by D. L. Bogdan
“I’m afraid that will have to wait until after your baby is born,” I tell him.
He loses all expression, then sits on the bed. He draws in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Do you expect me to be happy about this, Bess, after I explicitly told you never to take this course?”
I lay a protective hand on my belly, swallowing hard, trying to choose my words with care. “I know, my lord, and I apologize. I did not mean for it to happen, of course. God meant it to. And now that it has, I am so happy. I do not care that I am unmarried.”
“What about the child?” he demands. “Have you thought of it at all? Everyone will know it is my bastard, and the child will be forever branded the son of a whore.”
“I will make certain the child grows up surrounded by love,” I tell him. “I shall live a quiet life. I—want to live a quiet life, Your Grace.”
“I will not acknowledge it,” he tells me.
I bow my head.
He holds his hand out to me. I take it. “I shall send you to the manor in Lincolnshire I gave you last year, for the rest of your confinement. The child, of course, once it is born, will be installed at Norfolk House and raised with a proper family.”
My heart begins to pound. My cheeks are hot and tingling. I cannot breathe. “What? No! For love of Jesus, why?”
“Because, Bess, it isn’t right! The child needs a mother and father!” he shouts. “Keeping you as my mistress is one thing, but I’m not about to let you pop out a string of bastards for me to support! I did not choose you to be my breeder—I did not choose you to share yourself with anyone else! I wanted you for myself,” he adds in softer tones. Tears stand bright in his obsidian eyes. “You do not know, you cannot know how painful bringing a child into this world is, Bess. In my life I have had nine children between both wives, and three survived. Three. Bess,” he pleads, taking my hands in his. “Can’t you see I’m trying to spare you?”
I sit beside him and take him in my arms. “Whatever heartbreak that God has set aside for me, I am ready to bear. But if it pains you too much, then you must not acknowledge it,” I murmur, touched by his attempt at thoughtfulness. “Take it on as a ward.”
He pulls away, rising with abruptness. Laughing a grating, shrill sound that makes me cringe in horror, he says, “A ward! One only takes on a ward if there is something to be gained from it! What could I gain from your child?” He turns away. “God, Bess, why did you do this to me?”
“To you? Why did I do this—to you?” I scream, all previous pity lost in the face of my fury that is at last unleashed as I behold the man who has controlled my every move since I was fifteen years old. “I suppose I have never given you any reason to believe that everything I have done has not been for or about you, Your Grace. So it may come as a shock that I have held fast to dreams of my own these past years.” I swallow the painful lump rising in my throat, continuing in soft tones. “The only dream that ever seemed possible of making a reality is that of having a child of my own to love. It won’t need a father if that is a role you cannot play. I will love it enough for both of us.”
He turns, shaking his head. “No, Bess. No. I will not allow it. With time, you will understand why and thank me for it. The child will be installed at Norfolk House.” He furrows his brow, scowling. “Stop looking at me that way!”
My eyes are wide with saddened bewilderment. “How could I be so wrong? I thought . . . I thought that because of the love you bore me, it would be natural for you to cherish our child. I know how difficult it has been for you with the duchess and your other children. But I thought—I hoped with us it would be different.”
His Grace’s face softens. He rests his hand on my shoulder, seizing my chin between thumb and forefinger and tilting my face toward his. “It is not as though I am turning it out into the street. It will be well provided for. I will see to its every need and secure for it as good a future as its station permits. So you must see how I care. But it cannot be how you envision; you must have known that. However, you may visit as often as you like as its auntie. Now. This subject is closed.”
“Marry me off!” I seethe in desperation. His eyes widen. “Select a husband. You are powerful enough to find someone to take me, even in my condition. Marry me off and the child will have a proper set of parents.”
“Are you daft?” he asks. “You would leave all this?”
All this? I want to scream. Can he be serious? What is it he has given me that really matters? Will any of it accompany me to Heaven, should I ever be fortunate to be allowed within its gates? I say none of these things, however. Instead I glower at him, saying in low tones, “I shall run away.”
“And where would you go?” he asks, all gentleness replaced with his celebrated sarcasm as he mocks me with his sardonic smile. “How would you support yourself? You know everything I have given you would remain here. Who would help you? My daughter? Surely not. She would not risk my displeasure. Your father and brother? Do you think they would assist you in any way? They would be disgusted. You are nothing to them but a commodity; once you have lost your worth, you are completely dispensable and they would dispense with you to keep my favor, have no doubt. Haven’t they already? No, Bess Holland, there is no place for you to run. No place where you would not be known as Norfolk’s castoff whore. So what choice would you have but to become what you are best at? Working the streets of London and the like—”
“Shame on you!” I cry, hurling myself at him once more and clawing at his chest. “I have loved you all these years without asking for a thing in return and you would talk to me this way, you would do these terrible things to me? You are vile, Lord Norfolk. You are worse than the king. At least His Majesty kills those he claims to love; he does not curse them to linger in various states of misery and despair as you have allowed the duchess, Mary, and I to do!”
He disentangles himself from me. “Calm yourself at once, Bess, and apologize. You forget your place.”
My place. Yes, I have forgotten my place.
I sit on the bed, exhausted. I bow my head. I know he is right. I cannot run away. I have done wrong. He told me years ago he wanted none of my children and I disobeyed him. No, there is no running away. My child deserves a better life than what I alone could provide.
But to give in . . . surely there is another way. . . .
I raise my head, beholding the duke again. Despite his fine form, he is old. He will not live forever. I shall bide my time, play auntie to my own child until he leaves this world and I can take back what is mine. There is no other way to play this game. After watching the duchess, I know too well what the duke is capable of and will risk neither my life nor that of this innocent child. So I will be sweet, acquiescent Bess. Obedient Bess. Till my blessed release from this man’s insane translation of love.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” I say, forcing sincerity into my tone. “I was very wrong.”
He cups my cheek. “Good girl.” He pauses a moment. “And if I said anything unkind, it was to remind you of the reality of your circumstances and illustrate how others would perceive you. Not me. Never me. You know that, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Of course I do.”
“Now,” he tells me. “Let me hold you. You’ve always been my sensible girl. We’ll sort this problem out together and you’ll feel better in time.”
This problem. His child is this problem. But in the deepest recess of my heart, how could I expect him to view it as anything other than an inconvenience, an annoyance? Oh, what have I done? Why have I allowed myself to be tangled in this web of hopelessness? Why didn’t I run away years ago, when I was young and comely and could have had my pick of men? Now I am older, my hair is dull, and I am far too sturdy to be called shapely. And he is right about my family. They would be no help to me at all if it meant losing favor with their sacred employer. I would have nothing, no money, no family. No friends, for every friend I’ve ever had was bought and paid for by the duke. Every hope I
have lies with this man. There is nothing to be done. Tears pave slick, cool trails down my cheeks as I yield to the helplessness enveloping me like a shroud.
In this state I allow myself to be enfolded in his arms, Norfolk’s good girl to the end.
I am sent to Lincolnshire to spend the rest of my confinement. To His Grace’s credit, he could not have chosen a better family to foster my child, nor could he have chosen a more capable midwife. Tsura Goodman has been bringing Howards into the world for almost fifty years; indeed, she delivered some of my lord’s children, and knowing this creates an instant bond, for I never forget his children are the siblings of the little one stirring within me.
She is a marvel, this Gypsy woman. One would never think someone as wizened and weathered as she could still bring children into this world. To look at the dark, frail creature who squints so hard her eyes have become little slits in her head and to watch her hobble about with her cane, one would not consider her capable of doing much of anything at all. But never do I doubt her abilities. She is so reassuring; she does not judge me or ask unkind questions. She is full of energy, waking before the sun and falling asleep long after the rest of the household. It is as though she is the Great Mother keeping watch over everyone, making certain we are all quite tucked in and safe before she lets herself rest. To know her is to instantly love her. We pass many hours sitting by the fire and talking of this and that. I can cry with her. I can laugh with her. She is the mother and grandmother I never had.
Her grandson Alec Goodman is having a child due about the same time as mine and they have left their posts at Norfolk House to attend me. His young bride, Jenny, will serve as foster mother to my child; from her breast it will receive nourishment, from her lips it will receive comfort. . . . Oh, God, it kills me to think of it.
Yet they are kind people and if I cannot be there to raise my child, I cannot think of anyone more appropriate. They are excited about the prospect. Jenny understands; while she does not act overeager to take my child from my arms, she demonstrates a sincere wish to care for it as she would her own. I try to tell myself I can do this. I have to; he has given me no other choice. At least I am reassured that my child will be in loving, capable hands.
“I read his palm once, your duke,” old Tsura tells me one evening as I sew baby clothes by the fire. “Quite against his will,” she adds with a laugh. “All I saw in it was the power, that terrible power of his.” She shudders. “It will undo him. Take care not to let it undo you.”
“But it has undone me,” I tell her brokenly.
Tsura shakes her head. “No, Bess,” she says. “You are not undone. You are a clever one, far more so than you give yourself credit for. You will know at the crucial moment when to rely on that cleverness; he will not get the best of you, Bess Holland. I promise you that.”
Hope stirs in my breast. I lay a hand on my belly. The baby kicks against my palm as if on cue and I emit a soft laugh. This is something His Grace can never take away from me, this feeling of a babe in my womb, the life he gave me, a gift that far surpasses any jewel he ever could bestow.
“Do you see this in a vision, my lady?” I ask her.
Tsura only smiles.
Somehow it is enough. This bit of power she has given me, this power of a promise, gives me hope that I will be happy. Someday . . .
Jane Elizabeth Goodman is born in the spring of 1543 when the king takes Catherine Parr to wife. His latest marriage has little affect on me when I hold my tiny girl in my arms, this small black-haired imp who gazes at me with her father’s eyes. She is the image of him and thus her cousin Anne Boleyn as well. It is a startling resemblance that no one can mistake. She is Norfolk’s daughter. Norfolk’s and mine. This gives me a strange satisfaction and I question it. Is it that I love him still? How can I not love the father of my child? Is this what Duchess Elizabeth feels; is this why she could never divorce him, because of the bond she feels with the father of her children? Yet the father of our children is His Grace, this cruel, brutal man who loves nothing more than his own self. We are fools to feel anything for him. Yet we have been bound to him since childhood; he is all of love we have ever known. He is our past, our present, and, through these children, our future. There is naught to do but love him, if only for that.
His Grace does not come to see our girl, though he is made aware of her existence. I am allowed to tarry for a month, a blissful month of nursing and caring for my little lamb. I take pleasure in everything, every midnight feeding, every bath, every smile and gurgle. Every tear is kissed away. How creamy and smooth is her baby skin! How tiny are her hands and feet! I count her fingers, kissing each one; I kiss the soles of her silky baby feet. I sleep with her on my chest; she does not leave my side. For this one month she is mine, all mine, and I do not relinquish her for one moment.
“I am Bess Holland,” I tell her, propping her up on my knees in bed and staring her hard in her earnest little face. She regards me with somber black eyes as though she is an active participant in the conversation. “I am Bess Holland and I am your mother. Always remember it, Jane. Always remember that I am your mother who loves you, and the great duke of Norfolk is your father.”
Over and over I tell her this, hoping against hope that it ingrains itself in her young head. I tell her this until at last the great duke of Norfolk orders me home.
I kiss my babe and hold her close, sobbing great quaking sobs until at last I turn her over to Jenny.
“Take care of her,” I urge the young woman, who only two months before was delivered of a lusty son. “Take care of my daughter. She is my heart.”
“Oh, my lady!” cries Jenny with tears in her blue eyes.
I nod. “My treasure,” I say again. “For where our treasure is, there our hearts will be also.”
Jenny embraces me, the babe snug between our breasts, these breasts that will give her life and preserve my greatest love.
My treasure . . .
When I return home to His Grace, I sob violent tears against his chest. My breasts have dried yet they still ache for my child. I long for her warm weight in my arms, for her cry, for her smile.
“Better to lose her like this,” His Grace tells me one night. He is leaving shortly for France to go to war and though a part of me will always love him, I cannot help nursing the hope . . . oh, God, it is a terrible hope. “Better to lose her like this,” he says again, stroking my hair, “than to lose her as I lost mine. You distance yourself, Bess. It is better that way. Then when something happens, you can bear it. It’s the only way to bear it. Bess.” His voice catches. “Bess, I can’t watch you become what I have become. I can’t risk it.”
I pull away, staring His Grace in the face. He is utterly broken. His onyx eyes are liquid with tears. I reach up and caress his cheek. He has warned me before that this is why he keeps Jane and me apart, in an effort to spare me any future pain. He is so afraid of the heartbreak her loss would cause both of us that he cannot suffer her presence. Neither can he let me go. In a strange way this renews my love for him.
“I understand,” I tell him. And I do. I do not accept the situation any better. But I understand. I take his hands, squeezing them. “Oh, my lord, I have loved you since I was a child. All of my innocence has been given to you—everything I am has been given to you and now it seems I give you my suffering as well.”
It is a suffering I shall bear. I look into his tearstained face. It is an old face. And as much compassion as I feel for this countenance, I know that it is mortal and I have but to wait. My suffering will end soon. My patience will be rewarded.
As I take His Grace in my arms, I think of his impending journey to France and of all the time it will allow me to spend with my daughter, my sweet little Jane.
Thomas Howard
Bess can think me as cruel as she pleases, but I did it for her. I did it for us. She will understand someday. She always understands. And even if the child were acknowledged, it would be raised much the same way.
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br /> Meantime I am on the king’s business, but before I make war on France in His Majesty’s illustrious name, I remove to Norfolk House to see the child. Perhaps I am getting soft in my dotage, but for some reason I cannot abide the thought of dying in the field without seeing my tenth child, this little bairn Bess and I created together.
Ah, but she is pretty, with skin like alabaster and hair as black as pitch. The keen eyes that stare back at me are black as onyx—my eyes, Anne Boleyn’s eyes. I shudder a moment as I take her in my arms. I smile. She has the Howard nose, poor lass! But she has Bess’s little bow of a mouth and tiny ears.
I will see that she is looked after. I will make certain to honor my promise to Bess. She will have a happy life and make a good marriage. She will be taught all things courtly and be a great lady. And I will set aside some things for her. Things to remind her of who she is. Though not my legitimate daughter, she is a Howard nonetheless and will someday be proud of the fact.
I hold her close, kissing the downy hair. Perhaps I was wrong to keep her from Bess. I will see how long the child lives; if she lives past five, I will allow Bess active participation in her life as her mother. There is a better chance of survival after that age. Meantime we must wait. We must not get too attached.
Yet that night I unlace my shirt and hold her against my bare chest, feeling her little heart beat against mine. I fall asleep with her in my arms.
So much can happen in five years.
BOOK FOUR
The Howard Legacy
Fall from Grace
Thomas Howard, The Tower of London, 19 January 1547
It has all come to nothing. The plots and the plans, all ended, all over. The king’s last pathetic campaign to recapture lost holdings in France was a miserable failure. The reformist queen Catherine Parr still sits the throne despite all efforts to oust her.