Rivals in the Tudor Court (29 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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In January, Thomas Boleyn, for the sheer fortune of being Anne's father, is named Lord Privy Seal and begins to savor his newfound power.
That same month, Elizabeth and I remove to Kenninghall to see the children. I have been appointed governor to the king's son, Henry Fitzroy, who is based at Windsor, and have decided to send my Henry to him as one of his companions. I have also decided to observe the girl Mary to examine her fitness for court. If I find her adequate, she could be a little maid to her cousin Anne and prove useful to me.
As a gift I bring the child a little circlet that I took great care in designing. A subtle piece, it is silver and inlaid with tiny seed pearls, and gazing at it I cannot think of a more appropriate adornment for one such as Mary. When I see the girl, I make a show of placing it upon her golden head and she scrunches up her shoulders in her peculiar display of delight. Gazing at her, her delicacy, fine bone structure, and bewildered green eyes, I realize it is expedient for her to be at my side so that she might be in full view of all. She is eleven years old now, ripe for the plucking. Anne has discussed with the king a possible betrothal between her and Fitzroy. At court she can be seen by the king and approved by him. I have been told by Bess and her tutors that she is an accommodating little girl, a talented embroiderer, musician, dancer, and composer of verse, a skill I find rather useless but one King Henry seems to admire in women.
Elizabeth, predictable as the sunrise, is against the idea of Mary coming to court.
“She isn't like us, Thomas,” she tells me in my study. “She never has been. Court is a dangerous place for such as she.”
“She'll get used to it right enough,” I tell her in impatient tones.
“I don't
want
her to get used to it!” Elizabeth cries. “I don't want her to become hard and cold and accustomed to deceit and betrayal! Don't take her, Thomas! Please!”
I have tired of the constant arguing; she must be taught who her master is. I have been far too lenient thus far.
I take her in hand.
It seems to be the only form of discipline she will understand.
And so, with an Elizabeth made compliant, Mary accompanies us back to court, where she waits upon her cousin and is given explicit instruction to report anything and everything involving Anne and the king to me. I do not worry overmuch about the girl's behavior; should anything untoward come my way, I am not afraid to dole out the fatherly discipline that is my right. But she seems malleable enough and fortunately should not require such stricture.
Meantime I am busy wreaking the final downfall of Wolsey. The former cardinal's secretary, Thomas Cromwell, a lowborn son of a blacksmith with, I must admit, considerable potential in the political arena, has aligned himself with the Howard star and is maneuvering away from his master in order to serve one of more prominence. By March he has begun a polite detachment from Wolsey and acts as messenger. When, uncomfortable with Wolsey's proximity to court at Winchester, I send Cromwell with a message.
“What will he do there?” I demand. “No, let him go to his province of York, where he has received his honor, and there lie the spiritual burden and charge of his conscience. So show him!”
The king sanctions this move and sends Lord Dacre to assist him. But they do not move fast enough! What is that portly priest up to?
“Show him that if he does not remove himself shortly, I will tear at him with my teeth!” I cry to Cromwell, who stares at me with wide eyes. He nods so much that his jowls jiggle. I think he believes me.
In late April, Wolsey remains fifty miles from York, determined to be as close to His Majesty as possible. If I didn't hate him so much, I'd find the display pitiable. But there is no use getting excited about it; he is as far north as I can send him for the time being.
Now it is to the king's divorce. I begin to oversee the collection of opinions from the theologians of English and European universities about the legality of his marriage while trying to sway Pope Clement to see His Majesty's side of the situation.
The Pope issues a bull revoking His Majesty's case. In Rome's eyes, the king is forbidden to remarry.
“The best course is to ignore the bull and do it anyway,” I say to Eustace Chapuys.
The handsome ambassador tosses back his head and laughs. “And you are worried about Charles V declaring war? There would be no need, for His Majesty's own subjects would rebel and their king be deemed a heretic!”
I bite my lip in impatience. Something has to be done! How long will this drag on?
In the midst of this I am served a dispatch from a messenger of Derby.
No doubt Cathy has learned her sister has arrived at court before her and is wondering when she, too, will have a place. Impatient with the thought of such trivialities when I am beset with so many other heady tasks, I tear open the seal.
It is no such thing. It is a letter from Derby telling me that Cathy has succumbed to the plague. She is dead.
I am immobilized. Cathy . . . my perfect lady. Born and bred for court life and now . . . now . . .
It was bound to happen. They all die. They all die. . . .
I crumple the dispatch in my hand in a moment of fury as I work my jaw. I try to focus on something to no avail. The carpet is a blur. I close my eyes against the burning tears.
“My lord?” Chapuys takes my elbow. “You are well?”
I nod, pulling away from him. “The duchess . . . I must see the duchess.”
She must hear it from me.
She is in her apartments, lying across her chaise before a dying fire, a piece of embroidery abandoned on her lap. Her eyes are closed, her feet are crossed at the ankle, and the contrary expression adopted in her waking hours has exchanged itself for a softer one. For the first time in many years, I wonder how she occupied herself this evening, what she ate, if she enjoyed her day, what she is embroidering. . . . Silly, useless thoughts, these.
I reach down, touching her shoulder.
She stirs, her expression hardening as her gaze fixes itself upon me. Her lips curve into a wry smile. “Why, it's Thomas Howard. Is it a sign of the apocalypse or are you come to see your wife of your own accord?”
For a moment, all I can do is stare at her. I want to speak. Something prevents me. I sit beside her on the chaise, reaching out to touch her cheek. She flinches at my touch. My heart lurches. I swallow hard.
“Elizabeth,” I begin. I bow my head. “Elizabeth . . . it's Catherine.”
“The queen?” Her eyes are wide.
I shake my head. I wish it were the queen, then am struck by a peculiar surge of guilt.
“Our Catherine,” I amend. “She's—she's dead, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth parts her lips. No sound comes forth. She begins to shake her head. Her breathing is rapid. She rests a slim-fingered hand at her breast as she swings her legs over the side of the chaise and doubles over.
“H-how?” she chokes.
“Plague,” I tell her. I hand her the dispatch from Derby. She scans it, then lets it fall to the floor as she covers her face with her hands.
“Elizabeth . . .” I wrap my arm about her shoulders and attempt to draw her near.
“No!” she cries, rising, balling her hands into fists. “Don't
touch
me!” She turns toward me, pointing at me. “Do you really think to try and comfort me now when you'd just as soon beat me tomorrow?”
“One has little to do with the other,” I say, baffled.
Elizabeth shakes her head, then covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Thomas . . .” She sinks to her knees on the carpet. “What have we come to?” She crumples to the floor and begins to rock back and forth, sobbing broken, wretched sobs.
My heart is pounding. Pain is surging through me. I swallow again and again in an attempt to assuage the sensation of my throat closing. Six children gone, three left. How long? How long before the next one goes? I am cursed to outlive them all, I believe.
I kneel beside her and take her in my arms. She does not struggle or offer words of protest. “There now, Elizabeth. 'Tis the natural order of things,” I tell her. “Long ago I warned you not to get too wrapped up in them lest it kill you. You know?”
Elizabeth sobs harder. “I wasn't there. She died and I wasn't there. Just like little Edward . . . oh, Thomas, I wasn't there to hold her hand and brush her hair and bathe her face. I couldn't even close her eyes.”
I have closed plenty of eyes and held enough dying hands to last my life through. I have no longing for such things and cannot understand it in Elizabeth. Being as far away from Cathy as possible in her dying moments suits me fine.
“It is better like this,” I say, almost convincing myself. “This way you can remember her as she was.”
Elizabeth turns her face up toward me. “Ah, but she was beautiful, wasn't she, Thomas?”
I nod as I recall the young woman I had given away in marriage such a short time before. “She was a lady,” I say. “A great lady.”
I hold my wife for a long time that night.
Elizabeth Howard
She is dead. My Cathy is dead and there is nothing I can do about it. She was my light and now that light has been doused by the icy water of reality. Of all my children, it was she with whom I felt the greatest bond. It is unfair and I don't know what separated her from the rest, save her age and our common bond as females. She was like me in a way. Intelligent and well bred, with no other desire but to be a grand lady and servant to Her Grace. That she should be denied that causes my heart to burn in anguish.
When my sister the Countess of Westmorland arrives at court, she is full of sympathy. Seeing her only fills me with irrepressible anger as I think of everything she has: the man I wanted, the life I wanted. . . . It is easy for her to offer sympathy, I should think as I regard the well-dressed, well-loved woman before me.
“Please, sister, understand that I do grieve for you,” she entreats me in my apartments.
“I'm certain you do,” I say in cold tones. “Tell me, Lady Westmorland, how many children do you and Ral—the earl have now?”
She lowers her eyes. “Nine, my lady.”
“And of those nine, how many have you lost?”
“None, my lady,” she tells me; then, regarding me with wide blue eyes, she shakes her head. “I have been fortunate. Would you resent me for this? How can I control what God doles out? We land where we fall, Elizabeth! I didn't want to marry Ralph—I knew he was yours. Do you think I
wanted
to infringe on your happiness? But by the time I married him, you were long married to Lord Norfolk. The decision, as well you know, was far beyond my control. So I married Ralph. And since being married, I have known joy and have been blessed with living children—but again it is purely by chance that I should be blessed with everything I could have hoped for. Our situations could have as easily been reversed.”
“But they weren't,” I say, my tone laced with bitterness.
My sister wrings her hands. “Would you feel better if they were? Would you, as my sister, wish upon me misery? Do you think I revel in yours?” She approaches me, taking me in her arms. I cannot respond to the embrace. I want to. But I can't. “Oh, my dear lady,” she continues. “Would that you had found some sort of happiness to cling to that you might endure this grief somehow. If you have not, I am not to blame. I come here to offer my condolences and be a comfort to you, but if my presence only serves to bring you more pain, then I shall excuse myself directly.”
I cannot speak. My sister backs away from me. Her eyes are stricken. I want to beg her not to go, but the words will not come forth. I am rooted in pride and anger and disappointment and cannot be moved.
She quits the room and I am alone.
My daughter Mary writes me a letter filled with sweet words and my response is involuntarily curt.
“I curse myself for not being able to see her, but when I think of her I am only reminded of what is lost,” I lament to the queen. “Mary is so unlike me. Where Cathy was practical and realistic, Mary is whimsical and governed by fancies. I want to see her; I want to speak with her. But any comfort I would endeavor to offer would be forced and empty and she would feel it. I would feel it. There is no connection. Not with her or any of them, save my Cathy. And she is gone. I do not know what kind of parent this makes me; I daresay I am about as good a mother as Thomas is a father, which puts me in a sorry state of affairs indeed.”
The queen, who is so good herself it is impossible for her to conceive of evil in another, holds my hand and shakes her head at me. “Nonsense. I am convinced both you and the duke love your children in your own ways. Sometimes it is very difficult to express. Children are people, Lady Elizabeth, and as with any person, there are going to be qualities that you can approve in some better than others. You must not punish yourself for being unable to be close to your daughter right now. You are a woman struck by grief; you cannot be expected to be all things to all people. Give yourself some time and approach the girl when you are stronger.”

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