Rivals in the Tudor Court (35 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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“Don't worry so, Bess,” he tells me, pulling me into bed beside him. “Nothing can ever touch us, no matter what happens.”
I snuggle against him, taking comfort in his promise. Despite everything, I am glad to have him home. He is as good to me as ever, showering me with gowns and jewels.
I try to tell myself that I can ask for nothing more.
But I was right to worry. It is not long before the whole affair with the queen and her young gentleman is brought to light, thanks to the treachery of a reformist zealot whose sister served in the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk's home, where the little queen was raised. He informed the Archbishop of Canterbury that the queen was precontracted in marriage to a man now employed as her secretary, one Francis Dereham, who confessed under torture to the affair conducted at Norfolk House years before Her little Majesty ever set eyes on the king. It didn't take long for the rest of the story to come to light after that. Culpepper was soon arrested and confessed to his criminal knowledge of the queen, along with a music master who served the girl as a child and tried to tangle with her then. All pay for their crimes with death. It is a sick thing that wrenches my heart, for despite everything, I know the child is innocent. She was unfaithful, of that there is no doubt. But she was a girl, a little girl in a big world, a child-woman who wanted to love a normal man. Why must they make her pay for that?
I hate the king and any man who takes what he wants and cares not who he sacrifices in the process. I pity the girls who are powerless in the face of such destructive desire.
I shall not be powerless. I have waited long enough to take what I want. I know there is little hope of true happiness for me, but I will take what little I can from what is available to me.
I will have my day.
Thomas Howard, 1542
Foolish slut confessed to everything! How is it such stupid people can claim themselves my relations? Yet she is only sixteen. . . . What logic could she possibly possess? Oh, God . . . I will not think of it.
I have retained favor, convincing the king I was in no way aware of the girl's antics, shifting the entirety of the blame onto the bony shoulders of Jane Boleyn (who deserves to die anyway for betraying George and Anne), little Kitty, and her lover. Perhaps as a test of my loyalty, I am given the duty of going to her at Syon Abbey, where she has been removed, that I might read her the Act of Attainder that is also her death sentence.
She is so tiny in her gray gown, this child I used to pet and spoil, this baby queen of England. My gut lurches when I see hope light her tear-filled eyes.
“You came!” she cries. “Oh, you came! I knew you'd help me.” She wipes her nose with her sleeve and stares up at me, as though waiting for a reassurance that will never come. “I didn't mean to be a bad girl, Uncle Thomas. I didn't mean to love Thomas Culpepper, truly. And now the king has had him killed, him and poor Francis—” She chokes on a sob, burying her head in her hands a long moment, her little shoulders quaking. “I did love His Majesty. He was always so good to me. If I could just see him and talk to him, I know I could make him understand—”
I shake my head. “He doesn't want to see you, Kitty,” I tell her. “Not ever again. Don't you understand?”
“Will he put me away like he did Anne of Cleves? He was very kind to her. And he was so fond of me, like a father—”
I shake my head again. I cannot believe the girl is this naïve. “He wasn't your father, Kitty. He was your husband. He demanded the respect of a wife, not a daughter. What you did was treason, my . . . girl. You”—I swallow a frustrating onset of tears—“will not escape with your life.”
“No!” she cries, stricken.
I avert my head. “Now you come with me. I will be escorting you to the Tower.”
The little girl stares at me a moment, then runs toward me as if to offer an embrace. I back away.
“I'm afraid those days are gone,” I tell her, not wanting to risk being seen sympathizing with the girl before the guards, who would happily report my actions to the king.
Kitty stares at me openmouthed. Tears stream down her cheeks unchecked. She shakes her head, mystified. “Even you don't love me anymore, Uncle Thomas? Why?” Her voice grows shrill with panic as though the thought of my abandonment is a cross she cannot bear. “Why don't you love me anymore, Uncle Thomas?”
I cannot look at her. I turn on my heel and proceed to the barge while the guards carry the screaming Kitty in their arms. She has to be held down throughout our passage to the Tower.
Still I do not look at her.
I cannot.
Bess Holland
His Grace returns to me, silent and brooding. He did not stay to witness Queen Catherine's execution; I imagine he does not want to watch another of his nieces die and be forced to examine the depth of his own betrayal. For the first few days, he walks Storm, his old greyhound from the first Queen Catherine. They promenade, two lonely figures in the snow, and the duke looks up at the sky as though searching the clouds for some sign of redemption.
The exercise is too much for the retired greyhound and one morning when His Grace fetches him for his walk, the gentle dog does not raise its head to his whistle. It had died in the night.
This seems to send His Grace beyond the edge of reason. He collapses on top of the animal in a fit of sobs. “No!” he cries, gathering the creature in his arms. “No, damn it! Why do they all die?”
I go to him and rest my hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away from the dog. “Come, love, come . . .”
He raises his tear-streaked face up to me. “She was just a baby . . . she didn't know . . . Anne had all her wits about her; she played the game. She knew the risks. She wanted it badly enough not to care and, in the end, died more a queen than any of them, save perhaps Catherine of Aragon. But this little girl . . . this sweet little babe, she didn't know a damn thing. She just wanted her gowns and her pets and her jewels. . . . She wanted to go to court and play with her friends . . . and we took it away from her. . . . Oh, God!”
Fie on you!
I want to scream. I want to curse his self-pity and his regret and compassion, all arriving conveniently too late to save his Anne and his Kitty both. Now they are gone and he is left scrambling to figure out a means to worm his way back into the king's heart, gaining whatever he can in the process. Regret! Yes, now he regrets, now that he has almost lost it all. He won't feel so repentant when he has secured the king's affections again. Then this will all be an unpleasant memory.
Yet I know my duke and have I not avowed to love him despite the dark side of his nature?
So I calm myself. I call for a servant to remove and bury the dog, then guide His Grace to his bed, where we sit side by side. I rub his back and coo soft endearments in his ear.
“My brother and sister-in-law, even my old stepmother, were put in the Tower for a while,” he goes on, collecting himself. “The king will stop at nothing till all those who displease him are snuffed out. I cannot be in that number. You may think me evil for what I have had to do, but I will not be made a sacrifice to others' stupidity!”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” I say and find myself, in a peculiar way, understanding. “You must not think of these terrible things anymore, my lord,” I tell him. “You must think of the future, your great future. Haven't you always been able to rise above the rest?”
He stares straight ahead, determination replacing the tears in his black eyes.
“Now,” I tell him, pouring him a large draught of red wine. “You're going to drink some wine and I am going to make you feel better like I always do.”
“My sweet Bess,” the duke murmurs, pulling me to his chest. Despite everything I know about this man, I wrap my arms about him. He has for years been the only home I have ever known and likely will be for life. Never will I understand why I love him, why in his absence there is relief and yearning, and why, even when I am angriest at him, he can almost justify the vilest of actions. What choice did he really have but to betray those poor girls? He can't die. He is the head of the Howard family and God knows young Surrey is not ready to fulfill that obligation yet. In his situation, would I not be forced to do the same?
After the duke has partaken of his wine, I turn down the covers and pat the vacant spot beside me. He crawls in, pulling me into his arms and covering my face with soft, gentle kisses.
I smile. I have not forgotten the dual purpose of this evening and as I give myself to His Grace, I know I am taking at last what has long been owed me.
Blossom of Hope
Bess Holland
I
t has worked! I am with child at last! His Grace has not been informed yet, though the baby has long since quickened. To my good fortune, my full figure conceals my pregnancy for the first four months and I do not share the news with a soul, not even Mary Fitzroy, who is too busy entertaining the king's niece Margaret Douglas to notice the changes in me.
But I cannot hide it forever. When my duke notes my weight gain (wrinkling his nose and declaring I shall have to watch myself) I offer my sweetest smile.
“I'm afraid that will have to wait until after your baby is born,” I tell him.
He loses all expression, then sits on the bed. He draws in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Do you expect me to be happy about this, Bess, after I explicitly told you never to take this course?”
I lay a protective hand on my belly, swallowing hard, trying to choose my words with care. “I know, my lord, and I apologize. I did not mean for it to happen, of course. God meant it to. And now that it has, I am so happy. I do not care that I am unmarried.”
“What about the child?” he demands. “Have you thought of it at all? Everyone will know it is my bastard, and the child will be forever branded the son of a whore.”
“I will make certain the child grows up surrounded by love,” I tell him. “I shall live a quiet life. I—want to live a quiet life, Your Grace.”
“I will not acknowledge it,” he tells me.
I bow my head.
He holds his hand out to me. I take it. “I shall send you to the manor in Lincolnshire I gave you last year, for the rest of your confinement. The child, of course, once it is born, will be installed at Norfolk House and raised with a proper family.”
My heart begins to pound. My cheeks are hot and tingling. I cannot breathe. “What? No! For love of Jesus, why?”
“Because, Bess, it isn't right! The child needs a mother and father!” he shouts. “Keeping you as my mistress is one thing, but I'm not about to let you pop out a string of bastards for me to support! I did not choose you to be my breeder—I did not choose you to share yourself with anyone else! I wanted you for myself,” he adds in softer tones. Tears stand bright in his obsidian eyes. “You do not know, you cannot know how painful bringing a child into this world is, Bess. In my life I have had nine children between both wives, and three survived. Three. Bess,” he pleads, taking my hands in his. “Can't you see I'm trying to spare you?”
I sit beside him and take him in my arms. “Whatever heartbreak that God has set aside for me, I am ready to bear. But if it pains you too much, then you must not acknowledge it,” I murmur, touched by his attempt at thoughtfulness. “Take it on as a ward.”
He pulls away, rising with abruptness. Laughing a grating, shrill sound that makes me cringe in horror, he says, “A ward! One only takes on a ward if there is something to be gained from it! What could I gain from your child?” He turns away. “God, Bess, why did you do this to me?”
“To you? Why did I do this—to
you?
” I scream, all previous pity lost in the face of my fury that is at last unleashed as I behold the man who has controlled my every move since I was fifteen years old. “I suppose I have never given you any reason to believe that everything I have done has not been for or about you, Your Grace. So it may come as a shock that I have held fast to dreams of my own these past years.” I swallow the painful lump rising in my throat, continuing in soft tones. “The only dream that ever seemed possible of making a reality is that of having a child of my own to love. It won't need a father if that is a role you cannot play. I will love it enough for both of us.”
He turns, shaking his head. “No, Bess. No. I will not allow it. With time, you will understand why and thank me for it. The child will be installed at Norfolk House.” He furrows his brow, scowling. “Stop looking at me that way!”
My eyes are wide with saddened bewilderment. “How could I be so wrong? I thought . . . I thought that because of the love you bore me, it would be natural for you to cherish our child. I know how difficult it has been for you with the duchess and your other children. But I thought—I hoped with us it would be different.”
His Grace's face softens. He rests his hand on my shoulder, seizing my chin between thumb and forefinger and tilting my face toward his. “It is not as though I am turning it out into the street. It will be well provided for. I will see to its every need and secure for it as good a future as its station permits. So you must see how I care. But it cannot be how you envision; you must have known that. However, you may visit as often as you like as its auntie. Now. This subject is closed.”
“Marry me off!” I seethe in desperation. His eyes widen. “Select a husband. You are powerful enough to find someone to take me, even in my condition. Marry me off and the child will have a proper set of parents.”
“Are you daft?” he asks. “You would leave all this?”
All this?
I want to scream. Can he be serious? What is it he has given me that really matters? Will any of it accompany me to Heaven, should I ever be fortunate to be allowed within its gates? I say none of these things, however. Instead I glower at him, saying in low tones, “I shall run away.”
“And where would you go?” he asks, all gentleness replaced with his celebrated sarcasm as he mocks me with his sardonic smile. “How would you support yourself? You know everything I have given you would remain here. Who would help you? My daughter? Surely not. She would not risk my displeasure. Your father and brother? Do you think they would assist you in any way? They would be disgusted. You are nothing to them but a commodity; once you have lost your worth, you are completely dispensable and they would dispense with you to keep my favor, have no doubt. Haven't they already? No, Bess Holland, there is no place for you to run. No place where you would not be known as Norfolk's castoff whore. So what choice would you have but to become what you are best at? Working the streets of London and the like—”
“Shame on you!” I cry, hurling myself at him once more and clawing at his chest. “I have loved you all these years without asking for a thing in return and you would talk to me this way, you would do these terrible things to me? You are vile, Lord Norfolk. You are worse than the king. At least His Majesty kills those he claims to love; he does not curse them to linger in various states of misery and despair as you have allowed the duchess, Mary, and I to do!”
He disentangles himself from me. “Calm yourself at once, Bess, and apologize. You forget your place.”
My place. Yes, I have forgotten my place.
I sit on the bed, exhausted. I bow my head. I know he is right. I cannot run away. I have done wrong. He told me years ago he wanted none of my children and I disobeyed him. No, there is no running away. My child deserves a better life than what I alone could provide.
But to give in . . . surely there is another way. . . .
I raise my head, beholding the duke again. Despite his fine form, he is old. He will not live forever. I shall bide my time, play auntie to my own child until he leaves this world and I can take back what is mine. There is no other way to play this game. After watching the duchess, I know too well what the duke is capable of and will risk neither my life nor that of this innocent child. So I will be sweet, acquiescent Bess. Obedient Bess. Till my blessed release from this man's insane translation of love.
“I'm sorry, Your Grace,” I say, forcing sincerity into my tone. “I was very wrong.”
He cups my cheek. “Good girl.” He pauses a moment. “And if I said anything unkind, it was to remind you of the reality of your circumstances and illustrate how
others
would perceive you. Not me. Never me. You know that, don't you, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Of course I do.”
“Now,” he tells me. “Let me hold you. You've always been my sensible girl. We'll sort this problem out together and you'll feel better in time.”
This problem. His child is
this problem
. But in the deepest recess of my heart, how could I expect him to view it as anything other than an inconvenience, an annoyance? Oh, what have I done? Why have I allowed myself to be tangled in this web of hopelessness? Why didn't I run away years ago, when I was young and comely and could have had my pick of men? Now I am older, my hair is dull, and I am far too sturdy to be called shapely. And he is right about my family. They would be no help to me at all if it meant losing favor with their sacred employer. I would have nothing, no money, no family. No friends, for every friend I've ever had was bought and paid for by the duke. Every hope I have lies with this man. There is nothing to be done. Tears pave slick, cool trails down my cheeks as I yield to the helplessness enveloping me like a shroud.
In this state I allow myself to be enfolded in his arms, Norfolk's good girl to the end.
I am sent to Lincolnshire to spend the rest of my confinement. To His Grace's credit, he could not have chosen a better family to foster my child, nor could he have chosen a more capable midwife. Tsura Goodman has been bringing Howards into the world for almost fifty years; indeed, she delivered some of my lord's children, and knowing this creates an instant bond, for I never forget his children are the siblings of the little one stirring within me.
She is a marvel, this Gypsy woman. One would never think someone as wizened and weathered as she could still bring children into this world. To look at the dark, frail creature who squints so hard her eyes have become little slits in her head and to watch her hobble about with her cane, one would not consider her capable of doing much of anything at all. But never do I doubt her abilities. She is so reassuring; she does not judge me or ask unkind questions. She is full of energy, waking before the sun and falling asleep long after the rest of the household. It is as though she is the Great Mother keeping watch over everyone, making certain we are all quite tucked in and safe before she lets herself rest. To know her is to instantly love her. We pass many hours sitting by the fire and talking of this and that. I can cry with her. I can laugh with her. She is the mother and grandmother I never had.
Her grandson Alec Goodman is having a child due about the same time as mine and they have left their posts at Norfolk House to attend me. His young bride, Jenny, will serve as foster mother to my child; from her breast it will receive nourishment, from her lips it will receive comfort. . . . Oh, God, it kills me to think of it.
Yet they are kind people and if I cannot be there to raise my child, I cannot think of anyone more appropriate. They are excited about the prospect. Jenny understands; while she does not act overeager to take my child from my arms, she demonstrates a sincere wish to care for it as she would her own. I try to tell myself I can do this. I have to; he has given me no other choice. At least I am reassured that my child will be in loving, capable hands.
“I read his palm once, your duke,” old Tsura tells me one evening as I sew baby clothes by the fire. “Quite against his will,” she adds with a laugh. “All I saw in it was the power, that terrible power of his.” She shudders. “It will undo him. Take care not to let it undo you.”
“But it has undone me,” I tell her brokenly.
Tsura shakes her head. “No, Bess,” she says. “You are not undone. You are a clever one, far more so than you give yourself credit for. You will know at the crucial moment when to rely on that cleverness; he will not get the best of you, Bess Holland. I promise you that.”
Hope stirs in my breast. I lay a hand on my belly. The baby kicks against my palm as if on cue and I emit a soft laugh. This is something His Grace can never take away from me, this feeling of a babe in my womb, the life he gave me, a gift that far surpasses any jewel he ever could bestow.
“Do you see this in a vision, my lady?” I ask her.
Tsura only smiles.
Somehow it is enough. This bit of power she has given me, this power of a promise, gives me hope that I will be happy. Someday . . .
Jane Elizabeth Goodman is born in the spring of 1543 when the king takes Catherine Parr to wife. His latest marriage has little affect on me when I hold my tiny girl in my arms, this small black-haired imp who gazes at me with her father's eyes. She is the image of him and thus her cousin Anne Boleyn as well. It is a startling resemblance that no one can mistake. She is Norfolk's daughter. Norfolk's and mine. This gives me a strange satisfaction and I question it. Is it that I love him still? How can I not love the father of my child? Is this what Duchess Elizabeth feels; is this why she could never divorce him, because of the bond she feels with the father of her children? Yet the father of our children is His Grace, this cruel, brutal man who loves nothing more than his own self. We are fools to feel anything for him. Yet we have been bound to him since childhood; he is all of love we have ever known. He is our past, our present, and, through these children, our future. There is naught to do but love him, if only for that.

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