Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  Little Thomas is the prize, however. He is the most beautiful child I have ever beheld, with his curling black hair and intense obsidian eyes, fringed with thick long lashes. His set mouth is full and rosy, his skin light olive like a little gypsy. At twelve he already boasts a fine form, and I am certain he will make some young lady a good husband.

  God has placed these children in my care. By His grace there is nothing in this world I want more than to do right by them. They will learn the best of everything—everything! Latin, Greek, all the useful languages. They shall learn music and dancing. I will share with them their father’s poetry and tales of his valor. I will tell them all the good things about the Howards, the good things about their cousins Anne Boleyn and Kitty Howard…all the good things about their illustrious grandfather, the Duke of Norfolk.

  Only good things.

  They are brought to my London home, Mountjoy House; a home no longer to be condemned to loneliness and isolation. And though they are acquainted with me, the move has been unsettling. They long for their mother, I imagine, and do not understand why they must be fostered out. In truth it is a fact I never agreed with either, but I do not question it.

  “I am not your mother,” I tell them their first night. “I will never try to replace her. But I am your aunt and your friend. I will guide you and be kind to you always. In turn I require respect and obedience. If you can adhere to these two requests I believe we shall get on quite well together.”

  It seems these are requests that are not too difficult for them to follow and I am treated with courtesy and, after a while, affection, which is returned in full.

  At Lord Wentworth’s advice I send for a former fellow of Magdalen College at Oxford, a man named John Foxe, whom I had heard of from Cat. He made quite the scandal when in 1545 he resigned his post at the college for not adhering to their strict guidelines of taking holy orders within seven years of their election; chapel attendance; and enforced celibacy. Indeed, Master Foxe even took a wife, Agnes Randall, stunning them all.

  His Protestant convictions, coupled with his audacity and courage, are enough to win my admiration and I follow Wentworth’s suggestion. I offer him a position as tutor for Surrey’s children. I am eager to have discourse with such a learned man as he, and hope he will be a merry addition to the household.

  To my delight Master Foxe accepts the position. He is an earnest man, self-contained, a picture of discipline and reserve, but despite this is quite easy to talk to. His wife, Agnes, however, is silent and difficult to engage in conversation, though I do try. When confronted with people such as her I grow intimidated and pull back, and to my dismay Agnes does not seem to mind at all. She keeps her distance, taking up residence in the apartments they have been allotted, where she sets up her home and is seen as often as a mouse in hiding. Master Foxe assures me that she is not unkind; she is just terribly frightened of meeting people and must adjust to the new living situation in her own time.

  With Agnes segregating herself to the periphery, I am given more time to observe my investment. Master Foxe is as intelligent as was reputed, winning the children’s respect and admiration within the first week of lessons. His soft, unassuming manner can be made firm and uncompromising, teaching them that he is not a man to be pushed or made fool of. Nothing escapes him.

  The children discover they do not want to pull any pranks on him, that indeed they like him too well. Thomas adores Master Foxe and develops an excellent rapport with him; they spend hours in good-natured debate and intense philosophical discussions. Foxe enjoys introducing the children to great philosophers such as modern-day Erasmus, ancient Plato and Socrates. Under his guidance, they translate Greek and Latin; they read plays, some of which have been written by the master himself. They are taught their arithmetic and literature, military strategy and history, and as I watch their progress I find myself most pleased.

  I introduce him to John Bale, a controversial allegorical playwright who sought me out upon learning of my support of the Protestant cause. The two men strike up an instant friendship and exchange their manuscripts along with other writings, and we spend many a jolly evening discussing the strides of the reformed church.

  Master Foxe and I speak of many things: the children—who are the most studious, whose antics are the most amusing, another’s keenness for Latin or proficiency in mathematics. We talk of religion, by and large our favorite subject. We read together. His gentle, nonjudgmental nature makes him an easy confidante.

  To my dismay, Master Foxe is a handsome man, tall and lean, with wavy blond hair that falls to his shoulders in layers, and a beard to match. His eyes are blue as cornflowers and manage to convey alertness and sweetness at once. I had hoped to be above noticing such things and pray not to be swayed by it too much. Instead, I endeavor to concentrate on the beauty of his soul.

  It is he who first helps me grapple with the intensity of my guilt for having sent Norfolk to the Tower and my brother to his death.

  We are alone in the parlor one evening. Agnes has taken to their apartments and the children have long since dispersed, their merry voices echoing through the halls as they ready for bed.

  “For one, my lady, you did not send either of them to their fates,” he tells me, and though this is something I have oft heard, it does little to reassure me at first. “That was a decision made by the government of King Henry. You told the truth as you are sworn by God to do. You did nothing wrong, Lady Richmond. I pray God allows you to see that.” His voice is thick with emotion, his eyes are alight with compassion. A vision of Cedric is called to mind as I gaze at him. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to will it away. “God teaches us that in order to attain forgiveness we must first forgive others. Do you understand?”

  “No,” I tell him, feeling ignorant and helpless as a child.

  “Lady Richmond, God forgives. All those who seek Him through His son, our Lord Jesus Christ, find mercy and forgiveness. He does not discriminate or exclude anyone from His grace. If God the Almighty can forgive your father for his sins, if He can forgive your brother, and even King Henry if he sought it, then he certainly can forgive you of any sin, real or imagined. Not to forgive is to insult God and hold yourself above Him. My lady, you must draw from yourself the strength to forgive.”

  “But I do!” I cry. “My whole life all I have ever done is forgive!”

  “Indeed,” says Master Foxe. “You have. You have forgiven everyone. Everyone but yourself.” He reaches out, taking my hand. I study it a moment; it is strong and slim-fingered, not at all the hand I would imagine a scholar to have. It is the hand of a warrior. “Please, my lady, please forgive yourself. In truth you are the least offensive personage to be found.”

  I blink back tears. He averts his head, staring at the fire burning low in the hearth, disengaging his hand and moving on to other more comfortable subjects.

  He is reverent of those he considers martyrs, calling to mind the tragedy of Anne Ayscough and others who have perished at the stakes of Smithfield. His intention is to write a comprehensive book on the subject, including any martyr he can think of who suffered for our Lord’s sake.

  “There are living martyrs as well,” he tells me. “Those who go about their existence in a constant state of sacrifice without bitterness or complaint.” He is silent a long moment. “Those like you, Lady Richmond.”

  I bow my head. He rises. “I hope you come to realize how good a woman you are, my lady,” he tells me.

  I blink back another onset of tears. “I thank you for your generous words,” I tell him huskily. “Good night, Master Foxe.”

  “My lady,” he says as he departs for his wife and his bed.

  I sit alone, thinking of the compassion in his blue eyes.

  The Reigate Years

  To my delight, we have been invited to remove to Reigate, my uncle William’s estate in Surrey, beautiful Surrey! I believe the country air will be better for the children. As it is, London bears so many memories for all of
us that I am most eager for a change of scene. And so the household commences its passage to the south.

  Never have I taken a more wonderful journey. Here we are, a train of loud, happy Howards. I am as excited as the children and find myself alive with animated conversation. I promise my nieces pretty new gowns, and to the boys new ponies and trips to the sea where we might play and watch the waves roll in.

  We arrive at the bustling manor of Reigate, the most beautiful place I have ever seen, with its gardens and endless paths, its ponds and rolling green vistas. And the people! There are people everywhere! Servants with happy countenances go about their work as though they are actually pleased to be in their occupations. Animals—cats, dogs, and livestock—roam about as though they have as much claim to the place as their masters. Everything has an aura of welcome and I cannot help but embrace myself as I step out of the litter and gaze about.

  The first person to greet us is my aunt Margaret. She is a sturdy young woman with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, her sleek flaxen hair escaping from its plait as she runs to us. She is barefoot, dressed in a simple brown gown with few adornments. She embraces the children first, fussing over each of them, though she does not extract hugs from the boys, who are far too grown-up to be mollycoddled.

  When she comes to me she takes me in her arms, squeezing me as though I am a long lost sister. “Well, here we are. I’m four years your senior and yet you’re to call me ‘aunt’!” This is followed by an easy laugh. “A title I do hope you will dispense with!”

  I laugh in turn, immediately put at ease by her outgoing nature. “I shall. I thank you for your hospitality, Aun—Margaret.”

  “Peggy, please,” she corrects. “I do hate to be called Madge or any of those other epithets that sound so old.”

  Madge brings to mind my cousin Madge Shelton. A pity I do not even know what became of her. She faded away, hopefully to seek out a life that brought her more happiness than court life ever could.

  I blink away unpleasant thoughts of court to smile at Peggy. “Unfortunately I have nothing to go by,” I tell her. “Mary is about as plain a name as one can get.”

  “I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” She laughs again. “Nobody can escape being called some silly pet name or another here.”

  At which point she introduces me to her children, who are by now engaged in enthusiastic converse with their cousins.

  “Hold still, will you, and try to be polite for one moment!” cries Peggy as she ushers them forward. “Charles, this is your cousin Mary. You are to be tutored with her nephews, your cousins Thomas and Henry. I do believe Tommy and Charlie are about the same age.”

  “Two years difference,” says Charlie proudly. “I’m two years older.”

  Thomas does not seem to resent this much. He looks at his new cousin with adoration.

  “This is Agnes, but we call her Anne,” says Peggy. “Really no one should be named Agnes.” At this I cast my eyes about to see if Agnes Foxe has heard the comment, but fortunately she is nowhere in sight.

  Presently, the lithe eighteen-year-old girl presented before me bows her head, but is hiding a smile. It seems she is not offended by her mother’s observation but is amused.

  “This is our little Mary,” says Peggy, patting the head of a sturdy six-year-old girl who seems to be herself in miniature. I laugh out loud at the resemblance. “We call her Mare-Bear. And this”—she stoops down to retrieve the most delicate little creature I have ever seen—“this is our baby.” Peggy’s face softens as she kisses the plump cheek of her three-year-old daughter. “Our little Douglas.”

  I reach out, taking Douglas’s hand in mine. She calls to mind an image of the dainty Kitty Howard, and as I look at her I wonder if she will resemble the late queen of England as she grows. “Douglas,” I repeat, my heart swelling with such emotion I cannot speak.

  Combined with my cousins there will be nine children about. Nine little voices, nine different laughs to memorize. Nine pairs of eyes and little button noses. Nine beautiful children to love…

  “Who’s that out there? Who’s here?” a stern male voice calls from indoors. My heart begins to pound.

  At once he appears. My jaw goes slack. He is the image of Norfolk, a young Norfolk, his black hair swept back in a ribbon, his large black eyes lit with that same fierce determination. This man wears a close-cut beard, however, which would be quite fetching were his features not arranged in a scowl.

  I begin to shake.

  The man is approaching me, his steps brisk and purposeful. His hands, the lovely Howard hands, are clenched at his sides. He stands before me, looking me up and down.

  Tears fill my eyes.

  And then the strangest thing. He bursts into laughter. “What’s this? Tears?” He takes me in his arms. “Come now, I didn’t scare you, did I?” He holds me tight. “I was jesting, poor dear. You’ve no need to fear your uncle Will,” he assures me, pulling away, keeping his arms about me in the same comfortable manner his wife bears. He is a man used to doling out hugs, I realize as I look at him. Indeed, from his bright, warm smile and gentle eyes I can see that the resemblance with his oldest brother is only skin deep.

  At once I begin to sob with abandon.

  “I’m so sorry, my lord,” I gulp. “It’s just that I’ve never been so happy…”

  “Look here, Peggy, and we haven’t even gotten her inside yet,” says Uncle Will. He taps my nose. “I think you’re going to be easy to please.”

  I nod. “Oh, yes, my lord, I am most easy to please,” I tell him. “I will be no trouble. We are so happy that you have extended your generous hospitality to us.”

  He hugs me again. “Now, now, we’re family. And none of that ‘my lord’ business. It’s Uncle Will to you—or, if you please, just plain Will.”

  “And I am Mary,” I tell him. “Just plain Mary.”

  Just plain Mary. Right now it is the perfect thing to be.

  It is endless summer at Reigate. These are the days of long walks through the gardens barefoot with Peggy, talking for hours about nothing. These are the days of riding horses with the children, watching them grow in their equestrian skills, watching them grow confident and happy. These are the days of picnics, of lying on the grass amid the daffodils and hollyhocks, staring up at the stars while Uncle Will tells stories around a little fire he has made in a stone pit that he calls a “campfire.” The children roast small game upon it that they have caught hunting that day and we all take of it, exclaiming that not even at court are the pickings so good. These are the days of berries and cream, of long baths in lavender and rose water, of children’s sticky hands and easy laughter.

  These are the days of sitting by the pond feeding the swans, watching the sun set upon the water, thinking not of the past but of the beautiful present God has blessed me with.

  These are the days of respite and growth.

  Henry has received his first suit of armor. It dominates his tiny frame and the older boys tease him, but good-natured Uncle Will takes them in hand with gentleness and humor, reminding them they were all quite the same upon receiving their first suits of armor and there’ll be no putting on airs at Reigate.

  “Why, they say your own grandfather was so little that his first suit of armor nearly brought him to his knees, and look what a fine soldier he became!” Uncle Will tells Henry.

  “He may be a fine soldier,” says Little Thomas gravely, “but he still landed in the Tower.”

  Uncle Will does not know what to say to this. “Well, many a fellow has a turn there,” he replies with a slight laugh; for indeed, what can he say? He narrowly escaped the same fate when he was accused of abetting Kitty Howard. Fortunately he was rescued by a pardon from the king. “The point is, Thomas, that what makes a man is bravery and heart, not size.”

  This seems to satisfy Thomas for now, and they show a little more charity toward Henry.

  While the boys are coached in the arts of fencing and jousting, the girls are i
nstructed in music, dance, embroidery, and the other feminine arts. Master Foxe maintains his position as tutor and allows the magic of Reigate to take hold of him as well. He and Agnes have been given a little cottage with a garden, and she can be seen tarrying in it every day.

  She has warmed somewhat toward me. Now and then she will approach Peggy and me with a gift of flowers or vegetables from her little garden, accompanied by a shy smile.

  “Perhaps she isn’t as nasty as was my first impression,” Peggy comments one day. Indeed, we had many chats regarding the introverted and almost snobbish nature of Agnes Foxe.

  “I think she is just quite reserved,” I say.

  “We’ll coax her into the thick of things.” Peggy laughs. “No one is left behind at Reigate.”

  Indeed, if anyone can make her feel welcome, it is Peggy and Will Howard.

  Uncle Will has built a pleasant set of swings, the seats of which are woven from strong rope and padded with thick velvet cushions. From a series of trees are suspended nine different swings for all the children, though Thomas and Charles believe swinging to be quite foppish and will take no part in it.

  For Peggy and me, he has constructed a large hammock that is strung between the willows by the pond, and there he is content to lie in the grass, his head supported by a plush cushion while he pushes us for hours. The children run and play about while we lounge after supper, talking of this and that.