Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  Perhaps even me.

  Yet when at last I meet Anne’s eyes they are lit with tears.

  “So young to have a head filled with such tragedy,” observes the king, but his voice is tender as he beckons me near with a hand. “You have a gift for verse, little Mary Howard.”

  “You are most kind, Your Majesty,” I say in genuine gratitude, offering another curtsy.

  Anne’s manner changes abruptly. Again her eyes shine with that dangerous light. “She is a charming girl,” she says with a dismissive wave of her slender hand. “It is getting rather late, isn’t it, Mary? You should go bid your father good night.”

  Again, I dip into a curtsy. My legs hurt and I am grateful to be dismissed. Gambling bores me, to be truthful, and I am quite cautious with what money I am allowed, so do not wish to squander it foolishly.

  As I quit the room the young musician who had been strumming his lute approaches me. He is a short man, but well made; lean of muscle, with fine musician’s hands. He bows, and upon righting himself I am struck by his eyes. They are the most unusual strain of gray-violet, like an unquiet sea beneath the ensuing purple dawn. Never have I seen such eyes. His dark hair curls about his strong shoulders and his smile reveals straight white teeth.

  “I hope I’m not being too forward, Mistress Howard, but I must tell you that I was moved by your poem,” he says in a low voice boasting a Cornish accent.

  My cheeks burn. I am certain he sees them reddening. I bow my head. He must be at least fifteen. I cannot believe he deigns to talk to such as me!

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, shuffling a little awkwardly from foot to foot.

  “You are as humble as you appeared!” he cries then, slapping his thigh with his fine hand as though he had just won a bet. “I thought to meet you just to find that out. Most ladies of the court, you know…well, humility doesn’t run high in noble blood.”

  “True enough,” I admit with a little laugh before realizing I should be defending my set—a group, it is clear, to which he does not belong.

  “Do you write songs as well?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes!” I cry with enthusiasm, forgetting I vowed to keep it to myself. “But I couldn’t play them for anyone. They’re so silly and childish—”

  “Oh, then I wouldn’t want to hear them,” he says, cocking his brow.

  I screw up my face in disappointment, my heart sinking at once.

  “Did you expect me to beg your favor, that my ears might be treated to something you, the composer, find unsuitable?” he asks with a warm chuckle. “Always be proud of your work, Mistress Howard. Everything in this life is an illusion; everything can be taken away. Except our talent, our intrinsic gifts from God.” He shrugs. “Given, there are times we compose things that are less than worthy. What do we do with those? Scrap them. And start over. That’s the best part. You can always start over.”

  I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.

  I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”

  “I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”

  It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.

  “My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a…fascinating place.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “It is that.”

  “Well,” he says, doffing his feathered cap, “the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions—only the best ones, of course.”

  “I shall make certain of it!” I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.

  I leave Anne’s apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king’s great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle mockery. I whisper his name to myself over and over. Cedric. Cedric. Cedric Dane…Never have I felt this way. I know what occurs between a man and a maid, and that I am expected to make a marriage soon. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that there was talk about my betrothal to Lord Bulbeck, son of the Earl of Oxford, but whether that will ever come to fruition I have no idea. Marriage—my marriage at least—is the farthest thing from my mind. But romance…This court, not to mention my own father, are all shining examples that you do not need to have marriage to have romance. My heart leaps at the naughty thought, sinking just as quickly as I realize where, almost against my will, I am now headed.

  My father’s liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.

  He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.

  “It’s been a lovely night, Father,” I tell him. “I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good.”

  “Who are you to tell me what is good for me?” he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. “How goes it with Anne?”

  “She is well,” I say, though I know this isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.

  “I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very…affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”

  “Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.

  “I…read to the king and Anne,” I say against the nausea in my throat. “A poem of mine…They liked it.” Why this sudden weakness? I bring a hand to my forehead. I want to tear off my hood, but do not have the strength. A vision of Cedric swirls before me. I can’t wait to get back to the maidens’ chamber to tell Madge about him; then rethink it, as most likely she would gossip about it to Anne, who would mock me in turn.

  Thoughts of my cousins and the musician are chased from my mind as I struggle to keep my balance. I want to cry out but cannot. I try to focus on my father, who is coming toward me. His mouth is moving, but I cannot hear…

  Then there is nothing.

  The King’s Great Matter

  I awaken, forcing heavy lids open to find that I am not in the maidens’ chamber. I am in a great four-poster bed with a sof
t feather mattress that smells of lavender. There is naught but a single candle to illuminate the room. My body aches. I cannot will myself to move.

  Someone in nightclothes and bare feet is kneeling by a prie-dieu, shoulders shaking.

  I drift back into dreamless sleep. At intervals my eyes flutter open to find the figure still there, like a wraith, back turned to me, head bent in prayer. I do not know how long it is like this. Sometimes I think I hear muffled voices. Other times I feel a cool cloth swabbing my forehead.

  Strength ebbs back into me, reluctant and sluggish in my veins. I open my eyes to see the figure by the prie-dieu rising. He turns. Norfolk. I do not know if my shock registers on my face; though my father is one of the most professed Catholics at court, I did not know he really prayed much except at Mass.

  “So,” he says, striding toward the bed and sitting beside me. “You’ve decided to join us.”

  I nod. I wish he didn’t know I am awake. I should like to watch him pray for me more, now that I realize it is him.

  “Good,” he says in clipped tones. “There have been many goings-on since you’ve been on your little holiday. I have plans for you.”

  My face falls.

  He reaches out as though to touch my face, then seems to think better of it and withdraws his hand. Perhaps he is afraid of contracting whatever it is I have.

  It is not the plague, something that would have sent king and court into such panic that they would have retreated immediately to one of the country palaces. It is a fever; some indistinguishable imbalance of the humors that the physicians assured would resolve itself with rest.

  “This is quite an active life for a child as young as she,” one physician ventures. “Likely it was spurred by exhaustion.”

  My father says nothing and the man is dismissed. We are alone. I am sitting up now, taking in broth and bread with trembling hands.

  “We are returning to Kenninghall,” he says. “You will rest there while I take care of some business.”

  My disappointment is writ on my face, for he adds, “Look sharp, girl. We will return directly.”

  I do not want to tell him of the heaviness in both stomach and heart at the thought of him, my mother, and Bess Holland under the same roof again. Perhaps if I play sick enough they will be too preoccupied with me to cause much grief.

  I ride in a litter to Kenninghall this time, as my health is still too fragile to sit a horse. As we depart London I draw the curtains around me. To leave the bustling court for the dark, mournful halls of home is disheartening. I wonder why Father is taking me at all. I could have been left behind in his spacious apartments to recover under the watchful care of his staff. He must have his reasons; after all, he did say he had plans for me.

  At the sight of my childhood home I am stirred by a surge of strength and leap out of the litter, running into the great hall. All homesickness for court has dissipated and I can think of nothing but Bess. I want to run into her arms and tell her all I have seen and done these past two years.

  I know I must refrain from such displays, however. I must not offend my lady mother.

  She stands in the hall, small and square shouldered, to greet Norfolk. Her dress is a somber black velvet with a matching gable hood. A few stray curls have escaped the hood to frame her face. Again I can’t help but think of how becoming she would be if she were happy.

  “Back so soon, my lord?” she asks in her low, ironic tone.

  Norfolk sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “My lady,” he says. “Trust I would have postponed the ordeal indefinitely had I my druthers. However, given your last letter, I was compelled to rush to your side.” His voice is riddled with sarcasm.

  Mother scowls. “To what purpose?”

  “Let us call it persuasion.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a suggestion of a smile, a smile without love or joy or kindness. I shudder.

  She closes her eyes, looking inward to draw from some deep strength of will, as though readying herself for a great battle. She expels a heavy sigh. “Let us sup first.”

  No one argues. Far better to go to war on a full belly.

  We are ravenous and Mother laid out a good table. From silver plates we eat an assortment of mutton, capons, venison, hare, all in rich, delicious sauces. There are sugared fruits for dessert, cheese and bread, and delicious mulled wine.

  “You’re looking thin, Mary,” Mother tells me.

  We have not laid eyes upon each other for a year. I suppose I was hoping for some kind of change during that time, that perhaps her longing for me would inspire her to embrace me. It must be much easier asking a girl of my age to change, rather than a middle-aged woman. I decide to accept the observation as a show of her concern.

  “I’ve been ill, my lady,” I inform her.

  She sips her wine. “No contagion, I hope.”

  I shake my head. “No, my lady. Just a fever. I was overtired.” I offer a bright smile. “I’m much better now and eating such a lovely supper restores me mightily.”

  My father is growing impatient with the nonsensical chatter. I can tell by the way he grinds his teeth on the left side. He stares at his plate, disinterested.

  “You are attending Anne’s elevation to the peerage,” he says in a quiet voice.

  My eyes grow wide. Anne is being elevated to the peerage? Anne, a subject humbly born, with no royal blood surging through her delicate blue veins?

  “If you think that I am going to lower myself to serve that whore, you are sorely mistaken.” My mother’s voice is also quiet but bears a bitter edge. She wipes her mouth. “I will not go anywhere near the slut. Unlike some, I stand firm in my loyalties. I do not compromise my principles for sake of pride.”

  Norfolk draws in a breath. “You are going. You will carry her train like a good aunt. She is to be Marquess of Pembroke. Marquess, Elizabeth! Do you realize what that means? Ladies are made marchionesses at best. A marquess is a man’s title. There is only one reason she is being ennobled: to elevate her to royalty so that she may be made presentable to Europe as the king’s chosen bride.”

  “The king already chose a bride,” Mother reminds him. “He has a bride and an heir.”

  “I should not have to condescend to explain to you that it would mean civil war putting Mary on the throne. She is a woman. No woman is fit to rule England alone, and the Tudors’ hold on the throne is too weak for her to keep it by herself.” Norfolk shakes his head, exasperated.

  I am trying not to look. I bow my head but observe through my lashes, hoping no one sees me, like at court.

  “Codswollop,” says Mother. “He has Fitzroy if he wants an heir. He even has Henry Carey if he wanted to get a little desperate. Nothing is preventing him from naming either of them. And for merit he could acknowledge Catherine Carey and God knows whatever other bastards are out there.”

  She has him.

  “Even now an act is being considered to name Fitzroy heir, should Henry not bear any more in the future,” Norfolk tells her.

  “Good. Then there’s no need of Anne,” says Mother as though it is all decided. She breaks off a piece of bread and begins to nibble on it.

  “There is need of her as long as he says there is,” Norfolk says, his voice firm. I stiffen at the tone. “You still do not seem to grasp how this affects us, how this will elevate us.”

  “I am a duchess!” Mother cries. “I don’t aspire for more!” Her eyes shine bright blue with loathing as she regards Norfolk. “When I became Catherine’s lady-in-waiting all those years ago, I pledged her my loyalty. She has it still.”

  “And a lot of good it’s done you,” Norfolk interposes. “Your ‘loyalty’ earned you banishment and nothing more. You are not remembered with favor by anyone and you certainly are not missed. Yet you will not take the opportunity to redeem yourself with the new regime.”

  “Pah! ‘New regime’! Really, I haven’t been so amused in weeks.” At once her countenance turns stony. “I tell you, Thomas Howard, I will not go. See how
the court finds you when they see you dragging me, screaming obscenities and biting your wrists, at Anne’s ceremony. See how dignified you’ll look then.” She sits straight in her chair, her gaze unwavering. “I will not go.”

  Norfolk turns to me. “Leave this room,” he orders.

  I do not hesitate. I run from the parlor, tears filling my eyes. I admit I am as much disappointed in missing my delicious supper as I am in my parents’ relations. This time I do not stay to eavesdrop. I run, the sound of clattering plates and trays following me all the way to the nursery. I am hoping that what is occurring in my imagination is worse than what transpires between them now.

  Bess is awaiting me there. She is as beautiful as when I left her, perhaps a little fuller of figure, but it compliments her. Her long flaxen curls fall about her shoulders uncovered, as if she were a young maiden.

  “I set myself to work as soon as I heard you were coming,” she says as I run in. Her smile is broad as she opens her arms.

  I fall into them, unable to control my sobs. I cry for my parents, for myself, for Queen Catherine, for things I do not understand.

  “No tears, lamb,” she coos. “Let’s celebrate your homecoming!”

  “But my mother and father…” I whimper against her skirts. “They—”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “You mustn’t worry your pretty head about them. They take care of themselves.”

  “But why must they always be at odds?” I cry, pulling away.

  Bess averts her head and I regret the question, knowing I have inadvertently put her to shame. I embrace her once more.

  “Are you still hungry, my lady?” she asks then. My stomach growls loudly in response and I giggle. “We’ll send for some food from the kitchens and then you will tell me everything,” she says in a cheery voice as she takes my hands, drawing me to the settee. “Tell me of Lady Anne and the king and how all the ladies dress. Tell me of the food and the jousts and masques.”