at me just as she does everything else; she can no longer claim it. Now, now, are you going to accept it or not?”
I blink back tears. “Of course, Your dearest Grace,” I tell him, not knowing what else to say. Somewhere, despite his explanation, it seems very wrong accepting this gift. But I mustn't hurt His Grace by insulting him.
“That's a good girl,” he tells me, wrapping his arms around me and leaning his forehead against mine. “Now. I have brought you presents.”
My heart lifts and I cannot deny the smile that is curving my lips. “Presents?”
“From London,” he says as he leads me to a trunk. “You see this? Everything in it is yours.”
I open the lid. Before I can gasp, His Grace leans down and retrieves the first object, a cloak lined with fur.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks me as he strokes the soft fur. “Sable.”
“Oh, Your Grace, you are so very grand!” I cry as he wraps me up in it. I hug it around myself, brushing my cheek against its softness over and over. The gesture comforts me.
His Grace is kneeling in front of the trunk now. He reaches for my hand and tugs me down beside him. Inside the trunk are bolts of fabric, a collar of fine gems, brooches, and pins shaped like flowers, all encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. I have never seen such wealth. Guilt surges through me as I regard the duke. How could I entertain the notion of starting a life with another when he lavishes on me such extravagant gifts? They are not mere baubles or trinkets but symbols of the love this great man bears me. To consider any other position in life is presumptuous and ungrateful. What can I, a mere servant girl, expect? I, who deserves nothing and instead gets everything. There is no hoping for more. I will be happy. I will bask in his adoration and endeavor to show him my gratitude and love in return all the days of my life.
“You will be attended by a dressmaker and fitted for some gowns,” he informs me. “With any luck you will be at court soon.”
“Court?” I breathe. “Me?”
“If my niece has her way, she will be queen of England,” he says with a twist of the lips that seems more sneer than smile.
“How can that be?” I am feeling most ignorant. I know Mistress Anne has stolen the king's heart but did not think she could be any more to him than I am to His Grace.
“Leave the particulars to me,” he says, pulling me toward him and covering my cheek with kisses. “You just plan your wardrobe and think about the day you will be attending Her Majesty, Queen Anne Boleyn.”
It is a heady thing, I think, being in the arms of this man who has the power to shape a kingdom and my life.
Lady Cathy's is a beautiful wedding, though small, and the festivities last through Shrovetide. She is Lady Derby now and conducts herself with the dignity her title requires. She sheds no tears upon leaving Kenninghall but bestows upon us the briefest of kisses, thanks her parents for supervising her upbringing, and departs.
There are no embraces, save for little Mary, who wraps her arms around her sister's waist and erupts into tears for which she is quickly reprimanded by her father. The child rights herself, sniffling and wiping her eyes, swallowing visibly as she watches Lady Derby embark on her happy venture.
The little boys are delighted, but I imagine it is only because there were so many festivities and they were allowed to stay up late and eat sweets. Their sister's happiness has little to do with it, and when she leaves, they do not feel the void as Mary and I do, a void that for me is made emptier when the duke announces he will be returning to court with Lady Elizabeth.
“Would that you didn't have to go,” I lament as I snuggle against his chest the night before he leaves. “Lady Cathy's leaving marks the beginning. Soon they will all be gone and I will be alone.”
“You'll always have me,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “And I am giving you your own apartments—no more servants' quarters for my Bess. Furnish them however you wish. Make a luxurious little nest for us. Fill them with whatever you like—tapestries, carpets, anything.”
I tilt my face up toward him and offer a smile. “Thank you, dear lord,” I murmur, kissing his neck. “With my own little world to create, I can divert myself in making it beautiful. Mayhap I will be too busy to be lonely.”
The duke says nothing but continues stroking my hair.
I imagine loneliness is not a problem for such as him. When he is not with me, at least he can take comfort in his wife.
The End of an Era
Elizabeth Howard
T
homas dotes on that harlot Bess Holland with the same enthusiasm King Henry demonstrates for Anne Boleyn. They make me sick, the pair of them. Here they are, a king and a duke with everything and both made mad by two lowborn girls, neither of whom can be called great beauties.
After my daughter's wedding we return to court, where I promptly remove to the queen's side while Thomas plots his niece's rise and Wolsey's fall (the latter of which I can't help but support). Queen Catherine is my only refuge now and my heart aches for her as much as it does for my own daughter. Though I am happy to see Cathy secure, I miss her. Our visits to Kenninghall were infrequent, but she was always there, my sanity in a world that had become swallowed up in my husband's lust for another. Now there was no one to rescue me from it, no respite in my Cathy's apartments, that one place at Kenninghall where grace and refinement still existed. Letters are too few and far between and a pitiful replacement for my girl.
And so, with a loneliness more acute than ever before, I throw myself into the service of my queen, who seems my only friend in this world.
Today the queen has requested me alone to sit with her while she embroiders. I sort thread and try not to think of my Cathy, or Thomas and Bess Holland.
The queen is forty-three years old but looks at least ten years older, so aged by her husband's antics has she become. Shadows circle her eyes; her face is puffy. The weight she has gained appears awkward on a frame that is meant to be thin. As I regard her I wonder if I am looking into my own future. Will the misery my Thomas inflicts render my image the same?
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” the queen asks when she notes me scrutinizing her. I bow my head in shame.
“I do not know to what Your Grace refers,” I say.
She offers a laugh without joy. “Oh, my dear lady duchess, there is no reason to lie to me. I've known you far too long. It has been a long journey for the two of us, has it not?”
I nod, my throat swollen with tears.
“You have been my faithful little maid since you were twelve years old,” she says, reaching out to stroke my cheek. The gentle gesture causes warm tears to spill over; they course down my cheeks unchecked. “And you have been an example of loyalty and devotion. We have suffered much, you and I, at the expense of those who profess to love us. There are times when it would seem most appropriate to yield, to give in—to take the easy path. But God did not walk the easy path, did He?”
I shake my head.
“He likewise did not promise us, as Christians, an easy time of it. However, my dear duchess, it is what is at the end of the path that makes this struggle worthwhile.” Her voice is husky with fervency.
I lean into her hand, trying to suppress the sobs that are rising in my chest. “But, Your Grace, do you really think there is something at the end of the path? What if . . . what if there is nothing there?”
“Losing faith, Lady Elizabeth?” she asks me, but her eyes are filled with compassion rather than judgment.
“I do not know,” I confess. “Oh, Your Grace, far be it from me to trouble you when you are enduring so much but—” My sobs burst forth, my chest heaves, my shoulders quake. I gasp and gulp like a child. “Forgive me, Your Grace—”
The queen sets her embroidery aside and gathers me in her arms. “Dearest girl,” she murmurs, kissing my hair. “What is it? Tell me, please. You are not burdening me. I am your queen and as your anointed queen I am also to be regarded as your loving mother. Tell me, darling, what is it?”
I gaze up into her sweet face, softened by compassion, and attempt to collect myself. “I fear I am suffering a similar situation as Your Grace. My lord husband has been . . . unfaithful and—and I do not know how to accept it.”
“You do not have to accept it, Elizabeth,” she says in firm tones, abandoning the strict protocol to which she adheres. “But you do have to forgive it, as I forgive His Majesty. It is what our Lord commands.”
I fall to my knees before her. “But how?”
“Through God's grace,” she tells me, taking my hands in hers. She expels a heavy sigh. “I know that my husband has been led astray by men made wicked by their own ambitions, that he does love me in his good and generous heart, and that, if he can be made to see the error of his ways, he will abandon these blasphemous plans in favor of what is right. Through fervent prayer and study, it is my hope that I can sway my husband from this evil path. You must do the same.”
“I do, oh, Your Grace, I do!” I insist. “But it is so different with my lord. Your husband seems to demonstrate some struggle with his conscience on this issue; mine does not. He knows what he is doing and it doesn't matter! He has no care or regard for me at all. He has installed this Bess Holland in our home and has given her fine apartments. He gives her everything her sinful heart could desire and, worst of all, let's her usurp my place in the children's hearts—they're so detached from me now, they are as good as strangers!” The depth of my sorrow has caused my strength to depart. My limbs are quivering. I wipe my eyes. “No . . . that is not quite true,” I add in quiet tones. “They were removed from me long before that. My Thomas and I both seem to have trouble—handling the children. I admit after losing my Edward it has been easier to create a sort of barrier between us. But to see Bess take that place, knowing everything else she has stolen from me . . .”
“So it is a matter of pride as well,” Her Grace observes.
“It is my greatest sin,” I confess.
“Mine as well,” she says with a sad smile. “It breeds stubbornness. But it also gives us the will to endure these dark times.” She draws in a deep breath, then regards me with a steady gaze. “Elizabeth, as Mistress Anne is a symbol of problems arising long before her entrance into our lives, I believe this Holland woman is the same for you. The real matter lies between you and His Grace. If you can solve that, perhaps your marriage can be made happy once more.”
Once more?
I think with an edge of desperation. I look down at the embroidery threads and begin to sort through them to bring comfort to my fidgety hands. “We are forever at odds,” I tell her. “I do not know how to overcome that. It seems he deliberately believes the exact opposite of me just to spite me.”
“He is a determined man, an ambitious man,” the queen says. She lowers her eyes. “His position is not an easy one. He is the head of the Howard family. As such, he is witnessing the rise of his niece and feels obligated to support her, as that is what the king believes he needs. Your duke is nothing if not the king's man.” She closes her eyes a long moment. “Which brings me to the biggest obstacle between you and Lord Norfolk.” She opens her eyes. “Me.”
I am silent.
“Please, my lady, you will not insult me by agreeing,” she says with a bitter laugh. “It is true.” She cups my face. Tears stream unchecked down her cheeks. “Elizabeth, I am your anointed queen. I know you love and support me. But if you need to . . . if you need to abandon me for the sake of preserving your marriage, then you must.”
I recall my lord's promise to give up Bess Holland should I abandon the queen. But he is more attached to the curly-haired strumpet than ever. There is no guarantee that, should I cease to serve Her Grace, he would leave Bess now. And then what would I be left with? I would be left with no husband, no children who require me to be anything but a figurehead, and no friend. The notion is unthinkable.
I shake my head. “How could I desert Your Grace? I could not even pretend to do such a thing. I am your servant, always your servant. My loyalties cannot shift as easily as others—they
will
not. It is not a quality I choose in myself but something given.”
“But you must think of your husband,” the queen tells me in soothing tones. “And your family. You still have three children at home.”
I am shaking my head. “No, no. He is not mine. And the children,” I lament. “They are his. His and Bess Holland's. I have nothing but my service to you. Please, Your Grace, do not ask me to surrender it.”
She removes my hood, smoothing my hair and stroking the tears from my cheeks. “Oh, loyal Elizabeth, God will bless you for your devotion. You have chosen a course most difficult. To serve an anointed queen is a higher calling than that of wife and mother. But you will be rewarded. I promise you. We must remember God's word, which I have told you many a time, that long-suffering produces perseverance. We will persevere, Elizabeth. And someday, we will know happiness for our strife.”
“You are very brave, Your Grace,” I comment. “I shall pray for your continued strength during your ordeal.”
She bows her head. “Yes. My ordeal.” She covers her mouth with her hand and grimaces as though in pain. “The trial will begin soon.” She lowers her hand, her face hardened with resolve. “God will see us through, Lady Elizabeth. He is on the side of right. And we are right!” Her voice wavers with sustained passion as she draws me into her arms again.
I seek comfort in the embrace of my queen, the woman who has remained the one constant throughout my life, and think if anyone deserves God on their side, it is she.
Thomas Howard
The legatine court at the priory of the Blackfriars in London opens on 31 May. There the fate of the divorce will be decided by two of the most idiotic men ever to wear cardinals' hats. Wolsey is as round as an apple and wheezes all the way to his chair, while gouty old Campeggio hobbles in beside him. They are pathetic and it grates my nerves just looking at them.
The court is called to order. His Majesty enters and takes his place on his throne of state. When the queen comes forth, it is not to sit beside him but to kneel before him.
It is obvious she is in pain for it takes her a moment to lower her trembling self to the floor. My heart is pounding as I regard her. I want to avert my eyes from her shame but cannot.
She raises her tear-streaked face to the king and begins in a voice smooth and soft, “Sire, I beseech you for all the love that has been between us and for the love of God, let me have justice and right. Take on me some pity and compassion, for I am a poor woman and a stranger born out of your domain.” She closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath, expelling it slowly before continuing to address a court silenced by this remarkable demonstration. “I love all those whom you loved only for your sake, whether I had cause or no, whether they were my friends or my enemies.” At this her eyes find me. They are lit with profound sadness and I swallow a painful knot of tears. “These twenty years I have been your true wife or more, and by me you have had many children, though it has pleased God to call them from this world, which has been no fault of mine.” This she says with sustained vehemence. “And when you had me at the first, I take God to be my judge, I was a true maid.” Her voice is soft, reminiscent, as though she is recalling a moment very tender, their wedding night perhaps. She raises her eyes to the king, who is gazing down at her with an expression of mingled shame and impatience. She shakes her head. “I knew no touch of men and whether it be true or no, I put it to your conscience.” She blinks several times. “It is a wonder to hear what new inventions are now invented against me, that never intended but honesty,” she says almost to herself. Then to the king, “I most humbly require you in the way of charity and for the love of God, who is the last judge, to spare me the extremity of this new court until I may be advertised what way and order my friends in Spain will advise me to take. And if you will not extend to me so much indifferent favor, your pleasure then be fulfilled and to God I commit my cause.”
The queen struggles to her feet, then dips into the deepest curtsy before her husband and, leaning on her receiver general's arm, leaves the court to the calls of the crier, who demands her return.
Outside, the cheers of the people can be heard shouting blessings to their anointed queen. I close my ears against their common voices and my eyes to what is now forever committed to memory, a great woman reduced to shame for the love of my black-eyed niece.
But I open my eyes soon enough. What is done is done. Whatever pity I feel for Catherine of Aragon must be put aside for a greater cause.
The king has risen. His face is wrought with sadness. “She has been to me as true, as obedient, and as conformable a wife as I could in my fantasy wish or desire. She has all the virtuous qualities that ought to be in a woman of her dignity or in any other of baser estate.”
I force back a twist of the lips as I imagine what my niece will make of this tribute.
His Majesty then proceeds to discuss his scruples. It is a heavy burden he carries, making this painful decision, but for the good of the succession and England, it must be made. His consistent argument remains in the fact that the queen consummated her marriage to Prince Arthur, which voids their union and has them living in a state of sin. It is a condition King Henry's delicate conscience cannot abide.

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