Secrets of the Tudor Court (10 page)

My heart is racing. I pray my cheeks are not flushed. “Master Dane, a pleasure to see you. I am well, thank you.”

“Can you spare a moment?” he asks.

I know I should attend Anne, but my feet remain rooted in place. I wrestle with my conscience but a moment, before following Cedric into a chamber where there are many various instruments: virginals, a lute, a harp.

“We practice here,” Cedric tells me. “At least it resembles practice.” He sits behind the virginals and begins playing effortlessly, a haunting melody that calls to mind lost love and distant dreams.

“It’s lovely,” I tell him. “Is it your own?”

“Yes.” I admire how he does not have to look at the keys. That is something I am working on as yet. He regards me with a carefree smile. His eyes, those strange, violet-tinged eyes, sparkle. I feel a bubble of laughter catch in my chest.

“It needs a bit of work, though,” he says. “I haven’t any words to it yet. Tell me what you envision when you hear it.”

I close my eyes, allowing the melody to envelop me. “The sea. Rolling waves, a calm blue sky…a ship…it is a lovely scene but sort of melancholy. It is good-bye. A man has left his maid…” I bow my head and know from the heat of my face I am flushing furiously.

“Why did you stop?” Cedric asks.

I avert my head, unable to meet his eyes. “Mayhap it is a little…I’m not sure…”

“Mistress Howard, please. Continue,” he urges.

I raise my eyes to him to find his head is bowed toward the keys. His eyes are closed and he weaves subtly in time with the tune. He is a musician in complete harmony with his song.

“I—I see the maiden. She stands alone on shore, bidding her lover good-bye.” I swallow. I am caught up in my scene. “Somehow she knows his voyage is perilous. She will not see him again.”

“Tragic,” says Cedric. “But beautiful, as tragic love tends to be. Leaves you blissfully unsatisfied, yet somehow there is a perverse pleasure in the agony of it all.”

I never thought of it like that. Perhaps I have witnessed too much agony to find it pleasurable. Or I have not witnessed the right kind.

“Will you sing for me, Mistress Howard?” he asks. “Put verse to your story. Breathe life into my song.”

“I can’t—”

“Come now.” He chuckles. “You’re not afraid.”

“Yes,” I admit. “My voice might grate on you.”

“It might,” he says. “But I promise I will tell you.”

I giggle. “I am not good at verse on the spot.”

“Not many people are, save your brother, I hear.”

“Henry?” I arch an eyebrow.

“I had the privilege of keeping company with him and the Duke of Richmond of late. Your Lord Surrey is a wonderful poet—a hot-tempered boy, but a gifted writer with a great deal of heart,” he tells me.

“Boy!” I cry. “He’s no older than you!”

“He’s a boy,” he says.

“And you’re not?” I tease.

“That’s for you to learn.”

“Master Dane!” I cry, scandalized.

“Forgive me, Mistress Howard,” he says. “I grow too comfortable in your charming company.” He clears his throat and continues playing. “Now. Do enlighten me with a few verses.”

I pause a long while, allowing images and words to whirl in my mind and take form. It is a creation in itself, writing verse, and I envisage the Psalmists feeling a similar exuberance when composing God’s Word. I am tingling with inspiration. Slowly but in a clear, low voice, I begin.

“O happy dames…that may embrace the fruit of your delight.” Tears fill my eyes. “Help to bewail the woeful case and eke the heavy plight…” I take in a breath. “Of me, that wonted to rejoice the fortune of my pleasant choice: good ladies! Help to fill my mourning voice…”

I trail off, unable to continue. Cedric stops playing. He is staring at me.

“Where did that come from?”

Embarrassed, I avoid his eyes. “I—I don’t know.”

He rises, approaching me. “You are more gifted than I could ever have imagined. You compose from your innermost being, from your soul, your heart…You are an artist.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “Tell me you will write that down and finish it for me.”

I nod.

He sits on the bench once more. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the vacant space so near to him. I sit. I have never been so close to a man outside of my family before. His presence, his warmth cause me to shiver all over. Gooseflesh dots my arms and I’m grateful my sleeves cover it.

“Your voice is beautiful, fraught with emotion.” At my dubious expression, he goes on. “It is not mere flattery, Mistress Howard. I don’t waste my time with empty obsequiousness. I leave that to the courtiers,” he adds with a wink.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Thank you.” He nods toward the keyboard. “Will you play for me as well?”

I place my hands on the smooth keys. They are at home here. I close my eyes. I find I cannot do anything but his bidding. I want to elongate this moment forever. I begin to play one of my own compositions. Unlike his bittersweet melody, mine is violent and dark, with a heavy bass hand and strong minor chords. As I play, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. When I finish I stare at my stilled hands. Blue veins are raised against the fair skin like a surging network of rivers from my efforts. My breathing comes quick and shallow.

Cedric is silent. “You have a talent.” He pauses as though considering. “Where does all that darkness and passion come from? I should think a girl your age would be composing light, frilly little songs.”

I bow my head. I cannot say where it comes from, only that it emerges from some depth of my soul and cannot be ignored. When my fingers touch the keyboard they are commanded by something else, something illogical and not of this world.

I say nothing. I cannot speak past my emotion.

He seems to perceive this so clears his throat, changing the subject. “Are you—are you excited about Mistress Anne’s elevation ceremony?”

I nod, relieved. “I am carrying her robes,” I say with pride.

“Quite an honor,” he says. “Your family is steeped in honors, I think.”

“Yes,” I agree, then realize I should take offense. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Such is the way with the king’s favorites. The blessings spill over. I’m certain Mistress Anne isn’t the only one benefiting from her match.”

I rise from the bench. “You mean my father?” I cry. “Every honor that is bestowed upon him is earned. He is a man to be feared by all—”

“Odd that should be the attribute you mention first,” Cedric observes in soft tones. He arches a well-defined black brow. “Do you fear him, Mistress Howard?”

My words catch in my throat. I see my bruised mother. I feel the pain in my scalp. I recall the humiliation of being made to wipe my puppy’s mess with my red velvet wrap. I blink back tears. “I fear him as I fear God,” I say at last. “It is a fear born of respect for his greatness.”

“Greatness.” Cedric regards me with eyes that belong to a man much older than himself. “Can greatness be born of bloodshed and suffering, from manipulation and cruelty?”

“You go too far, Master Dane,” I tell him, my heart sinking at knowing our moment of beauty has fled.

“Forgive me. I get caught up in debate for the spirit of it,” he tells me. “I mean no offense against the great Lord Norfolk. I am certain he is a most loving and attentive father who will think of nothing but your happiness all of his days.”

“Of course,” I insist. “He always thinks of my happiness. He wants me to be a great lady. He is showing me how to walk….” I cannot stop the tears from coming now. “If he didn’t love me, why would he lower himself to such things?”

“Indeed,” says Cedric. “God bless the man who instructs his thirteen-year-old daughter on how to walk.”

“Why are you being cruel?” I demand.

“Oh, little Mistress Howard,” he says, taking my hands. “I want you to know something, and please take it to heart. I am the least cruel person you will find at this court. The only words that leave my lips are honest ones. Mistress Howard,” he says in a voice so gentle it wrenches my heart. “Mary. Take care of yourself. Look after your own interests first for, believe me, no one else will.”

I withdraw my hands. “You forget yourself and my rank. You will neither address me informally nor lay hands on my person again,” I say haughtily as I turn about in a whirl of skirts and quit the room.

But his words haunt me as I make my way to Anne’s apartments. He is wrong, surely he is wrong. He is just an arrogant musician who is not nearly as mature as he thinks he is. He knows nothing of me or my father or my life.

He is wrong. I am well looked after. Norfolk does think of my best interests.

Norfolk
does
love me.

The Marquess of Pembroke

T
hough my feet ache from practicing my walk, it is well worth it when at last the day of Anne’s elevation ceremony arrives. I vomited everything I ate that day, so decide against eating anything else, and Madge Shelton continually pinches my white cheeks to bring color to them.

“You mustn’t worry so,” she reassures me as we dress Anne for the event. “You’re going to do wonderfully.”

“You’d better,” Anne cries as ladies flutter about her in an effort to dress her. Nothing is good enough for Anne today, and the slightest thing causes her to unleash a string of curse words I did not think ladies even knew. No one can do anything right. Her corset is not tight enough. Her sleeves are not tied right. The velvet itches. The ermine smells. Her bum roll is lopsided. Any grievances that can be aired against both her gown and attendants, are; and it is no surprise to fall under her criticism.

“All I need is you falling with my robes,” she goes on in a sharp voice as her sister brushes out her long black hair. Despite her foul temper and the scowl that crinkles her forehead, she is the most alluring woman I’ve ever seen.

“I won’t, my lady,” I assure her. “I’ve been practicing.” Indeed, the last few times I was with Norfolk he piled a few cloaks in my arms so that I would adjust to the weight of the robes.

Anne scoffs and regards her reflection in the glass as the other ladies offer their admiration.

When my father comes to escort her and the procession to the king’s presence chamber, I cannot contain my trembling. This is the moment. This is what I have been practicing for.

I will be solemn and grand. I will do my lady and Norfolk proud. I carry the robes and the coronet to the presence chamber, following my lady with slow, measured steps.

Once there I behold the king in all his majesty beneath his canopy of cloth of gold. He radiates light and glory and
power
. This is a stunning personage and not one to be crossed. To think my cousin will soon be his wife. They will be a formidable couple. A sudden lightness in my heart tells me they will be a happy one as well.

I follow the standard-bearers, each carrying Anne’s symbol: the falcon, a creature as exacting as she is. My father follows them. The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, a cantankerous old buzzard with an ever-present scowl, is there offering begrudging support to his brother-in-law the king.

The countesses of Sussex and Rutland help Anne to kneel on the platform, and already I am eager for the ceremony to end. I am shaking, and fear my father will notice and begin rehearsing his lecture in his head even as we speak.

I endure all the prayers uttered by the king’s less-than-personable secretary, Bishop Gardiner. I am amazed the king has shown such mercy to Gardiner after his vociferous disapproval of the king’s becoming head of the Church of England, but sometimes he surprises me. Instead of burning him at the stake or some such horror, he merely confiscated his home, Hanworth, and made it another gift to Anne.

I wonder fleetingly how many other bold clerics might lose their homes to Henry and his bride before his reign is out, then chastise myself for the treasonous thought.

At last the king approaches me, taking the robes and coronet. I am relieved to hand them off. He meets my eyes with his own glittering blue gaze and offers a bright smile. I smile back. Perhaps that is his way of telling me I did a good job and he is proud of me.

He wraps the robes about my lady’s shoulders and, with the utmost loving care, places the coronet atop her dark head, creating her Marquess of Pembroke.

She stands beside her intended, glowing with pride and triumph. The air thrills with their happiness. The world seems full of hope and endless possibilities.

France

W
hen I think that Anne cannot be defeated and is at last allowed a moment of quiet to revel in her joy, something spoils it, causing her to be up in arms all over again. The very next day we are informed that the queen of France will not come to Calais or Boulogne to meet my lady. This is a blatant demonstration of the French queen’s disapproval of the match and the king’s break from the Church of Rome.

Anne breaks down in a moment of fury and calls the queen as many derogatory names as she can think of on short notice, but the much-favored Master Cromwell, ever calm, reassures her that King François’s sister, the queen of Navarre, will attend her instead, which does something to mollify Anne. Now she will at least be able to meet King François and make an impression upon him as future queen of England.

Later Anne decides that, though she is satisfied with the jewels she has planned for her trip, she would like to have in her possession Queen Catherine’s jewels as well.

I am saddened at this. I do not understand why she would want another woman’s jewels. But then she wanted another woman’s husband, so I suppose the jewels are the least of it now. Such uncharitable thoughts do not become me, I think, and vow to be more compassionate toward my lady, whom I imagine is under the highest level of anxiety.

When the king tells her my father will be sent to fetch the jewels from Catherine, Anne’s wild black eyes lose their glint of madness. She calms and, exhausted, sinks onto her chaise, demanding one of us to fan her. She is trembling and smiling, but tears fill her eyes.