Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  But I want to believe it. I want to believe it so badly I am willing to smother memories of my Anne before the swordsman and sweet Kitty at the block, memories of Norfolk’s hand in their deaths and in my life. I will smother the memories like a fire; they will be snuffed out of my mind.

  I will not think of the state of this mad court, of the word heresy, nor of the countless burnings and murders. I will instead yield to the innocence I yearn for, the thought that Norfolk is my loving father and wants to see me happy at last; the thought that he is sorry, that he is making up for our tumultuous past. The thought that he loves me.

  I slide from my chair to the floor, kneeling before him and taking his hands. “Oh, my dearest lord,” I whisper through tears. I lean up and wrap my arms about his neck. “Whatever has come before, know I love you so.”

  Norfolk detangles my arms from him, taking my hands. “Now, now. Eat. It will get cold.”

  I swallow my humiliation. I should have known. How could I not have known that he is incapable of expressing tenderness? As I gaze at him I wonder how he interacts with Bess. Is she alone the woman he has reserved the softer part of himself for? Has he ever told her he loves her?

  Has he ever told anyone?

  I sit, focusing on our little midday feast, and choose to revel in what is unsaid. I willingly suspend my disbelief. For now there are no ulterior motives or deceit. There is just us. For now that must be enough.

  It is all I have.

  As promised the dressmakers visit me and I am measured for five new gowns; one is Tudor green with resplendent sleeves, though not as long as was in fashion in Anne’s day. These sleeves are slashed, revealing ivory lace beneath. The bodice is a richer shade of green velvet and the kirtle is ivory lace to match the undersleeves. The other gowns are of my choosing; one is a summery orange, another is yellow with white lace accents, yet another is a sweet shade of pale blue. The last gown is pink, my favorite as it reminds me of my youth, and it, too, has slashed sleeves, revealing fitted sleeves beneath. Each gown comes with matching slippers and hoods, and when they are finished I cannot contain a little squeal of delight as I finger the beautiful materials.

  Norfolk actually seeks me out to visit me. He seats me next to him at entertainments, and dances with me before Their Majesties. The skirts of my Tudor green gown swirl about my ankles, creating a pleasant breeze at my feet.

  “At last, Lady Richmond dances!” cries His Majesty, resting his putrid leg on his wife’s lap. She is rubbing it idly, her brow furrowed. I wonder if she is stifling a gag or if I have displeased her somehow.

  The king leans forward, resting an elbow on his swollen knee, stroking his graying beard with his fingers. I almost pity the man—once the consummate athlete, now reduced to being carted about in a wheeled chair. I am even told he has a special mechanism that hoists him in and out of bed. I shiver as I think of his bed and of poor Cat, who has to share it with him.

  “We recall dancing with my lady at your wedding,” the king says. “Do you remember, Norfolk?”

  Norfolk nods. I note he is trembling. Perhaps at his age dancing tires him.

  “She is far lovelier now than then, twirling about in her pretty green gown,” observes His Majesty. “Wouldn’t you agree, Cat?”

  “Lady Richmond is a beautiful young woman,” says the queen. “And a lady of high morals.”

  “A trait to be admired,” says the king. “That and prudent silence,” he adds gruffly.

  As I do not know to what he is referring I offer a feeble smile.

  “Do dance some more, Lady Richmond,” the king orders. “It brings this old soul pleasure.”

  I stare at Norfolk. He nods and I do a few turns by myself, recalling all of the days spent in Anne’s apartments, practicing our steps. She was an incomparable dancer. Never before or since have I seen one to match her abilities.

  I am light on my feet, however, and lose myself in the fast-paced music—until, that is, an image of Cedric floats before me. He stares at me from some other plane, his expression somber. I stumble a bit, then cease dancing altogether, blinking the image away. What was it I saw in his eyes? Warning? Disappointment? Both? I begin to tremble uncontrollably.

  The queen laughs. “Your Majesty, you must realize Lady Richmond is a modest girl. I am certain your attentions frighten her.”

  The king leans forward. “Is that right?” He laughs. “Do we frighten you?” His beady eyes sparkle as though he is delighted at the prospect. If such a thing excites him it would please him to know the whole of England sits in terror of him.

  Flustered, I blink and nod, then shake my head, dipping into a curtsy. “I apologize, Your Majesty. It’s just that I do not dance very much anymore.”

  He leans back, roaring with laughter. “You are a splendid little dancer. Next time you dance for us, you must do so as though no one is watching.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” I curtsy again.

  Norfolk catches my arm and smiles at the king, then escorts me away from the royal couple.

  “Interesting,” he says. “I did not give you enough credit. You are a smart girl, Mary.” He squeezes my arm. “Faltering in your steps has endeared you to him more than perfection.”

  My heart begins to pound. No…no…

  I will not believe it. I will not believe it. Norfolk is just surprised at the king’s reaction, that is all. He is glad the king did not chastise me.

  That is what I will believe. It is nice, living like this, believing what I tell myself to believe. I can convince myself that I am almost stupid, and there is a certain amount of contentment to be found in stupidity.

  The next day I receive a collar of sapphires from His Majesty’s messenger. My hands are trembling so that I can barely grasp the thing. I stare at the messenger, wondering if he can read my terror. What do I do? Give them back? I cannot return a gift from the king. Anne did that. Jane did that. And that piqued his interest.

  “You may…you may thank His Majesty for the lovely gift,” I tell the messenger. He lingers a moment, as though I should add something more. When it is at last clear that I will not, he departs.

  The newly widowed Kate Brandon is with me when I receive the present and she laughs.

  “We are a sorry lot, Lady Mary,” she tells me. “He sent me some of Queen Catherine—Catherine Howard’s jewels as well. It seems we are rivals.”

  “You can have him,” I say before I have the presence of mind to contain myself; then, knowing the words to be treasonous, clamp my mouth shut, unable to keep my tears at bay. They pave slick trails down my cheeks.

  Kate rushes toward me and takes my upper arms, squeezing gently. “Not to worry, Lady Mary. We are together on this. If you think I would betray my queen and give myself to that—that—” She shrugs. “I will tell you this much: I have been married to one old man. I will not give myself to another, least of all…” She trails off, knowing that I am well aware of the thought’s direction.

  “What do we do, Lady Suffolk?” I ask her.

  “Devise some sort of escape plan,” she advises. “Meantime, wait and see what develops. The king loves Queen Catherine. This may well be one of his phases.”

  Long after Kate takes her leave I stand alone by the window, staring at the necklace, trembling.

  I cannot do this. I cannot wait around to see what develops. I will not be wife number seven to that monster, a man who was once my own father-in-law!

  I crumple the necklace in my hand. My knuckles are white.

  It is so clear to me now; yet was it not always clear to me? But I, foolish, foolish Mary, did not want to believe it. I almost would rather have died than believe it…

  I draw myself up, squaring my shoulders as I saw my Anne do on so many occasions when she herself battled the one who raised her up and helped cast her down, the one who is always behind everything.

  Norfolk.

  Gardiner is with him again, but smiles and excuses himself when I enter.

  I stare at
Norfolk; his expression is arranged into one of calculated patience, as though I am an annoyance to be tolerated a little bit more…a little bit more until, to his relief, I will go away. Then he can relax his face and assume the same disinterested expression he has worn as long as memory serves.

  I throw the sapphires on his desk. “A gift from the king,” I spit. I remind myself to remain calm. I will not yield to the hysterics of years past. The more composed I am the better I will translate.

  Norfolk lays the necklace across one exquisite hand and ogles them. “How lovely of His Majesty to think of you,” he says in an offhand manner.

  “Indeed?” I retort. “This man who has in effect killed all of his wives in one way or another, save Her current Majesty.” My face is burning. “This man who was my father-in-law—and to think Harry and I had to get a dispensation for consanguinity!—this man who sees fit to torture and murder and make miserable all who dare to love him…yes, this man holds me in some esteem now and you say it is ‘lovely.’”

  Norfolk draws in a breath. He sets the jewels aside. “Yes, I say it is lovely. And you would be a fool to think otherwise. Think, Mary, think! For God’s sake, the king is not a well man…you have only but to seize your opportunity, wait a bit longer, and then—then—” His black eyes sparkle with excitement.

  The whole sordid plot is sickeningly clear. I am trembling. My temple is throbbing. I shake my head in horror.

  “Mary, you must realize how vital it is for us to uphold the tenets of His Majesty’s faith,” he tells me. “Once little Edward is on the throne, the Seymours will try to sway the country to the New Faith. It is our responsibility to see that that does not happen.”

  “And if I—say I became queen—support the Seymours and their New Faith?” I seethe. “Then what will you do? Find a way to dispose of me, no doubt—that is, if King Henry does not do so first!” I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head again. “You do not care about upholding any sort of faith. I know well you would have the country Catholic again and allied with the pope as well. His Majesty’s reforms, aside from granting you the lands from the monasteries he destroyed, mean almost less to you than I do.”

  Norfolk has the grace to flinch at this.

  “This, my dear Norfolk, is about you,” I hiss. “Like everything else. You didn’t gain enough from your nieces’ unfortunate reigns—have we but to imagine what is in store for you should your own daughter sit the throne!”

  He emits a frustrated sigh. “How else are the Howards to rise again? From whom else are we to gain back our right?”

  I back away from him in sheer horror. “Our…right?” I breathe. “Our right? Since when has the throne been our right?” For the first time in my life I have the pleasure of looking at him as he has always looked at me; as though he is a fool. “When did you actually decide we had a right to the throne? Long before little Kitty stumbled to the block, I am sure. And long before you sentenced our Anne to her death. How quick you were to betray them when the king decided the throne was no longer the Howards’ right!” I shake my head in a frenzy. “The throne will belong to a Howard someday, I promise you, but not the one you think. No. It will belong to the greatest of us, the greatest Howard to ever live. Lady Elizabeth.” I force my voice to simulate calmness as Norfolk waves away the mention of the king’s younger daughter’s possible rise to power as sheer fantasy. “Put your store in her,” I urge. “Toss aside whatever ill-fated scheme you are concocting. Attempting to seize your right will only lead to your downfall and I assure you I will have nothing to do with it.”

  I tilt my head back, revealing my white throat. “Where does the axe fall? Here?” I take Norfolk’s hand, placing it on the back of my neck. “It comes through about here, wouldn’t you say?” I bring his hand around to the front, making sure that he feels the strong pulse. I swallow a painful lump. “What will you do then, my lord? Will you retreat to the country for my execution? Or will you stand there and watch, as you did Anne?” At last I allow my tears to fall. “Can you tell me truly that you wish to see me in my cousin’s place, after all we have seen?” I shake my head. “If so, then mark my words, my lord: I would rather slit my own throat than take part in such villainy!”

  Norfolk wrenches his hand free. “Really?” he asks, his voice calm.

  “Yes,” I answer, matching his composure. “Really.”

  “All right, then.” In his abrupt manner, Norfolk retrieves his dagger from its sheath and throws it at my feet. “Do it.”

  In an instant I have lost complete control over this conversation. Once again, perhaps as it has always been, it is all in Norfolk’s masterful hands. Nothing I have said has had any effect on him. How could I have dared hope to reach him? I am nothing to him; I have always been nothing to him. Nothing but a means to his glorious end.

  I stare at the little instrument of death for a long moment, making no move to retrieve it. Surely even Norfolk does not expect that I would dare take my life out of God’s hands, and in front of him.

  My heart leaps when, with a sound between growl and agonized cry, Norfolk takes hold of my shoulders and throws me to the floor, using his own weight to pin me down. He is a slight man but I am smaller yet, and am crushed beneath him. I cannot breathe. I gasp in terror. One hand grips my chin, the tips of his fingers bearing into my flesh so hard I know they will leave bruises. His face is inches from mine. I hear the whir of metal slice through air, feel the cool point of his dagger at my throat.

  “Do it, Mary,” he tells me. “You would rather slit your own throat than be queen of England? Then do it. Right now.”

  I blink several times. I must keep my wits. I must stay calm. With great effort I force my breathing to become regular.

  His breath is hot on my face. “Do it.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut a long moment, reopening them in the vain hope that the scene has changed, that this is not real. But the horrifying reality is staring me in the face, large black eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

  I make no move toward the dagger. I cannot. As much as I may want to, I cannot end my life. I do not know if this makes me a coward. I do not know what distinguishes bravery from cowardice any longer. I have not known for a very long time.

  “What’s this—you cannot do it?” he taunts. “You cannot do it, Mary?”

  “No!” I cry. “I cannot do it!”

  He presses the dagger hard against my throat. It bites into my flesh like the prick of a thick needle. I am too horrified to gasp.

  “Then I shall!” Norfolk hisses. “Do you think I cannot?” he asks me. “I am a soldier, Mary. I have lived by executing orders that would turn your insides out. Do you know what I have done in my life? I have raped women, then run them through after taking my pleasure. I savored every execution after the Pilgrimage of Grace; in fact I mourned that I could not kill more of the bastard rebels! I have burned down houses with entire families inside. The screams of the children, Mary, still ring in my ears.” His voice has lost its calm. For the first time he registers real emotion. He speaks in a frenzied rush, his words tumbling out in an agitated tangent. “And, yes, I looked into Anne Boleyn’s eyes as I pronounced her death sentence. I watched the soldiers drag sweet little Kitty away to the Tower, screaming and writhing in their arms. I watched all this and I have no regrets. I do my duty by king, country—but first, always, by the Howards—by me.” He offers up a strangled laugh. “When it is no longer prudent to ally myself to one, I ally myself to another. I have ended more lives with my sword and my word than I can even count. One more, especially one as insignificant as yours, will make no difference to me.”

  I swallow my tears of horror as I listen to his list of evils. I keep my eyes focused on his face, his tormented face. His chest is heaving as he draws his tears inward, just as I have for the entirety of my life. I take a breath, daring to bring my trembling hand to his cheek where a tear has managed to escape. I wipe it away with my thumb. I stroke his hair. I trace his jawline, then run
my fingers across his trembling lips. I do not understand either of us at this moment. We have been swallowed up in wickedness and deceit for so long that neither of us knows who we are, what to do. Like hawks freed from their mews we soar, viewing a ravaged land without boundaries. Love is twisted. It is as though the insanity of King Henry has seeped into our minds and souls like water from a poisoned well.

  I pull him to me, pressing my lips to his in what I wish to convey as…what? A kiss of forgiveness? Or is it that I am grasping vainly for one moment of love between us, any kind of love? I try to convey chastity, holiness. But we are as far from those two things as people can be. The kiss translates nothing but our mutual urgency and confusion.

  I pull away. Tears pave icy trails down my temples, pooling on his priceless rug. “Do your duty, then,” I tell him, keeping my voice soft and low. As I speak I continue to trace his face, every feature; memorizing the man who is both my mortal enemy and greatest love. “And I will watch you,” I whisper. Each word is deliberate. “I will not close my eyes, nor utter a sound. I will watch you, my father, run me through. As my life ebbs away I will gaze into your face until at last I am swallowed up in the blackness of your eyes, those eyes I first looked into with so much trust when you held me aloft as a wee babe. And when I am dead, then you will close them.” I draw in a shuddering breath. “I forgive you and pray for your vexed soul. You are a tortured creature and I pity you. But you are my father and have all of my respect.” I pause, waiting for him to move or speak. “You may commence,” I say at last.

  Norfolk presses the blade to my neck. Then, with a slight whimper, throws it from him. It lands on the other side of the room with a clank. He collapses on top of me, emitting wracking, broken sobs. Whether it is because he has failed in carrying out something he has said he would do without compunction, or because he actually regrets his actions, I do not know. I will never know.

  I wrap my arms about him, drawing in a deep breath. His heart races against mine.