She reaches out and strokes my cheek. “How dreadful for you.” Once again she favors me with her bright smile. “I shall help find you a husband if you wish it.”
I shake my head. “My fondest wish is to remain here and serve you, Your Majesty,” I tell her. And keep you safe, I add to myself.
“Then serve me you shall,” she says. “And be richly rewarded! Can you believe I’m saying that? ‘Richly rewarded’? I have the power to reward people! Isn’t that something?”
I nod. “Yes, Your sweet Majesty. It is really something.”
At once the king enters, the stench of his ulcerated leg causing my stomach to turn. I dip into a low curtsy.
“Lady Richmond!” he exclaims as though there’s never been a quarrel between us. “How now?”
“I am quite well, Sire,” I answer, keeping my head bowed so he cannot see me swallowing the urge to gag. I cannot imagine how Kitty stands night after night of his intimate company.
He chucks my chin. “Well, good night to you, then.”
“Good night, Sire.”
I hurry from the room before I retch in revulsion.
To my delight I meet Hans Holbein, the court painter, again, in Norfolk’s apartments, when he is commissioned to render his likeness.
He bows, offering a bright smile. “My lady Richmond,” he says. “You know I have an unfinished sketch of you somewhere. We shall dig it out and finish it one of these days.”
“I would be most honored,” I tell him, flattered the artist should remember drawing someone as insignificant as I am, when some of the greatest nobles and heads of state in the world have sat before him.
Norfolk is thrilled to be sitting for him, or standing as the case is. He dresses in his finest ermines, piling clothes onto his slim frame so that he appears sturdy and broad of chest. He carries his staffs of office as lord treasurer and earl marshal, wearing his heavy garter chain about his shoulders and consummate black cap that hides his nice hair—but I suppose that’s his affair. As it is, I am stifling laughter beholding him standing before the artist like an overstuffed doll about to topple over for the weight of his clothing. The only indication of his true bone structure is his hands, his handsome hands that clutch his staffs with such pride.
He stands for what seems like hours, not moving a muscle, and I can’t help but marvel at his discipline. When Holbein finishes with the rudimentary sketching, Norfolk leaps down from his platform to admire the drawing.
“What do you think, Mary?” he asks me, his voice as excited as a child’s. “Do you like it? Do I look good?”
It is the strangest question I’ve ever heard coming from someone who could never include vanity in his long list of negative personality traits.
“It’s a very handsome rendering, Father,” I tell him, rubbing his arm. “You make quite a royal personage.”
He wraps his arm about my waist, drawing me as close as his ermine cloak allows. “I think so, too,” he says. Then to Holbein, “Well done, Master Holbein. I like what I see so far.”
Master Holbein bows again and my father toddles out of the room; so heavy are his robes of state that he doesn’t realize the comical effect his walk has on us. Upon his exit we burst into controlled giggles, hoping he does not overhear us.
“Well, my lady, what do you really think?” Holbein asks as we stand before the portrait in its most nascent state.
“It is his likeness,” I tell him. I can’t say it is handsome; if Norfolk was ever a good-looking man it was too long ago for me to recall. “His clothes are beautiful. And one cannot tell how big they are on him in the drawing.”
“Yes, I modified it a little,” Holbein says, swallowing a chuckle. He squints an eye as he examines his work. “There’s something about him…something I tried to capture…I do not know. Would I offend you if I asked your opinion about something, Lady Richmond?”
“Of course not,” I tell him, interested to know what he is thinking.
He pauses. “Have I captured…well, have I captured your father’s expression? I mean, when you look at him do you see that—that sort of…how do I put this without sounding offensive—”
“Please, you must not worry about offending me,” I assure him. “What is it, Master Holbein?”
“His lifelessness,” he says. “Have I captured his lifelessness?”
I behold the portrait once more, staring past the beautiful robes of state, the ermine, and the gold. I look into my father’s face. A memory stirs. He is holding me. I am very little, looking into his eyes, those hard black eyes…I shudder.
“Yes, Master Holbein,” I tell him with certainty. “You have captured his lifelessness.”
Never have I heard a more apt description of my father.
The court is merry again. Kitty sees to it. Though it is not a philosophical court, it is filled with young people whose only desire is to have fun. I am caught up in it, just as I was when my Anne was in power.
The only intellectual stimulus comes from Cat Parr, and together we have many a long discussion on church reform and the Bible. I enjoy her calm presence immensely. She is neither the prettiest nor liveliest of women, but when I am around her I feel a measure of comfort foreign to me. She is a friend I can confide all to; unlike most of the set she is not a gossip, waiting for the next morsel of wicked news to be thrown to her like a ravenous dog. She is very unhurried, thinks everything through, and, despite the love she confesses for Tom Seymour, is very devoted to her aged and ailing husband, John Neville.
There are many cliques at court. It is no surprise that because I am all of twenty-one I am excluded from the younger girls who surround Kitty like drones to their queen. I am content to keep company with Cat—and Margaret Douglas, who fancies Kitty’s brother Charles.
There is not a soul at court besides perhaps Kitty herself whom I pity more than Margaret. It seems she is fated to fall in love with all the wrong men. For her daring to give her heart to Charles Howard she is sent to Syon Abbey to repent. Charles removes to France, where he dies unmarried and brokenhearted.
The scandal delights the court, who prey on such things, and I am short a dear friend, a friend I have considered kin since my marriage to Harry Fitzroy. Kitty is glad to have Margaret gone and I can see why. Margaret is a blood royal, and made no secret of her annoyance with my frivolous cousin.
With Margaret’s disgrace to keep the court’s tongues wagging, no one sees Kitty’s eyes sparkle as they behold a young gentleman of the king’s privy chamber, her cousin Thomas Culpepper.
Though Kitty has not become pregnant yet, she has managed to survive almost one year of marriage to the king.
“He loves me so much, the silly old man, that I don’t think he even cares just yet if I even have a child,” says Kitty in the spring of 1541, laughing. We are sitting in the gardens and she is picking the petals off of a pink rose, rubbing them between her fingers before letting them drop to the ground. “He is a dear; his greatest pleasure in life is to see me happy.” She leans her head on her knees. “And I don’t think he loves me like a wife—not to say that he doesn’t lust after my body and all that—but when I think of it really…really I think he loves me like I’m his own little girl. Is that strange?”
There is nothing stranger, but I do not say so. “I think older men often are given to such fancies,” I say instead. “Just be wary, Your Majesty.”
She nods. “Oh, yes. I am quite careful in all I do. Your cousin Lady Jane is most good to me and always watches out for me. As long as His Majesty is happy, as long as he thinks me his faithful little rose—well, there is nothing to worry about, is there?”
I do not want to entertain Kitty’s inferences. Why would she be worried, why must she be careful, if she is the king’s faithful little rose? And what does vicious Jane Boleyn have to do with anything?
I shudder. “Your Majesty, may I beg your leave? I am not feeling so well.”
“Of course, Mary. Do feel better. There is to be dancing l
ater.”
I nod as I curtsy, then leave her to a group of adoring courtiers as I seek out the one man who can answer my questions.
“Mary, you can’t be this ignorant,” Norfolk says when I confront him in his chambers. He is rubbing his forehead and squinting at some documents. “Tell me you’re not this ignorant. You know as well as I do that His Majesty is too sick to beget any more children. So it is up to Kitty to find another to”—he arches a brow and smiles—“fill that place.”
I draw in a breath. “Culpepper.”
Norfolk shrugs. “Really, I don’t care if it’s the stable boy so long as he gets a babe on her.”
“And Lady Jane?” My voice is shaking. “Lady Jane cares nothing for her, you must know that. She is in this for her own gain. She’s always been in it for her gain. That’s why she betrayed Anne and George, so she could have everything—the lands, the titles…” Tears stream unchecked down my cheeks. “My lord, please. Don’t encourage this.”
“I don’t encourage anything,” he says. “I don’t discourage anything. Lady Jane, on the other hand, is most eager to act as go-between—run a note here, a note there, ‘Stand outside the door a while, Lady Jane, while we…’” He chuckles. “She probably has a stiff neck from peeping in the keyhole.”
“And the queen? Does no one care about what could happen to her?” I whisper in terror. “Does no one care about her?”
Norfolk stares at me. “In fact, I was going to summon you, Mary. I need your help in this. Our little kitten could use more alibis.”
I shake my head. “No. I will have nothing to do with it. I would rather die.”
“We are all going to die, Mary,” he says, and I swear for a moment his face has contorted into that of the Devil himself. I draw back in horror. Am I losing my mind? “It is just a matter of when and how.” He returns to the original topic. “You would be doing a royal service, unbeknownst to His Majesty, of course.”
I shake my head. “No. No. I will have no part in this. This, whatever comes of it, is yours and Lady Jane’s responsibility.”
Norfolk rises and lunges at me, gripping my shoulder. Like all his movements, it is so sudden it captures my breath. He backs me up against the wall. “Do you think I am asking for your help? Do you think when I talk to you I’m just making suggestions? When I tell you something I expect my will to be done. You will help me, Mary, and your cousins.”
“Like we helped Anne?” I cry. “Look where our help got her!”
Norfolk’s hand has seized my throat. I begin to sputter and cough. This is the end…he has chosen my death. He will explain it away. Tomorrow I will be lying in a pile of straw in a wagon somewhere while he attends to matters of state. He will keep scheming and plotting and I will be dead…
His hand is tightening about my neck. Little specks of light dance before my eyes. I begin to ponder necks. Mine is small like Anne’s, so delicate, in fact, that it is easy for Norfolk to grasp the whole of it in one slender hand. My face is hot. I cannot breathe…
Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I cannot choke; I cannot gasp.
At once Norfolk’s face goes slack. His eyes are wide. He slides his hand from my neck to my heaving chest.
“Mary…?” he asks in a low voice.
I begin to sputter and cough. “Wh…why?” I gasp, taking in a deep breath. “Why?”
Norfolk has backed away from me. He is staring down at his hand. It is trembling. He returns stricken black eyes to me. “Mary…”
I am rubbing my neck. “Oh, my lord. For God’s sake, why didn’t you just end it?”
Tears light his eyes. “Mary!” He reaches for me.
I turn on my heel and run.
I am blind as I weave my way through the halls. I want to make it back to the maidens’ chamber and find some semblance of peace. As I am running I meet with the obstacle of a man’s chest. Arms encircle me. I am gasping and sobbing with abandon.
“Lady Richmond?” a voice entreats in soothing tones. “Lady Richmond, what is it, dear heart?”
I pull away, meeting the violet eyes of Cedric Dane. “M—Master Dane—”
“Lady Richmond, please, collect yourself,” he urges, his voice soft. “What is it? Tell me.”
I shake my head, still rubbing my throat as I look here and there for my father’s guards.
“Come,” he says. “To the practice room. We will have privacy there.”
I allow him to take my elbow and guide me to the chamber, where he bolts the door. We sit on the bench behind the virginals. He takes my hands and I do not fight him.
“My lady, what is causing such distress?” he asks, as though to a very small child. The sweetness in his tone causes me to cry harder. “Please. You can trust me. Let me help you.”
“No one can help me,” I sob. “No one could help her. And now…now…” I envision Kitty’s sweet face alight with her girlish infatuation. Despair grips my heart in a chokehold more successful than Norfolk’s. “God save the queen,” I say at last.
“Lady Richmond.” He is stroking the backs of my hands with a strange mixture of urgency and gentleness. “Please…” His voice is a husky whisper. “Let me in.”
I shake my head with vehemence. “No! No! You do not want to be let into this. Once you are in you cannot get out, you cannot escape. You are trapped, forever trapped—”
He reaches out and cups my cheek. I lean into his hand, allowing my tears to mingle with his soft warm skin.
“Shall I call a doctor?” he asks. “Are you quite well?”
“I do not know,” I tell him in honesty, for I do not know. Was I ever sane? Was I ever allowed a glimpse of sanity? I meet his eyes, my lips twisting into a grim smile. “There is no cure for what ails me, Master Dane.” I begin to rub my aching throat, inadvertently drawing his eyes to it.
“Your neck!” he cries, reaching out to trace it. I flinch. “Lady Richmond, there are marks—bruises. Were you accosted? Who did this to you? Who hurt you?”
I shake my head. How can I explain this one away? I shake my head again. “It’s no good, Master Dane. It’s no good.” I laugh, a hysterical sound that rings of Anne’s edgy giggle.
It seems Cedric knows continuing in this vein will prove fruitless, so diverts me by placing his slim-fingered hands on the keyboard and playing a soothing melody. He swallows several times. “I wrote this for my Helen,” he tells me as I collect myself.
“She must love it,” I told him, sniffling.
He stops playing. “She did.” His voice catches in his throat. “Lady Richmond…my lady wife…she has passed on.”
Fresh tears sting my eyes. “No! Oh, Master Dane, no!”
“She—and my daughter died in childbirth last winter,” he tells me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “So you see none of us are exempt from grief.”
“I am sorry, Master Dane. With all my heart I am sorry,” I tell him, reaching out to wipe away a tear that has strayed onto his cheek. I draw in a breath. “Sorrow runs high at this court of Henry VIII, it seems,” I add, my voice tinged with bitterness. “And your boys? Who is caring for them?” I ask then.
“My sister in Cornwall,” he says. “I want them as far away from here as possible. It is no life for children.”
“I’m not certain if it is a life for anyone,” I admit.
“From the lips of a professional courtier,” he says. He wraps his arm about my shoulders and I do not pull away. It is highly improper being alone with this man, both of us widowed; not to mention that we are touching. But I no longer care for what’s proper, for what’s right. I have just been asked to help lead an innocent girl into betraying the most dangerous man in the land. Why should I bother with proprieties now?
I turn to him. He reaches out, tracing the bruises forming on my neck. “Lady Richmond, tell me who did this to you. I will kill him…” His voice is filled with venom. “I will kill him.”
“And you would die,” I tell him. Tears clutch my throat, a sensation so familia
r that I marvel at the rare times it is absent. “I cannot lose you, too, Master Dane.” I allow the tears to pour onto my cheeks. There is no point in hiding them, no point in playing games. With Cedric I do not have to be a courtier. I can just be a woman. “Please, whatever your suspicions, promise me you will not act on them.”
He pauses, considering. “And what will happen to you? Will I learn of your death one of these days? Or your disappearance from court? Will your name just be phased out as so many others are? Where’s Mary Richmond? Oh, I don’t know. Last I heard she retired to Kenninghall when really you’re…you’re…” Tears stream down his face. “Is there no one to champion you, my lady?” His voice bursts forth in a tortured whisper.
“I have only had one champion my whole life,” I tell him. “One champion and one enemy. And they are the same man.”
His face goes slack in horror. He cups my face in his hands. “My lady—you must leave this court. I have watched you over the years. I have seen your joy sapped from you, your innocence stolen. I have seen you grow serious and old before your time. Get away from here. Get away from him.”
I shake my head. “Wherever I go he will find me. Oh, now and then he forgets about me. For a time.” I shrug, helpless, then meet his eyes, knowing mine are hard green mirrors that reflect nothing but his face. I know it as surely as if I were looking into them myself. “But he always remembers. Please.” I reach up, resting my hands over his that still cup my face. “Leave this alone, Master Dane.”
His face is soft. He draws in a breath. “Must we continue with these ridiculous formalities?” he asks, dropping his hands. “My name is Cedric.”
I pause a long moment. If I allow this…if I allow this…I look him square in the face. “And I am Mary.”
“Mary,” he whispers, as though it is forbidden, the name of a goddess. I shiver.
Cedric takes me in his arms. For the second time in my life I am kissed. But there is no guilt now. There is no one alive to betray, no one around to care. Our spouses are with the Lord, leaving us to struggle alone and eke out what little happiness we can find. My father is off betraying his king and I am here.
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 21