Rivals in the Tudor Court (37 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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The two princes are here as well, my little murdered brothers-in-law. Yes, they are here, forever children, and they look up at me, their eyes pleading.
Why?
they ask me. Why do the innocent perish while evil reigns supreme?
Because, children, there are people like me in this world, and as long as there are, the innocent will expire. There is no room for innocence, no room for the pure. God calls the good to His bosom and leaves existence to the rest of us.
My princess comes. She stands at the foot of my bed, her face wrought with sadness. Her eyes assault me with questions.
What happened to you?
You died,
I answer. You died and left me alone! Any chance of redemption resides somewhere in the faery country, never to be reclaimed.
I reach out to touch her, but as with all these specters, she fades away and I am grasping air.
I lie back in bed, throwing my arm over my eyes to blot out the images. Tears wet my sleeve. Someone is screaming from the dungeons below.
Surely I am in Hell.
In March I am granted a better “suite” of rooms with servants to attend me, clothing befitting my station, and more freedom. I can now take brief walks with the lieutenant. I am even permitted a visit from my wife. I had not seen her in years and find myself struck by her beauty. Her figure is as trim as a girl's; her dark hair is lustrous without a streak of gray, her skin is so smooth. . . . My God, did I never see it? How is it a woman her age can be so beautiful and well preserved? Though she betrayed me, a fact I will never forget, I am glad to see her. Our exchange is full of the same biting wit and I am rejuvenated.
We do not spend much time discussing Surrey; it is a topic far too painful for both of us. Instead she is thrilled to inform me of Bess's impending wedding. I hide my shock behind an impervious mask and let Elizabeth revel in her triumph. But when she leaves, I sink onto the bed and stare at the wall, allowing icy tears to slither down my cheeks. Bess has not waited even six months to secure a match. How could I have not perceived the depth of her hatred?
Elizabeth was right to mock me. What a laughingstock I have become.
She returns now and again, sometimes with my Mary, sometimes without. I cannot help it. My heart races when she enters the room. When she arrives one autumn afternoon with an armful of books, I must refrain from running to her.
She stands smart in her russet gown, looking at least ten years younger than her fifty years. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief and mockery.
“For your pleasure, my lord,” she tells me, handing me the books. “I was told you said you couldn't sleep the past dozen years without reading. Surely you do not count the Scriptures among your repertoire?”
I laugh. “I memorized enough verse to instill guilt in the children. It does not suit me to delve further.”
She graces me with a smile and I am reminded of the little girl I danced with so many years ago. “No, I suppose it would be rather hypocritical,” she says.
“So,” I begin. “It seems all I own has been plundered by the Seymours and their vultures. My lands, my jewels, everything.”
“Yes,” she replies. “What doesn't belong to the Crown has been divided among Somerset and his cronies. It's a sad day for the Howards.” Her face registers genuine pity. “But I have done fair enough and have a little to sustain me. Bess was compensated as well for her troubles,” she is compelled to add.
I stifle a scathing retort. With the lieutenant never far away, I am not able to be as free in my speech as I could have been were we alone.
“Everyone profits from another's demise,” I comment.
“You certainly did,” she says. “For many years.”
“I suppose I did,” I agree.
“You know, you're still handsome as the very Devil,” she says in low tones. She approaches me and takes my hands. A lump swells in my throat. I swallow several times. “All those years of cavorting with him has done you some good,” she adds as she leans forward to kiss me. I return it. Her lips are soft and familiar, filled with that old fire and passion. I find myself wrapping my arms about her slim frame and pulling her close. I want her. Suddenly, there is no one on earth I want more than this woman, my wife.
We clasp each other a long moment. There is a tap at the door. Her visit is at an end.
She draws back, offering that same mocking smile before turning away. As she reaches the door, I am compelled to say, “Elizabeth . . . do you remember when you were but a girl and we were celebrating the birth of poor Catherine of Aragon's little prince?” She pauses, her back still turned to me. “The crowds turned wild and stole our clothes. Thomas Knyvet was bare-arsed by the end of that affair.”
She offers a slight laugh, turning to face me. Her blue eyes are soft with tears. “Those old crones were stealing my sleeves when you rescued me. I thought you were a hero then.”
I bow my head. I cannot bear looking at her. “Elizabeth . . .”
“Yes, Thomas?” she asks in a small voice. If I closed my eyes, I'd believe she was the little twelve-year-old I rescued all those years ago.
What is there to say? Sorry? Am I sorry? If I had the chance to do it all again, wouldn't I do everything the same way? There is no going back, no righting wrongs. There are no second chances.
“Take care, Elizabeth,” I tell her.
She turns her head and nods before quitting the room, leaving me alone again.
Bess Holland Reppes
I am married! I am a bride and a happier bride cannot be found. The world is full of beauty and hope and my husband's gentle love. I am thirty-seven years old but run with the love madness of a girl. Within six months of marriage, my womb has quickened with his child and we await the birth of our baby with joy. The midwife—how I wish it were Tsura Goodman—is a woman ten years my junior, but she is capable and kind. I tell my husband—oh, the pleasure of saying that word,
husband
—I will have no wet nurses about. I will care for my own child, and all the children who follow, myself. He does not fight me on a thing. How strange to have such an agreeable partner!
I have not forgotten the duke or his family. Henry is teaching me to read and write, and Mary Fitzroy and I keep correspondence. She is very patient with my poor spelling and worse handwriting! She tells me she has been awarded custody of her late brother's five children and has removed to Reigate to raise and educate them. There she has found respite with her aunt and uncle and is enjoying a friendship with the children's tutor, John Foxe. She is most happy with the religious reforms King Edward VI's government is making. Always a devout girl, Mary is finally allowed the freedom of practicing the Protestant faith. She has found peace at last, and my heart surges with happiness for my dear friend.
I have not made many new friends yet. My husband and I have been far too involved with each other to socialize, which suits me well. There will be plenty enough time for that later.
This pregnancy is too hard on me to entertain as it is. Often I have the queer sensation that the baby is going to fall out of me. It sits so low in my belly that I am fraught with discomfort. Unlike my easy confinement with Jane, I am ill most of the time with bad bile and cannot take in much nourishment. My husband dotes on me, feeding me broth with his own hand and swabbing my burning forehead with cool cloths whenever I take a fever.
I thank God on my knees every day that He has been so forgiving, that, despite my past sins with the duke, I am still allowed to know this great love.
“You are happy, Mrs. Reppes?” my husband likes to ask as he rubs my swollen belly.
I look up into his gentle blue eyes, eyes that do not know how to deceive, eyes that cannot conceive of cruelty, and tell him, “Yes, Mr. Reppes—there is no woman on earth so happy as me.”
And there isn't.
Elizabeth Howard
Antagonizing Thomas in the Tower assuages my grief for Surrey; indeed it is about as close to Heaven as I have ever gotten. I cannot help it. I thrive on our visits. Knowing he is a prisoner as I was for so many years fills me with a sweet sense of satisfaction that I know is unholy. Despite this I cannot deny myself the immense pleasure I derive from his misery.
And yet when I see him, my breath catches in my throat. I kiss him, I embrace him, we fire back our timeless witticisms and insults and I know that whatever has been between us, I am relieved he has not been killed. I am glad he is safe and made to reflect upon his many sins. I pray he will receive forgiveness. As time passes I realize that I do not wish any more ill will on Thomas Howard.
When not with Thomas, I enjoy the freedom I have not known these past thirteen years. I visit my sisters and their families. I have even called upon Catherine and Ralph. No more does my heart race for the earl of Westmorland. I am at peace.
In the spring of 1548 I receive a most unusual dispatch from a breathless messenger of one JP called Henry Reppes. The name rings familiar. Reppes. Yes, of course. Bess Holland's husband. What on earth could they want with me?
I take the dispatch with trembling hands.
Lady Norfolk,
I do not write well and my hand is very poor but I knew I must find some way to reach you. I have taken ill unto death. I have no right to ask anything of you but I pray God works forgiveness in your heart and you will see me. Please come straight away. There is much to say and little time.
Your obedient servant,
Elizabeth Reppes
Bess is ill—gravely ill. I repeat this to myself several times. My rival of twenty years, the woman who put me out of house and home, the woman who claimed my husband's heart almost above all others and drove him to distraction, wants to see me. Why? Does she seek absolution for her many grievous sins? What gives me the authority to grant it?
And yet if I do not go to her, what kind of Christian am I? Does not the Lord command us to forgive in order to be forgiven? What kind of courage must Bess possess to seek me out and make peace?
But do I forgive her? I want to be a good Christian. Catherine of Aragon forgave Anne Boleyn and the king even as she rallied against their ill-fated liaison. Have I not always striven to follow my long-suffering queen's example? Is this not what she would want me—no,
command
me—to do?
I am not going to her of my own will. As I call for my cloak and coach, I realize a force much stronger than I is drawing me to the deathbed of Elizabeth Holland Reppes.
I go in secret, taking only my most faithful servant to attend me. I do not know what my family and friends would make of the visit so decide discretion is the best course. I laugh at the irony. For years I did the unthinkable, railing against a cherished system and airing my grievances to God and the king and anyone who would listen. And now I choose secrecy. Now my purpose is veiled in anonymity. But it is as it should be. God knows I am here, after all, and His is the only opinion that matters.
When I arrive at Mendham, I am led to Bess's bedchamber. She lies there, white-blond hair matted to her forehead with sweat, eyelids fluttering as she mutters something incoherent to the nurse who swabs her forehead. Her agonized husband sits beside her, gripping her hand, tears streaming down his handsome face.
“Oh, Bess, Bess, Bess,” he murmurs over and over. “Don't leave me, please don't leave me. . . .”
“The Duchess of Norfolk,” announces a servant as I am shown into the room.
Henry Reppes rises and offers a bow.
I curtsy. “Dear sir, how sorry I am to meet you under these circumstances.”
“There are no words to express my gratitude that you have chosen to come,” he tells me. “Bess has been calling for you these past three days.” His voice catches. “It has been a terrible time, my lady.”
“It is childbed fever.” It is not a question.
He nods as he dissolves into sobs.
“The baby?” I ask.
“Our son was born dead,” he informs me, burying his face in his hands.
I rush toward him, enfolding the poor man in my arms. “Oh, my dear, trust that God has taken him to His bosom,” I tell him, stroking his blond hair. “And understand from one who has lost much that you will know happiness and peace again. That you can get through this.”
He draws back, regarding me with bewildered blue eyes.
“Now go rest and take in some nourishment. I will keep company with Bess and send for you should her condition change,” I tell him.
In a haze the man allows himself to be escorted from the room by a doting steward.
I relieve the nurse, taking the cool cloth from her hand and swabbing Bess's forehead. Never in my wildest fantasies would I ever have seen myself in this place. And now that I am here, I derive no satisfaction from it, no perverse pleasure in my rival's suffering. I look upon her, this wronged girl, and see nothing but a woman who reached out for happiness. To my surprise I thank God that she found it, if only for a little while.

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