by G Lawrence
“My uncle does not like women reaching above their station,” I said, thinking of my dead cousin.
“There was talk enough of that when his wife was banished,” Mary said quietly. “Lady Mary and her brother, along with all the other children, sided with their father, but many said it was under threat of disinheritance.”
She looked at me with a slight worried crease on her brow, as though I might support the Duke, but I nodded. Norfolk and his wife had separated. That was the official tale, the true one being he had cast her from his house. The Duchess claimed he beat her and subjected her to mental cruelty. She was probably telling naught but the truth, but Norfolk had suffered nothing for it. The Duchess had been banished to a small house, granted a meagre allowance, but was guarded by Norfolk’s servants. She did not go out and no one was allowed in. She was, and had been for some years, a prisoner.
And of course Norfolk’s children had supported him. What other choice did they have? He held their futures in his hands. The Duchess might have right on her side, but could offer her children nothing.
“To her side, in the green and white, is Lady Margaret Douglas,” said Anne.
Margaret Douglas, evidently a great friend of Mary Howard’s if one were to judge by their closeness, was another arresting looking woman. She had a long, sharp nose, slightly hooked at the end, a common Tudor trait, and sparkling eyes. Her mouth was large and wide, seductive and sweet, and her face was pale, long and elegant. People said she resembled her mother, Princess Margaret Tudor, sister of the King and once Queen of Scotland, who was a beauty, or had been in youth. “At court, you are to address her as ‘Your Highness’, or ‘Your Grace’,” said Anne, “for in England she is considered a Princess.”
“You say, ‘in England’,” I noted.
Anne nodded. “Her mother was Princess Margaret of England, Queen of Scotland,” she said. “But her father was Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus. In Scotland, she is not considered a princess because of her father’s blood, but as she is the daughter of an English princess, here she is royalty, and one of the six most important women in the Queen’s household.”
I knew a little of this Princess. Her mother had fled to England when her father had faced trouble in Scotland. Threatened by the King of Scotland, Angus had sent his wife to England to seek sanctuary. As an infant, Margaret had lived in the house of Cardinal Wolsey, and later with her cousin, the then Princess Mary. She had spent time in France after her father snatched her from her mother, but had returned to England in adulthood. She had been recently offered to the Emperor as a potential bride in an attempt to stop him from forming a permanent alliance with France. The Emperor was not enthused. Margaret was not high enough for him to consider as his Empress.
She was close to the English throne, though, therefore a valuable prize in marriage, and had served my cousin as a lady-in-waiting. This was when she had got into trouble by falling in love with one of my uncles. She had been released upon promising better behaviour, meaning she would no more dare to fall in love, and had been brought to court to show her restoration to the affections of the King.
“What of Lady Baynton?” asked Katherine. My half-sister was another important lady of the Queen’s household, not as high as Lady Mary or Margaret, but important.
“Our companion can tell us about her,” said Anne, turning to me. “She is your half-sister, is she not?”
I inclined my head. “Although we have not seen each other for a long time, I can tell you she was kind to me and my siblings when we were small. Isabella became our mother, to all intents and purposes, when our mother died and cared for us well. I know not what she might be like now, for people do change.” I took a sip of sweet, spiced wine. “She did ask me to find out gossip for her. So she seems canny about the ways of court.”
“Be sure and only pass on that which will not harm your sisters in the chamber,” said Anne.
“Of course,” I said. “Anything harmful I shall omit, and swear I knew nothing about. She will believe me. Many people think me entirely brainless, which is useful at times.”
Anne grinned and Katherine and Mary chuckled. “It is that innocent face,” said Katherine. “You look as though you never heard of a lie, let alone told one.”
And yet how many secrets do I keep, I thought.
Chapter Forty-Three
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1539
We moved to another spot, closer to the musicians so we could see more of the room. “There is the Lady Mary Tudor, daughter of the King and Katherine of Aragon,” said Anne, that active chin indicating to a lady standing within a group of women. “There is talk of a marriage between her and Cleves, another way to secure peace between our countries.”
Lady Mary had the look of a tired child. I could see why people had called her pretty, but prettiness may be stolen away by stress and care. She wore crimson velvet and silk, the edge of her gown trimmed with pearls. French sleeves of silver graced her arms and brushed fingers bearing gold rings, with gems of agate and diamond glittering from them, catching the lamplight. A large cross hung at her neck, set with emeralds, matching a brooch of the same stone on her breast. But her fine clothes could not light up her appearance. For that, her soul needed to be brightened.
Her eyes were shadowed underneath with purple and black, making them look hollow and haunted. There were lines about her eyes and mouth more at home on a woman twice her age. She was only twenty-three or four, but looked aged. She stood awkwardly, keeping to the group of women as though afraid of men. Her hair was a dark russet, and her body was small and slim. There was much to recommend her, but those eyes… she looked as though she had taken on all the cares of the world and found herself unable to resolve even one.
Her submission to her father had cost her dear, just as my grandmother had said, but I wondered if her betrayal of her mother had cost more. All said she had adored her mother, and she had been forced to say Katherine had never been married to the King, in effect labelling her godly, wise and learned mother a concubine. It had cost her status, for she could no more call herself Princess, but there are other costs. Ones of body and soul.
She wore the air of someone abused, and in being denied the chance to admit that openly, tries to let it seep from the skin like perfume. There was something in her calling to be heard, a voice silently screaming for justice.
Sometimes, I thought I could hear this from people, as though what I had suffered echoed from another who had endured the same.
“Who is that lady?” I asked about a woman in a stunning gown, clearly with many a merry quip upon her lips since she only had to open her mouth and everyone within two feet of her roared with laughter.
“Katherine Willoughby, the Duchess of Suffolk,” said Anne. “Wife to Charles Brandon, the King’s closest friend.” She sent her eyes to a much older man, dressed in the finest cloth which sadly did not conceal his face and form were corpulent and gross.
“He took a young wife,” I noted. The Duchess was a good twenty years his junior.
“Indeed,” said Anne. “He had a rather complicated marital life, truth be told. Engaged to this woman, then that, and then he married Princess Mary, younger sister of the King. There was a great scandal. She was the Dowager of France at the time. The King had died, some said for her dancing and bedding the old man to death. Brandon went to France to send our King’s sorrows, and there they were secretly married. They say the Princess knew her brother would marry her to another foreign prince, and thinking she had done her duty by marrying where he chose the first time, followed her heart the second and wed Brandon.”
“I wonder the Duke dared,” said Mary. “He must have known the risks.”
Anne chuckled. “The Princess was the brains of their union. Brandon was talked into the match so fast he did not stop to consider that the King would be enraged when he found out. But with time, and a great deal of money, they were forgiven. The Princess died some years ago, and they had
two sons, but they are gone now too. He married Katherine Willoughby and they have children, none destined for the succession anymore of course, but Brandon had daughters with the Princess. They are likely to be included, especially if they bear sons.”
“She is quite the wit,” said Katherine as we all stared at the Duchess. She had an interesting face, with large eyes and a nose that turned up at the end, granting her a distinctly impish look. Her chin was short, and she was more striking than pretty, but it was her intelligence and those quick quips firing from her mouth that made her stand out. Wit granted her fire in those dark eyes, and energy in her cheeks. Sometimes women are beautiful for the flames burning within their souls.
“Aye, she is an intelligent woman,” said Anne. “Some say too much so, for she is interested in reform and the New Learning and that can be dangerous. She keeps a circle of learned court women, who discuss books and theories on faith. They debate religion and sponsor promising scholars at Oxford and Cambridge. Some translate books and even write their own. It is an elite circle of women, but many do not like it.”
“Because they are women talking of books rather than of men?” asked Mary.
We all chuckled.
“That is one reason,” Anne said. “But they talk of dangerous subjects, many thought inappropriate for anyone, but particularly women. The Duchess has a shield, however, for the King adores her. She flatters, she smiles and she charms him, and that keeps her and her friends safe, for now.” Anne leaned in. “She has a pet dog, called Gardiner. Named for the Bishop himself. She says it is so her ladies might command at least one Gardiner not to make a mess.”
We laughed quietly, staring at the Duchess with admiration.
“Who is in her circle?” I asked.
“Mary Howard is prominent amongst them, but also Anne Herbert, Elizabeth Tyrwhitt and Lady Jane Dudley, wife of the Queen’s Master of Horse.”
“Who is that?” I asked of a woman of about thirty years, with the greenest, most startling eyes I had ever seen. They leapt from her face; emeralds upon snow.
Anne looked where I was staring. “The Dowager Viscountess of Rochford,” Anne said. “Jane Boleyn.”
Boleyn. The word made my heart leap. The other two girls started as though a snake had wandered beneath our feet. We had all received the same warning upon arrival, as though we did not know already not to speak the name. Evidently, however, one was allowed to say the surname of that family, if not the full name of its highest, and lowest, daughter.
“Lady Rochford is Cromwell’s pet,” Anne whispered. “Some say, when her husband and sister-in-law fell, she offered him evidence to use against them. Some say she did nothing of the kind, but tried to protect them.” Anne’s lips puckered. “But since she was sent money by Cromwell soon after, and he helped her to retain estates, and got her a position at court in the household of Queen Jane, I think those who suspect the former are more likely to be correct. No one likes her.”
“Because she betrayed family?” I asked.
“That is one reason, although plenty at court have done the same or worse. The true reason is everyone knows she works for Cromwell,” said Anne. “She is his creature, but does not seem to like him. It is hard, therefore to know which side she is on, but even those who want Cromwell reduced in power would not work with her. She is slippery. An eel about court. Be wary of what you say to her. There is no telling what it might be used for.”
Jane Boleyn moved gracefully. She was beautiful, with wide-set green eyes, a pretty mouth and pale skin. A large cross of diamonds with three huge pearls suspended from it hung at her throat. Her nose was small, her figure wonderful. Her gown was in shades of green, making her eyes even brighter, but as I watched, I saw she was allowed to the edge of circles of courtiers, but not within. There was no move to exclude her, but people made no effort to talk to her. She was always just outside. I felt a spike of pity in my heart. I knew what it was to be looking in, wishing to be a part of something.
Her father, Anne told us, was Henry Parker, Lord Morely, the famous scholar and translator. Jane had joined the court in her youth, and like many present had not left. She had been favoured by the King and Katherine of Aragon, chosen for pageants and dances, for she danced gracefully and was a beautiful creature. When she was married to George Boleyn some thirteen years ago or so, the couple had been in high favour, granted income by the King and stewardship over a range of royal houses. George Boleyn had become Lord Rochford, and Jane a lady with a husband set to inherit the earldoms of Ormonde and Wiltshire. All that had come to an end when George had been arrested and executed.
“But you say some think she tried to save her husband?” I asked.
Anne nodded. “They say she went begging to Cromwell and the King, but no one knows the truth. She might have given evidence under duress, many did, or she might have volunteered it as a means to save her own skin.”
“Or she might have said nothing,” I said and received a withering glance from Anne. “It is possible, is it not?” I asked.
“Possible, but not likely,” she said. “Thomas Boleyn survived the carnage in the Queen’s house because he abandoned his children. It is likely Jane did the same, or how else do you explain how she managed to remain at court in a high position? They say her marriage was desperately unhappy. Lord Rochford was not a faithful man and kept a string of mistresses. Perhaps it was not such a hard thing, informing on her husband, if she wanted to be free of him.”
Anne shuddered, as though to even talk of Jane Boleyn was to speak a curse, and turned her attention to the men in the throng. “There,” she said. “Is the poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt.”
He was a tall, handsome man with a thick beard and bright, dark eyes. He alone talked to Jane Boleyn. “He speaks to her,” I said.
“Because he is Cromwell’s pet, too,” replied Anne. “He was imprisoned with the Boleyns, and some said was to lose his head, but Cromwell spoke for him. Now, they say he is sent to other courts to spy on princes. But he is a poet, too.” Her voice dropped so low I barely heard her next whisper. “He was once in love with your cousin,” she murmured. “And it was said she loved him, too. They were friends as children, and when she came to court he tried to make her his mistress. He even challenged the King for her once, over a game of bowls.”
“If that is true and yet he did not die,” I said. “Cromwell must have done some talking to get him freed from the Tower.”
“Indeed.”
“And that is Cromwell?” I asked, looking at a man in a dark doublet of russet with a black cloak pinned to his shoulders.
“It is,” said Anne. “How did you know?”
“I have seen his portrait.”
The man was fleshy, broad of shoulder, and clearly in his youth had been athletic, but muscle had run to fat, and his waist bulged with excess of wine and lack of exercise. I would have placed his age somewhere around fifty-five, but the lines on his face made him seem older. Cromwell’s eyes were dark, reddened and a little swollen about the rims, but sharp and intent. His nose was prominent, bulbous at the end, his lips thin, and a shade of pink more at home on a maiden. A double chin rested easy under his first, and his skin was pale, the mark of a man who spends more time with books than in fresh air. Richly dressed, with a golden chain of office about his neck, a large pearl pinned to his chest and plenty of gold rings glittering on his hands, he managed to appear subtly dressed and extravagant at the same moment, quite a feat.
He had an awkward gait, and did not look bright or merry, but that altered as he spoke. It was like watching another man come to life. As he spoke to his servant, a smile spread up his face, lightening those swarthy features. Suddenly, the grim man became pleasant, his smile roguish, rather charming.
“That is he,” she said. “The great Cromwell. No man but the King is richer. Some say he is wealthier than even Norfolk and Suffolk.”
“My uncle says he is the son of a thief,” I said.
Anne chuckled. “His
father was an innkeeper, so they say, in Putney, and once a farrier in the King’s father’s army at Bosworth. Cromwell trained as a lawyer, and worked as a hired soldier in France and Italy. He is common blood, there is no denying it, but the King cannot do without him, even if he does not like him all the time.”
I turned my head and lifted an eyebrow.
“He hits Cromwell,” she said. “Boxes his ears, slaps him about those flabby chops as though he were a dog. When the King loves him, he will listen to no one else, and when he does not, His Majesty treats him like a serf.”
From the corner of my eye, I had seen Mary Norris stiffen. There was nothing on her face, but I knew she was thinking of her father. Cromwell had brought him down. Katherine Carey, too, had no affection in her eyes. I had heard she had loved my cousin, and had spent time with her as a child. There were three of us standing there who had never met this man yet had every reason to hate him. How simple a thing it is to make enemies at court, I thought. It was easy, was it not? One generation before, murder had been done. One generation on, here we were, living blood of the blood upon Cromwell’s hands.