Secrets of the Tudor Court (5 page)

“Oh, him.” He rifles through more documents. “Your brother’s at Windsor Palace keeping company with Henry Fitzroy, King Henry’s boy.” His eyes grow distant. “Fitzroy…His mother was a clever one. To think of all little Bessie Blount became…mistress of a monarch, the mother of the king’s son, a son showered with grand titles.” He offers a slight laugh. “But not quite grand enough. No, Bessie Blount went as far as she could go with what she had. But our Anne shall go even farther. No bastard children for her…”

I am only half listening. In truth I could not care less about King Henry’s boy or fair Bessie Blount at this point. My heart surges with hope as I anticipate a visit with my beloved brother.

“Can we go to him?” I ask. “Please?”

He pauses. My heart races. Surely this means he is considering. “I’m sure he’ll be at the next court function. Off with you now. Remember what I told you.”

“Yes, my lord,” I say in disgruntled tones as I quit the room. My heart aches for something familiar. I long for my brother’s laugh—he could make light of anything with his jokes and easy nature. I long for my sister, forever lost to me. She, with her perfect grasp on a world I do not seem to belong to, would know how to advise me. In her I could confide of my awkwardness, my fear, and my desire to be the lady she was with such effortlessness.

I long for the mother I never had, a woman so lost in her own pain that it has ruined her for any of her children.

I long for Bess, for her reassurance, her ample bosom to snuggle in, her simple, uncomplicated company.

When I return to the maidens’ chamber I remove her letter from the little casket.

I read it again and again and again.

As Norfolk predicted, I do see my brother at a court function; a joust. How to describe tournaments! The shining knights, the beautiful ladies, some with tokens for their bonnie lads about to take the field. Anne gives the king her handkerchief.

Queen Catherine clutches hers in her lap, twisting it with nervous fingers.

“Will you give your scarf to anyone, little Mary?” Anne asks with a wink of her obsidian eye.

“Perish the thought!” says her brother George, always cheerful. “She’s far too young and sweet to be sullied by love!”

“Why, does love sully us?” Anne asks with the coquettish grin that I practice so hard to achieve. “I think I have fared quite well!”

Ripples of laughter surround me and I allow myself a giggle. It is the first time I have felt any semblance of mirth since hearing of my Catherine’s death.

“Well, love has sullied me,” says George with an affectionate glance at his sister. “Your father picked me quite a bride, young Mary,” he tells me. Then to the rest of the assemblage he adds, “Wouldn’t everyone agree that my Jane is in possession of many charms?”

The ladies burst into laughter. Indeed, we could barely escape the sour-faced maid with her wicked tongue and, from what I’ve heard, vicious mind. In a way I feel sorry for her. It is as though she is always on the outside, circling Anne’s exclusive set, her eyes filled with a strange contemptuous longing.

George’s comment causes more laughter and he tips back his dark head to join in before riding off to enter the lists.

I scan the jousters, excitement bubbling in my chest. I see a familiar head bobbing among the crowd, its owner’s expression faraway. Dreamy. It is a sweet face. I leap up from my seat and run toward the yard.

“Henry Howard!” I cry out, waving my arms. “Henry, Lord Surrey!”

He turns his head, jarred from his reverie, and begins to run toward me. “Look at this!” He takes my hands and covers them with kisses. “Mary, dearest little girl.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Henry…” There is so much I want to say. About this weird place, about Catherine, about Norfolk. I cannot articulate it, though, so stand before him, smiling.

“What’s this?” Henry asks, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “No tears, Mary. We Howards are at the top of the world right now!”

“Are you competing today, Henry?” I ask.

“No, not me,” he tells me, his long face drawn up into a smile. He is a younger version of Norfolk, his nose straight and Roman, his hooded eyes drooping slightly at the sides. Only he laughs. “Harry and I are just here to observe today, though he is itching to compete.”

It is only at this moment that I realize my brother isn’t alone. Beside him stands a boy about my age, with bright strawberry blond hair and energetic blue eyes. His complexion is rosy, his gentle smile is ready; he is also the picture of his father, King Henry VIII.

I curtsy. “Hello, my lord duke.”

“Such formality for your old playmate?” he asks with a giggle that betrays his youth.

It is true I have hazy memories of playing at Windsor Palace with my brother and young Harry; since my father was the boy’s governor we were often in his company. But to me this seems like ages ago and the memories, like most from the dreamy days of childhood, are but distant echoes of a faerie song; one is not quite sure if it was ever real.

I blush. “Only showing the proper deference for the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Knight of the Garter,” I say, but my voice bears the slightest edge of teasing.

He reaches out a hand to tap my upper arm. “Plain Harry to you,” he says. “We should show her the puppies.”

“Puppies?” I squeal.

“You like puppies?” Harry asks. “They’re in the stables—oh, they’re mongrels, not proper hunting dogs at all, but they’re—they’re, well, they’re rather cute.” He seems embarrassed to say the word
cute
, as though it is not masculine to perceive things thus.

“Oh, yes, do bring me to them!” I cry, and the three of us take to the stables. I do not think of the other girls I have left behind in the stands. I am with my brother at last. I am with people who do not seem so complicated.

We reach the stables where are housed some of the finest horses in England, each brushed till its coat gleams. In the corner of an empty stall is a bitch with her five pups. She is adorable. Her pups are little balls of gray, blue merle, caramel, and white fur; their ears cannot decide if they will be floppy or pointed, so compromise at somewhere in between.

I kneel in the hay, not caring about the state of my dress. Both Henrys kneel beside me.

“Do you think she’ll let us pet them?”

“I should say,” says Harry with the authoritative tone of an expert. “Do you think so, Surrey?”

My brother nods and I reach out a tentative hand, first to the mother, whose elongated snout I stroke while cooing soft endearments about her ability to breed. Once I am certain she is comfortable with me I reach out to pet one of her pups; the fur is silky soft under my hand and I purr with pleasure. I gather the little creature against my breast.

“It’s so dear,” I say, kissing its downy head. “Oh, if holding a pup is this wonderful imagine how grand it will be to hold my own babies!” I breathe before I can help myself.

Neither boy says anything; I imagine they don’t fantasize about holding babies very often.

“Do you want to keep it, Mary?” Harry asks.

I glow at the prospect. “Do you think it’s ready? I couldn’t bear the thought of separating it from its mother too early.”

“It’s fine,” reassures my brother, whom I decide to refer to as Surrey as well, just to differentiate him from all the other Henrys running about court.

I meet the gaze of the mother, as though seeking a glint of permission in the great brown orbs. I wonder what it is like to have a child taken away. Nobles give their children up for fostering most of the time and do not see their children but for a handful of times a year. Some don’t see their children for years at a time.

If I take this pup, its mother will never see it again.

Something about the thought brings a lump to my throat. I blink back tears.

“Mary…” My brother rubs my shoulder. “Don’t you want the nice pup Harry’s offered?”

I nod. “Oh, yes, to be sure. But to separate it from the mother…”

“Mary’s so sensitive!” Surrey laughs. “You have a poet’s heart—like me.” He wraps his arm about my shoulders and kisses my cheek.

“Do you want it or not?” Harry asks, but his tone is good-natured. “I have a mind to withdraw the offer—you know it will fare much better with you than out here.”

This is true enough. I pat the mother’s head in a gesture of gratitude, then rise with the pup in my arms. “Thank you, Harry.”

He offers a courtly bow and I return a curtsy. We erupt into laughter at our sport as we return to the tiltyard to watch the jousting.

As I reach the stands to show the girls my new pup I see Anne watching me, a grin of amusement lifting the corner of her pretty mouth.

It is a perfect day; the sun shines off the armor of the knights and I am blinded at times as they ride past. We are treated to a superb show of sportsmanship and my throat is raw from screaming for the various champions.

King Henry takes the day, of course. Madge Shelton whispers to me that everyone lets him win else the consequences are dire. I giggle before I can help myself. He is a spoiled child! Yet I suppose he did not choose to be. He is a king and kings were first princes, spoiled and petted just for the sake of being born to the right folk.

He wouldn’t even have become king had his sickly brother Arthur not passed on. In fact, he would not have married Catherine of Aragon, Arthur’s own widow, at enormous inconvenience to a great many people, including the Church he rails against now, had it not been for that fact.

Yes, King Henry is very accustomed to getting what he wants. So accustomed that he does not even know there is another way to live. That is why he raises friends up only to cast them down at a whim, because no one has curbed him thus far. He will keep pushing and testing his limits and still he will not be curbed.

I wonder if his son, so close to being a prince himself, will take after him. I squeeze the puppy to my chest. I hope not.

That night as I report to Norfolk I am ecstatic. It has been a wonderful day, a day etched in memory and emblazoned in my heart. It is a day of innocence and perfection that will sustain me through the days that follow.

I am playing a prank on Norfolk tonight. The day and company of my brother have put me in a mischievous mood. I dress in my nightgown and wrap, concealing the puppy within as I bounce into his chambers.

“Wasn’t it a wonderful day, Father?” I ask, beaming as I clutch my wrap tight about the warm, wriggling pup.

He says nothing. He looks down at the eternal display of papers scattered across his desk.

I tell him the things I imagine he wants to hear, verbatim conversations that have no consequence or relevance that I can see, but are the best I can come up with.

“I think Anne is smart, Father,” I venture.

At this he looks up. “As smart as a woman can be, I suppose,” he says. “But she is greedy and headstrong. That same temper that so charms His Majesty now could someday prove her ruin.”

I shudder at the words. I do not like to hear anything bad said against my mistress, for I consider Anne more my mistress than Queen Catherine for all my interactions with the latter. I decide now is the perfect time to unleash my little joke. Norfolk seems in as good a humor as possible for him, so it may as well be now.

I clutch my wrap around me and double over. “Oh, Father, I have the worst stomach pains. Perhaps something disagreed with me today!”

“Go to bed,” he says in his taciturn manner.

At once I open my wrap and out springs my new puppy. He runs around the room to investigate everything.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Harry Fitzroy gave him to me so I call him Fitz, after him.”

“Sounds like a seizure,” says Norfolk as he watches the dog relieve himself on the leg of his desk. After a slight pause he asks, “Are you a complete idiot?”

I gather the pup in my arms, chastising it in gentle tones. I do not respond to Norfolk’s query, as I am not quite sure. I may be a complete idiot. I did think it would be funny to see a dog jump out of my robes, but Anne has told me countless times that my sense of humor is rather quaint. God knows Will Somers, the king’s fool, could make me laugh till I begged him to cease in his antics for the pangs in my sides, and his sense of humor is none too sophisticated.

“I’m sorry, Father,” I say as I right myself. I bow my head.

“Clean it up,” he orders.

“Do you have some rags…?”

“Use your wrap, foolish girl,” he says. “You want a dog, you deal with its unpleasantness with the accoutrements at your present dispensation.”

I am horrified at this. Not only because I have to sacrifice my favorite red velvet wrap from Mary Carey, but because I will have to walk through the halls of the palace in nothing but my nightclothes, and though I am still considered a child, I feel too old to prance about thus.

After a moment of staring at my father without effect, I remove my wrap and wipe up the offensive reminder of my puppy’s less attractive habits. I call for a ewer filled with rose water to make certain the scent does not remain behind. The servant who brings it casts a strange look at my father and I am both angered and embarrassed. I do not want anyone looking down at him for my foolishness, nor do I want anyone seeing me stooped to this level of humility.

“You’ll have to varnish the leg if any is stripped off,” Norfolk says.

I nod, praying this isn’t the case. I right myself, shivering. His rooms are cold.

“So you were with your brother today,” Norfolk says in a lighter voice, as though nothing had happened. “Did he tell you he is betrothed?”

“Betrothed?” I am aghast. Henry married? “To who?”

“Anne had hoped to the Princess Mary, but that is not to be,” he continues with a slight scowl. “Which is for the best. We do not want to be accused of placing ourselves too close to the throne. As it is…” He cuts himself short. There is no doubt he is thinking of Anne. “It is Lady Frances de Vere, the Earl of Oxford’s daughter. They will not marry for quite some time, but the suit is a good one.”