Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, was fifty-two years old. A tall, thin man richly dressed in a tunic of black velvet, slashed to show the fine, white lawn shirt beneath. Over this he wore a long gown of mulberry velvet edged with miniver. His skin was swarthy and his nose high-bridged and long. His thin lips were composed in a tight smile but the eyes that so disturbed his brother were the most unnerving feature in that grim countenance for they were as cold and as hard as flint. No sign of emotion was ever seen in those eyes – not pity, not fear nor warmth or humour.
“Tom, you startled me!”
“I am glad you could come, brother,” Thomas replied and once again Edmund felt uneasy.
“Agnes, grief does not become you. Pray go to your chamber and rest for I am not yet ready to meet my Maker and I wish to discuss certain matters with Tom and Edmund,” the old Duke called to his wife.
Agnes looked appealingly at her two step-sons but seeing that she would gain no assistance from that quarter made her way to the door.
“You may take the good fathers with you!” her husband added.
Still chanting softly the priests followed the Duchess out.
Once the heavy door had closed behind them the old Duke turned to his sons. “In truth I have not much time left but I must see that certain matters are attended to before I am called to give an account of myself,” and he motioned his sons to be seated. “Tom, I entrust you with the care of Agnes and the children. I leave it to you to guide and further the careers of your brothers and suitable marriages will have to be arranged for the girls.” He paused, “You will succeed to the title Tom. You have a sound knowledge of local affairs and your judgement is reliable but be a fair and just Lord to your tenants.”
“You have my oath upon it,” Thomas replied.
“Do not lose sight of your first and most important duty – the advancement of the Howards. Let no opportunity slip by for times are changing, the old nobility is being ousted by upstarts, butcher’s brats!” He paused and the fierce old eyes looked intently into the cold eyes of his son. He had no cause to doubt his son for Thomas Howard hated Cardinal Wolsey every bit as much as his father did.
The old man leaned forward, “Have a care, this Henry Tudor beneath his bluff ways is ruthless and as yet knows not his own strength!”
He turned at last to Edmund. “Edmund, you will receive what is your due – use it wisely and you will make your way in the world.”
Edmund did not reply and refused to meet the cold eyes of his brother, thinking how furious both Tom and his father would be if they knew he had written to the hated Wolsey begging for a post in France.
The old Duke stared moodily into the flames, “I am tired, yea and weary of life. Eighty-two summers I have seen and at times I have felt that I have lived too long. Eight sons your mother bore me – five of them dead in infancy and Edward drowned in the narrow seas.” He sighed heavily, “A gallant lad was Edward.”
He fell silent as all three men recalled the tragic death of Edward Howard, Lord Admiral of England.
As a very young man Edward had taken part in the capture of Andrew Barton, the Scots pirate and had been created Lord Admiral by the young King. He had then turned his attentions to harassing the French in the channel, sometimes even landing on the French coast.
On August 10th, 1512, he had attacked the harbour at Brest with twenty-five ships. Sir Thomas Knevett, his close friend and husband of his sister Muriel, had been the captain of the Regent. The Regent and the French flagship engaged but the French ship had caught fire and the fire quickly spread to the Regent but Knevett had fought on until the flames reached the magazine. In one mighty explosion both ships were blown to pieces. Edward, overcome with grief and rage, had burnt towns and villages along the French coast in retaliation and vowed never to return to England until he had revenged the death of his friend.
On the 25th August, 1513, the odds were against him and time had run out for Edward Howard. He had once more attacked Brest but his ships were few and the French fleet had the added advantage of the shore batteries. With two dozen men he had boarded the French flagship but the ropes securing his own ship broke, leaving him at the mercy of his enemies. He fought like a tiger, bleeding from many wounds, until he no longer had strength to lift his sword and finally he had torn from his neck the golden whistle (the symbol of his rank) and cast it into the sea. Rather than face the disgrace of being taken prisoner, he had flung himself over the side but weak from loss of blood he foundered helplessly in the racing current and was drowned. He was thirty-four years old.
Thomas clearly remembered the words of the letter he had written to King Henry who had bestowed upon him Edward’s title of Lord Admiral and had charged him to avenge his brother’s death.
“My brother the Admiral was drowned, whom Jesus pardon; I assure Your Grace, for surely as I can by anywise understand, they handled themselves as ever men did, to obtain their Master’s pleasure and favour.”
The old Duke sighed once more, “Muriel died a year later, grieving for Tom Knevett and her brother.” He shook his head, “Elizabeth, too, dead before her time and she so spirited, so handsome. Nor did it take Tom Boleyn long to find another to take her place!”
He closed his eyes.
Edmund tried again. “Father, I pray thee, lie down!”
The old man roused himself. “I shall lie down when I am ready!” He glared at the huge bed which seemed to cast its long shadow over the room. “Bed,” he muttered “what way is that for a Howard to die? A Howard should die in battle. My father was nearing his eightieth year when he was struck down at Bosworth!”
“We are not at war and God has seen fit that your last days should be spent in peace,” Thomas interrupted him.
The old man ignored him but turned to Edmund. “You did well at Flodden. The Scots have never recovered from that blow,” he said, thinking of the great sword that hung in the great hall.
“But what good has it done me!” Edmund wanted to cry out but his father continued.
“Flodden was but a skirmish compared to Bosworth.”
“’Twas a fierce and bloody battle, so I have heard you say many a time,” Edmund replied.
“Aye, it would have gone well for Richard but for that black-hearted traitor – Stanley!”
He fell silent once more gazing into the leaping flames, seeing again that fierce and bloody battle of long ago.
His father, John Howard, the first Howard Duke of Norfolk had been forewarned of Lord Stanley’s treachery for a hastily scribbled note had been pinned to the flap of his tent the very morning before the battle.
“Jack of Norfolk be not too bold,
For Dickon thy master is bought and sold!”
the note had read. But Jack of Norfolk had disdainfully consigned that warning to the flames for the Howards had always been loyal to the House of York.
The fighting had been fierce and Stanley had held back. His father had fought his way at Richard’s side to the very feet of Henry Tudor. With his own eyes he had seen that legendary destrier of Richard’s – White Surrey – pound to pulp beneath iron-shod hooves the Tudor’s bodyguard. He had seen that horse rip away the flesh from the arm of the Tudor standard bearer with its teeth, while his master personally drove his sword through the body of Sir Henry Brandon and the Red Dragon of Cadwaller had fallen for a brief instant. But that foul dog, Stanley, had joined the Tudor and his father had gone down with Richard beneath a rain of savage blows.
He, a seasoned veteran of Barnet and Tewkesbury had tried to force his way through to his father’s side. Dust and tears had blinded him and through his tears he had seen the Earl of Oxford – the mortal enemy of the Howards – but a few paces ahead of him. He had wounded Oxford in the left arm but Oxford had hacked off his visor before they had been parted by the surging press of men. He had been badly wounded, faint from loss of blood and aware that the Tudor had gained the day. He had vowed then that he would die before he would be taken prisoner and had
handed his sword to Sir Gilbert Talbot with the request that Talbot killed him. Talbot, struck by his bravery, had refused and he had been carried from the field a prisoner.
He could remember the words he had spoken to Henry Tudor that day. He had looked steadily at the unknown Welshman and had said clearly and without fear, “Richard was my crowned King and if the Parliament of England set the Crown upon that stock, I will fight for that stock as I fought for him and I will fight for you when you are established by that authority!”
The first Henry Tudor was not a man who held a grudge and after a year in the Tower he had been pardoned and sent north as Lieutenant of the Northern Marches.
Bosworth faded for the last time and the old Duke looked closely at his sons. He was tired but was content that now he could safely leave his affairs in the hands of his eldest son.
“Now, I will rest,” he informed them.
When they had seen him removed to the great bed. Thomas and Edward bade him Good Night and left. As they walked along the dark, chilly passageway, lit by spluttering torches, neither brother spoke but each was inwardly assessing the other.
Edmund was bitterly thinking of the vast estates and wealth that would come to Thomas simply by virtue of the fact that he had been born a few years before himself. He had no doubts that Tom would carry out his father’s instructions to the letter. He would manage the estates well and would provide for Agnes and her children in a fitting manner and he would do everything in his power to advance the name of Howard but Edmund felt that he would never really understand Tom for there was a serpentine, ruthless quality in Tom which was lacking in his own nature.
Thomas walked quietly beside his brother. His cold eyes missed nothing and he had noted the threadbare appearance of his brother the first moment he had set eyes upon him. “Shiftless,” he thought. Edmund had always been shiftless and careless with money although he did have qualities that Thomas admired. Bravery, honesty and loyalty but Thomas had quickly learnt that these were not qualities that advanced a man at the court of King Henry VIII.
Outwardly the court was glittering, gay and chivalrous – beneath it was vicious and as treacherous as the marshy fens of Norfolk and a man who was careless where he stepped could easily sink beneath the displeasure, suspicion or greed of the golden giant who now rules England, just as easily as a man could sink into the sucking mud of the fens – never to be heard of again. No, Thomas Howard had learnt that tireless vigilance, a keen nose for danger, pliancy and a smooth tongue, ruthlessness and dedication to self interest were the qualities that now prevailed.
They parted at the door of Edmund's apartments with a few polite words.
* * *
Thomas was awakened a few hours later by his servant. Hastily he dressed and made his way back to the state bedchamber. He was followed by Edmund and they arrived almost simultaneously to find Agnes huddled in a chair beside the bed, a crumpled kerchief pressed to her mouth, her eyes reddened with weeping.
She uttered an indistinguishable sound and motioned them closer.
The old Duke’s breath was laboured but he was trying to mutter something to his father confessor.
Thomas leaned forward.
“God forgive me!” the old man gasped “I had no choice.”
“What was it, My Lord?” the priest asked him.
“Buckingham, I could have spared him.”
“You could not have saved him, father. He would have been condemned without your help and then you, too, would have suffered the same fate.”
“God forgive me!” the old man implored.
“He will surely forgive you, My Lord,” the priest comforted him.
“Buckingham,” Thomas thought. “So that still troubles him.”
The Duke of Buckingham had been too closely connected with the Throne and Henry VIII had become nervous and suspicious of that connection so trumped up charges had been brought against the Duke. Buckingham had been an old friend of his father and his own father-in-law but Norfolk had been forced to sit in judgement upon him and condemn him to death for treason. His father had complied with the King’s wishes but had left court vowing never to return but Thomas had never realised how great was the burden of guilt that his father had carried.
He looked down at the feeble body, the thin hands tightly clasped around the gold crucifix. His father was a simple man at heart – a soldier. His was not the nature of a politician, he was too honest. A man of great courage and pride but not a man devious enough to cope with the new order of things or the new men who were rising to power. Men like Wolsey, whom both Thomas and the old Duke hated and Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, son of that Henry Brandon killed by Richard of Gloucester at Bosworth and Thomas Boleyn, husband of his dead sister, Elizabeth. Perhaps it was better that his father was leaving the world, he thought, for there were few places in this new age for men like him.
With a final effort the old Duke raised the crucifix to his lips and closed his eyes.
The senior Howard chaplain bent over him and then straightened up, raising his hand in the Sign of the Cross.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”
Agnes Howard gave a sharp cry and buried her face in her hands.
The Victor of Flodden was dead and Thomas Howard, now the third Duke of Norfolk, signed to his brother Edmund to help her to her chamber.
* * *
The chapel at Framlingham was packed to capacity for the old Duke had been greatly respected. In an age when the common people were virtually ignored, being considered only a little better than the animals they tended, the old Duke had treated his tenants and servants with fairness and consideration.
The coffin lay upon a bier in the centre isle. At each corner stood a lighted taper and at its head the Sergeant-at-Arms stood bearing the standard of the White Lion. The chapel was hung with costly tapestries depicting the Life of Christ but even on that warm May morning the air was chill and musty.
Thomas Howard entered the chapel from the gallery which led from the state bedchamber and was moved to see so great a number of mourners. They had come from London as well as from Norfolk and Suffolk and even a few grim northerners – veterans of Flodden – had come to pay their last respects.
He took his place beside his family as the priests commenced the Requiem Mass and with the rest of the congregation he knelt as the mournful chanting of the ‘De profundis’ began.
His face remained in its usual composed attitude, his eyes showing no sign of emotion although inwardly he was grieved for he had greatly admired and respected his father. The survival of the house of Howard now depended upon him and he wondered whether he would have the good fortune and stamina necessary to further advance that position.
He looked down at the boy at his side. Henry, his eldest son – now Earl of Surrey – was seven years old. A bright, talented boy. His daughter, Mary, was nearly six and his youngest son, Thomas, (who was not present) was three. Would any of them survive to maturity?
He glanced at his wife, Elizabeth, and for an instant dislike filled his eyes. Elizabeth had done her duty, of that there was no mistake, but he cordially loathed her and the feeling was mutual! She was not his first wife; perhaps the only part of Thomas Howard's heart that could be touched had been touched by his first wife, the Princess Anne Plantagenet.
Anne had been the third daughter of King Edward IV, a gentle, frail girl who had been nineteen when he married her. It had been a grand alliance and the King had attended to give the bride away. Their future happiness had looked assured. But Anne had not been strong and the four sons she had borne him had all died in their infancy and after sixteen years of happy marriage Anne, too, had died. Coughing her life away, choking on her own blood and all the warmth and affection in him had gone with her.
He had had no sons to follow him and always conscious of duty he had contracted to marry Lady Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of the Duke of Buckingham. He had been a man of thirty-seven and she little mor
e than a child of fourteen but if he had ever considered her a child he was soon to find out that at fourteen Elizabeth Stafford was a woman and a termagant! Although she had borne him three children their life together was far from happy.
Elizabeth had never forgiven his father for what she termed his ‘traitorous’ treatment which led to the death of the Duke of Buckingham and she never missed an opportunity of reminding her husband that it was his father who had sent her father to his death.
The one person who brightened a few hours for him was Bess Holland, the sister of his steward and a relation of Lord Hussey, although his wife preferred to ignore this and called her a ‘washer in the nursery’ which was the position she held. He did not know why Bess appealed to him. She was not particularly attractive. She was older than Elizabeth and had no intellect to speak of in fact sometimes he wondered why he had taken her into his bed at all for she was not particularly outstanding in the art of pleasing a man. Perhaps it was because she was like a comfortable robe which once worn made the wearer feel relaxed or perhaps it was because she was so totally different from his shrewish wife.
He was brought out of his reverie by the intonations of the priest and realised that the Mass was nearing its conclusion. He rose thinking that now he would have to take up his responsibilities, the first of these being Agnes and his step-brothers and sisters.
* * *
Next day the family were assembled in the presence chamber to hear the Last Will and Testament of the deceased Duke.
Agnes sat in a chair close to the window swathed in heavy black, although she seemed to have made a complete recovery from her grief. A large dish of comfits lay beside her, half empty.
The White Lion of Norfolk Page 2