Secrets of the Tudor Court (32 page)

I nod, impressed with the child’s regal bearing and mastery of emotion.

“Her Majesty will convince the king to reinstate me as princess,” she continues. “I will reclaim my birthright.”

Again I nod but cannot contain a laugh. “Indeed, you are a Howard, my lady.”

Lady Elizabeth joins me with a girlish giggle of her own. “I am not certain that is a name I should associate myself with too closely.”

I shake my head. “Oh, no, my lady. Once a Howard, always a Howard.”

She regards me with Anne’s eyes. “You are wrong, Lady Mary. There is only one name that matters in this world. Let all the Howards, the Brandons, the Seymours, let them all fall by the wayside with their beloved names. In the end only one name matters.” She pauses. “‘Your Majesty.’ It is a name I shall endeavor to attain.”

I sink into a curtsy, taking one of her pretty hands in my own.

At this moment there is nothing in my life I am more certain of than the fact that someday, somehow, this child before me with Anne Boleyn’s eyes
will
attain that name.

This girl will show us all. She, the witch’s daughter; she, a Howard girl. She will be queen; what’s more, she will hold her throne.

My heart surges with triumph, as though I have been allowed a glimpse into the eternal. It is a glimpse that affords me hope in a world where hope seems so very out of reach.

While the men are away I occupy myself with writing verse.

It is then that at last I unlock my little silver casket of treasures and pull out the unfinished “O Happy Dames.”

As I ponder it I think of Cedric—he and any man who has left a maid yearning for his arms. I think of the sea. I think of longing. I think of the fruitlessness of ambition and war. I think of the Howards, of poor Margaret Douglas, of the king’s wronged queens, of Norfolk’s strange ménage with my mother and Bess, of Cedric. Of me. Emotions capture me, swirling about my mind and heart like the currents of the Channel. I take up the quill.

And I write. One word, then another, till the phrases flow with the urgent determination of a river’s unswerving course. I write and write…

When it is done I lock it away in the little casket. I have vowed not to read it over, not even once, until he comes home. Until he returns to me, as promised.

With instruction from the king being vague at best, Norfolk is left in Montreuil, his resources dwindling and the overall morale low. Eventually the siege is raised and once Boulogne is garrisoned, he retreats to Calais. Word has it that the king was ill-pleased with my lord and I can only imagine the shameless groveling Norfolk reduced himself to in order to remain in favor.

Norfolk, to his credit, has the presence of mind to realize what is attainable in this battle. He knows, just as I do, that England is not capable of holding a city such as Boulogne for very long.

In October they return home, two old men weary of war and disappointment.

I do not embrace Norfolk when I see him. I can no longer bear the feel of his rigid body, a body so abhorrent of any physical demonstrations of love, in my arms. Instead I remain cool and composed, offering a perfect curtsy.

“My lord,” I say in smooth tones. “I am pleased to see you home and safe.”

He nods, then smiles as though pleased with my formal greeting. “It was a farce, Mary,” he tells me. “But we will not speak of it. The topic disgusts me.” He proffers his arm and I take it; together we proceed into Hampton Court. Despite his loss, his manner is light. Indeed, he is as close to cheerful as I have ever seen him.

The king, conversely, is not light of manner. Instead of praising his worthy queen for her competent management of his kingdom in his absence, he accuses her of trying to usurp the throne, and this because she dared don a purple cloak!

Our Catherine Parr is a clever one, however; as much as I love her, it is still a bit begrudgingly that I admit she is far cleverer than my Anne. She soothes the snarling lion, placing his putrid leg on her lap, changing his soiled linens and massaging ointment into the oozing sore with her own hands. He moans and cries when she rubs his leg while speaking sweet and low, telling him what he most wants to hear, that he is the most glorious king to ever sit the throne of England and no one could dare replace him, least of all her, lowly woman that she is. She only did as her master and sovereign bid her; guarded his kingdom with her heart, relying on the support of her regency council and the earls of Hertford and Shrewsbury to guide her so that she could make decisions that may best please her good husband. She tells him of his accomplished children, the studious Mary, the vivacious and intelligent Elizabeth, and fiery young Edward.

They are the right words, the right things.

For the first time, England may have a queen who can manage Henry VIII.

When the king is settled he orders an entertainment. Perhaps wine and song will help blot out the French failure. The king, once such a lively dancer, sits at the high table beside the queen, resting his leg in her lap. She is a master of composure. How she can resist the urge to vomit right there is a feat which should earn her some kind of additional title.

She sits, a font of dignity, rubbing her husband’s leg while he devours every delicacy in sight. I watch him stuff food into his doughy face. Crumbs gather at the corners of his mouth, wine spills from his cup down his chin as he gulps it. Remnants of food remain on his face while he converses with courtiers too terrorized to point out any flaw of His Majesty’s countenance to him.

I avert my eyes from the high table to the group of musicians, hoping to find Cedric among them. I have not seen him since the army’s return.

I do not know who to ask. Should I inquire of Norfolk he would scoff at me, then suspect my fallen virtue and do God knows what. There is only one person to approach. As much as I detest the thought I advance to the high table, offering a curtsy to Their Majesties.

The stench of his leg assaults my nostrils and I make a strident but subtle effort to breathe through my mouth, though I swear I can almost taste that sickeningly sweet smell. It catches in my throat and I swallow the urge to gag.

If I still believed in saints I should count Queen Catherine Parr among them.

“Lady Richmond.” The king’s voice is merry. His cheeks and nose are red. His eyes, once one of his comeliest features, are little blue beads bugging out of his fat. “And fairer than ever. Look at her, Cat—is she not fair?”

Cat offers her gentle smile. “That she is, Your Majesty,” she agrees, her voice like warm butter.

“I am so grateful Your Majesty has returned home safe to the kingdom that loves him,” I tell him, forcing sincerity into my tone.

“Bless you, child,” he says.

He has not bidden me to rise so I remain almost on one knee. “Your Majesty,” I begin. “I…was wondering if I might make an inquiry.”

“Speak, child,” he says, gesturing with his plump hand for me to go on.

“I…” I draw in a breath. My cheeks are hot. I cast my eyes to my silver slippers, hoping that I appear modest. “The musician…Master Dane…he accompanied you to France.” I dare look up. His Majesty is taking in a long draught of his wine. I continue. “I was wondering, Sire, did Master Dane return to Cornwall to see his children after your return? I have not seen him at court.”

King Henry’s face is drawn. “Yes, Master Dane. Good musician.” He clears his throat. “A fine lad.” He breaks off a piece of cheese and begins to nibble as he speaks. “No, my dear lady, he is not in Cornwall. Master Dane took ill on the voyage home.” Cheese is spewing forth as he talks. A piece lands on my pearl-encrusted bodice. I stare down at it, my gut churning. I cannot hear what His Majesty is saying. All I see are the specks of cheese landing on my pretty dress…“cast into the Channel…” he is saying.

Cast into the Channel.

He is not saying it. He did not say it. He is making a royal pig of himself, spitting and spewing. He is not talking about death. He did not say the body of his treasured musician was thrown into the sea like a sack of rotted apples.

I rise from my curtsy. Like a fool, I stand before him. My head is tingling. The color has drained from Cat’s face as she regards me, her eyes filled with tears. Her hand has ceased its tender ministrations on the royal leg.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” My voice is drawn forth in a tremulous whisper. “I did not hear you, I think.”

He nods as though repeating himself is not a problem. “Yes, he took quite ill. An imbalance of the humors of the bowels. He was cast into the sea.” He sighs. “Such a loss. The lad was a wonderful lute player. Quite able at the virginals as well. And his voice! Ah, he is no doubt a credit to the angelic choir.”

I curtsy, bowing my head. I cannot look at his massive countenance, nor Cat’s pity-filled eyes. “I thank you, Sire.”

I must leave. I will not remain at court. Cat is sympathetic. She will dismiss me. I will go to Kenninghall. I will help Frances with the children. Yes, that is what I will do. For how is it to remain where
we
have been? Everything at this palace calls to mind his image. And now…now…

I must leave this room. One foot, then the other. I can walk. I can walk…

I turn but am stopped by the king’s thunderous voice.

“Lady Richmond, I do not recall—are you a dancer?” he asks.

Am I a dancer…My love is dead…Am I a dancer? I will never see him again. Never hear him sing or strum his lute. Never hear him play a new composition on the virginals. Never hear him laugh. Never be challenged by him. I will never kiss him, never hold him, never…He is gone…cast into the sea. The sea…

My hands have gone numb. My face is numb. “Wh—what?” I breathe.

“Look how flustered she is!” he cries in delight. “We asked, do you dance?”

I stand before him. I cannot move. Can I dance? Have I ever danced?

I shake my head. “I do not know if my dancing will please you, Sire,” I manage to say.

“Let us be the judge of that. Do a pretty turn for me now, will you?” he urges.

I remain rooted in place. I stare at him as though he is some creature from a faerie tale, some ogre…He will eat me or kill me and there is nothing I can do about it.

“Your Majesty,” Cat says in her sweet tone, “if I may beg your indulgence. Poor Lady Richmond complained of a headache earlier this evening and hoped to take to her bed. Perhaps she can dance for Your Grace on another occasion?”

The king’s eyes take me in, assessing me from the tips of my slippers to the hood on my head. “All right, then, another time.” He grunts in disappointment. “How old are you now, Lady Mary?”

“Twenty-five, Sire,” I answer. Twenty-five years behind me and God knows how many left. How much more must I endure now, now that I am completely and utterly alone?

“Twenty-five,” he says. “A good age. Past the age of being silly…A woman’s twenties are her prime, wouldn’t you say, Cat?”

Cat nods. “Indeed, Sire.”

He strokes his crumb-ridden beard. “We will continue to consider a match.”

I curtsy. I must not look at him. If I keep looking at him I will vomit.

“You are dismissed, Lady Richmond,” he says. “Do feel better. We will expect that dance.”

I flee his presence, brushing past Norfolk, who tries to seize hold of my arm. I wrest free of his grasp and run to my rooms, where I throw myself on my bed, my lonely bed, and sob.

He would have taken me away, he said. He would have taken me away. But me, foolish me…

I sob until my throat is raw.

In the morning I am summoned to Norfolk’s privy chamber. He is holding a wooden box with intricate carvings of roses on it.

I am so overwrought from sobbing that every move is sluggish. It is as if I am wading through water, pulled down by my heavy skirts. If I wade deep enough the water will take me to its breast where waits my love…

I curtsy, resisting the urge to sink to the floor and remain there in a defeated heap.

“In the event of Cedric Dane’s death,” he begins, causing my heart to leap, “an event that apparently has transpired, it was his express wish that you have this.”

I rise, accepting the box with trembling hands. I do not think to ask how he came about acquiring it.

“I took the liberty of going through it,” he tells me. “To make certain it contained nothing harmful to your reputation.”

I open it, taking in a breath. It is a necklace, the pendant of which bears the perfect likeness of his face. The signature of the artist is tiny but decipherable. Hans Holbein. I close my eyes a moment, warding off fresh tears for kind Master Holbein, also in the next world, almost two years dead of the plague.

Holbein, whom I always felt a special rapport with, saw beauty in my Cedric. Indeed it is his eyes that are most pronounced in the miniature, those startling violet eyes that behold me even now with an expression of the utmost compassion and love.

At last I allow my tears to stream down my cheeks unchecked. “Where did you get this?” I breathe.

“Intercepted the messenger,” he confesses.

“W—was there anything else?” I ask. “Anything at all?”

He shakes his head as I look at the empty box as though if I squint hard enough something will appear.

“You tell me the truth, my lord?” I ask him.

“I tell you the truth, Mary,” he says. What is it I detect in his voice? Is it, could it be, that there is a note of gentleness there? Sympathy?

“You knew,” I state in awe.

He nods.

“And yet you did nothing.” I clutch the miniature. “Why?”

“It could come to nothing,” he says.

His one gift to me, then. A season of happiness.

I regard the miniature a long moment, memorizing every feature of Cedric’s likeness, wishing that somehow it would spring forth into life. I hold it up to the light; the chain twirls about a moment, and something catches my eye. Three words, not in Holbein’s hand, are painted on the back:

Sing. Write. Pray.

I clutch the pendant to my breast. All those years ago, after the loss of my Anne, when I had to hide my grief, he told me…he told me…