by D. L. Bogdan
I sigh. “I know,” I murmur, nuzzling in the crook of his shoulder. “Oh, Thomas, such sadness she has known. May God grant her the delivery of a living prince soon. I fear she may lose her mind if she isn’t granted some kind of happiness. Lord knows the king offers little enough.”
“Hush now,” Thomas says, his voice stern. “It is not for you to criticize His Majesty.”
“Oh, not you, too.” I roll on my side. The baby has just begun to kick and it swims about in my womb like a little otter. I smile, thanking God for the small pleasures we women are afforded, the kick of a child in the womb, something no man can ever experience or take away.
“Yes, me, too,” says Thomas, his voice a little lighter as he leans over me. He is also smiling. “You are too outspoken, Elizabeth. You must hold your tongue now and then. Everyone knows about the king’s situation. No one cares to rehearse the said morality of it every waking moment.”
“How can you suffer knowing what he does to Her Grace, who is the most Christian of princesses?” I ask, rolling onto my back once more. I reach up, stroking his cheek. “She has always been so kind to you and your father, yet I think if His Majesty asked you to deliver Bessie Blount to him naked across your shield, you’d do so.”
“Elizabeth!”
“You know you would,” I prompt.
He smirks. “Of course I would—what a sight!” I elbow him in the ribs and he emits a small laugh. “Well, I am his servant first, am I not?” he asks, flopping on his back. “It isn’t as though I like bearing witness to his dalliances any more than you do. Her Grace handles it well enough. She knows her place.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in her place for anything,” I say with vehemence.
“That’s your mistake, Elizabeth,” he tells me, taking me in his arms once more. “You do not realize that it isn’t about love and honor. It is about elevation. People do not live the way you think they do. This isn’t some French romance you so love having your ladies read you. The only code to adhere to is whatever code the king is endorsing at the moment. The only pleasure is the king’s pleasure and whatever we can scrape aside for ourselves. Her Grace knows this. She may not have liked it in her youth, but she isn’t fool enough to protest it anymore. She accepts it as the way of the world and adapts herself accordingly, as you must.”
“Never,” I vow. “Not for anyone, not even the king himself. I adhere to my own code—God’s code. And if you want a happiness that is real, you will, too.”
Thomas chuckles, squeezing me to him, kissing my cheek again. “Ah, God keep your passionate little ladyship.”
“And God keep you,” I tell him, wrapping my arms about his neck, pulling him close. “Right beside me.”
He returns the embrace, chuckling still.
Somehow it disconcerts me.
The Princess Mary returns to court with the last name Brandon, with the aid of sly Cardinal Wolsey, now lord chancellor of England, who sidled up beside the couple as their ally and convinced King Henry that the marriage should be accepted. Suffolk and his bride are made to pay a large fine and return properties given her for her royal marriage, along with the wardship of Elizabeth Grey, Viscountess Lisle. They emerge from the scandal no worse for wear, giving the court plenty to talk about.
My husband is not happy about the turn of events. Though I am in confinement, he visits me regularly to update me on the goings-on at court and I am delighted to be sought out.
“This king will listen to anything that churl—excuse me, Chancellor Wolsey tells him!” he exclaims one sticky July evening. “Father and I urged him to punish Suffolk for his disobedience, but no! Everything’s so bloody romantic and wonderful now we’ll be throwing a blooming party to celebrate the match ere long!” he adds, his voice shrill with mockery.
“Wolsey is a devil,” I agree, my voice calm. “One wonders what he has that you lack.”
“He’s the son of a whore and a butcher!” Thomas cries.
I nod. “A man with fortunes newly acquired,” I say. “The chancellorship and cardinal’s hat in one year. Again, what does he have that you lack?”
“The king’s ear, that is certain,” says Thomas, sitting on the edge of my bed, scowling.
I nod with a patient smile. “Why?” I challenge him. “Thomas, how do you come across before His Majesty? How does Cardinal Wolsey come across? Observe him. Why does the king value him so? I am not advising you to emulate him—of course, far be it from me to advise you of anything, humble woman that I am—” I add for good measure. “But you may take a lesson from him. And from Suffolk as well. If he can marry the king’s own sister without permission and earn naught but a slap on the hand, then he, too, possesses qualities worthy of examination.”
Thomas is silent a long moment. He turns to me, rubbing my foot through the blanket, offering a distracted smile. “You are a strange creature, Elizabeth,” he says at length. I decide to take it as a compliment. “Pretty as a Tudor rose, with a mind and tongue as sharp as a dagger! Ha!” The little laugh is triumphant. I beam. “Anyway, they’re married and so be it,” Thomas goes on to say in reference to the Suffolks. “We’ll endure. Meantime, I shall observe Wolsey and see what can be done with him.”
My smile broadens. “You are a soldier, Thomas, the finest of the fine. Approach him as you would a fortress. Even those who seem the most impenetrable have at least one weakness.”
He chucks my chin. “And so they do,” he says. “So they do.”
And so go our visits during my confinement. My lord airs his frustrations and I help him sift through them, trying all the while to appear as though I am not. He knows. I am as lacking in subtlety as Henry VIII, but he does not seem to mind.
He keeps coming back.
Our little heir Edward is born on 31 July. Thomas holds Cathy up to see her new brother and she reaches out a dimpled hand to touch his face.
“Say ‘Ned,’ ” prompts Thomas as he peers into the cradle.
Cathy bounces up and down on her father’s lap in excitement. “Ned! Ned! Ned mine!”
“Yes, Ned is your little brother,” says Thomas. “You’ll look after him, won’t you?”
“Ned mine!” cries Cathy again, offering a gap-toothed smile.
I gaze at my dark-haired daughter in adoration, then fix my eyes on the baby, who resembles both sister and father. I wonder if any of our children will take after me. It is no matter. They are so beautiful I am filled with a joy that makes me shiver with fear. Is it a sin to be this proud?
“What is it, Elizabeth?” Thomas’s voice is gentle.
I swallow tears, averting my head. “It’s just that—well, it’s just that they’re so beautiful and I’m so very happy.”
Thomas leans over, kissing the top of my head. “I am, too,” he tells me, his voice husky. “You have done well, my girl.”
I reach up, clutching his upper arm. Oh, to hear those words again and again. He is happy.
He is happy and I am the cause.
Thomas Howard
Two children and one a fine son, robust as anything! She is a good girl, this little Elizabeth. For her troubles I order her numerous jewel-encrusted kirtles with gowns to match. The girl has retained her figure, not gaining an inch since before her first pregnancy. She is trim as a willow wand and full of vigor, thus deserving of all the pretty accoutrements.
I must say, I am fraught with eagerness as I anticipate her expression when she receives my gifts. She is aglow with animation, whereas my princess was the picture of reserve. I long for Anne Plantagenet every day, but more and more I find myself subject to a strange sort of excitement when in the presence of my new wife. Oh, she’s outspoken and far too opinionated, but now and again her words ring true and it is with a joyous sense of defeat that I feel myself yielding to her advice.
In February of 1516, the queen to whom my wife has become so dedicated is delivered of a healthy princess named Mary.
“If it was a daughter this time, by the grace of God,
the sons will follow,” His Majesty quips, his cheeks ruddy with pride.
My stepmother and Cardinal Wolsey (a pig in red!) are made godparents. My Elizabeth carries the baby at the christening, flanked by my father and Suffolk. I have been honored with the carrying of the ceremonial taper. It is a grand occasion and the princess seems healthy enough. Perhaps her birth has marked the end of the king and queen’s ill fortune and indeed sons will follow. One can only pray.
Celebrations are muted due to the death of Queen Catherine’s father, the wily King Ferdinand of Aragon. It is of no matter. In May the king’s sister Margaret arrives for a state visit and I am asked to ride in the king’s band in the tournaments celebrating her arrival.
“I remember you,” Queen Margaret states. She is a beautiful woman with her coppery hair and lively brown eyes. “You escorted me to Edinburgh when I married.”
I bow. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“You were married to the lady Anne then,” she states, as if I would not know this.
“Yes,” I say, recalling how my princess dreaded taking our children to Scotland for fear of the winds, for fear of their catching their deaths. . . . I swallow several times.
“Life is so different for all of us now,” she says, her tone wistful. “You have founded a new family and I have lost mine. I am a queen without a country, forced into exile by the Duke of Albany, who takes charge over my child, the rightful king, as his regent, leaving me to languish.”
I am not sure how to respond to this. “I am very sorry, Your Grace,” I say at last, wishing the conversation would end.
“What is there to be done now?” she asks. Knowing there is no answer, she tosses back her lovely head and adds with the robust Tudor laugh, “When the world is collapsing around you, throw a party. So, ride, my dear Lord Surrey. Ride in the lists and champion me, the outcast Queen of Scots.”
And so I do, but my joy in the sport is muted by the Queen of Scots’s predicament and memories of more innocent times. Indeed, life has changed.
By the end of the month, that rascal Wolsey deprives me of my voice in the council because I dared allow my retinue to be armed at Queen Margaret’s reception.
“Well, you knew the law,” Elizabeth chides me. We are alone in her chambers at Lambeth. “The king does not want armed guards upsetting his peace. They take too many liberties as it is. You should have known better. Now you have lost what little sway you had—”
I whirl on her. “Elizabeth! It is not for you to say! You are too free in your speech, girl! Far too free!”
Elizabeth scrunches up her face in mockery. “Now it will be harder than ever to retain the favor that one such as Wolsey enjoys,” she tells me.
The slap is automatic. I am tired of her high-minded attitude. She is far too precocious, far too presumptuous for her station. She falls against the bed, holding her cheek, her blue eyes wide a moment before narrowing in anger.
“Is this what you want?” I cry, shaking out my hand. “You have too many liberties; you are becoming rebellious and must be taken in hand. God’s body, girl, leave politics to me and tend to your duties!”
“I have no duties!” Elizabeth’s voice is wavering with desperation. “I have an army of servants for the children and a house that isn’t even mine. I have no say in anything at all. I hate it, Thomas. When I’m not at court waiting on Her Grace, I would like a home of our own. Now that your presence doesn’t seem to be required, for the time being we should assume one of the Howard manors for ourselves. I don’t want to live here anymore. This is the duchess’s house, your father’s house. Don’t you see? I want a home that is mine.”
At once I sit beside her, reaching out to stroke her cheek. God knows I do not want to be cruel, but she must be taught to mind! Yet perhaps we have reached the root of her restlessness. A home of her own would provide her with the challenge she seems to need. The distraction of running a large household may keep her from airing her at times unwelcome opinions and shift her focus to the womanly arts.
I purse my lips. “Of course you want a home,” I tell her in gentler tones. I sigh. “Oh, my girl . . .” I bow my head in shame. I do not know why I am so impatient with her. She is so young, after all. It’s frightening, this sudden anger that overwhelms and possesses me until there is naught to do but strike out in release, then, spent at last, I return to sanity. It is getting worse and worse. . . . What if one day the sanity does not return? What if my soul becomes imprisoned by this hatred, this rage that consumes and envelops me like the devil’s firestorm? I shudder. I will not think of it, not now. Now I will think of what to do for the girl. A home . . . a home of her own.
It must be grand. A palace for a countess and future duchess. A place she can entertain great minds and heads of state, a place she can raise our family. A place where I can hunt and teach little Edward to swim and use his arrows and sword . . .
I have it!
I draw Elizabeth up by the hands, avoiding looking into her face, on which a deep purple bruise has begun to swell. I gather her in my arms, holding her against my chest, rocking to and fro.
“I know just the place,” I tell her. “It needs a bit of work but once renovated, it will be a wonderful home for us. You’re right. It’s far past time that we had our own seat.”
“Where is it, Thomas?” she asks in a small voice that causes my eyes to burn with tears.
I stroke her silky hair. “My father’s hunting lodge in Kenninghall, Norfolk. It’s ideal! But until it is complete we shall remove to the country, to Hunsdon in Hertfordshire.”
“Hunsdon . . .” says Elizabeth. “Yes, I should like to go there. When can we leave?”
“Directly, my girl,” I tell her, laying her back on the bed and drawing the covers up over her shoulders. I crawl in beside her, taking her in my arms. She is shivering, whether from cold or fear I do not know. I do not want to know.
Elizabeth snuggles against me. Against my cheek I feel her warm, slick tears. “Hunsdon will be the perfect place to have this next baby,” she murmurs in husky tones.
At once I am forced to quell an onset of shoulder-shaking sobs. Another baby. This girl is to give me yet another child after I . . . Oh, what have I become?
I will make it up to her. I will build her a palace few can rival and these times between us shall be forgotten.
Yes, everything will be set right at Kenninghall.
On May Day, I am called to assist my father in the quelling of riots stirred up by apprentices who attacked foreign merchants and plotted to kill the lord mayor. By 22 May, after countless arrests and the executions of the central instigators, Queen Catherine begs for the king’s mercy on her knees at Westminster Hall.
It is all staged to illustrate the king’s grace; even the queen’s performance, as backed by devoutness as it is, has a political aim. Order must be kept; the less bloodshed the better.
The king pardons the four hundred gathered before him and they toss their hats up high in joyous relief.
“You’ve proven yourself worthy,” Elizabeth whispers, squeezing my arm. “You have put down something that could very easily have gotten out of control. The king will find you more indispensable than ever, I should think.”
I cover her slender hand with my own. Indispensable. Yes, that is what I shall be. To the king and to this country.
But putting down a small rebellion is one thing. Putting down a plague is another.
In the spring of 1517, the sweating sickness comes to London.
The court removes to Richmond while Elizabeth and I take to Hunsdon with the children. It is all I can do to preserve their lives. Our staff is limited; those showing signs of the illness are discharged and kept in isolation.
I cannot count how many perish. The cheery sounds of the farmers in their cottages are silenced. Mass graves are dug; the bodies pile up, tumbling upon one another until they are at last enfolded in the soil, a nameless, unmarked place of horror.
When our little Edward first ta
kes ill, I know I am in Hell.
There is naught to be done for him. Elizabeth and the baby she carries are kept away. It is too great a risk allowing her near. I tend him myself, caring not for my life. It seems my fate to survive anything.
I try my best to keep him awake—they say if the victim is kept awake, he has a greater chance of recovery. The little one shivers with cold, then becomes slick with burning sweat, crying the urgent, desperate sobs of a baby in pain. He is too little to tell me what hurts. I wrap him up tight, rocking him, singing softly until the tune becomes nothing but strangled whimpers in the back of my own throat.
He loses consciousness; his little head lolls against my chest. “Don’t go to sleep! Please wake up, Edward!” I demand. “Please!”
It is to no avail.
The child is dead within four hours of the illness’s onset.
Elizabeth Howard
Thomas does not tell me of our son’s death until after he is buried.
“I didn’t want you put at risk,” he tells me from across the room.
I am sewing in my chambers, my fingers bleeding from countless pricks of the needle. There is a strange release to be found in the pain.
I do not even look up. “How could you?” I whisper. “I sent messengers. None would be admitted by you. You couldn’t even send word by messenger?”
“They could have exposed you! And if not? Say I did send word through a messenger, what would you have done? Could I have you running to us in your condition? Cathy is still here. She needs a mother.” His voice is high pitched with fervor. “Good God, girl, think in reality!”
“Yes,” I acquiesce. “Reality. What choice is there?” At last I behold him. He stands by the door unshaven, his clothes soiled, his eyes wild. My heart stirs. There is no use continuing in this vein. Reality . . . God, how cruel is reality. “Oh, Thomas . . .” I push my sewing off my lap, turning tear-filled eyes to my husband. “I did not think it would happen to us. I know I may sound ignorant and naïve. Perhaps God is cursing me for my pride. Now little Edward is gone. . . .” I shake my head in anguished bewilderment. “Edward is gone and I cannot begin to understand why.”