Love, Remember Me

by Bertrice Small

  “You had best not be wrong about this, Grandfather,” the Earl of March said, resigned. “I think your ambition for little Catherine madness, and this is a bad business with Nyssa Wyndham. I am ashamed that I would aid you, but I would not see the girl sacrificed to some lout.”

  “Do you know her?” the duke asked him, curious.

  “I danced with her once, and then her uncle hurried to take her away. Remember, the world believes me guilty of driving an innocent girl, who was carrying my child, to her death. I am not considered a particularly desirable match. She had charm, Grandfather. I hope I shall be able to win her over. The rest of my life shall be hell if I do not. A man and his wife should at least be friends.”

  “You have odd ideas, Varian, and I cannot imagine where you ever got them,” Thomas Howard said. “You did not learn such things from me. A wife for a gentleman should have a dowry consisting of both lands and monies. Her bloodline should be good. Nothing else is required of a good match but that. Nothing else.”

  The Earl of March did not respond. In many ways he was like his powerful grandfather. He could be ruthless and cold like Thomas Howard. But beneath the veneer of arrogance, he hid a soft heart. That much his father had given him, even if he had given him precious little else. Henry de Winter had died when Varian was sixteen. Until his death he had never ceased talking about his Mary Elizabeth. Though he had never known her, Varian de Winter felt he had known her because of his father’s deep love for her. Her portrait, painted as a wedding gift, hung in the earl’s bedchamber. As a little boy he had thought she was the prettiest mother any lad could have. Now he was struck by how young and vulnerable she had been; much like Nyssa Wyndham—and because of that, he had to help Nyssa, even in this roundabout way.

  “When is this deed to be done?” he asked his grandfather.

  “Tonight,” the Duke of Norfolk said.

  “So soon?” the earl replied. “Grandfather, could you not give me a few days to attempt to make friends with Nyssa Wyndham?”

  “You have already told me that her family has kept her from you, Varian. They are not likely to change their minds about you now. Why would they? I shall tell you another secret. Cromwell’s fall is very near now. He will soon be in the Tower waiting for his miserable life to come to a traitor’s end. We have not a great deal of time in which to act.”

  “But the king has only just created him Earl of Essex!” Varian de Winter exclaimed. Then his brow lightened. “Ahh, of course! The king lulls him into a false sense of security, does he not, Grandfather? A frightened Cromwell will not be able to do his best to extricate the king from this most undesirable marriage into which he got him.”

  “Precisely!” the duke answered, pleased at his grandson’s astuteness. It’s a shame he is not a Howard by birth, the duke thought. Varian has a courtier’s mind, but unfortunately he has a countryman’s heart. He only stays at court to please me, but once he is married he will have to leave, for the king will be very displeased with him for the moment. I will miss him.

  The Earl of March noticed his grandfather was drawing his furred, velvet robe about him. He arose and put another log upon the fire. “Tell me how you will go about executing your plan, my lord,” he said.

  The duke wasted few words. “Lady Rochford will administer a mild sleeping draught to all the maids of honor tonight. Then she will admit two of my men to the Maidens’ Chamber. They will bring Nyssa Wyndham to your bedchamber. Once I am told she is safely there, I will see the king knows of it. We will discover the two of you together. Be sure to take the girl into your embrace when you hear us outside the door, Varian. The drug administered to her is very mild. She will most likely awaken when you embrace her. Her movement in your arms will not be seen as the struggles of a frightened girl; to other eyes she will look as if she is party to the deed. Under the circumstances, the king will have no choice but to reject her, leaving the field clear for your cousin. You may be assured that I will show my gratitude to you shortly after your marriage, Varian. You are truly the only one I can trust with this most delicate matter. I have always been able to rely upon you.”

  He is brilliant, Varian de Winter thought. At an age when most men sat back to enjoy what remained of life, Thomas Howard continued in the thick of things, plotting and scheming, each plan well thought out and perfect to the last detail. “If you wish my cooperation in this matter,” the earl told his grandfather, “you will deed that land over to me this very afternoon, my lord. Unlike my father, God assoil his good soul, I know better than to trust you.”

  The Duke of Norfolk laughed aloud, which was something he rarely did. “That is because you are clever like a Howard, and not trusting like a de Winter, my lad!” he said, chuckling. “Very well, the deed will be in your hands by sunset.”

  “If it is not, Grandfather, I will not be party to your plan,” Varian de Winter said. “And I trust your wedding gift will be a most generous one, despite my wicked behavior.”

  “Aye,” the duke replied. “Now get you gone, lad! I have other work to be about this day. Yours is but a small part in my efforts to make your cousin Catherine Queen of England. There is much more to it.”

  “I have no doubt that there is,” the earl answered, and bowing to his grandfather, he departed his privy chamber.

  Varian de Winter’s own bedchamber was within the apartments of the Duke of Norfolk, the small prerogative of being Thomas Howard’s grandson and in Thomas Howard’s favor at the moment. He had lived with his father at their ancestral home of Winterhaven until his sixth birthday. He had seen his grandfather Howard several times in his young life, and he remembered standing next to his father’s chair, in his father’s library, as his fate was being discussed on the day the great duke came to take him away.

  “It is time he took his rightful place,” the duke had said. “He has spent six years among the rustics, and has the manners of a cowherd. He is, after all, my only grandson.”

  “But he is my only son,” Henry de Winter replied quietly, with a rare show of spirit. “I agree with you, however, my lord. I am content here among the rustics on my land, having seen what I wanted of the world. Varian should know what life has to offer before he decides how he wishes to live. I can think of no better place for him to learn the ways of the world than with you, my lord. Take him, but return him home each summer so that he does not forget he is a de Winter by birth, and that he has responsibilities here on his lands as well. He is all I have, and I shall miss him.”

  So Varian had gone to live with his grandfather, and was raised with the two children that resulted from his grandfather’s second marriage, neither of whom was even born at that point. Henry Howard was born the following year, and his aunt Mary the year he was ten. When his uncle Henry was fifteen, he impregnated the daughter of one of the duke’s farmers. When the girl’s condition became apparent, her father beat her in an effort to learn who had seduced his daughter. There would, of course, have to be a marriage. All the girl would admit to was, “ ’twere one of his lordship’s.”

  Then she secretly appealed to her lover. Henry Howard, arrogant, inexperienced, and frightened of what his powerful father would say and do, ashamed to admit his lust to his mother, had turned the girl away. The farmer’s daughter hung herself in her father’s barn to escape her sorrow and her shame, thereby causing a terrible scandal among the duke’s people. They could talk of nothing else.

  The Duke of Norfolk was furious. For all his faults, he was a fair man. When he had impregnated his cousin Bess, he had stood by her, although he could not marry her, being betrothed to another. His son had not shown the same strength of character. But then his grandson had agreed to take the blame to protect his younger uncle. No one considered that Varian de Winter had been home on his estates the summer the farmer’s daughter had been seduced. Instead they remembered that the Earl of March’s mother had been the duke’s bastard daughter. They spoke of his saturnine handsomeness, and the ladies secretly imagined what it
would be like to be his lover. Several found out, and not only relished the experience, but whispered about it among themselves. Marriageable maidens were kept away from him. He was believed to be an unsuitable and a dangerous man.

  He had wanted a wife for some time now. Being the last of his line was a responsibility he did not enjoy bearing. He wanted sons and daughters, but the damned scandal would not die. No family of good lineage would discuss giving a daughter in marriage to a man who so callously had dismissed his obligations to a lover and their child.

  It was only in retrospect that the Earl of March realized that he should not have taken the blame for what his fifteen-year-old uncle had done. Henry Howard’s youth would have earned him forgiveness within their social strata, but Varian de Winter had been past twenty-one. It was believed a man of his years should have known better, particularly given his mother’s history. Even his grandfather agreed now that they had made an error. But it was too late. Well, by the morrow he would have a wife, but he could not help feeling his method in obtaining that wife, a shabby one.

  Entering his bedchamber, he called to his body servant, who came from the dressing room where his clothing was kept. “When did we last change the sheets on this bed, Toby?” he demanded of the man.

  “Entertaining tonight, are we, my lord?” Toby said with a chuckle. “Well, them sheets ain’t been changed in two weeks or more. ’Tis past time, and if the lady is special, we should. I’ll go to the duke’s housekeeper and fetch some nice clean linens for ye.”

  “And I’ll want a tub, Toby,” the earl told his man.

  “Aye, this one must be special.” Toby chortled.

  Toby, the earl thought, was fortunate to be a simple man. He had no idea how complicated life could be when one was not only a courtier, but the Duke of Norfolk’s grandson. Special. Aye, Nyssa Wyndham was special. Even she, poor lass, could not even begin to imagine how special she was considered to be. God’s blood! Varian grimaced. I hope Henry Tudor does not lop off both our poor heads.

  No matter what his grandfather had said, the earl knew the king to be a volatile man. If Nyssa Wyndham was the woman the king really wanted for his next queen, there was going to be merry hell to pay. Even his pretty cousin Catherine would not be able to soothe the king’s ire.

  Why had he agreed to help Thomas Howard? Why had he not attempted to talk him out of this scheme? Had the debacle of his cousin Anne Boleyn not taught the duke anything? Nay, it had not. He had managed to keep his position as Lord Treasurer while the other men involved had lost everything, even their lives. The Duke of Norfolk loved power. It was both his weakness and his strength.

  Varian de Winter knew why he had promised to help his grandfather. It was Nyssa Wyndham. The thought of her in another man’s bed had shaken him greatly. Why? He didn’t even know the wench, yet she had haunted his dreams since the first time he had seen her. He was in love with her. He shook his head in wonderment. How could he love a girl he barely knew? Yet he did, and somehow, some way, he was going to make her love him!

  Nyssa, unaware of the consternation she was causing in the heart and mind of the Earl of March, dined with her aunt and uncle that day. Although she was due back at court by nightfall, she had spent her entire day with them. The lease on their Greenwich house would be up at the end of the month, and they discussed renewing it.

  “I do not think you should,” Nyssa said. “It is no secret any longer. Even the queen knows, though she pretends not to, that her marriage to the king will soon be a thing of the past. There will be an annulment, or divorce, whichever is decided. I will no longer be needed here at court. Go home, Aunt Bliss. I shall soon follow.”

  “Not if the king decides he wants you for his wife,” Bliss said seriously. “His favor toward you is most marked. I believe that we should stay on so that you may have the counsel of your family.”

  “For once I am in agreement,” Owen FitzHugh said.

  “He favors Catherine Howard too,” Nyssa said, “and her family is far, far more important than mine is. Besides, remember my mother’s place in the king’s life. He would never seek me out for such an exalted position because of the consanguinity involved, Aunt.”

  “Mary Boleyn was his mistress, and yet he married her sister,” Bliss reminded her niece. “The Princess of Aragon was his brother’s widow, and yet he had to have her for his wife. He is a man who seems to make the same mistake over and over again. Henry Tudor’s relationship with your mother will not stop him if he desires you, Nyssa.”

  “Ohh, Aunt, I pray that you are wrong,” Nyssa said. “I should rather die than be married to that old man! And how would my mother feel about such a thing? It would kill her, and my father too! Ah, did good Queen Anne not need me, I should ask her permission to go home this very day, but I cannot desert her, poor lady.”

  “I shall tell the landlord tomorrow that we wish to have the house through the end of June,” Owen FitzHugh said. “You will not desert your mistress, Nyssa, and we will not desert you, my child.”

  Nyssa returned to court just as the sun was setting. There were no entertainments scheduled for that evening, and so she joined her friends in the Maidens’ Chamber. The queen had retired early, the strain of her situation weighing upon her. The girls gossiped while playing cards.

  “She is very sad that old Cromwell’s fate should be so bleak because of her,” Bessie FitzGerald said. “Her heart is very good.”

  “He would have fallen eventually,” Kate Carey remarked with wisdom beyond her years. “Both he and Wolsey were of comparatively humble birth. Each climbed high, and gave their loyalty to no man save the king. Both incurred the jealous wrath of men like the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk. Such men, men without friends, have their fates sealed. Who is there to speak for them?”

  “You would think the king would be loyal to those who are loyal to him,” Nyssa said. “How can one expect loyalty when one does not give loyalty in return? Cromwell is a reptilian little man, but he has spent most of his life trying to make the king’s life a happy one. This is his only failure. I feel sorry for him.”

  “It is too big an error in judgment for the king to forgive,” Cat Howard said. “The king does not like those he trusts to make mistakes.”

  “I think I shall be glad to go home when this matter is finally settled,” Nyssa said softly. “I miss my family, and my home. I want to see my parents. Like my mother, I am a country girl at heart.”

  “Perhaps you will not be allowed to go,” Kate Carey said.

  “Ohh, do not say it!” Nyssa cried, paling.

  “Wouldn’t you like to be a queen?” Cat Howard said slyly. “I know that I would! Imagine having everything you ever wanted, and the very least of your whims indulged at your demand, and the very people who have ignored you for months striving for your favor! The thought is very exciting. I should adore it!”

  “Not I!” Nyssa said. “I would have a man to love me, and a home among the green hills of England, and a houseful of children! That is a dream far more to my taste than yours, Cat.”

  “But you haven’t found a husband yet,” Bessie FitzGerald said.

  “No, I have not,” Nyssa said with a small smile. “I have been so busy attending to my duties for the queen, I have had no time at all to seriously look the gentlemen over. But then few of them have even approached me. Perhaps they don’t find me eligible enough.”

  “Oh, Nyssa, you are such a goose!” Cat Howard told her. “Have you not seen how my cousin, Varian de Winter, looks at you?”

  “He is sooo handsome,” Kate Carey sighed.

  “My aunt, and her friend, Lady Marlowe, say he is a rogue, and that no respectable girl should associate with him,” Nyssa said.

  “Villains are far more fun than saints,” Cat replied, and the others giggled at her witticism.

  “Such happy maidens,” Lady Rochford said as she entered the chamber, carrying a decanter and some small cordial glasses upon a tray. “What are you making merry about, or is
it a secret?” She smiled, and Nyssa thought she looked like a ferret.

  “We are speaking about the gentlemen,” Cat said boldly.

  Jane Rochford raised a slender eyebrow. “What naughty girls you all are,” she said with an indulgent little smile. She looked about the room. “Where are the others?” she asked.

  “The Bassetts are visiting their aunt overnight,” Kate Carey volunteered. “Maria and Helga are sleeping in the queen’s chamber this night. It is their turn. Her Grace was sad this evening.”

  “Good,” Lady Rochford purred. “Then there is no one to tell on me. Poor darlings! You strive so hard, and are all so good, and have so little amusement, I know. I have brought you all a little treat. Sweet cherry cordial, just made from French cherries, newly imported.” She poured them each a small glass and offered her tray around. “Help yourselves, my maids.”

  “Are you not having any, Lady Rochford?” Bessie asked.

  “Oh, child, I’ve already had two small glasses,” Lady Rochford confided with a small hiccough. “If I drink any more, I shall be quite tipsy. It is really most delicious, is it not?”

  They all agreed with her, eagerly sipping the fruit-flavored liqueur.

  “It is late,” Lady Rochford noted, “and you have all gossiped long enough. Ready yourselves for bed while you finish your cordial. I must take all the evidence of our treat away lest old Mother Lowe or Lady Browne come upon it and scold me for indulging you so.” She smiled again. “It is rare for you to have such a quiet evening. You will want to catch up on your sleep, unless, of course, some of you are planning to slip out and meet your lovers?” She peered closely at them, and they burst into good-natured laughter at her teasing.