by D. L. Bogdan
But at such a cost!
Thomas does not care. When he asks if I would attend the Boleyn whore when the king creates her Marquess of Pembroke, I refuse. Let Mary do it. She has been seduced by the black-eyed witch and loves her with the same devotion I do my queen, even so far as to become a reformist. She considers carrying her train an honor.
The snub earns me a beating, of course. But not by my husband’s hand. It is as though it would expel too much of his own precious energy to dole out the necessary discipline, so he contents himself by watching the servants do it. They are more than happy to oblige.
His visits are fleeting, however, and when he is here, he closets himself in Bess’s apartments. And Bess, that doe-eyed girl whose sympathetic countenance coupled with her harlotry causes me to retch in anguish, is rendered impotent by fear and stupidity and the same lovesickness that has made us all helpless to Thomas at one time or another, though there is very little about the man to love. I believe, however, that when one is forced to endure another human being for life, one must seek something endearing in the other, else be driven mad. So that is what we have done. We have invented reasons to love this man, for whatever he is, in order to preserve our delicate hold on sanity. Whether it is true or not, knowing there is someone to love makes our pathetic lot easier.
It is a mixed blessing when in 1533 Bess leaves Kenninghall. I take joy in the fact that she will no longer be about to serve as a constant reminder of my husband’s treachery but misery that she has left to serve at the court of “Queen” Anne Boleyn, the whore who has torn the world apart for sinful lust of a married man. For this slut, King Henry has abandoned papal authority, named himself head of the Church of England, and invalidated his marriage with Catherine with the help of the Archbishop of Canterbury, thus enabling them to marry at last. Even before their “wedding,” her belly was swollen with the supposed prince Henry is so keen on getting, confirming every nasty thought I ever wasted on her. This is the woman to be held above all others; this travesty is to be our sovereign. This “Queen” Anne Boleyn.
As for the true queen, the one and only queen of Henry’s England, she languishes in her own hell, exiled to a northern castle, separated from her daughter and all those who love her. My heart yearns to comfort her and in her find comfort for myself.
But Bess is gone, so I shall take comfort in that. To resent her for usurping my rightful place at court is useless. I would not serve Anne Boleyn even if there were never any Bess and my husband were mad with love for me. Nothing can coax me there, not even the news that my daughter Mary will wed the king’s bastard, Henry Fitzroy. I cannot abide attending. This was just one more thing orchestrated by Anne Boleyn, and I will not sit there and watch it as though I am giving sanction to anything she does.
I sit out Mary’s wedding night sewing shirts for the poor. I pray for her, my Mary, a child as foreign to me as the New World. Regret leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Had things been different, I would have helped my daughter ready herself for her passage into womanhood. I would have given her counsel on what to expect, what to hope for, and what reality may serve instead. I would have brushed her golden hair and kissed her and praised her beauty in her wedding gown. It could have been as my Cathy’s wedding day, filled with promise and joy . . . No. Not Mary. Never her. She is not mine.
From the first day Thomas set eyes on her, she was his, whether out of guilt for the circumstances bringing her into this world, or out of something darker I have no need to explore. She is his, his and some other place, some fey country unattainable to me. The chasm that began at birth has only grown with time, and I fear I may never bridge it. What’s more, I fear I may not want to. I blink against the tears that obscure the garment I am stitching. There is nothing to be done. Nothing but to hope she can find some happiness in her marriage and that she will be freed from the influence of her father and that wicked court as soon as possible.
Bess Holland
It is very strange and exciting at this court, a court made so happy by its merry new queen, who presides over us displaying her pregnant belly with pride. Never in my wildest fantasies could I have ever conceived of waiting on a queen, let alone a queen who is Anne Boleyn, the same woman I served as a young girl.
I am not on close terms with her. She has changed. She is hardened, jaded, and the more I observe her, the less merry she appears. There is a frantic edge to her; the joy she radiates is fringed with desperation and I pity as much as admire her.
She has only spoken to me once, to tell me I was most lucky to have found favor with her, for she does not suffer wantons at her court. “It seems you have done well with your duke,” she added with a snicker. All I could do was bow.
She has made it clear that I am here because my lord wishes it and since Queen Anne owes much of her crown to his guidance, my presence is a debt paid. I am in the company of many Howards, Mary among them, but she has her own friends now, and despite the love we bear each other and the fact we are in the same place, we have grown in different directions. Mary belongs to an erudite circle. Queen Anne’s is a court who reads and writes poetry. I cannot read or write a word, not even my own name, and the duke said it was pointless to spend money engaging a tutor for me. So I am on the fringes of this world. But it is a world I never thought to be a part of to begin with, so I am happy with my lot. I dance and make merry. There are a lot of gentlemen here my age and they are fun to flirt with as long as the duke does not notice. After witnessing the treatment of the duchess, I am careful in all I do.
One of the events I hold most dear in the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign is the wedding of my beloved Mary Howard. It signifies so much for so many. For Queen Anne, it is establishing that Fitzroy is no longer a serious contender for the throne. For His Grace, it is the union of his child with that of a king—a most useful alliance. For Mary, it means a chance at happiness, God grant it. And for me, it means hope. Mary’s little face radiates it and I absorb its light, knowing if she can forge happiness in this tempest, so can I.
At her wedding feast she dances with her father-in-law, the mightiest man in the world, King Henry VIII, and her husband, whom she is obviously very fond of, the sweet Harry Fitzroy. She dances with her father, and I watch him reach up to touch her hair.
The duke’s eyes follow her all evening, enslaved by something I have never understood. It matters not where we are; when Mary is present, my lord has eyes only for her.
When I learn that he will not allow her and Fitzroy to live as man and wife, my gut churns in sympathy.
“Why won’t you let her go?” I entreat him. “She would be much happier with her own household to run and ladies to attend her. Why, I could attend her! I would love it! Far more so than here—here it is so lonely and no one bears any love for me—”
His Grace’s cheeks flush with a rage I thought to be reserved for anyone but me.
“Yours is an opinion not needed, Bess,” he tells me in his calm, even tone. “Best remember your place.”
I should never have challenged him. His word, after all, is always the last word. I bow my head, saddened less for Mary than I am over the thought that my opinion is not wanted, let alone needed, by the only man I am allowed to love.
Kenninghall
Elizabeth Howard, March 1534
“Do you think I’m asking for your opinion on this?” Thomas’s face is as red as a Tudor rose. His black eyes are narrow. They have developed a permanent squint from his ever-present scowl.
“Of course not!” I cry. “When have you ever asked my opinion on anything?” I add with a bitter laugh. “But as it is, I am giving it and my opinion is no. I will never grant you a divorce, not as long as there’s breath in my body.”
Thomas hesitates a moment, as though entertaining the possible consequences of moving that process along, then bites his lip, slamming his fist on the desk. “Why? Why do you want to remain in this farce of a marriage?”
I shake my head, keeping my voice v
ery low. “You are the king’s man in every way, Thomas. Following his example to the letter. First taking a mistress, then hoping to set your lawful wife aside for her. I have given you five children, along with my tears and suffering. I will not give you Bess as a reward for my pain.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want,” he tells me. “Most of my plate, my jewels, anything. Come now, don’t be a fool. What do you expect to gain from our marriage?”
“My soul, a commodity you do not think much on,” I tell him. He flinches. “I may have to die to gain my reward, but it is worth it to watch you writhe. You will not have everything, Thomas. You think because your niece is on the throne and your daughter is married to a king’s bastard that you can rule the world, but you have never been able to rule my heart. Never. And that is why you hate me, isn’t it? Because you cannot control me like you control Bess and Mary. I will not give you your divorce, Thomas Howard, and make our children illegitimate. You will not have your happy ending, you can count on it, even if I have to appeal to the king himself.”
Thomas shakes his head. “Very well, then, Elizabeth. You give me no choice. You may remain my wife but as my obedient wife—being so fond of the Lord’s commandments, I imagine you will recall the verse about wifely submission—you are no longer permitted use of Kenninghall or any of my other estates save Redbourne. You will retire there, Lady Norfolk, and cling to the knowledge that you are my wife. Either way, I shall be quite happy, I can assure you. I had just thought to give you this opportunity so you can seek out some happiness of your own—it is clear we have some . . . er, how would you phrase it mildly? Differences of opinion?” He shrugs. “But I should have known you would take the hard road, as always. Such a fool.” He reaches out, tracing my jawline. His eyes mist over. He turns away. “Elizabeth, it wasn’t that I didn’t care for you . . .” He shakes his head violently, then straightens his back, squaring his shoulders. “You need time. I understand. Why should all this be decided today, after all? It is a lot to take in. I feel it only fair that I give you the opportunity to reconsider.”
Thomas takes my arm and begins to escort me out of my apartments down the hall toward one of the turrets of Kenninghall, where he throws me into one of the barren chambers with such force I land on the cold stone floor.
“You may think about it in here, where there are no distractions,” he tells me. Then, his voice still as calm as if he were planning out the menu for a feast, he calls the servants. “Please remove the duchess’s apparel and jewels. I do not want any distractions. She is greatly afflicted in her mind.”
Stripped to my shift and humiliated, I draw my knees up to my chest. “You’ll be cursed for this, Thomas,” I tell him in quiet tones that are fervent with conviction. “God will see that you pay.”
Thomas shrugs. “What more can God do to me?” he counters. “Now. I’m leaving you, my dear. I’ll let you and God work it out in here. I will give you ample time to make the right decision.”
With an exaggerated bow, Thomas quits the room. I hear the turn of the key and at last allow the tears to fall.
If I had not been before, there is no doubt now—I am my husband’s prisoner.
But I choose to be. For if I grant him his divorce, no amount of his plate will compensate for the fact that I will be left with nothing. No children, no family to side with me. Nothing. No one.
If I have become vengeful, then so be it. I will not yield to his desires. No matter how ill used I have been, he will not have it all. He will have to kill me first.
And so after a month’s imprisonment without straying from my initial decision in regard to his desired divorce, I am removed to Redbourne. Another mixed blessing. No one abuses me here and I am left in peace.
But I am completely isolated. No gentlemen visit me and very few gentlewomen, save whom my lord appoints. Even from afar his hand extends to daily life and I am allowed no true friends.
It is a very lonely life.
Bess Holland
I didn’t know one could be so lonely amidst this many people. But with a court who regards me as the previous court regarded Queen Anne, and a duke who has very little time for me, I find more often than not that I am alone, longing for something I cannot identify. I ache and yearn but know not for what. Every need is satisfied. The duke keeps me dressed in the best and I am adorned with the most beautiful jewels one could ever set eyes upon, but still my gut churns with a desire for . . . what?
And then it comes to me, the answer, in the form of a bonny babe with soft red curls and piercing black eyes. Princess Elizabeth, cherished daughter of Queen Anne and a source of great disappointment to king and country. Her birth changes everything for everyone. It softens Queen Anne’s eyes as much as it hardens the king’s. It frustrates the duke and causes the kingdom to scoff and curse.
As for myself, it serves as the embodiment of all of my hopes. A child. I long for a child of my own to love.
When I broach the subject with His Grace, he laughs.
“Don’t be a fool!” he cries, holding my face in his elegant hands and kissing my nose. “You can play with any number of children if you long for such a thing and have the convenience of returning them to their proper owners afterward. And I will not allow you to have a child out of wedlock.”
“But I do everything else out of wedlock!” I cry.
The duke gathers me in his arms. “Now, now, Bess, do not make an issue of this. You do not want to risk my displeasure, do you, sweetheart?” He pulls away, looking into my tear-streaked face and tilting my chin up to face him. “Be a good girl, Bess, as you have always been to me. Be my good, sweet girl.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I sob.
From that day on, the duke is very careful about ensuring that I do not become with child.
I am not the only one with that longing. Denied the joy of living as a true wife, Mary Howard Fitzroy seems to grow more wistful with each passing year. And poor Queen Anne, in an effort to bring England a prince, suffers three miscarriages and the waning affections of her husband. He treats her with the same disregard he treated his first wife, taking on mistress after mistress until he has become enamored with one of her ladies-in-waiting, the painfully pious Jane Seymour. My lord hates this development and curses his rival family with vehemence, but he is powerless to stop what happens next.
The king will rid himself of his precious Anne Boleyn, who is now branded a witch and whore. Even her new pregnancy does not stop his pursuit of the meek and mild Lady Jane.
Then in January 1536, the former queen Catherine of Aragon dies. In a celebratory joust, the king falls from his horse, suffering severe injuries. It is left to His Grace to inform my lady.
Thomas Howard
Damn, damn, damn! All she had to do was have a boy. Is that too much to ask? Heaven and much of earth was moved in order to install this bitch as queen of England and she has proven a constant failure to us all. Since she came to power, England has been thrust into chaos. Thomas More, my sweet friend, adhered to his mighty principles and martyred himself to the axe rather than sign an oath acknowledging her as queen and her children as the true heirs to the throne. It was just as he said—he died first. Maybe I will be next. . . . No. No, I will never be next because I know how to play the game. More did not. He perished along with old Bishop Fisher and several monks, all of them far too good ever to have been thrust into this world to begin with. I suppose death was rather like going home to them.
I sobbed when they died. Stupid men! God curse the high and mighty!
My sweet More is dead and for what? For a barren queen who is a stain on the Howard name and a useless girl-child. Why did King Henry have to have her so badly? Why couldn’t he have been satisfied with Queen Catherine? God knows a better queen will not be found, not ever. But I will not think of her. I will not think of her face upon our last meeting, her hand on my cheek, her dignity in the face of such grand scale disrespect. . . . No. It serves me not. Oh, had we but known she would
pass this year, he could have remarried and had a baby then! The cruelty of fate!
I am through with Anne. It is clear she has little time left on her throne before the fickle king takes up with the Seymour slut. I must begin my detachment from her. I am not a fool. I know when to stand aside and how to retain favor.
When the king is injured on the tiltyard, it is my unpleasant duty to inform the queen. I storm into her apartments, staring the disappointment in the face.
“The king has been wounded and will most likely die,” I tell her.
“No!” she cries. “And I? What will become of me?” Her obsidian eyes make an appeal to me as she rises and strides toward me, taking my hands in hers. “Shall I be regent till the princess attains her majority?”
I offer a bitter laugh. “Are you truly so deluded?” I shake my head. “Think you not on any of that. That is a nightmare unworthy of entertaining at present. No, Your Majesty,” I add with a trace of mockery. “You have only one duty, to give us a prince. If you can do that, perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
“And if I don’t?” she cries.
“Then God save you,” I tell her. “For no one else will.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide with horror as she doubles over, cradling her swollen belly. “Oh, God, Uncle Thomas!” She offers a groan that causes me to back away in terror. “The baby is coming! Please help me!”
“Fetch a midwife!” I cry and remove myself from her presence.
Despite what I know in my heart, I pray for her. Her destruction, after all, could spell my own.