by D. L. Bogdan
“She’s a strong one, is your lady,” says Tsura Goodman the midwife in her strange accent when she comes out to report on my princess’s progress. “She doesn’t make a sound.” She cocks her head, searching my face for something I am unsure of. She is a peculiar woman, this midwife, said to have descended from the wandering Gypsy folk. Her ancestry reflects in her dark skin and penetrating gray eyes. Her black hair is wound atop her head in a knot; loose tendrils escape to frame her olive-skinned face, and her dark beauty is as alluring as it is haunting.
The woman takes my sword hand. “Beautiful,” she says as she admires it, turning it palm up. “Beautiful and dangerous.” She raises her eyes to mine. I shudder. I have never been keen on what some call the dark arts; indeed, my wife’s attachment to her faery folk is unsettling enough. Looking at the woman before me confirms that she is in possession of something otherworldly. “Take care of its power, my good lord,” she tells me in an eerie tone suggesting that she speaks not by choice but at the command of some higher being with which I have never become familiar.
“What are you about?” I snap, trying to quell my trembling.
She is unaffected, unafraid. Her full, claret-colored lips curve into a slow smile. “There is always a chance for redemption; no fate is ever certain,” she hisses in urgency, and the incongruity of her seductive expression and harsh tone causes me to start.
“Attend your charge at once, woman!” I cry, snatching my hand from hers and backing away, stifling the urge to make the sign of the cross and run in terror.
Tsura the Gypsy dips into a curtsy, then returns to my wife’s bedside.
I stand outside the chambers, studying my hand a long moment. I clench it into a fist.
Take care of its power indeed.
It is a boy! Another bonny boy! We call him Henry after the king and his son. He is a delight, so blond and rosy. His eyes are lighter than his brother’s; their silvery blue gaze penetrates the soul as he studies me, his little face earnest as a judge’s. I find myself particularly attached to this wee mite, perhaps because I was here when he was born, and I love holding him, caring for him. It touches me to feel his tiny hand curling about my thumb and I marvel at his perfect small feet, an example of God’s attention to the finest details.
I never knew I could love like this.
The princess and I spend many an hour in the gardens with the children. She laughs more now. Our toddling Little Thomas brings her delight as he discovers his world; he is everywhere at once and it takes a great deal of energy to keep up with him, but it is energy we are happy to spare.
When Thomas is out of his swaddling bands and put into short pants, assembling words into short sentences, following me about wherever I permit him to go, my princess tells me I should begin considering names for our third child.
I stare at her in wonder. How is it a man can be this happy?
The princess is eight months gone with child when the nurse tells her our baby, our Henry, was found dead in his cradle one spring morning.
I have never heard my princess raise her voice, but now she is screaming. The sound rips from her throat, raw and terrifying. She sinks to her knees before our lamb’s little cradle, thrusting her long arms skyward, bidding the Lord to answer for His decision. When at last she has collected herself, she turns to me, staring, large green eyes filled with questions I cannot begin to answer.
Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked as I approach the cradle. He does not look dead at all, his tiny head lolled to one side, eyes closed, fists curled by his chin. He is so still. I reach out to touch him, then draw back in horror. The warmth I had treasured when cradling him so close is gone. He is cold; the breath of life has departed.
I sob, great gasping, gulping sobs of despair.
There is no reason. There is no good reason.
I turn to the nurse, hot anger replacing the tears that I now wipe away in disgust. “Why was he not attended to?” I seethe.
The woman backs away in horror. “But he was—he was as he is every night, my lord. We checked on him right good, sir.”
“If that were so, he would be here with us!” I cry. “You are dismissed! This whole nursery staff is to leave this instant and I do not care where you go! May God rot your souls for your negligence!”
The woman retreats with the two rockers and nursery maids. I hear them fleeing, their voices raised in panic.
“Pray you make it out of here before I reach the door!” I shout.
I turn once more to the cradle. What do I do now?
“He was perfect,” I tell the princess in softer tones, shaking my head in agonized wonder. “I do not understand. . . . He was perfect. How can he be here one day and gone the next?”
The princess shakes her head, then sinks to the floor, rocking back and forth, inconsolable.
He did not have many effects. He did not live long enough. But I did save his first pair of little shoes, tucking them into a drawer in my desk, a strange reminder of lost perfection. I will not look at them . . . often.
We bury him at Stoke. He is too small to be traversed to the family chapel at Lambeth, so I do not bother. We receive sympathy from the royal family along with the Howards—indeed, everyone is well acquainted with loss. My mother had passed that same year and if anyone could have offered me counsel on the subject, it was she. But she is gone and the earl has remarried. Somehow his marrying within months of her death does not make his grief altogether convincing.
As it is, I do not care about anyone’s shared grief or stories of their own losses. All I can think of is my own, of the princess’s face as she asks me wordlessly, Why?
How in God’s blood am I supposed to know?
I fear for the princess, for the faraway look in her eyes. She no longer laughs. We do not speak to each other very much.
We await the birth of our next child, neither of us filled with the hopeful anticipation we harbored for the first two.
Yet when she brings forth another little boy, the knot in my chest eases a bit. He takes after me with his dark hair and skin, but is long like his mother. He seems healthy. I want to love him. I want to enjoy him. I don’t want to grieve anymore.
We call him William, Wills for short.
As he grows I find myself relaxing a bit. When he reaches nine months, the age our Henry was when he was taken from us, tension grips me. I awake in the night, crying out in terror. Sometimes I sit by his cradle all night to make sure his soul is not stolen from me.
But he lives.
It seems God will let us keep our sturdy little Wills.
In 1503 I am blessed with two other events. The first is the birth of a daughter, my own little girl to pet. We name her Margaret after our niece, Princess Margaret Tudor, which leads me to the second event. We are to accompany Princess Margaret to Scotland with my father and the rest of the family to witness her marriage to King James IV. I am thrilled about the journey for so many reasons, not only because of the royal exposure but because I will be with my entire family again. It will be a wonderful opportunity to acquaint myself with my father’s new bride, Agnes Tilney, and an excellent chance for the children to get to know their Howard relations.
“Perhaps I should stay home with the children,” my princess tells me before we depart. “I should not feel comfortable leaving them with a nurse, and bringing them does not seem prudent either. They could catch a chill, what with the nasty Scottish winds.”
I offer a dismissive laugh. “Father said the whole family is to go. I want to bring the children, treat them to a spectacle. We didn’t get to collect Princess Catherine from Aragon when she came to wed Prince Arthur, after all.”
My princess rests a slim hand on her heart. “God rest his poor soul,” she murmurs of the late prince. “He was so young and frail. . . .” She casts her eyes to our son, little Wills, who cannot be described such. He is as robust as Princess Catherine’s new betrothed, young Prince Henry. She is not thinking of the late prince, however, o
r of the new Crown Prince. She is thinking of our boy, our Henry, and fearing the others perishing of the Scottish wind.
I clear my throat. “No use dwelling on all that,” I tell her, hating the awkwardness that has arisen between us since the baby’s death. “We are going to have a wonderful journey, my sweet, you will see. The children are going to love it. And they should be there to attend their royal cousin.”
My princess offers a sad nod of acquiescence and I find myself balling my fists in frustration, wishing just once that I could see a grin of joyous abandon cross that beautiful melancholy face.
Our Maggie is too young to appreciate anything, but she points her chubby little finger at her beautiful cousin Margaret Tudor, saying “red” in reference to the princess’s lustrous red mane, which seems to be a Tudor trait.
Thomas and Wills are beside themselves with pleasure as we progress north to Edinburgh and I tell them about all the famous battles that have occurred in this town or that.
No one looks at me the way they do; no one admires me as much. I am brought to tears by their flagrant adoration; as I had never admired many growing up, I didn’t realize children were capable of it themselves.
“When they are given love, it is returned,” says my princess when I comment on this as we sit in Holyrood Abbey, watching Princess Margaret become the Queen of Scots. She squeezes my hand. “No one will ever love you like a child,” she adds.
I press her hand in turn. A lump swells my throat. I wonder who our Maggie will marry; it seems odd to think the thought of it affects me far more than marrying off the boys. I suppose all fathers feel that way about their little girls.
I wonder how the king feels. Is it easy giving one’s children up to faraway kingdoms for political expedience?
King Henry is a practical man, however. I would be surprised if he gave himself over to such fancies. Indeed, I should take care that I don’t become some kind of blithering idiot, crying at weddings like an old grandmother.
I am fortunate that I do not have to think about alliances just yet; I have years before my Maggie is marriageable.
She will be at my side a good long time.
We return to Stoke to pass a happy autumn. The children are looking forward to Christmastide. Maggie is running everywhere and is far too smart for her own good, and Thomas is itching to have a suit of armor of his own. I tell him he must wait a year but am pleased to practice archery with him. He is a fine boy, full of potential and enthusiasm. He will be an asset to any king’s court.
These are happy days. My princess’s smile is brought on a little easier now. I have stopped waking up at night to check on the children. I enjoy living the life of a country knight.
My grandmother passes away that year and I admit little grief as her death was the stipulation in allowing the princess and me to live in more comfort. Besides, she was one of the few who lived to a ripe and proper age, so there is no use mourning a full life.
I save the mourning for the young and there are plenty of young to mourn for.
That winter Wills takes ill with a fever. He writhes and twists in his little bed, his black eyes wild as they make helpless appeals to the princess and me. We do not know what to do aside from calling the physician, who can only bleed him.
I hate watching the leeches attach to my little boy’s back; I cry when the butcher of a doctor makes little slits in the tender skin to allow escape of the bad blood that has corrupted my son’s humors.
It is all to no avail. Wills dies in his mother’s arms. The princess does not scream this time. She bows her head, allowing her tears to mingle with the sweat on our child’s brow.
I cannot watch this.
The only thing I can think of to do is chase the inept physician off my property with a horse whip.
“You did nothing!” I cry as he leaps onto his horse, his eyes wide in terror. “You killed him! You and your leeches killed my son!”
The physician rides away without looking back and I throw myself in the dust of the road, sobbing. There is nothing to be done. I look at the horse whip in my hand and in a moment of sheer madness bring it across my own neck. It curls about it and strikes my back. There is something strangely satisfying in the sting of this blow and as I watch the blood pour down my neck onto my shirt, I start to laugh at the insanity of it all. I strike myself again and again until my arm is too weak and my throat is too raw from the laughter that has converted to screaming, racking, useless sobs.
Thomas does not understand what has happened. He does not understand death. He asks about Wills daily, so much so that I have to extract myself from him. I take long walks and longer rides. I swim, immersing my body in the coolness of our pond. Sometimes I wish I would drown.
One day the princess finds me there, floating on my back, staring at the sky. I do not think of anything but the gray sky, gray as the Gypsy woman’s eyes, and the water that envelops me and comforts my broken soul.
“Come back to me, my lord,” she pleads in her soft voice.
She stares at me pointedly, then walks away.
In that moment, tears of gratitude replace those of sorrow. I rise.
Indeed, no one on this earth is wiser than my princess, for there is nothing that can be done but to press on. I cannot abandon the children who are here, looking to me for guidance. I cannot teach them that it is permissible to wallow in selfish grief while life surges on about me.
With new determination I dress and go into the house. To my children. To my princess. To the life I still have.
It is a vain goal, trying to seize something that is not mine to have, trying to hold in this hand, this hand that is said to be so powerful, the thread of life that binds my children to this world.
In early 1508 my daughter, my precious little Maggie, succumbs to an imbalance of the humors of the bowels. She doubles over in pain one evening at supper and we allow her to take rest in the nursery. I had thought she was trying to avoid eating the eels; she never had a robust appetite and hated trying anything new.
“You’re a manipulative little creature,” I tell the six-year-old, my voice stern. “Feigning a stomach ache to get out of eating supper. Well, you shall have nothing to eat, not one thing, for the rest of the evening, and I don’t care how much you cry or beg. You have to learn that you cannot always have what you want.”
How was I to know those would be the last words of mine she would ever hear?
The nurse fetches us moments later, her eyes wide with fear. “The little one has taken ill, my lord,” she whispers, crossing herself. “She is in such terrible pain . . .” She bows her head. “Such terrible pain.”
The princess and I rush to the side of the writhing child, her face flushed with fever, her black hair matted to her fair forehead with sweat.
I take her in my arms, rocking back and forth. She is clutching her little belly, her head lolling about from side to side in restlessness. There is no outlet for her pain. She reaches out for my face, seizing it between her tiny hands.
“It hurts, it hurts,” she cries. “Make it go away . . . please, make it go away!”
There is no physician to call. He would have done nothing but bleed her, anyway, and I could not have suffered it. I hold the little girl to my breast as she slips into delirium. She drops her hands. Her face relaxes, the black eyes glaze over, her small body goes limp.
And she is gone. In less than twenty-four hours she went from a healthy, jolly girl to this. Gone.
I stare at my princess in horror, but she cannot abide to be in the same room with death this time. She runs from the sight as though demons surround us, holding her hands to her ears to blot out my cries.
I hold my Maggie in my arms, rocking back and forth. I cannot let her go like this. She was just here. Maybe she isn’t dead. Maybe she will get better. I have heard strange tales in which people appeared dead only to have a resurgence of life moments later. Yes, this can happen for my Maggie. I must hold her a while, will my strength into her
so when she wakes up she won’t be afraid.
I talk to her, I tell her she will get better, she is just sick. I apologize for scolding her about supper. I tell her she can eat whatever she wants whenever she wants if she’ll just come back to me. I tell her she must return so she can become a great lady and serve in the queen’s chambers someday. I tell her I am going to arrange a marriage for her with a strong, handsome knight.
I tell her she cannot leave because no one loves her like I do.
She does not move.
No matter, she just isn’t awake yet. She just isn’t awake yet, yes, that is it.
The princess enters collected and composed late that evening with two gentlemen servants.
“You must let her go now, my lord,” she tells me. “She must be interred soon.”
I shake my head. “I have heard of things . . . of miracles. . . . She might not be dead. She may be in that deep sleep some people go into and it takes them months or years to wake up. . . . What if we bury her and she is merely asleep?”
The princess’s eyes mist over with a pity I loathe. I avert my head. Why doesn’t anyone understand? Why do they all look at me this way?
“She isn’t coming back, Thomas,” she says.
It is the first time in our thirteen years of marriage she has ever called me by my first name.
She steps forward. “You must give her over now.”
“No!” I cry, clutching the child to my breast. “You cannot take her!” I kiss my daughter’s cool forehead, stroking her cheek. “I won’t let them take you from me, Maggie, not ever. I will be here when you wake up. I will always be here when you wake up.”