Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  “As if that matters to me!” I cry. “Do you think I want my husband to be forced to rid himself of her? He will put her aside for love of me or he won’t. I’m certain his”—I choose my words with care—“conscience will advise him—like his king.”

  Anne bows her head. “Very well.” To my astonishment her eyes are moist. “Be advised, Lady Norfolk. Your days are numbered.”

  Anne Boleyn may be many things, but a woman of false word she is not. Moving with the swiftness of a falcon descending on a rabbit, she makes certain word of my transgression reaches the royal ear.

  I am banished from court and from the service of my lady.

  I knew this was a risk I was taking. I knew it and yet shock courses through me as though I have been thrown against a stone wall. Though a farewell to the ambassador is forbidden, I am permitted one last audience with the queen in her privy chamber, where every endeavor of staying calm is destroyed by her compassionate countenance.

  “You have been nothing but a good and faithful servant,” she tells me in her soft, low voice. “And God will bless you for it. There are no words to express the sorrow I feel that you should be treated with such disrespect. You are not alone, my lady. Even now the king plots my removal from his presence. It is easier for him, you see,” she tells me. “Easier to live with his sin if he is not made to look upon me daily. So I will go. I will be removed.”

  “Would that I could go with you,” I say with fervency, tears sliding in warm trails down my cheeks.

  The queen offers her sorrow-filled smile. “It is a journey, this life, and God is our end. I will pray for you, my dear. I am much aggrieved at losing you, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “You will never lose me,” I assure her through tears. “You have my devotion and prayers always. Along with my deepest friendship.”

  “As do you, my lady,” she says.

  As I begin to back away, the queen raises a hand. “Fight, Elizabeth. Fight for what is good and right. We shall prevail.”

  Unable to speak, I dip into another low curtsy. And then take my leave.

  “You are a fool, Elizabeth,” Thomas rails as he pokes his head inside the curtains of my coach just before I set off for Kenninghall. “Your pride has undone you.”

  “Not pride, Thomas,” I correct him. “Honor. And I’d rather be undone by honor than by the ambition and avarice that consumes you.”

  Thomas laughs. “I am through with you, Elizabeth. If you think you have a respite in Kenninghall you are wrong; you have no place there. You have no place anywhere. Not even beside your precious queen. You have seen to that. You are alone, Elizabeth, all alone with your honor. Take comfort in it.”

  With those words he closes the curtains.

  I am alone.

  Bess Holland

  She has returned. The duchess has returned in shame and I am forced to face her every day knowing that I am much elevated in the duke’s eyes and she is not. I do not know what kind of madness I have fallen upon. The servants all defer to me as their lady. Some of them are quite nice; everyone makes certain I am cared for. More lilac oil for your bath, Mistress Bess? More hot bricks in your bed, Mistress Bess? More wine, more food? More, more, more.

  The duchess is not made merry or comfortable. She is taunted for her disgrace at court. Any and every opportunity is taken to antagonize her, from putting stinging nettles in her bed to more direct confrontations insulting her about the duke’s waning affections. No one assists the lady with anything except the most basic tasks. No extra care is to be given her. Most of all, the duchess is not allowed to disrespect me in any way lest she be promptly “corrected” by the staff. Corrected like an errant child or naughty puppy. And all because of me.

  For a year it goes on like this. We do not confront each other much, keeping to our own apartments. I try to blot out that I am the cause of her despair. But the knowledge is there. I am a bad girl, no better than a common whore no matter how His Grace dresses me. I am a courtesan. And, if the duke has his way, a courtesan I shall remain. Is it, I wonder, for any affection he bears me or just to spite the duchess for some grievous sin I know nothing of?

  My ladies seem to think she is deserving of such treatment.

  “She did it to herself, that’s what the duke says, so that’s what we must believe,” says one portly maid called Sarah as we embroider in the parlor. Sarah and her sister were sent by the duke to attend me and take particular pleasure in tormenting the duchess. Brought up with the whip to become tough and coarse, they see nothing wrong with His Grace’s form of discipline. “Anyway, His Grace pays us good enough to believe whatever he says, eh?” she adds in her crude accent.

  I swallow the rising bile in my throat and bow my head. “I never wanted to be the cause of such sorrow.”

  “They cause their own sorrow,” Sarah tells me. “Bastards, all of them. They have everything in the world and, having it, don’t know what else to do but make misery for each other.” She offers a bitter laugh. “Besides, she’s a haughty enough girl. Does my heart good to see one of them brought down. Now she knows how it feels.”

  “Aye to that,” agrees her sister, a sturdy girl named Becca. “Don’t know why you bother feeling so bad about it, my lady. Take what he gives you and be glad of it; few enough get your chance. Be grateful for the lusts of a noble gentleman.” She pauses a moment. “Of course, perhaps you shouldn’t be thanking His Grace. Thank the duchess.” She laughs so much at this that her double chin waddles. “Here!” She raises the mug of small ale she had been sipping at. “To the duchess! To the prideful wench who drove a duke right into Mistress Bess’s loving arms!”

  “The duchess!” echoes Sarah, raising her glass. They fall together in laughter.

  “Yes, to me,” a low voice seethes. Lady Elizabeth stands in the doorway, her steely gaze fixed on me. I shudder. I meet her eyes. I cannot behave as though I am devoured by guilt when I am not. Didn’t I want the duke as much as he wanted me?

  Perhaps the sisters are right; maybe the harshness doled out to the duchess is earned. Was it not her pride and stubbornness that expelled her from court? Was it not her constant disobedience that sabotaged any love the duke had for her?

  I tell myself this. I tell myself this to make it right. But nothing makes it right. I keep nursing the belief, however, that I might survive the knowledge that I have caused more misery in another human being than ever I could have conceived.

  And it is with all this in mind that I fix my gaze upon the duchess.

  She strides in wearing a wry smile. “Drink to me, ladies. Drink to my pain and my humiliation.” She stares me down. “Drink to your lover who revels in it, that generous lover who will just as soon turn against you should you displease him. Yes, you’ve a great deal to celebrate, Mrs. Holland.”

  I start at the farcical misnomer. “You require something of me, my lady?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I do,” she says, drawing herself to her full height, which is still smaller than me. She stands a delicate sapling struggling to hold her ground amidst the turbulent storm of my treachery. “I require you to leave this place, Bess Holland. For all that is holy, cease the life of a concubine while you still have some chance at redemption. Leave. For God’s sake, leave.” The plea in her voice is unmistakable and I close my eyes against it.

  “I cannot leave, as well you know, my lady,” I tell her. “It pleases the duke that I remain.”

  “Yes, ladyship,” Sarah chimes in. “It pleases the duke.”

  “Very much!” adds her sister with a wicked laugh. “Have you heard how much, Sarah? I’ve heard it. In the hallway, outside His Grace’s apartments. He is very pleased indeed!”

  “Hold your peace, Becca!” I cry but there is no stopping what is to come, what they have wanted to come since the duchess arrived from court.

  Her Grace is trembling in rage. Red faced, she clenches her jaw as she makes for Becca, her hands like claws as she encircles the thick neck.

  Becca is too strong
, however, and Sarah is even stronger. Together they pin the writhing duchess to the floor. Lady Elizabeth is spitting and cursing, flailing her arms as she attempts without success to defend herself against these oxen of women.

  “Stop!” I am crying. “That is quite enough! Stop!”

  They do not hear. The duchess is gasping. She has clawed so much at her attackers that her fingertips bleed. She begins to cough.

  “Get off her, for love of God!” I cry, running toward them to seize Sarah by her broad shoulders. “Get off her at once!”

  A sharp tug of my hair reveals that the duchess is thrilled to have me in what would be a comic display were it being acted out. But it is real and we are all players on a stage in Hell, a stage set and designed by the duke of Norfolk.

  When blood begins to spew forth from the duchess’s lips, the girls scramble to their feet. They back away. No apologies are uttered. Sarah dares smirk at the prostrate duchess.

  “That’s from your loving husband,” she tells her. “Ye’ll not be so quick to disrespect those in his esteem now, will ye?”

  Lady Elizabeth lays comatose, blood trailing down her chin in a thin crimson stream. My heart is pounding at the horror of it all.

  I look to Becca. “Send for someone to attend her,” I order in harsh tones. Then to Sarah I seethe, “How could you? That was unnecessary and cruel and—”

  “Don’t take offense to it, Mistress Bess. We are on orders. She was rude so we corrected her, just as we were told. We have to do what we’re told or we’re all out in the street.”

  “But like this? And—and do you have to like it so?” I demand.

  She shrugs. “Life is short enough without taking a few small pleasures now and again.”

  With this she departs.

  I stand in bewilderment. Icy fear surges through me. These women do not “correct” the duchess for my sake; they are not my friends. They are paid henchmen who derive perverse satisfaction from the pain and humiliation of another. Lady Elizabeth’s words torment me . . . that generous lover who will just as soon turn against you should you displease him . . .

  How can my duke sanction this? I know he has been cruel, I know he has been wicked, but I cannot believe he would approve this.

  Like everything else I am forcing myself to believe, I tell myself he would not, surely he would not. When he learns of this terrible act he will somehow set things right.

  The thought is as unsteady as all my other convictions and brings with it little comfort.

  For the King’s Pleasure

  Thomas Howard

  It is certain. My niece Anne Boleyn will be queen. It is just a matter of time and stratagems, soon to be sorted out by England’s craftiest men, myself among them. Anne reigns in all but name as it is and, upon her creation as Marquess of Pembroke, prepares herself to accompany the king on a state visit to France to be presented before its king.

  She is a tiresome little bitch, is Anne, and hard to manage. Her pride and certainty in her impending queenhood gives her a hauteur and insolence that can barely be tolerated. She no longer defers to me as the wise uncle but treats me as she would a dog, hurling insults at me when her bidding is not done. I bite her back; I will not let this tempestuous woman get the best of me.

  Her demands increase with each passing day and all of them are met by her doting lover. It is not enough to have the world torn apart for her sake, but she must make life as uncomfortable as possible for everyone around her in the process. Lady Anne is not satisfied with the suite of jewels designed for her visit to France; she wants the queen’s—pardon, the Princess Dowager’s, as she is now known—state jewels. I am assigned the unpleasant task of retrieving them from the exiled Catherine of Aragon.

  With a small retinue I journey north, rehearsing a number of different tactics in which to secure the jewels from this obstinate, pitiable, admirable creature.

  She receives me in her presence chamber, sitting under a canopy of state as though still queen and addressed as such by her menial little staff. It’s a sight to bring tears to one’s eyes, but I blink them away as I approach her, bending into a deep bow.

  Her lips curve into an ironic smile. “Rise, Lord Norfolk,” she commands. Her accent still plays upon my ears like a wistful melody.

  I right myself, daring to look her in the face. She has aged terribly. The exile has caused her to lose the weight she had gained and she sits a wraith on her throne. Her breathing is short and uneven and she furrows her brow as though in pain.

  “So,” she says, “you have come to visit your old friend.”

  I swallow hard. “How fares Your Highness?”

  She purses her lips. “I am kept separated from my daughter, who is ill and needs a mother’s ministrations. I am told I am no longer a queen but a princess dowager. My misled and manipulated husband has put me aside for lust of another and intends to place upon her head my crown. How, Lord Norfolk, do you think I fare?”

  I pause. “You look well,” I say feebly.

  “Please do not disrespect me any more than you already have by lying.” She emits a sigh. “Now. Why have you come?”

  “I come, Your Highness, to collect the state jewels that are in your possession. The king wishes their return,” I tell her in amiable tones.

  “The king does not wish it,” she corrects me. “You do not argue with this, I see. Your Anne Boleyn wishes it, does she not?”

  I nod. “She does. For her visit to France.”

  Princess Catherine shakes her head. “No. I will not surrender to her the jewels my husband gave me out of love. I will not allow them to adorn a person who is a reproach to Christendom and is bringing scandal and disgrace upon the king through his taking her to such a meeting as this in France.”

  I heave a sigh of exasperation. “Princess—”

  “Queen, Lord Norfolk!” Her voice is sharp. “You are addressing an anointed queen made by God, not man. Leave us!” she cries to her small assemblage of attendants and guards. When we are alone she rises from her throne of state and approaches me. She reaches up, cupping my face between her slim hands. “You have fallen very low, Lord Norfolk,” she tells me, her face wrought with sorrow. “And I weep for you.” She swipes my hair aside from my forehead and strokes my cheek. Her touch brings hot tears to my eyes. I cannot look away. “You were supposed to be his friend, but ambition and greed have eclipsed even your loyalty to the preserving of the king’s soul. Now you risk not only your eternal reward but your sovereign’s by pushing your niece to this terrible apex, which will amount to nothing but disaster, I promise you.” She pauses, then adds in a small voice. “You were my friend and I loved you well. You saved me from the Scots at Flodden, remember?”

  “It was a different time,” I say.

  She drops her hands to her sides. “A man of the changing times. I imagine it was a different time as well, then, when you treated your wife with the respect due her. You make the duchess suffer as I suffer. I pray if nothing else you will be led to do right by her—”

  “Highness, the jewels,” I interpose, impatient with her monologue. I’ve no time for self-examination and guilt. The choices I have made have all been to serve a greater purpose and I owe no one an explanation for them.

  She scowls. “Tell my husband that I will not surrender the jewels unless he commands it directly.”

  “Highness, you make your life very difficult,” I tell her.

  “You are dismissed from my presence, Lord Norfolk,” she tells me. “I will continue to pray for your soul.”

  I bow once more and turn to leave.

  “Thomas!”

  I stop short at her call. I turn.

  Her blue eyes are luminous with tears. “Why has my champion abandoned me?”

  I stride toward her, seizing her hands in mine. I sink to my knees. “Dear lady, I love you well. Had things been different, had he never set eyes on . . . I had no choice. I am sorry, Highness. Truly.”

  She disengages herself from m
e, shaking her head, her face registering an expression of mingled sadness and horror. “You say you love me. I imagine you believe you love many people. But when you have ‘no choice’ but to abandon them, you will. Every last one of them, till all that remains is you. All alone. What will you do, Thomas, when there is no one left to abandon? Will you be sorry then, too?”

  Fear surges through me as I entertain the thought, then dismiss it with impatience. My God, the audacity of this woman! It is women like her and Elizabeth and Anne that make this world a living hell.

  I part my lips to speak, but she lays a hushing finger upon them.

  Her voice catches. “Go, do your duty unto your king as your conscience advises,” she whispers.

  I leave, my mission a failure.

  I suppose it does not matter. In the end the king commands her to relinquish the jewels and she has no choice but to obey.

  King Henry gets what he wants.

  Elizabeth Howard

  No one will help me. My children are kept away, save young Thomas, who seeks no one out. He is a quiet, brooding child with little use for anyone. Henry, though married in name to the Earl of Oxford’s daughter, Frances de Vere, lives at the French court with the king’s bastard, Fitzroy, trying his best to be Thomas incarnate, while Mary remains “safe” at her father’s side. Never can any sanctuary be found in their love.

  When I write to my brother begging for asylum, he denies me, reminding me of my “willful and sensual” nature, whatever that means. It is probably some reference to my short-lived dream of marrying Ralph Neville. That I am willful is something that cannot be denied. But a woman with less will would have died long ago, either by Thomas’s hand or by her own. Of course Bess has considerably less will than I and survives quite well. I ask myself why I cannot be like this soft, round woman everyone adores. I ask myself why I cannot be docile and submissive. The answer is always the same: it is not I, and I will not be broken into being someone else simply because it would be more convenient for Thomas. I am not an actor in a masque. I am myself and will remain true to it.