Rivals in the Tudor Court (33 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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One of the events I hold most dear in the beginning of Queen Anne's reign is the wedding of my beloved Mary Howard. It signifies so much for so many. For Queen Anne, it is establishing that Fitzroy is no longer a serious contender for the throne. For His Grace, it is the union of his child with that of a king—a most useful alliance. For Mary, it means a chance at happiness, God grant it. And for me, it means hope. Mary's little face radiates it and I absorb its light, knowing if she can forge happiness in this tempest, so can I.
At her wedding feast she dances with her father-in-law, the mightiest man in the world, King Henry VIII, and her husband, whom she is obviously very fond of, the sweet Harry Fitzroy. She dances with her father, and I watch him reach up to touch her hair.
The duke's eyes follow her all evening, enslaved by something I have never understood. It matters not where we are; when Mary is present, my lord has eyes only for her.
When I learn that he will not allow her and Fitzroy to live as man and wife, my gut churns in sympathy.
“Why won't you let her go?” I entreat him. “She would be much happier with her own household to run and ladies to attend her. Why, I could attend her! I would love it! Far more so than here—here it is so lonely and no one bears any love for me—”
His Grace's cheeks flush with a rage I thought to be reserved for anyone but me.
“Yours is an opinion not needed, Bess,” he tells me in his calm, even tone. “Best remember your place.”
I should never have challenged him. His word, after all, is always the last word. I bow my head, saddened less for Mary than I am over the thought that my opinion is not wanted, let alone needed, by the only man I am allowed to love.
Kenninghall
Elizabeth Howard, March 1534
“D
o you think I'm asking for your opinion on this?” Thomas's face is as red as a Tudor rose. His black eyes are narrow. They have developed a permanent squint from his ever-present scowl.
“Of course not!” I cry. “When have you ever asked my opinion on anything?” I add with a bitter laugh. “But as it is, I am giving it and my opinion is no. I will never grant you a divorce, not as long as there's breath in my body.”
Thomas hesitates a moment, as though entertaining the possible consequences of moving that process along, then bites his lip, slamming his fist on the desk. “Why? Why do you want to remain in this farce of a marriage?”
I shake my head, keeping my voice very low. “You are the king's man in every way, Thomas. Following his example to the letter. First taking a mistress, then hoping to set your lawful wife aside for her. I have given you five children, along with my tears and suffering. I will not give you Bess as a reward for my pain.”
“I'll give you whatever you want,” he tells me. “Most of my plate, my jewels, anything. Come now, don't be a fool. What do you expect to gain from our marriage?”
“My soul, a commodity you do not think much on,” I tell him. He flinches. “I may have to die to gain my reward, but it is worth it to watch you writhe. You will not have everything, Thomas. You think because your niece is on the throne and your daughter is married to a king's bastard that you can rule the world, but you have never been able to rule my heart. Never. And that is why you hate me, isn't it? Because you cannot control me like you control Bess and Mary. I will not give you your divorce, Thomas Howard, and make our children illegitimate. You will not have your happy ending, you can count on it, even if I have to appeal to the king himself.”
Thomas shakes his head. “Very well, then, Elizabeth. You give me no choice. You may remain my wife but as my obedient wife—being so fond of the Lord's commandments, I imagine you will recall the verse about wifely submission—you are no longer permitted use of Kenninghall or any of my other estates save Redbourne. You will retire there, Lady Norfolk, and cling to the knowledge that you are my wife. Either way, I shall be quite happy, I can assure you. I had just thought to give you this opportunity so you can seek out some happiness of your own—it is clear we have some . . . er, how would you phrase it mildly? Differences of opinion?” He shrugs. “But I should have known you would take the hard road, as always. Such a fool.” He reaches out, tracing my jawline. His eyes mist over. He turns away. “Elizabeth, it wasn't that I didn't care for you . . .” He shakes his head violently, then straightens his back, squaring his shoulders. “You need time. I understand. Why should all this be decided today, after all? It is a lot to take in. I feel it only fair that I give you the opportunity to reconsider.”
Thomas takes my arm and begins to escort me out of my apartments down the hall toward one of the turrets of Kenninghall, where he throws me into one of the barren chambers with such force I land on the cold stone floor.
“You may think about it in here, where there are no distractions,” he tells me. Then, his voice still as calm as if he were planning out the menu for a feast, he calls the servants. “Please remove the duchess's apparel and jewels. I do not want any distractions. She is greatly afflicted in her mind.”
Stripped to my shift and humiliated, I draw my knees up to my chest. “You'll be cursed for this, Thomas,” I tell him in quiet tones that are fervent with conviction. “God will see that you pay.”
Thomas shrugs. “What more can God do to me?” he counters. “Now. I'm leaving you, my dear. I'll let you and God work it out in here. I will give you ample time to make the right decision.”
With an exaggerated bow, Thomas quits the room. I hear the turn of the key and at last allow the tears to fall.
If I had not been before, there is no doubt now—I am my husband's prisoner.
But I choose to be. For if I grant him his divorce, no amount of his plate will compensate for the fact that I will be left with nothing. No children, no family to side with me. Nothing. No one.
If I have become vengeful, then so be it. I will not yield to his desires. No matter how ill used I have been, he will not have it all. He will have to kill me first.
And so after a month's imprisonment without straying from my initial decision in regard to his desired divorce, I am removed to Redbourne. Another mixed blessing. No one abuses me here and I am left in peace.
But I am completely isolated. No gentlemen visit me and very few gentlewomen, save whom my lord appoints. Even from afar his hand extends to daily life and I am allowed no true friends.
It is a very lonely life.
Bess Holland
I didn't know one could be so lonely amidst this many people. But with a court who regards me as the previous court regarded Queen Anne, and a duke who has very little time for me, I find more often than not that I am alone, longing for something I cannot identify. I ache and yearn but know not for what. Every need is satisfied. The duke keeps me dressed in the best and I am adorned with the most beautiful jewels one could ever set eyes upon, but still my gut churns with a desire for . . . what?
And then it comes to me, the answer, in the form of a bonny babe with soft red curls and piercing black eyes. Princess Elizabeth, cherished daughter of Queen Anne and a source of great disappointment to king and country. Her birth changes everything for everyone. It softens Queen Anne's eyes as much as it hardens the king's. It frustrates the duke and causes the kingdom to scoff and curse.
As for myself, it serves as the embodiment of all of my hopes. A child. I long for a child of my own to love.
When I broach the subject with His Grace, he laughs.
“Don't be a fool!” he cries, holding my face in his elegant hands and kissing my nose. “You can play with any number of children if you long for such a thing and have the convenience of returning them to their proper owners afterward. And I will not allow you to have a child out of wedlock.”
“But I do everything else out of wedlock!” I cry.
The duke gathers me in his arms. “Now, now, Bess, do not make an issue of this. You do not want to risk my displeasure, do you, sweetheart?” He pulls away, looking into my tear-streaked face and tilting my chin up to face him. “Be a good girl, Bess, as you have always been to me. Be my good, sweet girl.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I sob.
From that day on, the duke is very careful about ensuring that I do not become with child.
I am not the only one with that longing. Denied the joy of living as a true wife, Mary Howard Fitzroy seems to grow more wistful with each passing year. And poor Queen Anne, in an effort to bring England a prince, suffers three miscarriages and the waning affections of her husband. He treats her with the same disregard he treated his first wife, taking on mistress after mistress until he has become enamored with one of her ladies-in-waiting, the painfully pious Jane Seymour. My lord hates this development and curses his rival family with vehemence, but he is powerless to stop what happens next.
The king will rid himself of his precious Anne Boleyn, who is now branded a witch and whore. Even her new pregnancy does not stop his pursuit of the meek and mild Lady Jane.
Then in January 1536, the former queen Catherine of Aragon dies. In a celebratory joust, the king falls from his horse, suffering severe injuries. It is left to His Grace to inform my lady.
Thomas Howard
Damn, damn, damn! All she had to do was have a boy. Is that too much to ask? Heaven and much of earth was moved in order to install this bitch as queen of England and she has proven a constant failure to us all. Since she came to power, England has been thrust into chaos. Thomas More, my sweet friend, adhered to his mighty principles and martyred himself to the axe rather than sign an oath acknowledging her as queen and her children as the true heirs to the throne. It was just as he said—he died first. Maybe I will be next. . . . No. No, I will never be next because I know how to play the game. More did not. He perished along with old Bishop Fisher and several monks, all of them far too good ever to have been thrust into this world to begin with. I suppose death was rather like going home to them.
I sobbed when they died. Stupid men! God curse the high and mighty!
My sweet More is dead and for what? For a barren queen who is a stain on the Howard name and a useless girl-child. Why did King Henry have to have her so badly? Why couldn't he have been satisfied with Queen Catherine? God knows a better queen will not be found, not ever. But I will not think of her. I will not think of her face upon our last meeting, her hand on my cheek, her dignity in the face of such grand scale disrespect. . . . No. It serves me not. Oh, had we but known she would pass this year, he could have remarried and had a baby then! The cruelty of fate!
I am through with Anne. It is clear she has little time left on her throne before the fickle king takes up with the Seymour slut. I must begin my detachment from her. I am not a fool. I know when to stand aside and how to retain favor.
When the king is injured on the tiltyard, it is my unpleasant duty to inform the queen. I storm into her apartments, staring the disappointment in the face.
“The king has been wounded and will most likely die,” I tell her.
“No!” she cries. “And I? What will become of me?” Her obsidian eyes make an appeal to me as she rises and strides toward me, taking my hands in hers. “Shall I be regent till the princess attains her majority?”
I offer a bitter laugh. “Are you truly so deluded?” I shake my head. “Think you not on any of that. That is a nightmare unworthy of entertaining at present. No, Your Majesty,” I add with a trace of mockery. “You have only one duty, to give us a prince. If you can do that, perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
“And if I don't?” she cries.
“Then God save you,” I tell her. “For no one else will.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide with horror as she doubles over, cradling her swollen belly. “Oh, God, Uncle Thomas!” She offers a groan that causes me to back away in terror. “The baby is coming! Please help me!”
“Fetch a midwife!” I cry and remove myself from her presence.
Despite what I know in my heart, I pray for her. Her destruction, after all, could spell my own.
The delivery of her stillborn monster confirms it. Anne's days are numbered.
The king recovers, sustaining a leg wound but no worse for wear and more determined than ever to be rid of who he now refers to as The Witch. In April, charges are contrived against six men for having criminal knowledge of the queen. One of them is her own brother. Charges are then brought against Anne: witchcraft, plotting to poison Lady Mary, adultery, treason, and incest. The last is needless and horrid. I am sickened.
The task of interrogating and arresting her falls upon me. She does not argue with me for once but carries herself with the dignity of her station, declaring her innocence with cool control and allowing me to escort her to the Tower, her arm looped through mine.
“I have no choice, Anne,” I tell her. “Believe me.”
“Of course you don't. You are a Howard, after all,” she says, her voice laced with irony. I am reminded of my last conversation with Queen Catherine, when I told her I had no choice but to abandon her as well. But I didn't have a choice. Not then and not now.
What can I do but be the king's man, else lose my own head?
Four of the six men arrested are killed, either hung, drawn and eviscerated, or sacrificed to the axe. I preside over the trials. It is my duty to the king, and God knows I do my duty well. At this crucial hour, it is vital I am viewed as nothing but King Henry's loyal servant.
My nephew George was among those killed, my proud handsome nephew who dared read his charges aloud, charges brought against him by his treacherous wife, Jane. I sentence him to death, as is the king's pleasure. All of it is for his pleasure.
Anne is tried as well. I preside and watch my niece carry herself with more dignity than ever before. If she did not live as a queen, she dies as one.
I find her guilty as do the rest of her peers and am forced to sentence her to death by beheading or by burning, again at the king's pleasure.
I weep looking at her. Not only for my lost opportunities but for the baby I once held in my arms so many years ago at her baptism, the baby who challenged me with her steady black gaze so like my own.
There is naught to do but witness her beheading, holding that black gaze till she is blindfolded. I do not look away, not even as the French sword cuts through her swanlike neck and the crimson blood pours onto the straw below, red as rubies.
At once I am reminded of my daughter Mary's childhood dream of a pretty lady wearing a ruby necklace that drips blood. . . . Can it be the child possessed that frightening gift known as the second sight? If so, what horror has she forecast for the house of Howard? I shake my head, closing my eyes against the horrific thought. It was a dream, a horrible dream and a queer coincidence. These reflections do me no good. There is nothing to be done. Anne is dead. Gone. And with her my hope of a Howard sitting the throne of England.

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