Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  I request to go with her. I can do nothing for Kitty now, and I do not want to remain at this cursed court.

  Norfolk grants the request and accompanies us to my childhood home. I say good-bye to no one; not Cat Parr, not the friends I have acquired during Kitty’s brief reign, not even my Cedric. I cannot bear to see anyone.

  Bess waits for us there, beautiful and well looked after. Living as first lady of Kenninghall agrees with her, it seems. I want to embrace her, but wait until Norfolk takes to his bed. I am relieved to be in her arms again after all these years. At once tears begin to slide down my cheeks. Bess rubs my back as she calls for supper to be sent.

  Margaret settles in her rooms.

  Still I sob.

  At supper we update Bess on the court and Queen Catherine. Her eyes mist over with pity.

  “And your father? How is he faring?”

  I shake my head. He is still in bed, thank God, and I do not want to think about him. “I do not know,” I tell her. I do not care, I want to add, but dare not. Despite everything, I cannot voice what is undoubtedly everyone’s disrespect for the man.

  “Well, have a rest here,” she says. “We are glad of the company, in any event.”

  “Rest,” I say, my voice wrought with weariness. “Yes. It seems I haven’t rested in…so very long.”

  Norfolk keeps to himself for the duration of his stay and I do not make any attempts at seeking him out. True respite is found when he returns to court. Margaret and I relish our friendship, and though she is in exile, I cannot imagine she would want to be anywhere else during these dark times. The news from court is not good. Culpepper has been arrested along with another young man from Kitty’s Lambeth days, a music master named Henry Manox, who tried to trifle with the affectionate Kitty when she was but ten years old. How anyone could fault her for anything in this instance is something I cannot comprehend, but they do. They fault her for everything.

  All of the men confess. Their judge—Norfolk, of course—announces the verdict. Guilty. They are sentenced to death accordingly. Because of Culpepper’s rank as gentleman of the king’s privy chamber, he is spared hanging and quartering and is beheaded at Tower Hill.

  Few are spared. Even my step-grandmother is brought from her sickbed to be questioned in the Tower.

  Jane Boleyn is arrested as well, for helping the queen betray her husband. As much as I try, I cannot summon any pity for her. She knew the risks. After everything she has lived through, she knew well the risks. It is no surprise that she confesses all of Kitty’s misdeeds. I cannot help but hope Lady Jane dies. As evil as it may make me, she is a vile woman, a madwoman, as mad as the king ever was, and hers will be no loss.

  I wait at Kenninghall, my stomach aching, my head throbbing, as I fret over Kitty’s fate.

  And then one February day the message comes.

  I have been invited to my cousin’s execution.

  After all the questioning, after all the misery and pain, Kitty is not given a trial of her own. There is more than enough evidence to convict her and an act of attainder is passed against her.

  My father is the one who tells her of her sentence. He convinces her to sign a statement admitting her sins and asking for forgiveness, then has guards drag her screaming and kicking onto the barge that traverses her to the Tower.

  He has the grace to seem moderately troubled by this when I see him the night before her death.

  “Fool to the end,” he says as he stacks some papers on his desk. “She just didn’t understand what was happening. No matter how many times I explained it, she just didn’t understand. She thought I was there to help her, for God’s sake. Fool.”

  “She is sixteen,” I tell him. “How can you expect her to understand anything?” I swallow tears. “How can you expect her to think you would turn away from her?”

  He shakes his head and turns toward the window. “You know what she said to me as they took her away? She said, ‘Why don’t you love me anymore, Uncle Thomas?’” He pauses. “‘Why don’t you love me anymore?’” he repeats in soft tones, his voice catching. He shakes his head again. “What could I say to that?” he asks. “Fool. Such a fool…” He draws in a breath. “Well. I’m off.”

  “Off? What do you mean, off?” I demand.

  “To Kenninghall,” he answers, quite recovered. “Put a little distance between this unfortunate event and my good name. I have written the king informing him that I have taken no part in my niece’s disappointing fall and beseeching his gentle heart to remember the loyalty of his friend, who has, through it all, had only his best interests at heart.”

  I am stunned. I wonder if he composed the letter before or after Kitty’s death sentence. I shake my head, swallowing my revulsion. “But you can’t just leave her. Not now.”

  “Do you honestly think she will derive any comfort from my presence?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Words stick in my throat, words I dare not utter. There is no point.

  I curtsy. “Safe journey, then, my lord,” I tell him, and the insincerity of my statement causes me to cringe.

  It is February 13. She has been practicing with the block, I am told. She was always the nervous type, afraid of faltering before a crowd. This is one event she wanted to perform with grace and composure.

  She is led by her ladies to the platform, appearing so tiny and childlike, all curves lost in the face of her anxiety. Her chest is as flat as the child she is. She is sobbing. When she parts her lips to speak, they are trembling.

  She beseeches the crowd to pray for her soul; she begs mercy for her family—the family that betrayed her, I think to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks as I clutch my brother Surrey’s hand. It seems he is always present for the executions. His face is somber, however. I can at least credit him for having the courage to be here, unlike Norfolk—Norfolk, who walked away without looking back and now “rests” at Kenninghall. Then there is the king, absent once again from another of his wives’ deaths. He is probably even now scouring the world for his next victim.

  Kitty’s ladies are holding her elbows. She can barely stand as she surveys the crowds with her wide blue eyes. She draws in a shuddering breath, finishing her speech with, “I die a queen but would rather have died the wife of Thomas Culpepper.” She looks around one last time, then looks up at the sky. It is raining. She blinks against the sprinkling, then kneels in the straw, placing her tiny head on the block. “I commend my soul to God,” she whispers.

  And then…

  I squeeze my eyes shut as I hear the stroke of the axe.

  She is gone. Another Howard girl gone.

  She is buried at the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula in an unmarked grave, near our other ill-fated cousin, Anne.

  The only justice that is served is that Jane Boleyn’s execution immediately follows. Her speech is rambling and she is clearly mad, but she does confess to betraying George.

  “God has permitted me to suffer this shameful doom as punishment for having contributed to my husband’s death,” she says, her eyes wild. “I accused him of loving in an incestuous manner his sister, Queen Anne Boleyn. For this I deserve to die.”

  I cannot help it. I cry for her. I hate her but I cry for her. No more do I want her to die. I do not want anyone else to die. Why can’t it stop? Why can’t it all just end?

  Another stroke of the axe. Another life is over.

  I cannot tear my eyes from the blood-soaked straw.

  Surrey leads me away. “Come, now. We will go. We will go home.”

  I cannot hear him. I can hear nothing but the whir of the axe slashing through the air, then slicing through the bone and gristle of my Kitty. The blood…there is so much blood.

  “I want to die, Henry,” I tell him.

  “No, you don’t. Don’t be silly,” he says, dragging me away.

  “I want to die,” I repeat over and over again.

  A Poet’s Heart

  Because there is no longer a queen, there is no longer a
call for ladies-in-waiting. The court is vacant, empty. No longer does Kitty’s girlish laughter flit through the halls. Now all that remains of her is an echo of a desperate scream as she ran through the gallery begging for her husband to save her.

  Cedric confronts me before I retreat to Kenninghall, pulling me into our usual meeting place, the practice room.

  “What is the meaning of avoiding me these past months?” he demands.

  I stare at him as though he is a stranger. His handsome features and startling violet eyes do little to affect me now. I am numb. I can only see her. Her little head on the block…her pretty little mouth moving in prayer…I see Anne, her swanlike throat cut through with a French sword. I see nothing beyond this.

  I heave a deep sigh. “What do you expect from me?” I ask in weary tones.

  He grips my upper arms; his touch is gentle, however—not filled with the cruel urgency of Norfolk’s. “I could have helped you,” he says in soft tones, tears lighting his eyes.

  I shake my head. “How on earth do you think you could have helped me? You, a lowly musician? What do you propose you could have done?”

  He drops his hands, staring at me, his eyes soft with pity. “Mary, do you think I meant something political?” He shakes his head. “I know I’m nothing but a ‘lowly musician’ and glad am I of it, considering the luck ‘better’ men than I have run into at this court.” He draws in a shaky breath. “I am not talking strategy or politics or manipulation. I am talking as a man to a maid. I could have been there for you to…to talk to, to lean on…Mary, why didn’t you come to me?”

  I shake my head again. “I am too tired for this. I am going home. There is no need of me anymore, thank God, and now I am leaving.”

  “You will go to him?” he asks, his voice taut with resentment. “You will exchange one cursed place for another?” Again he reaches for me, pulling me into his arms. I do not resist. “Don’t go back there.” He kisses the top of my head, then my cheek. His breath is hot in my ear as he whispers, “Come away with me, Mary. Marry me. We will be a family. I will give you children. Yes, it will be a far humbler existence than what you’re accustomed to but—”

  I pull away, gazing up into his dark face. Tears stream unchecked down my cheeks. “You know it is not possible, not as long as my lord lives.”

  He purses his lips. It is clear to see he has a remedy for that obstacle but is far too respectful to suggest it.

  I go on. “He would see to it that you and I are made to suffer no matter where we might go; his vengeful pursuit of me would only cause you to hate me as well.” I lower my eyes.

  “So you will remain his.” His voice is low, bearing a dangerous edge. I shiver.

  “I wish you wouldn’t say his,” I say, annoyed. “You twist everything up. You rearrange my words. I am not his. I can belong to no one. I made a promise once, a long time ago, to my Harry. I am free to love you, Cedric, but never can I marry.”

  “It makes no sense!” Cedric cries, running a hand through his black curls in frustration. “Why on earth would you hold yourself to a promise you made when you were seventeen? You had no idea what you would encounter then, what you would be made to endure. If Harry had any notion—”

  “Harry did have a notion,” I correct him, my tone firm. “He knew far more than I ever did. He knew my lord, what he would do if he were not given control of my match.”

  “Still, you give him control by not making a match of your choosing,” Cedric points out.

  “No.” I shake my head with vehemence. “Don’t you see? He has control regardless. He would find ways to make me pay for my disobedience should I give myself over to you or anyone else. He would—” I cannot go on. Tears clutch my throat. “There is nothing to be done. If you do not want me, then go. Do not see me again. I do not hold you to any pledges said or unsaid.” I pause, swallowing several times. “But if you do desire to see me I am receptive to it, now and again. I will be at Kenninghall. There are ways we can achieve happiness without wedding rings.”

  Cedric’s shoulders slump. “You have had a tremendous shock in your cousin’s death. You are not in your right mind. We will address this topic again when you are yourself. Good day, Lady Richmond.”

  With a stiff bow he retreats, leaving me alone with silent instruments, beckoning to be touched, to be made to sing.

  I sit on the bench behind the virginals and sob.

  I return to Kenninghall where waits a household scrambling to recreate a semblance of normalcy in the aftermath of our great family tragedy. It consists of Surrey’s increasing brood, Frances de Vere, Margaret Douglas, and Bess. Of course Norfolk cannot be included in this group, though he is here. His reflections on the situation are kept to himself, and if there is any remorse or regret we will never know of it.

  When not sequestered in his study, absorbed in affairs of state or whatever new scheme he is undoubtedly concocting to return to royal favor, he takes long walks or sits in the gardens, feeding the swans in the pond. He does not associate with us for the most part, though now and then he and Bess can be seen leaving each other’s rooms.

  Two people have taken a keen interest in Norfolk. They are Surrey’s boys, Little Thomas, age six, and Little Henry, a big boy of two. In their innocence they have chosen my father as a sort of idol, and follow him about wherever he goes. Little Thomas plagues him with questions about knights and battle. Norfolk is pleased to oblige him with swashbuckling tales of glory on the field and tiltyard (stories that always include him as the hero), while Little Henry sits on his knee and repeats a word here and there.

  The other children, Jane and Catherine—yes, another Catherine Howard—are as pleased to stay away from him as I am, for he criticizes them for everything from their table manners to their hair to proper facial expressions. Once I heard Jane pull her sister aside and confide that she hated her grandfather and couldn’t wait for him to return to court.

  Little Margaret, a babe of two months, is far too young to receive any criticisms, and remains in the care of her nurse or, whenever I can, myself. As fertile as my sister-in-law Frances has proven herself to be, she is not very maternal and is more content to gossip with Margaret than attend to her children, leaving the blessed duty of coddling my nieces and nephews to me.

  At Kenninghall I also find time to write. Margaret Douglas and I pass the spring and summer composing verse. Whenever Surrey is home he finds the time to join us and at last we find some merriment. To my annoyance, he still finds ways to jab my writing style at every turn.

  “I don’t know why you don’t say something to him,” Margaret says one afternoon as we throw breadcrumbs into the pond for the swans. “He is needlessly cruel to you with his unnecessary criticisms.”

  I shrug. “Margaret, you know as well as I what we have suffered. I have seen my three beloved cousins beheaded. I have lost my husband. I have fought and won my meager inheritance after a great deal of grief. After all that, allowing my brother’s words to bother me would be petty and vain.”

  “You’ve a better heart than I.” Margaret laughs.

  Whatever resentment I may feel for Surrey is replaced with pity when after returning to court, he is promptly sent to Windsor as punishment for hitting a man named John Leigh. What they disagreed about, I can only imagine. Surrey’s temper is so hot it could have been over something as silly as insulting the feather in his hat.

  At supper that evening Frances is in a state. “I don’t know why he has to be so thoroughly disagreeable and showy,” she laments. “It will bring him nothing but trouble. The king is amused by him, thank God—sees something of himself in him, he’s said. But that won’t last. King Henry’s affections are fickle, as well we Howards know.” She glares at my father.

  Norfolk, who is holding Little Henry, glares back. “That will do, Lady Frances,” he says in his soft tone, bouncing the toddler a bit.

  “I don’t know why you insist on bringing him to table, either,” she continues, narrowing her ey
es at Little Henry. “He should take his supper in the nursery. I’m certain you didn’t allow your children to eat at table till they were at least three or four.”

  “Lady Frances, I said that will do.” Norfolk’s voice bears an edge to it, a warning Frances should heed. He takes in a breath. “My son is a smart lad, an accomplished lad. He has a bit more growing up to do, that is all. Has to rein in that—what did you call it?—showy side of his nature. I assure you we will have words on the subject. For now, however, it is best not to discuss his situation in front of the children.”

  “Yes, you certainly know what’s best,” says Frances. “Your wisdom has carried us all so far!”

  The table is stunned silent. The rest of the children’s heads are bowed, though Little Thomas stares at his grandfather through thick dark lashes.

  “Lady Frances!” Norfolk barks. Little Henry jumps in his arms. “Excuse yourself. Your spirit is vexed and I believe you have not made a full recovery from Margaret’s birth.”

  Frances rises with such abruptness the bench we are seated on wobbles. “Yes, I must be sure to recover! I shall recover, Lord Thomas. I will be a good wife to my celebrated husband, who comes home just long enough to make certain to get more babes on me, then leaves to cause a ruckus somewhere and land himself in detainment! Yes, I shall recover, my dear ‘Father,’ if only so that I might spit out more precious Howard brats to carry on this cursed line!”

  In a whirl of red skirts, Frances runs from the room, sobbing.

  Little Henry sniffles. “Are we cursed?”

  Norfolk laughs, squeezing him to his breast. “Us?” he asks as though this is the most ridiculous assumption one could make. “Come now, everyone finish supper. We shall be merry tonight. Let’s have a contest. Which lad can finish his supper first? Whoever wins shall get a prize.”

  Little Thomas cries, “I shall win! I am bigger than Little Henry. I shall win for certain!” He commences to shovel his supper into his mouth as though he hadn’t seen food for a week. The little girls watch, appalled, knowing should they attempt the same thing Norfolk would scold them for being piggish.