Secrets of the Tudor Court (41 page)

He slides his arm beneath my neck, drawing my head toward the crook of his shoulder, keeping one foot on the ground so that he might continue the soothing rocking motion.

“Put all the sad thoughts out of your head,” he tells me. “I know our princess. She is as keen as they come. She will prevail. And the queen dowager will survive this as well. She survived Henry, didn’t she?”

I nod. “Why is it that everything is to be survived and endured?” I ask, tears filling my voice. “Sometimes it seems life is nothing but a chore.”

“Life,” says Uncle Will, “is a chore. Our daily chore for God. As a reward we are given the joy of celebrating our victories over what we survive and endure.” He holds me tight against him. “So, when performing this chore of living, do so with a light heart. There is so much joy to be found, if you look.”

“Joy in the small things,” I say, thinking of Harry and Cedric, of the children, of this happy place, of the pleasure I take in the learned Master Foxe and the delight I take in my uncle and aunt.

“That’s right. Joy in the small things.”

We are silent a long while until, very softly, he begins to sing. I join him. Our voices lift into the night.

“You sing like a little bird,” he tells me. “There’s your pet name. Bird.”

I giggle. I have never had a pet name before.

We lie in the hammock, talking and singing.

Never before has the chore of living seemed so easy to commence.

My joy is interrupted, however, when I learn of the death of the queen dowager, my one time friend, Catherine Parr. After the birth of her daughter, Mary, on August 30 she took ill with the dreaded childbed fever, perishing on 5 September.

Cat died betrayed and brokenhearted, disillusioned and despondent.

I was never able to make things right between us. I was never able to reassure her that I had no designs on her husband. Never will we have that long talk now. Like so many things that have come to pass, there just wasn’t enough time.

And what is worse—to think there can be worse—I learn that same autumn that Bess, dear Bess, has succumbed to the same fate.

Peggy shakes her head upon learning this. “It’s a dangerous thing to bring a child into this world,” she says in soft tones. “Not everyone is made for it.”

As she says this I take measure of my nonexistent hips with my hands, recalling Norfolk’s words that I was far too small to have children when I so longed to start my family. Was he right in preventing me? Would I have met with the same fate that Jane Seymour, Cat Parr, and now my dear Bess have encountered? I shiver at the thought.

There is naught to do now but to journey to the Tower, where I have decided to impart the news of Bess’s death to my father in person.

By now he is allowed to walk the gallery and garden with the lieutenant, and when I arrive he has finished taking in some exercise and is lying down.

He arises upon my entrance, shaking off sleep as though ashamed to have been caught in a moment of idleness.

“Have you made any progress?” he asks me in reference to my petitions for his freedom.

I shake my head. “We must not give up hope, my lord.”

He huffs in impatience.

I approach him, leading him to his bed. We sit.

“There is news,” I tell him. I draw in a wavering breath, blinking back tears.

“Out with it, girl,” he urges, resting his hands on his knees. I study them a moment; they have grown thinner, along with the rest of him, accentuating the delicacy of his bone structure.

I cover one hand with my own. “It is Bess Holland—Reppes, my lord,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm. I concentrate on our joined hands. “She has been called to the Lord…after—after dying in childbirth.”

Norfolk’s expression is stony. He averts his head, expelling a sigh. “I don’t know why she thought she was young enough to have a child to begin with,” he spits.

I squeeze his hand. “She meant a great deal to you.
Please
don’t pretend she didn’t. She was with you for twenty years.”

“She didn’t hesitate to bear witness against me when called,” Norfolk observes in cool tones. “I believe they even rewarded her for it, after a while. She was restored her lands and jewels, was she not?”

Frustration causes me to tremble. Here I have just informed him of the death of the one woman I believed he loved, and all he can think about is her possessions.

“I would think she took her cues from you, my lord,” I tell him, disregarding the vulgar comment about her properties. “Were not we all taught by your example that it is far better to betray those closest to you when the axe is in question?”

Norfolk grunts, “Yes, you would see it like that.”

I am seized by a moment of sheer rage. “After all that you have done, after all of the people you have abandoned and destroyed, you are going to begrudge her for saving herself? Do you begrudge me as well? Do you begrudge Mother?” I laugh. The sound mirrors his own; it is harsh with bitterness. “I do not need to ask that, I suppose. Your treatment of her all these years reflects your vast regard for her. My God, man, is there not one person on this earth that you love?”

Norfolk rises, crossing to the window. “Lieutenant,” he says, his voice soft. “Please escort my daughter out now.”

“Father—” My voice catches in my throat. I so want to know. Called to mind are images of little Kitty, who in her bewilderment beseeched my father, asking him if he loved her anymore.
Don’t you love me anymore, Uncle Thomas?
Now I find myself wondering if he has ever loved me; indeed, if he has loved anyone to begin with, or if the loss of his first family served to harden his heart forever. But if it did, why would he have bothered with taking Bess on as mistress, if not for some undeniable affection? Why, if he cannot love, would he have grieved for Surrey?

No, I will not believe he is incapable of love. There is only one person I knew completely unable to love in any normal capacity, and to my eternal relief he rots beside Jane Seymour, the mother of our King Edward and the only woman he in the end considered to be his “true wife.” No, King Henry was the antithesis of love.

But not Norfolk.

I swallow tears as I approach him. Gone is my desire to interrogate him about his innermost feelings; gone is my fear that he has none. I have assured myself, as I always have, that things are exactly as I imagine them to be.

“I have said what is needed to be said,” I begin, “and will let you sort it out in a manner that suits you.” I touch his arm. “I will leave you now, my lord”—I lean up to kiss his cheek—“but my heart will remain.”

Norfolk swallows several times but does not respond.

“Come, madam,” says the gentle lieutenant, taking my arm. “Come; let me take you away from this place.”

Yes, away. I shall go away, back to Reigate, back to my respite, where people are not afraid to love.

In January 1549 the Act of Uniformity is passed, making the celebration of the Catholic Mass illegal. Archbishop Cranmer’s
The Book of Common Prayer
replaces the Catholic liturgy at church, and England is a reformist country at last. Now perhaps the fires of Smithfield will burn out; perhaps the dreaded word “heretic” will lose its power to send fear into the hearts of the devoted.

It is a victory I celebrate with all my heart. I am thrilled not to have to fear for my views any longer. I know it is a stride that would have brought much satisfaction to Cat Parr.

Cat is brought to mind even more, however, when that same month her widower, Tom Seymour, is arrested and becomes my father’s neighbor in the Tower of London. He has been plotting an uprising against his brother the lord protector, and was caught breaking into the king’s bedchamber with the purpose of kidnapping him, no doubt to coerce him into endowing him with more power over His Majesty’s little person.

On March 20 he is beheaded at that evil place, that place where were slaughtered my cousins and brother, Tower Hill.

“I am glad Cat did not live to see this,” I tell Peggy in strangled tones. “It would have killed her all over again.”

“To be sure,” Peggy agrees. She casts a pointed glance at me. “You can thank the Lord above that you never married the man either. He would have brought you nothing but heartache.”

I nod. Indeed, I am most fortunate in that regard. Still, I find myself mourning for the misguided man, who has in his thirst for power left his daughter an orphan. Luckily Kate Brandon has taken charge of the baby girl and will no doubt provide for her a life of love and devotion to Cat’s New Faith. Kate proved herself a dear friend to Cat in the end, even funding the publication of her book,
The Lamentations of a Sinner,
a triumphant legacy she can share with little Mary Seymour. I pray Kate will share all of Cat’s triumphs, that she will make known how clever and noble a queen Cat was, and how kindhearted and courageous a woman.

The sigh I expel is heavy with sadness. Mary will never really know. The glories and traits of an absent parent are abstract, faraway, and almost meaningless. Indeed, Surrey’s children, save the older ones, have nearly forgotten him already, and he has been gone but two years.

No, she will know little of her mother. Yet I’m certain everyone will be all too happy to share with her the scandal of her degenerate father. I tremble for her as I think of how merciless the court can be, and pray she will live out her life in some quiet place, some obscure place, a place where cruelty and duplicity have no weight.

A place like Reigate.

I press on. The tragedy of Tom Seymour and Cat Parr is added to the others I have witnessed in my life, but in true Howard form, I am not seen dwelling upon it. There are children to attend to, distractions I am more grateful for than I can ever express.

In early summer Jane Howard, Surrey’s eldest, asks me to promenade with her in the gardens. She is a bright, animated young woman with a great deal of her father in her. She is creative and hot tempered, given to heated debates without—in my and Master Foxe’s opinions—enough information to support the point she is usually defending. Despite this, she is an endearing young woman of great beauty and humor.

I am pleased young Jane has sought me out, as I always am. Where she resembles Surrey in temperament, she resembles my Anne in looks, and being with her calls to mind those happy days of my youth when I sat at the feet of my queen while she toyed with my hair and spoke of her hopes for the future.

Jane is much the same, always looking ahead, and as we walk that day she shares with me her wishes for marriage and children. I pray that her dreams, unlike the cousin she so resembles, are not so cruelly denied her.

We walk through the gardens, Jane exclaiming over this flower and that, until at last she tires. It wasn’t much of a walk, I think, and tell her so as she leads me by the hand into the house.

At once my heart begins to pound. What is she about? Has something terrible happened where she needed to distract me in order to spare me from some new drama?

As I am led into the great hall, a great chorus of voices rises up to cry, “Happy birthday, Mary!”

My face flushes deep crimson. Tears fill my eyes as I scan the room, finding all of the children, Peggy, Uncle Will, and the Foxes standing before a magnificent feast laid out in my honor.

I place my hands on my cheeks, taking in a breath.

“There’s presents, too,” says little Douglas, running forward to tug my skirt. “I made you a—”

“Douglas!” cries my niece Margaret. “You’re not supposed to tell her!”

“Thank you all so much,” I say through tears as I take my place at the table. After a prayer led by Master Foxe, in which he thanks God for my patronage, we feast upon stuffed capons, lamb, cheese, fresh warm bread, tarts, comfits, and puddings.

“When is she going to get to open her presents?” asks Douglas.

“She isn’t opening yours first,” says my Henry. “She will open mine because I’m her favorite.”

“You are not her favorite,” says Thomas. “I am!”

“Hush, now, children.” Uncle Will laughs. “Lady Mary’s heart is bigger than anyone we know. She has room enough in it for all of you and then some. She will open presents from oldest to youngest, and as
I
am the oldest, her first present will be from me! Ha!”

There are a few pouts and comments made under the breath, but the children accept Uncle Will’s ruling and finish their supper. After which we retire to the parlor where are laid out a pile of presents the like of which I have not seen since Christmas.

“These are all for me?” I breathe in surprise, trying to swallow another onset of tears.

“What are birthdays for?” asks Uncle Will, wrapping an arm about my shoulders. “We are celebrating you today, Mary. Now, remember: oldest to youngest. Open mine first!”

I kneel before the gifts, as excited as a child but trying to maintain the dignity of the thirty-year-old woman I have become. I select the package from Uncle Will and pull away the wrappings with care. Each movement is deliberate; I want the joy of this moment to last.

I cry out in delight when the wrappings reveal a lute. It is the most unusual lute I have ever seen, painted red and decorated with ornate little flowers, ivy, and hummingbirds.

“Oh, Uncle Will!” I shake my head as I run my hand across the beautiful instrument. “It’s so unique. I’ve never seen the like.”

“That is because I painted it myself,” he tells me. “Much to everyone’s displeasure,” he says, shooting a playful glance at Peggy. “Peggy thought I’d ruin it if I painted it.”

“No…oh, no,” I assure him as I gaze at the instrument in reverence. “Oh, Uncle Will, it is so beautiful. I never knew you painted.”

“I thought my bird needed a lute of her own on which to accompany herself when singing to me,” he tells me, his voice soft with affection. “So you see, it is a gift with a selfish motive!”

“On to mine,” cries Peggy.

“No,” says Master Foxe in a tone matching the jocularity of the room. “I believe I am next—I was born in 1516.”