A Royal Birth
Because I am not married I am not allowed in the birthing chamber to witness the miracle. I am just as glad not to be there. I cannot imagine staring at someone while she does something that I believe should be between her, the midwife, and God. But I know because of my high birth and the marriage I am making I, too, will be expected to give birth in front of a roomful of people.
I see where it makes sense for a queen, I suppose. Giving birth before multiple witnesses proves that the child is indeed royal—and not a monster, or dead, or changed with an imposter.
Anne went into labor in September, a month earlier than expected. The court buzzes with gossip. Everyone knows the king and queen consummated their love before their January wedding, so the turn of events is no real surprise. But everyone makes a show of concern for the “premature” birth nonetheless.
The king already has announcements drawn up. He wanted to name the prince Edward or Henry, but as Henry Fitzroy was already openly acknowledged, it seemed odd to name him the latter. Yet my father has a half brother named Thomas, so I suppose it isn’t an altogether unheard-of thing to have two siblings of the same name. And in the grand scheme of things, I do not think my betrothed matters that much to King Henry. We will not be around much to be confusing anyone, should they choose the name Henry for their prince.
Norfolk is in the birthing chamber along with nearly a hundred other lords and ladies. It is quite a spectacle, the birth of a prince. I am frightened as I pace the halls. I want something to do. I want to help my lady, but know there is nothing I can do to alleviate her pain and bring about the prince any faster.
“It will be fine,” a calm male voice assures me. I turn to find Cedric Dane beside me. “Her Majesty is healthy. She will bring us a nice healthy prince.”
I offer a wan smile. “Do you have a big family, Master Dane?”
He nods. “I am one of fifteen—the only boy.”
“So many dowries!” I cry.
“They have made good matches,” says Cedric. “They are a fine batch of beauties, are my sisters,” he adds with a broad smile. “Celtic to the last.”
“Do they sing, too?”
“Each and every one sings like an angel and plays a variety of instruments with great skill,” he tells me, his pride in his family touching. “Yet none so fine as you.”
I flush in a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. “I am to be married,” I am compelled to say. “To Lord Richmond.”
Cedric’s face is blank. “My congratulations to you, my lady,” he says with a bow. “Do you expect to be happy?”
“Oh, yes,” I say with a genuine smile. “I feel it in my heart. Lord Richmond is very kind. He would never hurt me.”
“Well.” Cedric clears his throat. “What more can you ask for?” He turns and, without excusing himself, storms down the hallway without another word.
I am puzzled by the exchange, but do not have time to ponder it as the doors to Anne’s chamber burst open.
“What is it?” I ask, but no one answers. People pass me by as I push forward, trying to seek out Norfolk.
When I find him he takes my arm and guides me away from the throng. “A girl,” he says, disappointment written on his face. “All this trouble for another girl.”
“She didn’t mean to be born a girl,” I tell him, knowing most of womankind would have chosen differently, for how little we are valued in this life.
Norfolk pushes me away, clicking his tongue in disgust. “What kind of foolishness do you speak? Do you think I’m an idiot? Please try to hold your peace around the king; I pray he doesn’t see into that head of yours long enough to realize the fool he is taking into his family.”
Tears fill my throat as I watch him head down the hall, his steps brisk and purposeful. I imagine he is going to cancel the elaborate jousts and banquets that were to be held in the prince’s honor.
It is like that, you see. For boys there are fireworks and feasting. But girls—pitiable, unwanted girls—are welcomed with a candlelit toast, if only so the parents can drink away the pain of their new liability.
She is beautiful, our little Princess Elizabeth. There is no doubt that she is a Tudor, with her red curls and fair complexion. She is sturdy, vibrant with health, her cry lusty and demanding.
“Just like her father,” Anne tells me when I am allowed to see my new cousin for the first time. “I’m not discouraged at all, Mary,” she adds. “I have born him a daughter, true, but I have also proven my fertility. Sons are certain to follow.”
I do not dare disagree with her. Instead I take the little princess in my arms and hold her, rocking back and forth. My heart stirs in longing.
“I hope I have a baby soon,” I tell her, squeezing the princess close to my breast. She is so warm and soft; I decide I enjoy holding her even more than my dog.
Anne leans back in her bed and smiles. “You are so young. You’ve years yet. Take pleasure in Fitzroy first. You’re fortunate not to have any pressures upon you but to enjoy life to the fullest.”
“Yes, but to have a family, people to always love you—”
“Oh, little Mary.” Anne leans forward to rest a hand on my knee. “You of all people should know that having a family doesn’t secure you love.” Her voice is thick with sadness as she reaches up to stroke my cheek.
I can say nothing to this. I look down through tears at the sleeping princess, vowing that if Anne can make the people love her, then I can make my future children love me someday, too.
“I tell you, I will have Lady Mary’s christening gown!” Anne cries in a fury, referring to the baptismal clothes worn by King Henry’s oldest child. “What’s good enough for her is certainly good enough for the princess. Why shouldn’t they belong to me?”
“With all due respect,” my father begins in his quiet voice, “why should they belong to Your Grace? Don’t you want your own christening gown designed for the princess?”
“You grow daft, old man,” Anne seethes at my father. Already she is pacing about her apartments in fine figure, just as trim and willowy as before her pregnancy. “It isn’t because they were Lady Mary’s. It is to show that I am queen, that my word is supreme. That my orders are to be followed.”
“You push too hard, Your Majesty,” Norfolk tells her, impervious to the insult she threw him. “This should be a time to count your blessings and let things be.”
“How dare you attempt to guide me?” she demands.
Norfolk laughs. “How dare I? You forget it was I who brought you this far.”
“It was I!” she cries, balling her hands into fists. “I who caught the king’s eye, I who kept him entranced, I who hold his ear above all others—”
“And all this you achieved under my instruction,” Norfolk reminds her.
“Pah on your instruction!” Anne rushes toward him as though she might claw at him, then falls back, dignified and composed. “You should be bowing to me. It is through me that all your blessings flow.”
“And I count each and every one,” Norfolk tells her with a sardonic smile as he sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “Your Majesty, cease this fighting. Let poor Princess Catherine keep her gown; she has little other comfort.”
“To think you of all people should concern yourself with a woman’s comforts,” Anne spits as her eyes fall upon me.
I am trying to disappear into the corner with Mary Carey. Our heads are bowed over our embroidery as she and Norfolk engage in their discourse, but through my lashes I see every expression, every nuance. I wish I were not here.
To my relief Norfolk is dismissed. He offers his queen another graceful bow and quits the room, leaving Anne to wander back and forth, muttering about the unfairness of her situation.
“Everyone’s always against me,” she moans as she throws herself onto her favorite chaise.
Mary Carey and I exchange a glance. Mary’s smile is slightly mocking.
The princess dowager does not relent; King Henry doe
s not force the issue. Anne is wise enough to know that, because she did not produce the son he wanted, it is best to let it go, as Norfolk advised.
The baptism is a grand affair and I carry the chrism. I am so honored that I cannot contain the tears from sliding down my cheeks. To think I am cousin to a princess!
My step-grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, is there and carries my new cousin to the archbishop, who cannot contain a smile of his own as he regards the robust little girl being handed to him.
He holds her aloft, then proceeds with the ceremony, baptizing the little princess before the court of merry lords and ladies, who for the occasion manage to stifle their scathing gossip about the disappointment over her sex.
The princess is taken to Greenwich. I find myself dreaming of her, wishing I could have been one of the ladies chosen to keep company with her. I long to hold her and rock her and take part in every aspect of the sweet baby’s new life.
Anne professes a certain longing for her child as well, and visits when she can; but affairs of state keep her busy and, though she glows with maternal pride when near her daughter, she is the queen, after all, and queens are not allowed the same luxuries as average folk.
My hopes that I will soon be a mother are intensified as plans for my own wedding commence.
Harry has returned to court.
The Duchess of Richmond
I see my brother first. He is in the gardens amidst a group of ladies and other courtiers. When he sees me he draws away from them and approaches me with a broad smile. I embrace him but am wary.
“You do not know what your report to Father cost me last year,” I tell him. I know he never would have said anything had he known what Norfolk’s reaction was to be.
Surrey draws back, smiling. “I’m sure whatever was meted out was deserved, my sister. Our father is the greatest man alive; everything he does is to a purpose, to further the good name of the Howards.”
I lose expression. Surrey’s admiration for Norfolk shines radiant on his face, as though he is speaking in reference to a god, a god that to his good fortune chose to be his sire.
I swallow my despair. So I am to be alone. Surrey will never be my ally.
Before I can retort, Harry Fitzroy appears, offering a timid smile of his own. “My lady,” he says with a slight bow.
We are shy now, both unsure as to how to relate, now that we are betrothed.
I curtsy. “My lord.”
He exchanges a glance with my brother. Surrey shrugs and joins the other courtiers, leaving Harry and me alone but chaperoned to a degree that would satisfy Norfolk.
“Well, I’m not in the succession,” Harry says—an odd way to open a conversation, but I follow it with a smile. “I don’t mind really. I was considered; they even thought of marrying me off to a Spanish or French princess.”
I do not like the thought of this. I bow my head. Perhaps this is his way of telling me that he does not find our suit adequate. That I am not enough for him.
“Imagine when I found out I was marrying you,” he goes on. My heart is sinking. It throbs painfully in my chest. I bite back tears. He sighs. “I was so relieved.” I raise my head, eyes wide in surprise. “A princess would be so far from who I am. Not just because I am a duke, but because…” He cocks his head, searching for the adequate description. “I imagine a princess to be full of arrogance, constantly lording her station over me. When it came to my ears that I would marry you, my little Mary Howard, it was as though God was telling me all is as it should be. We’ve known each other a long while—we even are tied by blood to a degree.” He reaches out and presses my hand. “And you’re so lovely and sweet. You’ll be such a fine wife and friend to me, and a loving mother to our children.” His face is flushing endearingly. He bows his head, raising his bright blue eyes. “Are—are you happy with the match? Marrying a king’s bastard isn’t beneath you?”
“You mustn’t say such things,” I tell him, pressing his thin hand in turn. “I am honored to become your wife. It is everything I could have hoped for.”
Harry takes both my hands in his. “How I wish I could embrace you before everyone,” he says. “But soon enough.” He dares to wink. “I best get back to the lads. We’ll see each other soon, Mistress Mary…Mary.”
He doffs his cap and bows. I curtsy again, my heart full.
He wants me. Somebody wants me, little Mary Howard! We are going to have a wonderful life; I know it!
I am shown beautiful fabrics for my gown but am not allowed to design it. Norfolk takes charge of that, going over each detail with care. We argue about the sleeves. I want them to reach the floor, in the style that Anne has made famous, but he wants them to fall just below my hips.
“You’re too small for those sleeves,” he tells me. “You’d look like you were drowning. It would be comical.”
I bite my lip, disappointed. I had so wanted some input on my gown. I do not make an issue of it, however. I am so happy that I do not want to cause anything to mar the experience. My comfort comes in the knowledge that soon Norfolk will not have any more say in anything I do. I have but to bide my time.
Norfolk has his way and the gown is not disappointing. His taste is impeccable. It is ivory lace with a cloth-of-gold kirtle and gold ribbon at the hems of the sleeves and train. The gown is covered in gold roses with a matching stomacher. My veil is pinned over my hair, which Norfolk himself has brushed to a golden sheen while I swallow tears, gritting my teeth against the pain of his ministrations, thinking how wonderful it will be to have my own servant attend me when I am wed. My veil is lace, reaching my feet, which are adorned with gold slippers.
November 26, my wedding day, has arrived. The ladies fuss over me. Margaret Douglas, the king’s delightfully naughty niece, informs me of all the things that occur on the wedding night, which instead of filling me with anticipation, sends shivers of dread through me.
“But that sounds awful!” I cry as we gather in the maidens’ chamber. My spirits are dampened. “Who would want to do such a thing?”
“If you want a baby, you have to do it,” says Margaret. She smiles. “Besides, it isn’t all bad after the first pain of it, they say. Some women love it as much as men do.”
“Truly?” I ask. I am intrigued by the thought but feel too naughty entertaining such notions, so divert myself by dressing for the ceremony.
As a last touch, under my veil I add the little circlet that Norfolk presented me years ago when I first came to court. Though it is silver, no one should notice it beneath the intricate lace of the veil.
“So beautiful,” Margaret Douglas coos as she arranges my veil over my shoulders. I look into her face, searching for sincerity. She is so beautiful herself, with her Tudor red hair and sparkling blue eyes, that for her to compliment me is most flattering.
“I’m scared,” I say to her, clutching her hand.
“Don’t be, Mary,” she reassures, squeezing my hand in turn. “Just think—soon we will be cousins!”
I smile. A tickle arises in my chest—that strange feeling one gets when about to laugh.
“How is our bride?” It is Anne. She sweeps into the chambers in all her glory and I know, looking at her, that no bride can compete with her beauty.
“She’s afraid, poor dear,” says Madge Shelton, rubbing my arm.
Anne’s face is soft. “You’re going to be all right, little Mary,” she tells me, taking me by the upper arms and gazing into my eyes. Hers are lit with tears. “You’re going to be happy.”
She draws me forth into an embrace and I hug her tight. “Thank you, dearest Majesty.”
She pulls away and touches my chin in a gentle gesture. “I must be off. His Majesty is waiting. The ceremony is about to begin.”
I am trembling now. My step-grandmother the dowager duchess has come. She is a flustered old lady, grossly overweight so that she hobbles with every step. She is quite absentminded and farts a lot, which sends the ladies into fits of giggles. I can only
imagine how my father, so strict regarding behavioral proprieties, handles being in her presence. Yet he does visit her now and then, so there must be some attachment.
“A fine bride you’ll make,” she is saying. “Pretty little girl that you are. You’re the image of your mother, you know. She was a fine lass when she was young, before she started pissing off His Grace.”
I am shocked at the language and stifle a giggle. Certainly her candor helps ease my nerves. I loop my arm through hers and purse shut my twitching lips. I do not voice my other thought: what did my mother ever really do to anger Norfolk so? No, I simply take amusement in my lady duchess’s bawdy talk.
We proceed to the chapel where I am met by Norfolk. Hot tears fill my eyes as I take his proffered arm. He is smiling; it even reflects in his eyes. Together we progress down the aisle. The chapel is filled with immediate friends and family. Anne and the king sit in the front, smiling and exchanging words that I imagine to be about Harry and me. Surely their happiness extends beyond our match. Marrying Harry to someone beneath his station ensures his removal from the succession, securing Anne’s children their place in the royal line.
All eyes are riveted toward me. I am at once flattered by and self-conscious of the attention. I lean on Norfolk’s arm, turning my eyes to look up at him as we reach the altar where waits my intended, my Harry.
He is splendid, dressed in gold and white to match my gown.
Norfolk raises my veil and kisses my cheek, then lowers it again, drawing back to be seated beside his stepmother. It is then that I notice someone is missing.
My mother. She did not approve of Anne’s hand in the marital arrangements, I am told later. This prevented her from joining in my happiness. Bess is in attendance, however, and chases my disappointment away with her reassuring smile.
I look to Harry and offer a nervous half smile, which is returned with an equal amount of anxiety.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 12