Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  There are a few pouts and comments made under the breath, but the children accept Uncle Will’s ruling and finish their supper. After which we retire to the parlor where are laid out a pile of presents the like of which I have not seen since Christmas.

  “These are all for me?” I breathe in surprise, trying to swallow another onset of tears.

  “What are birthdays for?” asks Uncle Will, wrapping an arm about my shoulders. “We are celebrating you today, Mary. Now, remember: oldest to youngest. Open mine first!”

  I kneel before the gifts, as excited as a child but trying to maintain the dignity of the thirty-year-old woman I have become. I select the package from Uncle Will and pull away the wrappings with care. Each movement is deliberate; I want the joy of this moment to last.

  I cry out in delight when the wrappings reveal a lute. It is the most unusual lute I have ever seen, painted red and decorated with ornate little flowers, ivy, and hummingbirds.

  “Oh, Uncle Will!” I shake my head as I run my hand across the beautiful instrument. “It’s so unique. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “That is because I painted it myself,” he tells me. “Much to everyone’s displeasure,” he says, shooting a playful glance at Peggy. “Peggy thought I’d ruin it if I painted it.”

  “No…oh, no,” I assure him as I gaze at the instrument in reverence. “Oh, Uncle Will, it is so beautiful. I never knew you painted.”

  “I thought my bird needed a lute of her own on which to accompany herself when singing to me,” he tells me, his voice soft with affection. “So you see, it is a gift with a selfish motive!”

  “On to mine,” cries Peggy.

  “No,” says Master Foxe in a tone matching the jocularity of the room. “I believe I am next—I was born in 1516.”

  “Master Foxe!” cries Peggy in teasing tones. “You are not supposed to draw attention to a woman’s age!”

  Master Foxe retrieves my package himself, handing it to me with a smile in his eyes. I open it to find a copy of Catherine Parr’s Lamentations of a Sinner.

  “Master Foxe…” I breathe. “Oh, my dear friend Cat.”

  “I didn’t know if you owned a copy yet but…” His voice is soft. “I do hope I am not being too forward in giving you one.”

  “Of course not,” I tell him. “I shall cherish it.”

  “Oh, these men,” says Peggy to Agnes Foxe. “They are bent on outdoing us.”

  Agnes offers a shy little laugh. She retrieves a package and hands it to me.

  “Dear Agnes,” I tell her, “you did not have to get me anything.”

  “Were not for you we’d be near starvation,” she says in her quiet voice.

  I open the package wherein lie five beautiful linen handkerchiefs sewn with her own hands, embroidered with my initials. I reach out and embrace her. “Thank you, Agnes. They are lovely.”

  She bows her head as though she cannot accept a moment’s attention, retreating to her husband’s side, hiding slightly behind him so as not to be noticed.

  “Now, me, thank you very much!” cries Peggy as she hands me her package. “It is in truth from me and the older girls—Jane, Anne, Catherine, and Margaret. We worked on it together.”

  I open the heavy package to expose a large soft quilt.

  “Spread it out and look at it,” says Jane.

  I do so and take in a breath. It is a patchwork of material from gowns the girls have grown out of, gowns I remember them wearing at one time or another.

  “See our names?” Catherine asks me.

  I run my hand over my family’s names, embroidered expertly into the quilt by Peggy. All of them are there, from little Douglas to Jane, to Uncle Will and Peggy. She has even included the Norfolk branch of the family, embroidering the names of my mother, father, and siblings into the quilt.

  “That’s to remind you of all the people whose lives you have touched, all of the people who love you,” Peggy tells me in a soft voice. “If ever your memory lapses, look at this, the Howard quilt, and know how loved you are.”

  “Oh, Peggy,” I cry, running to her to embrace her. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this, for all of this.”

  She holds me tight.

  “Is she ever going to open ours?” cries Douglas.

  “Yes, yes, now she can open yours,” says Uncle Will, clearing his throat. “Children, present arms!” he teases as the boys retrieve their gifts.

  From Charles I receive a woven leather bracelet he made himself. From Thomas, a necklace to match with a little cross carved from a smooth pink stone.

  “Oh, boys, they’re lovely,” I tell them as I put the gifts on.

  The little girls, Mare-Bear and Douglas, have made me a wreath of dried flowers and herbs to hang on the door of my bedchamber.

  “I shall hang it wherever I go,” I tell them.

  It is Henry whose gift converts my sentimental tears to laughter as he pulls a frog out of his pocket. “I didn’t know what to get you,” he tells me. “I remember you said you liked how they sang, so I thought you could keep him in your room at night so you could listen to him.”

  “You must help me build the proper home for him,” I tell him as I take the wriggling creature from his hands and cradle him to my breast. “He is a most handsome frog, Henry.”

  “Thank you,” says Henry in earnest tones.

  “Thank you,” I reply with a chuckle, handing him the frog for safekeeping as I rise to address my family. “Thank you all for your thoughtful gifts and for giving me the most wonderful birthday party of my life.”

  Hugs are exchanged. I cannot contain myself from crying as I embrace Uncle Will and Master Foxe.

  “Are you happy, Lady Richmond?” Master Foxe whispers as he pulls away.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I am happy. At long last.”

  That night as I lay in my bed under my new quilt I think back on the day’s wonderful events and thank God for my good fortune.

  I do not think about being childless and unmarried at the great age of thirty. For the first night since we came to Reigate I do not think of Norfolk in the Tower or of Surrey’s death. I think of today, of my first birthday party. My first and my best.

  Strange, when I awoke that day I did not even realize it was my birthday.

  Rumor has reached the manor about a strange cult that has gathered about a shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary, where many claim miracles and healings take place. Master Foxe is on top of it and puts a stop to the gatherings immediately. The Reformed Church does not venerate the Virgin as the Catholics do and puts no store in such relics as saints’ bones or so-called healing locales. He does not want people to lay all their hopes in a lifeless statue, and I am filled with relief when I learn he has taken care of the problem. I do not need the children exposed to such idiocy. They have been exposed to far too much as it is.

  Otherwise the year is passed with my surrogate family in peace, each night taking supper together as a merry household, where we discuss the ups and downs of our days. Agnes Foxe, to my delight, has warmed to us at last, and now takes evening walks with Peggy and me through the gardens, or lies with us in the hammock while Master Foxe or Uncle Will pushes us.

  The children take their lessons, progressing and growing into beautiful young ladies and gentlemen. I report their progress with pride to their grandfather in the Tower, but he scoffs at their radical teacher, Master Foxe.

  “I do not approve, Mary,” he tells me again and again.

  So relaxed have I become that I fail to care whether he approves or not, and simply say in soothing tones, “I know,” while inside I think that there is not much Norfolk can do about it so will allow him his tirades. I am certain they make him feel alive.

  On Christmas Eve 1549 I send the bishops of Lincoln, Rochester, and St. David’s to attend him. If Norfolk has remained as intelligent as I suspect, he will pick up on why they are there. If it is seen by the Seymours that he has converted to the New Faith, then perhaps they will
release him. Of course I do not really care if Norfolk’s heart is sincere or not; I know my father and know his capacity for sincerity is limited at best, but I also know how convincing Norfolk can appear at times when it is expedient for him. If he can convince them…

  To my astonishment, Norfolk does nothing of the kind. He is unresponsive and annoyed by their visit. When in January I bring him belated Christmas presents of new clothing sewn by his granddaughters and me, along with a plate of cheese, meats, and comfits from Reigate, he scowls.

  “Keep your holy men to yourself, Mary,” he tells me before I am able to offer so much as a greeting. “So. You are proving to be quite the reformer, keeping company with the likes of that John Bale and John Foxe,” he goes on. “You are not a good influence on those children. I can only imagine what ideas are being formed in their impressionable minds under your care.”

  “I can tell you what they are not learning,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone. “They are not learning how to betray or abandon. They are not learning how to scheme or plot or connive. They are learning to play and work and love. Their minds and hearts are open and honest. They are sweet, good Christians, and if you knew them you would be most proud of them.”

  Norfolk shakes his head in disgust, unaffected by my words. “You think you’re doing right, Mary, I know,” he says, his voice thick with disappointment. “You always have. But you have the habit of walking into one blunder after another.”

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but he holds up a silencing hand. Like the child I always become when around him, I snap my mouth shut.

  “You are too naïve,” he says. “It frightens me to think of you alone out there without my protection. You are led by these so-called pundits into God knows what. You trust everyone.”

  “I trusted you most,” I whisper, too worn down to rally against his latest insult.

  “A good thing, too,” says Norfolk, “because I have served as your protector as long as I have been able. Everything I have ever done has been for you.”

  I cannot help it. I emit that bitter, mirthless sound that is more cry than laugh.

  Norfolk rises from where he was seated on his bed and approaches me. Though he is not much taller than I am, he has the same effect as he did when I was a child—the effect of towering above me, his stern black eyes staring down with their ever-present light of displeasure.

  “You think I have always been against you,” he says, his voice strained with something akin to sadness. “You think I kept you from Fitzroy because I wanted you to be unhappy, because I didn’t want you to have a family of your own.”

  My heart lurches in anguish at the mention of Harry. To think after all these years it still hurts.

  He wraps his arms about me, pulling me close, not in an embrace, but to ensure the lieutenant does not hear what he says next. “Mary, I kept you apart because I got wind of a plot,” he whispers. “King Henry—he became threatened by his son’s presence. He was afraid that Harry would rise against him and wrest the crown from his potential children with Queen Jane. He…he had him poisoned, Mary. He killed him. Do you understand? He killed him.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I breathe in despair. It is not true. Not even King Henry could have killed his own child. No. Norfolk just wants to hurt me, just as he always has. “How dare you say such things?”

  “Come now, Mary,” Norfolk says, annoyed. “Why do you think the king wanted his son’s body encased in lead and buried in secrecy? So no one could perform an autopsy—so no attention would be drawn to his death. You recall the boy’s illness. A little sudden, think you not?”

  I am trembling with so many emotions I know not what to do. Rage, agony, sorrow, fear, confusion…I am dizzy. I want to faint. I want to run. Anything to escape this new horror.

  “So you see, you believe me to be your great enemy when, were it not for me, you might have ingested whatever it was that killed your husband,” he says as though quite proud of himself.

  “Yes, you saved me,” I tell him, pulling away from him. “You saved me for more years of heartache and sorrow. You saved me for Henry VIII. You, who knew all of this, would not have hesitated to give me to him as his bride. It was expedient for you to risk my life then.”

  “You would not have come to harm,” Norfolk tells me.

  “Like Anne and Kitty, I would not have come to harm!” I cry.

  “Let us dispense with this, Mary,” he says with a wave of his elegant hand, as though the gesture had the power to banish the past from our minds. If it were that simple…“We cannot go back. We have only the present and that is my concern now,” Norfolk continues, his voice calm and cool, “because presently you keep company with fools. You offer your heart and mind to people unworthy of it; you are every bit the child you were when married to Fitzroy, and in your naïveté expose my grandchildren to heresy.”

  “It isn’t heresy now,” I say feebly.

  Norfolk shakes his head. “It taxes me, conversing with you,” he tells me. “You are dismissed, Mary. And, remember, no more bishops.”

  “Have no fear of that,” I seethe as I allow the lieutenant to escort me from his room and into the world, my heretic world that I love so well.

  This new knowledge of the circumstances surrounding my Harry’s death haunts me day and night, and even after spring yields to the ripeness of summer, I find I am less able to lose myself in the enchanted realm of Reigate.

  Master Foxe inquires after the source of my melancholy as we are taking an evening stroll through the gardens.

  I purse my lips. I am so weary of tears that it is an effort to shed them. I draw in a breath. “For so many years, Master Foxe, I was a person of great optimism. Some could call me an idealist. Most, my father especially, would call me naïve.” I swallow. “I retained a great deal of that optimism even after the deaths of my cousins George and Queen Anne.” Now the tears come—how easily they spill forth, beckoned by my sweet cousins’ names, just as they always are. “Then my husband, my Lord Richmond, followed her. Still—” I hold out my hand, gazing at my longtime reminder of hope, the fiery opal ring Norfolk gave me an eternity ago. “Still I lived in almost…almost a dream. I always believed that things would get better. I would just have to keep praying, keeping hanging on, keep fighting. And so I did. I won my inheritance through years of struggle and tears. The future seemed bright when the king married his German Anne. Even when they divorced, I remained hopeful. At least he spared her.” I bite my quivering lip. “Then came little Kitty. Oh, Master Foxe, you may have thought her a silly, errant child, and that is what she was. A child. A child sorely in need of love, not the twisted imitation granted by His Majesty.” I dab at the tears coursing down my cheeks with one of my new handkerchiefs from Agnes. “She was so beautiful, Master Foxe. So lively and energetic. So young.” My voice softens as an image of Kitty conjures itself before my mind’s eye. She is twirling about in a new orange gown, covered in jewels, wrapped in a sable. Her blue eyes sparkle with youth and mischief. And life…“I believe it was when she died that it began, this cessation of hope. Then my brother followed…oh, Master Foxe…Now my father stews in the Tower, taking his pleasure in tormenting me with the sins of the past.” My voice grows hard. “We have wrought our own fates by deception and betrayal. And now I have charge of these innocent children; it is my responsibility to ensure that they do not turn out like us.” The last word is uttered in horror. “You will defend me, I know, and I thank you, dear Master Foxe. But I have been an accomplice to all that has occurred, no different than my father. In my complicity. In my cooperation. In my…my malleability.”

  I sit on one of the garden benches, resting my elbows on my knees and my forehead in my hands. “As I watch the children play, do you know what I think about? I wonder, while searching their little faces, which one will be the deceiver? Which one will be the most manipulative? Who will betray whom? I wonder…” I can barely speak through my gulping sobs. “Which…one…will…l
ose…their…heads?”

  “My dear lady,” coos Master Foxe, his tone soft.

  The gentleness in his voice causes me to sob harder.

  He is at a loss. I am ashamed of my tears but cannot hide them.

  Master Foxe reaches over, taking my hand in his. “My lady, you must recall God’s words from Romans chapter five, verse five. ‘Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.’ You speak of the cessation of hope in your heart, yet you have not yet said it has been extinguished. Whatever hope resides there, smoldering like the dying embers, it has only to be rekindled. Hope does not disappoint, my lady. You lost your husband but you did regain your inheritance. You lost many members of your family, an undisputed tragedy, but God has given you charge of your brother’s children so that you might be a guiding force in their formative years, a force they are not like to forget.” He reaches up to trace my cheek with trembling fingers. “My lady, do not search for what is not yet there, for what might never be. Live in the now. In the Song of Solomon, we are told, ‘For lo, the winter is past. The rain is over and gone.’”

  “But, Master Foxe,” I whisper through tears. “The rain always returns.”

  Tears fill his eyes. He cups my face in his hands. “‘It shall be, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the rainbow shall be seen in the cloud.’”

  The verse from the ninth chapter of Genesis causes my memory to stir. I see the beach of Calais. I see Harry and Cedric. I see Norfolk…

  And now, before me, I see Master Foxe. His hands warm my face, his thumbs stroke my tears away. My heart begins to pound. It has changed. Something has changed.

  He blinks, withdrawing his hands. He knows.

  We sit a moment, regarding each other in silence.

  There is nothing to be done. We must return to the manor. We must not think on it.

  I must live in the now. The rain is gone. I must look to the clouds; I must look to the rainbow.

  Master Foxe and I do not avoid each other, but we no longer keep company alone. We remain amicable. I try to ward off fantasies as we dine together with the children, that he is my husband and they are our children. When I catch myself in these flights of fancy I distract myself with fervent prayers that God will forgive me and take these torturous thoughts away.