by D. L. Bogdan
He reaches up, tracing my jawline with a velvet fingertip. “I’m sure I can find something. . . .”
He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. They are soft and moist, warm, filled with sweet eagerness. Only loyalty to my good queen’s virtues gives me the will to pull away and stare into his face in bewildered joy.
“Ralph . . .” I murmur, just for the sake of saying his name.
He kisses my forehead. “I have longed for you, Elizabeth,” he says. “Say you are mine.”
The courtly language is not the least bit original but as it is addressed to me, I cannot help but offer a giddy little nod and say, “Yes!”
“When your father returns, we will seek his permission to be married,” he continues, his eyes wide with excitement.
I cannot say I really know Ralph altogether well, but he is so handsome and charming that the thought of being his wife has me nodding my assent, caught up in his enthusiasm. I am already imagining what our children will look like. They’ll have our blue eyes, no doubt. I begin to tingle.
“Oh, Ralph, do go away so I can find someone to confide our news to!” I cry, shooing him off.
Ralph laughs, rising from the garden bench and dipping into an extravagant bow. “Fare thee well, my wife,” he whispers.
My face flushes bright crimson. I lower my eyes, watching Ralph’s boots as they plod off.
All thoughts of battle and bloodshed are abated, replaced with fantasies of a grand wedding.
I shall be Elizabeth Neville!
The king departs with great fanfare. My father accompanies him with an entourage of six hundred archers, three hundred household servants, musicians—even the choir of the Chapel Royal! No one is left out of this campaign. Wolsey leaves, Bishop Foxe leaves—everyone. They are all dressed in the Tudor livery of green and white. It is a splendid farewell.
The queen rules as regent from Greenwich Palace and it is very quiet without His Majesty. In the company of Her Grace I help sew banners and badges and standards for our soldiers. As my fingers work the needle, I feel I am a part of something great, that somewhere in France someone will be carrying a standard or wearing a badge that I, Elizabeth Stafford, have sewn with all of my love and good wishes.
We follow the war from our safe vantage, learning that on 16 August the king and Emperor Maximilian I routed the French at what became known as the Battle of the Spurs, taking the town of Therouanne.
But the triumphs are accompanied by tragedies. We learn of the casualties. Thomas Knyvet, the shy courtier who amused us all by climbing naked up a pillar when the rabble stole his clothes at the festivities celebrating the late prince’s birth, died at sea off Brest when fighting the French. There are so many others, all young merry men eager for such useless enterprise.
With heavy hearts we mourn our soldiers. Soon there are no more banners to sew, no more standards to bear. The queen’s household grows smaller and smaller.
I am sent home to Thornbury that autumn, but to my delight, Ralph Neville, as my father’s ward, is there as well. As much as I am devoted to Her Grace, I am relieved to be away for a while. The household was so tense waiting for news of the king’s success that my gut was constantly churning and lurching in anxiety.
Now I have but to await the return of the king and his army in a more peaceful place with my betrothed at my side.
Change Winds
Thomas Howard, Winter 1512
It is a thoroughly disgusting affair. No one has come through for me, not the kings of England or Spain. I am short supplies, horses, everything needed for any successful endeavor of war. I write Wolsey, that ridiculous upstart, appealing for some sort of objective in all this. After our success at Bayonne, I am left with little or no direction. Should we try for Aquitaine? No one knows and they’re certainly not inclined to inform me.
Meantime I am beset with sick men, bad weather, and worse morale. Wolsey is blamed for it all, to my good fortune, and it is not long before I decide it prudent to wash my hands of the whole affair.
I hire ships to take us home. The king is in a Tudor temper, but there is nothing else to be done. I am not going to remain so that we might be obliterated by dejection, inactivity, and Spanish food.
And so I leave Spain behind. I have not failed. I cannot help if no one cooperated with me and I was given no aid or support. This affair could not have been handled more ineffectively. It is Wolsey’s fault, not mine. Yes, that is it. Someday the king will see that, hopefully sooner than later.
I will not think on it anymore. There will be other wars and other victories. For now I am content to go home to my princess and rest.
She is at Lambeth with my stepmother, Agnes, and her increasing brood. When I arrive, Agnes greets me with a sad shake of her head.
“She cannot rise from her bed,” she tells me in her gruff voice. “She’s in a bad way, my lord. I am sorry.”
I rush to her chambers, panic gripping my heart. It is thudding wildly in my chest; I hear it pounding in my ears. I slow my steps upon entering her sanctuary. Everything about her suggests the need for quiet and tranquility.
She lies abed. Her rose-gold hair is plaited and worn over her shoulder. Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent, pearly and ethereal as a seraph. She is so much thinner than when last I saw her. Once so tall and fine of figure, she is now all bones. Upon seeing me, she offers a weak smile. Her lips are blue.
“My lord . . .”
I have not cried in a long while, not since the death of my Thomas. I had thought to be through with tears forever, but now they come easily enough, flowing icily down my cheeks unchecked as I approach the bed. I am as tentative as the child I was when I approached my mother’s bed after she bore my Alyss, another life fated to be stolen from me.
I sit beside my wife, reaching out to stroke her fevered brow. I remove her nightcap. “This is making you hotter,” I say uselessly. Then in a strangled voice I add, “I do not understand. You were not this bad when I left. . . .”
“Don’t be frightened, my love,” she tells me, reaching up to cup my cheek. With a slender thumb she wipes away a tear. Her eyes are soft, unafraid, and filled with something I had not seen in what seemed like an eternity: hope. “Soon it will be over. I am going to the faery country. I will be with the children.”
My heart lurches at this. She has not spoken of her faery folk in years. I do not know what to say. I continue stroking her brow, but my hand jerks and trembles and I imagine it does little to soothe her.
“I waited for you,” she whispers, coughing. “And now that you are here, I beseech you for your blessing, dearest Thomas.”
“You have it,” I tell her in urgent tones. “You’ve always had it.”
She closes her eyes. The smile remains.
“Princess!” I cry, cupping her face.
Her eyes flutter open. They are filled with pity. “Let me go, Thomas,” she whispers. “Let me go. Please. I am not meant for this world. I never was. You know that.”
Despite my urge to dispute this, I find myself nodding. It is true. From the first she seemed to belong to some other place, some intangible realm of existence forbidden to lesser beings.
“What will become of me?” I ask in a small voice, feeling as desperate and despondent as an abandoned child.
She offers a slight laugh. “I don’t worry about you,” she tells me. “You are a Howard. Howards survive.”
She avails herself to a fit of coughing. Blood spews forth, coating the front of her nightdress.
Now, I have seen much in battle. I have been drenched in the blood and gore of my enemies as well as my own, but nothing compares to this. This is my princess. This is not supposed to happen to my princess. . . .
My heart skips in wild fear. “Somebody help her! Somebody help her!” I cry.
Servants flood the room, attending her with gentle hands. But she has no need of it. Her eyes have focused on her faery country; she is gone. I gesture for the servants to cease their mi
nistrations. They depart, heads bowed, some making the sign of the cross.
I gather my princess in my arms. She is limp, heavy. I cradle her head in the crook of my shoulder, watching my tears glisten off her rose-gold hair.
I begin to sway, humming some tuneless song in nervousness.
I am alone. She is the last of my short-lived family.
I am alone.
After her interment, I lie abed at Lambeth, allowing myself the luxury of dwelling on the past. I do not scream or cry or rage against God. I think of my princess, of the first time I saw her at Westminster. I think of our wedding, of our babies. . . . I do not want to think of the losses just yet. I want to imagine them all twirling and laughing in some faery garden. I want to imagine her smile, her sweet soft voice, her gentle touch.
My father comes to me one night, interrupting my musings with more unwanted realities. He sits on the edge of my bed, regarding me with sad brown eyes.
“We both know what it’s like to lose,” he begins, folding his hands and bowing his head. “What I am about to tell you may sound cold, even cruel but, my son . . . you must move on now.”
“Move on? Are you mad? I just buried her!” I cry, sitting up.
My father nods. “Yes. She is gone. Now you must rebuild. You are an earl’s firstborn son. Someday everything I have will go to you. And then where? You need a young, sturdy wife and a houseful of children. Your marriage was dead long before your princess—”
It is all I can do to refrain from slapping him outright.
“I have arranged for you to meet with Buckingham’s daughters at Shrovetide,” he informs me, unaffected by my outraged expression. “You would do yourself credit to make a match with one of them. They are offering a good dowry and it seems the Staffords are of fertile stock.” He pauses, then reaches out to pat my leg. His tone is gentle. “We are not a breed who can afford to love. That is left to the peasants; call it their one great extravagance, their compensation for their miserable lot in life.” He shakes his head. “But us . . . no, not us. We marry for advantage; we marry so that we might be the founders of dynasties. It is a business, Tom. You were fortunate with your princess if you found some affection. But now you are of an age to put such nonsense away and look toward what is practical. Marry. Assure me a great line of successors.”
The anger fades to numbness. I nod, accepting the truth in his words. I am the son of an earl. I cannot leave my inheritance to a sibling or nephew. I have to rebuild.
The princess would understand. She told me I would survive, and part of ensuring that survival is marrying again. It will not be the same. How could it ever be the same?
“A Stafford girl,” I say, lying back down and closing my eyes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter who she is as long as she’s a good breeder.”
“Good lad,” says my father, patting my leg again. He rises. “Nothing like having your bed warmed again to abate your grief. That’s what I did, and Agnes and I have proven quite successful.”
“Yes,” I say in cool tones. “It is a good business.”
No longer will marriage be considered anything else to me.
Elizabeth Stafford, Yuletide 1512
Everything is so wonderful. Father is home safe but has been so preoccupied that Ralph and I have had plenty of time to be alone. He reads me poetry and sings me frivolous little songs. We play with the dogs and take long walks in the snow. My sister Catherine teases me.
“I see roses in winter!” she cries.
“Where?”
“On your cheeks!” She laughs. “Who put them there?”
We dissolve into giggles as I recount Ralph’s attributes. Is it his smile I like best or the silkiness of his blond hair, or perhaps his spontaneous laugh? I shiver and giggle for no reason and every reason. Oh, to always remain young and in love and happy!
Ralph decides to ask for my hand at Christmas. It is the perfect arrangement. One of the primary benefits of taking on a ward is ensuring the right of marriage to a member of the guardian’s family—in this case, me. How could anyone object? It is probably what they have been planning all along.
While Ralph takes my parents aside in the parlor for a cordial, Catherine and I wait in the dining hall.
“Father loves Ralph,” I say, my hands twitching in nervousness. “He must have had plans for him to enter our family from the start, don’t you think? Oh, Catherine, it will happen, won’t it?”
Catherine offers her gentle laugh. She is a plump and merry girl with deep dimples on either side of her rosy mouth and lively blue eyes. “It will be fine, sweeting. Don’t fret so. It was ordained from the start!”
My heart is pounding. My cheeks are hot and my breathing short. My head tingles. I don’t know what to do with my hands and keep flexing my fingers.
At last my parents emerge with Ralph. His face is drawn, his eyes are red, and his lips are puffy. He rushes past Catherine and me and I rise, trying to stop him, but am not quick enough. Father reaches me first, seizing my hand.
“I did not tell him no,” he informs me in his gentle voice. “But it must wait.”
“Why?” I ask, biting my quivering lip.
“We are having a guest,” he says slowly.
“What does that matter?” I furrow my brow in frustration.
He reaches out to rub my upper arm. “He is coming to look you girls over and decide which of you he would like to take to wife.”
Catherine and I turn to each other. I approach her, taking her hands in mine. We draw near one another.
“Who?” I whisper.
“Lord Thomas Howard.”
“Lord Howard!” I cry. “But he’s married!”
He shakes his head. “He is a widower newly made.”
“How newly?” I demand.
“Lady Anne Plantagenet passed in late November,” he replies, bowing his head. “God rest her sweet soul.”
“Gracious, he doesn’t waste any time!” I cry, furious.
“Elizabeth!” Father’s voice is sharp. “Remember yourself! His reasons are not for us to question.”
I look to my sister, who at thirteen is already more rounded in figure than I. As uncharitable as it may sound, I hope he chooses her. I shall have speech with her later about endeavoring to make a good impression on him.
My shoulders slump. “He’s so much older than we,” I find myself saying despite the fact that I wish to make him seem a favorable match to my sister. “He is at least forty,” I am compelled to add.
“That may well be, but he is an earl’s son and that family is rising in favor every day,” Father says, wrapping his arms about both our shoulders.
“And,” quips Mother, “you must admit he is in finer form than many men half his age.”
I don’t care a fig about that. Ralph Neville may not have Lord Howard’s well-turned legs, but he is the sweetest, most beautiful . . . oh, please God. I turn to my sister. She looks as dumb and appealing as any man would want a girl to look. Surely he’ll choose her. . . .
Thomas Howard
It seems the sun still shines and the snow still falls. The birds sing and I manage to take in nourishment. I sleep and dream and think and live even without the princess. But the ache, that relentless dull throb filling my chest, encircling my heart like a coiling snake, never abates. It pursues me with the ardor of a new lover.
I divert myself with hunting. I watch the crimson blood of my kill stain the snow and try not to remember the blood of the princess against the stark white of her cheek. It is no use. Sometimes I sink to my knees with my bow amongst the silence of the trees, watching the sun filtering through the canopy of branches above. I watch a chipmunk scamper across the moss. Does he talk to the faeries? Does he know my princess? Can he tell her . . . What would I have him tell her? There is so much, and all left unsaid.
I abandon these strange fancies and at Shrovetide remove to Thornbury, where I must fulfill my obligation to my family and choose a bride.
The pre-L
enten celebrations are in full tilt when I arrive. A feast is laid out in my honor and though food holds little appeal for me now, save for the fact that it is what keeps me alive, I partake of the lamb in mint jelly, peacock, cheese, warm bread, and sweet comfits with feigned enthusiasm.
It is very strange, this choosing of a wife. My first marriage was arranged for me, which was most appropriate for that time in my life. I did not have to fret about a thing. Negotiations were made above our innocent heads and all we had to worry about was pleasing each other. That was easy to do.
But now it is different. Now I am in control of my fate and I must choose a wife, mother, and helpmate. And I have one night to do it.
I assess the girls. They are quite young. I recall the one called Elizabeth from our few encounters at court. Though she is on the thin side, she has grown into a beautiful young lady with her long waves of chestnut hair threaded with auburn tumbling loose down her back. Her blue eyes remain fierce and determined and she has retained that set jawline. Her smile is slow in coming but worth waiting for.
The younger sister Catherine is a beauty as well, though a little too plump for my liking. It is pleasant now, but I imagine once she drops a pup, she will give herself over to resembling the broad side of a ship, which just wouldn’t do.
Yet there is a sweet element in Catherine that seems lacking in Elizabeth.
How does one know what is right? We eat and make small talk but they say little. I converse more with the duke, who proudly lists his daughters’ talents and virtues, and I listen attentively. Catherine excels at embroidery, but Elizabeth can sing like a bird. Catherine is a beautiful dancer, but Elizabeth is a skilled equestrienne.
I will just have to see how this night goes.
Elizabeth Stafford
Look at him narrowing his black eyes at us as though he is assessing jewels for scrapes and flaws! Oh, I remember him right enough. A well-intended man but an arrogant knight nonetheless. Well, I shan’t do a thing to impress him tonight. I will be myself and say and do exactly as I like and if Father is displeased with me, so be it. Let him have Catherine. I love her and I truly don’t want to make her a sacrifice, but if it comes down to her or me . . .