Secrets of the Tudor Court (40 page)

The first person to greet us is my aunt Margaret. She is a sturdy young woman with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, her sleek flaxen hair escaping from its plait as she runs to us. She is barefoot, dressed in a simple brown gown with few adornments. She embraces the children first, fussing over each of them, though she does not extract hugs from the boys, who are far too grown-up to be mollycoddled.

When she comes to me she takes me in her arms, squeezing me as though I am a long lost sister. “Well, here we are. I’m four years your senior and yet you’re to call me ‘aunt’!” This is followed by an easy laugh. “A title I do hope you will dispense with!”

I laugh in turn, immediately put at ease by her outgoing nature. “I shall. I thank you for your hospitality, Aun—Margaret.”

“Peggy, please,” she corrects. “I do hate to be called Madge or any of those other epithets that sound so old.”

Madge brings to mind my cousin Madge Shelton. A pity I do not even know what became of her. She faded away, hopefully to seek out a life that brought her more happiness than court life ever could.

I blink away unpleasant thoughts of court to smile at Peggy. “Unfortunately I have nothing to go by,” I tell her. “Mary is about as plain a name as one can get.”

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” She laughs again. “Nobody can escape being called some silly pet name or another here.”

At which point she introduces me to her children, who are by now engaged in enthusiastic converse with their cousins.

“Hold still, will you, and try to be polite for one moment!” cries Peggy as she ushers them forward. “Charles, this is your cousin Mary. You are to be tutored with her nephews, your cousins Thomas and Henry. I do believe Tommy and Charlie are about the same age.”

“Two years difference,” says Charlie proudly. “I’m two years older.”

Thomas does not seem to resent this much. He looks at his new cousin with adoration.

“This is Agnes, but we call her Anne,” says Peggy. “Really no one should be named Agnes.” At this I cast my eyes about to see if Agnes Foxe has heard the comment, but fortunately she is nowhere in sight.

Presently, the lithe eighteen-year-old girl presented before me bows her head, but is hiding a smile. It seems she is not offended by her mother’s observation but is amused.

“This is our little Mary,” says Peggy, patting the head of a sturdy six-year-old girl who seems to be herself in miniature. I laugh out loud at the resemblance. “We call her Mare-Bear. And this”—she stoops down to retrieve the most delicate little creature I have ever seen—“this is our baby.” Peggy’s face softens as she kisses the plump cheek of her three-year-old daughter. “Our little Douglas.”

I reach out, taking Douglas’s hand in mine. She calls to mind an image of the dainty Kitty Howard, and as I look at her I wonder if she will resemble the late queen of England as she grows. “Douglas,” I repeat, my heart swelling with such emotion I cannot speak.

Combined with my cousins there will be nine children about. Nine little voices, nine different laughs to memorize. Nine pairs of eyes and little button noses. Nine beautiful children to love…

“Who’s that out there? Who’s here?” a stern male voice calls from indoors. My heart begins to pound.

At once he appears. My jaw goes slack. He is the image of Norfolk, a young Norfolk, his black hair swept back in a ribbon, his large black eyes lit with that same fierce determination. This man wears a close-cut beard, however, which would be quite fetching were his features not arranged in a scowl.

I begin to shake.

The man is approaching me, his steps brisk and purposeful. His hands, the lovely Howard hands, are clenched at his sides. He stands before me, looking me up and down.

Tears fill my eyes.

And then the strangest thing. He bursts into laughter. “What’s this? Tears?” He takes me in his arms. “Come now, I didn’t scare you, did I?” He holds me tight. “I was jesting, poor dear. You’ve no need to fear your uncle Will,” he assures me, pulling away, keeping his arms about me in the same comfortable manner his wife bears. He is a man used to doling out hugs, I realize as I look at him. Indeed, from his bright, warm smile and gentle eyes I can see that the resemblance with his oldest brother is only skin deep.

At once I begin to sob with abandon.

“I’m so sorry, my lord,” I gulp. “It’s just that I’ve never been so happy…”

“Look here, Peggy, and we haven’t even gotten her inside yet,” says Uncle Will. He taps my nose. “I think you’re going to be easy to please.”

I nod. “Oh, yes, my lord, I am most easy to please,” I tell him. “I will be no trouble. We are so happy that you have extended your generous hospitality to us.”

He hugs me again. “Now, now, we’re family. And none of that ‘my lord’ business. It’s Uncle Will to you—or, if you please, just plain Will.”

“And I am Mary,” I tell him. “Just plain Mary.”

Just plain Mary. Right now it is the perfect thing to be.

It is endless summer at Reigate. These are the days of long walks through the gardens barefoot with Peggy, talking for hours about nothing. These are the days of riding horses with the children, watching them grow in their equestrian skills, watching them grow confident and happy. These are the days of picnics, of lying on the grass amid the daffodils and hollyhocks, staring up at the stars while Uncle Will tells stories around a little fire he has made in a stone pit that he calls a “campfire.” The children roast small game upon it that they have caught hunting that day and we all take of it, exclaiming that not even at court are the pickings so good. These are the days of berries and cream, of long baths in lavender and rose water, of children’s sticky hands and easy laughter.

These are the days of sitting by the pond feeding the swans, watching the sun set upon the water, thinking not of the past but of the beautiful present God has blessed me with.

These are the days of respite and growth.

Henry has received his first suit of armor. It dominates his tiny frame and the older boys tease him, but good-natured Uncle Will takes them in hand with gentleness and humor, reminding them they were all quite the same upon receiving their first suits of armor and there’ll be no putting on airs at Reigate.

“Why, they say your own grandfather was so little that his first suit of armor nearly brought him to his knees, and look what a fine soldier he became!” Uncle Will tells Henry.

“He may be a fine soldier,” says Little Thomas gravely, “but he still landed in the Tower.”

Uncle Will does not know what to say to this. “Well, many a fellow has a turn there,” he replies with a slight laugh; for indeed, what can he say? He narrowly escaped the same fate when he was accused of abetting Kitty Howard. Fortunately he was rescued by a pardon from the king. “The point is, Thomas, that what makes a man is bravery and heart, not size.”

This seems to satisfy Thomas for now, and they show a little more charity toward Henry.

While the boys are coached in the arts of fencing and jousting, the girls are instructed in music, dance, embroidery, and the other feminine arts. Master Foxe maintains his position as tutor and allows the magic of Reigate to take hold of him as well. He and Agnes have been given a little cottage with a garden, and she can be seen tarrying in it every day.

She has warmed somewhat toward me. Now and then she will approach Peggy and me with a gift of flowers or vegetables from her little garden, accompanied by a shy smile.

“Perhaps she isn’t as nasty as was my first impression,” Peggy comments one day. Indeed, we had many chats regarding the introverted and almost snobbish nature of Agnes Foxe.

“I think she is just quite reserved,” I say.

“We’ll coax her into the thick of things.” Peggy laughs. “No one is left behind at Reigate.”

Indeed, if anyone can make her feel welcome, it is Peggy and Will Howard.

Uncle Will has built a pleasant set of swings, the seats of which are woven from strong rope and padded with thick velvet cushions. From a series of trees are suspended nine different swings for all the children, though Thomas and Charles believe swinging to be quite foppish and will take no part in it.

For Peggy and me, he has constructed a large hammock that is strung between the willows by the pond, and there he is content to lie in the grass, his head supported by a plush cushion while he pushes us for hours. The children run and play about while we lounge after supper, talking of this and that.

One evening as dusk is settling on the garden, illuminating the flowers and shrubs with its magical purple hue, Uncle Will informs us of news from court.

“It seems Tom Seymour, that rake, has been caught trifling with the Princess Elizabeth,” says Uncle Will.

My heart begins to pound. “What happened?” I breathe. Elizabeth is but a fifteen-year-old girl, and though I am certain her beauty and intelligence surpass many her age, she is still fifteen, with the heart and mind of a child. No amount of intellect can compensate for the virtues of experience and maturity. A child that age is easily manipulated, and if what is rumored about Tom Seymour is true then…oh, God…

“He had the audacity to ask her for her hand in marriage before asking the queen,” says Uncle Will. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I’d heard that,” says Peggy offhandedly.

“He did not ask permission of the king or the Regency Council or anyone. He went straight to the little princess, thinking he could cajole her into marrying him, to secure a place in the succession, no doubt.”

Upstart.

I cannot breathe for anxiety as I wait for him to go on.

“But our little Elizabeth is a clever one, is she.” Uncle Will’s voice is filled with pride. “She is every bit her mother and father’s child. She refused his offer. So Tom went to the next best thing, I suppose.”

The next best thing being my poor Cat, who put so much store in Tom’s affections. The next best thing is a woman who loved this selfish, driven man with all her heart, only to have it thrown back at her.

“So upon marrying the queen dowager, Seymour had access to the princess,” Uncle Will continues. “Word has it he would sneak into her bedroom for a tickle now and then. The queen caught them in their flirtation and Seymour is reputed to have been most apologetic. Indeed, he claimed that it was a silly game, that the girl had an innocent fascination with him that he indulged for her sake. The queen is said to have gone along with that; she even took part in holding down Elizabeth while Seymour slashed up her pretty black mourning gown in the gardens one day. Why she did that, I have no idea. They say they were all having a bit of a romp that day. I wasn’t there so am not fit to judge, I suppose.”

“That sounds so unlike Cat,” I say, baffled. Perhaps the situation has caused her to go a bit out of her mind. After surviving her ordeal with King Henry, only to marry a man almost as despicable, must have filled her with a terrible sense of disillusionment. I do not know how I would cope with it. Perhaps she feels Elizabeth, though an innocent young girl, is partially to blame, being that she is so lovely and witty. Perhaps she is projecting Seymour’s responsibility in the unfortunate event onto the princess; far easier to believe it is all the girl’s fault. Far easier to suspend one’s disbelief in order to retain that brief sense of happiness just a little longer.

“What happens now?” asks Peggy, rising from our comfortable spot to stretch and pace about. Her manner is relaxed, however, as though while the story is interesting, it does not really touch her here at this place, this wondrous place of Reigate.

“Elizabeth was packed off to Cheshunt in a hurry,” Uncle Will responds, continuing to rock me in the hammock. “What was the poor lady to do? Being that she’s with child—”

“With child?” I interpose, excitement filling my voice. “Why, that’s wonderful! Once the baby’s born perhaps Seymour will put behind this foolishness and they can concentrate on being happy.”

Uncle Will laughs; for the first time it is bitter, an echo of Norfolk’s famous almost laugh. “Children don’t solve everything. Not everyone is as easily contented as you, my dear. No, what Seymour wants is power. He wants governorship over the king’s person, anything. Anything to spite his older brother for being named lord protector instead of him. No one can tell me he didn’t marry the poor queen dowager as strategy and nothing more.”

I didn’t want to think it. But I knew. Too many years of living with the Master Strategist has shown me that men seldom are motivated by anything but ambition.

My heart aches for Cat and Elizabeth, each isolated in her own way, denied a family she could have enjoyed if only Tom Seymour had any sense of decency.

“It would be nice to think the baby could bring her a little happiness,” I say wistfully.

Uncle Will laughs. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s pray it offers the poor lady some comfort.”

Peggy clicks her tongue at the inherent tragedy of the situation and folds her arms across her ample bosom. “Well, I think I shall take to the indoors. The fresh air has exhausted me.”

Uncle Will scrambles to his feet. “Coming, Mary?”

I shake my head. I am content to lie on the hammock and gaze up at the stars. I am content to thank God that I am neither Cat nor Elizabeth.

As they walk away I hear Peggy whisper to my uncle, “Really, Will, you should stay with the poor thing. She needs affection as a starving hound needs a scrap of meat. Certainly being the duke’s daughter hasn’t done her any favors.”

My heart sinks. I do not want to be viewed as pathetic. I do not think Peggy meant anything malicious by the observation, but I am embarrassed nonetheless. Most of all because she is right.

I hear Uncle Will’s footfalls as he heads toward me. The hammock sinks as his weight descends upon it, but since he bears the slight Howard frame it does not impact it much.

“Room enough for me?” he asks, merriment in his tone. There is nothing forced or sordid in it; he is as natural and easygoing around me as he is with his other children, though he is far too young to be my father.