Secrets of the Tudor Court (18 page)

I laugh. “I wouldn’t say it was a complete racket….” I say byway of apology. My face is flushing. There is no escaping it. I do not bow my head because it would only draw more attention to it. “Do not cease the composition. Who is it for?”

“A lady,” he confesses. He stands before me now. I tremble at his nearness. He is by far the most handsome man at court; even more handsome than my cousin George Boleyn or the poet Thomas Wyatt.

“Who?” I ask, my voice breathy and tremulous.

“My betrothed,” he answers.

My heart sinks. Betrothed? Cedric? I curse myself. Why shouldn’t he be betrothed? I am married, to the king’s son, no less. I am almost a princess. And I love my Harry. He is my husband; it is my duty to be his loving little wife, even if I never see him.

I offer a frosty smile. “My congratulations to you, Master Dane,” I tell him. “Might I inquire as to the identity of your future bride?”

He laughs. “She isn’t gentry, so I suppose it does not matter to the likes of you.”

I am hurt at this, even though I know it is true. What gives us the right, I ask myself, to look down on those more humble? Are they not the ones who will inherit this earth? Perhaps it is far more of a blessing to be humble than noble.

“You mustn’t say that,” I tell him, feeling thoroughly wretched.

“It is a fact,” he says. “In any event, her name is Helen Duncan.”

“A Scot?”

“Half a Scot,” he says with a chuckle. “Does it make a difference? Her family has lived in England these past hundred years. Their ties to Scotland are quite severed, I believe.”

Unexplained tears fill my throat. I swallow them. “I wish you much happiness. Will you remain in the king’s service then?”

“Yes,” he says. “For some reason His Majesty likes me, so I shall stay on. He has given me a little home in London as a wedding present.”

“How generous,” I comment. “Your betrothed…is she very lovely?”

“Quite lovely,” he says. “A hard worker. Very real.”

I do not understand the last attribute. Real. What is it to be real? Perhaps he does not think those of us in this glittering world of the court live in reality. Then where do we live? I am filled with panic at the thought that I am missing out on something crucial and unattainable.

“I’m sorry you scoff upon our world,” I say in a huff. “I’m sorry you do not think us real enough for you.”

Cedric takes my hands. His are large and warm. I do not withdraw. I do not want to withdraw, even in my annoyance.

“No, I do not think you’re real enough,” he tells me, his tone heated, “but you could be. If you were not so afraid of the beautiful, strong-willed woman you are inside.”

I want to retort but find he is drawing me toward him. His lips are on mine, his arms enfolding me to his broad chest. I embrace him in turn, yielding to his soft, warm kiss. Thoughts run wild as stags through my head, wicked thoughts. I think of what lovers do, of what I am told they do. Of what my body yearns to do.

I think of Harry. Of the kisses I am not allowed to exchange with him, my lawful husband.

I pull away, breathless. He still holds me. We regard each other in a moment of mingled shock and longing. My hands rest flat on his chest. I do not want to leave this embrace. But I cannot stay. He is not mine. He can never be mine.

What do I tell him now? Do I thank him for awakening my youthful passion, or curse him for it?

I reach up, cupping his face between my hands. “I cannot see you alone again,” I whisper.

He nods in understanding.

Tears burn my eyes. “May your marriage bring you much joy,” I say as we disengage.

His Adam’s apple bobs several times. He averts his head. He takes my hands. “Good-bye, Mistress How—Lady Richmond.”

He drops my hands and turns away.

I quit the room, strangled by a sob.

That night I ponder the kiss. I relive the moist warmth of his lips pressed to mine. I chase away the guilt even as I try to chase away the rising passion.

I do not see Norfolk that night but confront him the next. “Confront” is probably too strong a word for what passes between us, as indeed it is a fool who seeks to confront Norfolk.

“I did not send for you,” he says in greeting as I enter his rooms.

I try to stay calm. “My lord, I know you are wise and good,” I begin.

“Oh, God,” he interjects, his tone thick with annoyance. “What is it? Out with it. I’ve no time for meaningless flattery.”

“My lady Madge Shelton,” I confess. “I do not think—”

“No, Mary, you do not think,” he tells me, his tone firm. He approaches me. His face is inches from mine. I shrink back in terror. “
I
do the thinking. While we are on the topic, I should inform you that not only do you not think, you do not question, or criticize. You say, ‘yes, my lord’ or ‘how may I best serve you, my lord?’ Do you understand?”

I have stepped a few feet out of his arm’s reach to better my chances of eluding him should he feel the urge to physically illustrate this point. I am nodding. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

I leave in a hurry.

I failed. I cannot intercede for my cousin.

At once there are very few things that seem fair in this life.

Madge serves as a good distraction, keeping the king’s eye on the Howards, with her swaggering walk, rippling laugh, and quick wit. Together they go hunting and hawking; under Norfolk’s instruction she is everything a king’s mistress should be. But Anne is quick to protest the plot, and despite Norfolk’s impatient explanation of its logic, lets everyone know where she stands, including His Majesty.

“I will not have it!” she cries to the king, clutching her rounded belly as though to remind everyone that she could be the mother to a prince and should not be crossed. “I will not have you parading about with your whores while I suffer for the sake of carrying on your line! How dare you flaunt that slut where I can see her?”

“A fine day it is when you call your cousin a slut after you yourself used to play cards with Catherine while we were in the midst of our divorce!” King Henry returns in his thundering tone.

I am frightened and cower in the corner while this transpires.

“You will not see her,” Anne seethes. “Or I swear I will not come to you as your wife again.”

The room is stunned silent. How can one pretend to be busy in the face of this display?

“You would not dare,” says the king. “You are my subject, madam. You are at my command, just as any dairy maid or soldier or anyone else is.”

“I will!” Anne cries in desperation. Her black eyes are wide. Her breath comes quick. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. Her hands are clenched at her sides. “I swear I will!” She dissolves into tears. Her eyes are lit with a genuine sense of betrayal. “Oh, Your Majesty, how could you? After all we’ve been through, how could you?”

King Henry cannot resist her tears. Indeed, I do not think many can. I want to run to her and wipe them away myself.

“Now, now, sweetheart, you know it is meaningless,” he tells her in a rich, soothing tone. “I have no great designs on Madge Shelton.” He approaches Anne and takes her in his arms. “I love no one but you. Always.”

“Promise?” Anne asks in a small voice as she tips her lovely head up to regard him.

“On my crown, I promise,” he answers, kissing her cherry red lips.

When she pulls away her eyes are dry, her smile is bright.

I am relieved. The king will stray no more. Anne will receive the respect she is due.

I return to Kenninghall with Norfolk and Surrey for a brief visit. I am thrilled that we shall all be together as a family. Perhaps my brother’s presence will ease the tension in the house. In the very least, his eyes might be opened to the nature of our parents’ relations, dimming Norfolk’s halo.

It is not to be. Apparently Norfolk has Surrey’s complete adulation. Surrey offers Mother a cool greeting of acknowledgment, yet fawns over Bess Holland whenever she is present. Fortunately for her sake as much as Mother’s, she has remained at court for this trip.

Surrey takes the opportunity to go hawking, leaving me to take supper alone with Norfolk and Mother, an affair that is accompanied by its usual strain.

Mother’s jaw is set as she sips her wine, her eyes fixed on Norfolk as he picks at his beef.

“I want you to leave Mistress Holland,” she says, lingering over the word
mistress.

I almost choke on my bread. I bow my head, applauding her bravery and fearing for her at once. The words that she has longed to speak are out at last; they cannot be retracted.

This is not going to be good.

“Really?” Norfolk’s tone oozes with disdainful mockery.

“I cannot have this anymore. It’s her or me,” she says.

“All right, then,” he says, his tone calm. He addresses two portly female servants. “Take her.”

Mother is seized. I begin to tremble. My stomach churns and lurches. My mouth is dry. Mother’s eyes are wide and search mine out.

“Go, Mary,” she says as a servant takes her arms and pins her to the floor. One is sitting on her chest, as though Mother is a beast that needs such rough handling in order to be mastered. Norfolk stands above her. She is coughing. Blood spews forth, flecking her lips. The most frightening thing about it, even more frightening than the spectacle itself, is that it seems practiced.
Routine.

“You will not advise me on with whom to keep company,” says Norfolk in his soft voice, regarding my mother as though she were an unsightly insect to be squashed.

I scan the room, wishing my brother would come now. Why isn’t he here to see this?

“Please!” I cry, running forth to take Norfolk’s arm. It is a risk, I know, but what kind of daughter can stand by and watch this transpire? Could I ever forgive myself if I just walked away?

Norfolk turns to me, his black eyes afire with the same madness Anne’s adopt when she is in a temper. He draws his hand back and slaps me. It is my bad side, the side that has ached ever since he struck me on my wedding night almost a year ago. I stumble, dizzy. My vision is a blur.

“Run, Mary!” Mother cries. “Just run!”

I am a coward, I decide, for I listen to her. I run. I run from the great hall to my chambers and lock myself in. I do not want to see anyone; not Surrey, not even my poor wretched mother.

I want to disappear.

Surrey claims to have witnessed the whole thing. He came home to find Mother seated at table, listening to my father’s tirade, her expression bored and “completely disrespectful,” as Surrey phrased it.

He did not see her pinned down by the servants, coughing up blood, and told me I was exaggerating when I relayed the story.

“You women are so soft,” he tells me. “It’s natural for you to ally yourself with her; natural but not wise. Our father is the greatest man alive. The punishment he doles out is as just as God’s.”

I want to hit him then as I never wanted to hit anyone before. I curse his single-minded devotion even as I curse my own.

We are leaving now.

There is no one to safeguard my mother from the brutality of my father’s own servants, who are well paid to demonstrate their loyalty to their master in this repulsive fashion; indeed, if I have learned anything about human nature, some may be glad to perpetuate her suffering. Norfolk has her locked away in her chambers, without clothes or jewelry or any accoutrement that could bring my poor lady comfort. I do not know how long his orders are to keep her there, and am terrified to ask.

My brother takes residence at Kenninghall, justifying Norfolk’s actions with his whole heart.

Mother is eventually moved to Redbourne in Hertfordshire. I am not allowed to see her.

Norfolk and I return to court. We do not speak of Mother except for him to inform me that he is seeking a divorce.

“She is a fool, your mother,” he tells me over and over. “I would give her whatever she wanted—her clothes and jewels, whatever, if she’d just grant me this one thing.”

“I admit, it escapes me as well,” I dare to say, but not because I sympathize with his plight. I cannot imagine why Mother would not be thrilled to sign divorce papers, freeing her of this man and giving her the life she so deserves.

Nor does it make credible her ultimatum; it is obvious when she presented Norfolk with the choice, he was to choose her. She truly did not think he would choose Bess. Perhaps it is out of a sense of revenge that she will ensure he does not have her; that, coupled with the fact that she is a staunch Catholic and supporter of Catherine. It would go against every principle she has, to grant my father a divorce when she believes that a man and woman, once joined in holy matrimony, cannot be separated except by death.

I mourn for her. I cannot believe any principle is worth staying married to my lord Norfolk.

At court I try to seek out Bess in the hopes she can bring me to a better understanding of the situation. But Bess, though never cold toward me, skillfully avoids me.

At once I decide that this is something I will never comprehend.

It is best to let it go.

In July Anne miscarries, bringing forth a little stillborn prince. I am shocked and saddened; she was almost seven months with child. How can it be considered a miscarriage then?

I sit at Anne’s bedside at Greenwich while she rubs her newly flattened belly. She is in a state of awe.

“I do not understand it, little Mary,” she tells me, tears slick on her alabaster cheeks. “How can he have been inside me, a part of me, kicking and moving, stretching, so alive and perfect, and now be just…gone? No more. Gone.” She averts her head on the pillow and emits a strangled sob. She does not remove her hand from her belly. “Empty womb.” She turns her head to face me, holding out her arms. “Empty arms.” She bows her head, crushed by the tragedy. “Empty.”

“Your Majesty,” I croon, taking her hands. “You will have other babies….” The words are as empty as her arms.

“I wanted
this
baby,” Anne whimpers, rolling on her side.