Secrets of the Tudor Court (44 page)

I return to Reigate while Norfolk commences to do what he does best—wreak havoc. He presides over the trial of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, on 18 August, where his old enemy is convicted of treason for his part in the Jane Grey calamity and, I am certain, attends his execution with a light heart four days later. I am sure he does not even look at the Tower as he watches Dudley’s head roll.

Norfolk presses on.

Pressing on is not as easy for me. I am beleaguered by terrible stomach pain that causes me to walk hunched over at times as I ready the children for their trip to London. The younger ones are excited to return to the bustling city. They do not understand. Perhaps it is better, this shroud of innocence. It will be shed soon enough. Let them be happy, let them anticipate their new life with joy and not dread.

Frances says that I might stay on with them, but I know I cannot. My views are too well known to remain too close to this new court. And if Queen Mary has retained any of her father’s traits, then this is a dangerous court and I am through with dangerous courts.

Master Foxe, famed for his Protestant views, decides it is unsafe to remain in England any longer.

“I have more to think of than myself,” he tells me as he draws Agnes near. “We are expecting a blessing of our own. It must be safeguarded.”

I embrace him and Agnes. “God bless you and keep you. May He watch over you wherever you go.”

They hold me tight.

Master Foxe assists Agnes into the coach then returns to me a moment, taking my hands in his. “I love you, Mary,” he says simply. He drops my hands. And is gone.

I will never see him again.

“There will be a lot of changes,” I tell the children, echoing my father’s words on the day we make for London. I am unable to hide the tears from my voice. I give them a piece of advice that I received years ago. “You must pray as they pray, believe as they believe, but only outwardly. They do not own your hearts or minds. There you are beholden only to God. It is not cowardly to hide your true beliefs in order to preserve your life, no matter how much we all admire the martyrs. Please. Remember, self-preservation is the means to survival. Always.” I draw in a breath, clutching my stomach, doubling over a moment. Catherine clutches my arm, her hazel eyes lit with concern. I right myself, offering a quick smile of reassurance. “I cannot stay with you, but I beg you to remember that these past years I have endeavored to do right by you. I believe in each and every one of you and your capacity to do good.
I love you all.
”

The children surround me in the gardens and we embrace; they envelop me in their warmth and love. In one another’s arms we draw strength from our present, hoping it will accompany us into the uncertainty of the future.

The journey to London, so unlike that first journey to Reigate all those years ago, is not filled with anticipation or eagerness. I imagine the children are nervous, wondering what kind of world they will find. Thomas asks me questions about his grandfather and I am not inclined to answer him honestly.

I want to make things sound as positive as possible.

We arrive at Mountjoy House, where Norfolk awaits to collect Thomas. He makes a show of exclamations over all of the children; how they have grown, how lovely the girls are, how strong and sure young Thomas seems. He promises them that life will be wonderful here; indeed, if they are only obedient they shall be much favored by Her Majesty…

I do not listen after this point. I have heard it all before.

When it comes time to take my leave, young Thomas embraces me.

“I will never forget you, Aunt Mary,” he says. “I will never forget your grace or your wisdom. I will never forget your love for us.”

“My dear lord,” I tell him, holding him to me. “Never have I been so proud of anyone.”

We disengage.

I do not speak to Norfolk. I do not trust myself, and as I want to avoid violence in front of the children, find it is best to quit Mountjoy House, quit London.

Indeed, quit it all.

I hear tales of Norfolk and the family through Frances. She writes of the beautiful coronation banquet my father supervised for Her Majesty. She writes of young Thomas being the youngest ever to be created Knight of the Bath the day before, and how fine he looked in his regalia.

Through her I learn that Thomas serves Gardiner—vile Gardiner, now named lord chancellor—as his page, while Henry continues his education under the supervision of a stern priest named John White.

Disgusted, I toss the letter aside and lie under my quilt at Reigate, tracing the children’s names, thinking, as I should not, of the past…the magical past…

In October Queen Mary presides over Parliament with the proposal that the marriage between her parents be legitimized. It all seems rather pointless to me, but I am not there and I suppose it is too trying to care.

To my relief, however, I learn that Lady Jane Grey is to be pardoned. At least the queen has some heart. She must see that the girl was a pawn, as most women are. I hope the girl will be released soon and allowed to live out her life in some semblance of peace.

But when the queen pardons Lord Suffolk, the duke proves himself to be as dense as they come, and proclaims his daughter Jane queen again, rallying an army led by Thomas Wyatt to support the claim. It is his hope that the country will support Jane in favor of the “Spanish-loving” Mary, who signed a marriage treaty with Philip of Spain on 12 January.

I retch when I hear of another father’s thoughtlessness toward his daughter. How can he be so foolish? Now there is no hope…

Norfolk is named lieutenant-general of the army sent to disperse Wyatt’s insurgents at Rochester on 22 January—Norfolk, who is eighty-one years old. I cannot believe the queen sees fit to send him, out of all the able-bodied men at her disposal. In Norfolk’s triumphant letter to me, he tells me that no one is quite as capable in the area of military strategy, which is why she favored him with this responsibility.

Norfolk cannot predict that at Rochester Bridge some of his own forces would decide to switch sides and join up with the charismatic Wyatt. Norfolk could not seem to contrive of a strategy to combat that one, and retreats, retiring to Kenninghall, humiliated.

The queen’s forces prove victorious on 7 February, however, when Wyatt surrenders. If Norfolk could have held out a little longer, perhaps he would have been able to credit himself with the triumph. But it was not to be.

On 12 February, while I lie under my quilt and watch the snow fly, Lady Jane and her husband are executed for high treason, though her only crime was being born to the worst of people.

Again, all I can do is thank God I am not present to see more lives submitted to the axe.

Jane’s father is executed on 23 February.

So this is how Queen Mary’s reign begins—with death.

In March I learn the worst, the news that sends me again to my bed, where I will find no comfort. Princess Elizabeth, my clever, beautiful, black-eyed cousin, has been sent to the Tower, where so many Howards before her have suffered. She is suspected of participating in the Wyatt rebellion.

I remember my impression of the young woman with the beautiful Howard hands. The young woman I was so certain would be queen of England in her time. I was convinced it was ordained by God.

“What does it all mean?” I cry to Peggy, who holds my hand as I retch into a basin. All I can see is Princess Elizabeth, a tawny-haired babe in my arms. Her little hand curls about my finger…“God, what is it all for? Is she to follow her mother to the block? Oh, Anne, my beautiful Anne, were I but stronger I would have seen you spared!”

Uncle Will sits at my bedside, swabbing my fevered brow with a cool cloth. “Please, my little bird, please. You are mad with grief.” His eyes seek out his wife. “Should I write the duke?”

Peggy glares. “So he can finish her?” She shakes her head, drawing in a wavering breath. Her voice is soft, speculative. “My lord, how many heartbreaks can one person take, d’you believe?”

Uncle Will does not respond. He gathers me in his arms, commencing to rock, singing gently. I lose myself in his voice.

April brings about Wyatt’s execution—ah, Mary is her father’s child!—but Elizabeth, to my eternal relief, is spared and transferred to Woodstock, where she shall live in isolation. As she always has.

I give thanks to God. He is sparing her for her own reign. I know; somehow I have been given the knowledge that she will endure. She will be what her mother and cousin could not. She will be queen. Someday. In her time.

It occurs to me in the wake of these events that I no longer want to hear anything more about court, not even about the tragedies and triumphs of my own family. Indeed, I do not think I can bear it.

Norfolk sends me letters. Where am I? he is wondering. Why am I not with him at Kenninghall? I am overdue a visit.

Peggy and I watch the letters burn in the hearth; the parchment curls up and blackens. My father’s hurried scrawl is obliterated in the flames.

I do not write him back. I lie under my quilt, my Howard quilt, and think of the people who loved me.

Norfolk and Me

I
receive the news in August.

He is dying. I repeat the phrase to myself over and over.
He is dying.
Somehow it doesn’t seem possible that he should die. He has outlasted them all; five of Henry’s queens, Henry himself, Wolsey, Cromwell, Surrey, Bess, King Edward, Henry Fitzroy…Harry…

Now he will join them, wherever they have gone—if indeed we go anywhere at all. A wry smile curves my lips; years ago I would have chastised myself for the thought. Now I do not shut out what is real. Reality has always pursued me. So I yield to it. In this perhaps Reality and I will make our peace.

I arrive at Kenninghall—running to him again—and draw in a breath as I enter the chambers. I have imagined this scene before many times; a strange and reluctant morbid fantasy. In a dynamic confrontation, Norfolk lies dying, beseeching me for forgiveness; I grant it with a heart as pure as a prayer, rising above my base instincts so that he may be afforded peace.

It will not play out that way, I am certain.

He is in bed, that much is a given—a great mahogany four-poster with a beautiful blue velvet canopy. He looks tiny. It occurs to me for the first time how much this small man has done, how many lives he has raised high, how many lives he has shattered. To think what one small man might achieve…

I approach and curtsy. He is dying, after all. I must try to be gracious.

He gestures for me to sit beside him. I remain standing. Years of experience have taught me not to get too close to Norfolk. I do not know how much strength he has left in him, but I am certain there is enough to strike out at me like a coiled snake.

He purses his lips and eases himself up into a sitting position. “I think you have been avoiding me,” he says with his almost laugh.

I say nothing.

“I’ll be leaving you, it seems.” He averts his head to look out the window, out at the world. “You will be free.”

I close my eyes. Anger hot as wine surges through my veins.

“Free?” I breathe, incredulous. This will not do, I tell myself. I am supposed to exemplify grace and composure. But the words come, pulled forth by a force greater than I am. “I can never be free. You have made sure of that. All my life…” Tears clutch my throat. I allow them to stream down my cheeks unchecked. “You have taken away everyone and everything that has ever meant a thing to me. Mother, Harry, Anne, George, Kitty, Surrey, Master Foxe…” I shake my head. I still can’t believe the length of the list, even after all this time. “And the children, my beloved children…” My shoulders quake with sobs. “Now you dare say I am free.” I offer a bitter smile. “Free to do what? Marry? Marry whom? I am thirty-five years old and in poor health. I am known forever as the woman who condemned her brother to death and her father to prison. I am regarded as little better than Jane Boleyn.”

He says nothing. His black eyes are alert; indeed, he does not look like he is dying. His expression bears the same calm indifference it always did; his lips twist into that same sardonic half smile. The only indication that he is unwell lies in the fact that he is abed in his nightclothes. He would never have presented himself before anyone thus when he enjoyed good health.

“So you do hate me, then,” he says, his voice soft, almost as though he is hoping to satisfy a point of curiosity.

“I should,” I tell him. “But no. Stripping me of everyone deserving of my love ensured that I would always need you, that I would always be yours. You were the only man, the only
being
I was ever permitted to love.” I pause, allowing him to appreciate the profundity of the statement. “So I did love you, with all my
soul
I loved you. So much so that I blinded myself to your savagery and indifference. What I allowed myself to see was justified or, at the very least, explained. And now, now when I can hate you, when indeed I
yearn
to hate you, I cannot. Too much has come to pass between us—a lifetime of fear and awe and the love that you took and twisted.”

He flinches at this. His head lolls to the side. He closes his eyes. For one panicked moment I fear my outburst has been too much for him and this will be my last memory of this man—this man who, despite everything, I still love.

“My lord?” No response. “Father!” I cry in fear.

His eyes flutter open. He draws in a sigh. “It was not your fault, you know.”

“What?” I ask, sitting beside him now. I take his thin hand in my own, recalling how I used to fear its power while marveling at its perfection. Now it is a gnarled patchwork of veins and wrinkles and age spots. An old man’s hand.

“Surrey.” He regards me. Tears stand bright in his eyes; they are like liquid onyx. “The trial. My imprisonment. It was not your fault.”

I am unable to mask my bitterness. “You tell me this now? Is this a recent epiphany or did you enjoy my years of guilt?”