Secrets of the Tudor Court (19 page)

I reach out to stroke her dark hair. I do not say anything.

There is nothing to say.

In September, to everyone’s horror, Mary Carey announces to our immediate family that she is with child. She has married William Stafford, a man far beneath her, and will retire to the country to set up house with him.

“And good riddance to you,” Anne seethes. I am saddened by the exchange. I understand that Anne’s disappointment in her own childbearing situation causes jealousy, and that the sisters have always experienced a certain rivalry, but to sever their relationship like this…

“You will never be welcome at my court again, do you hear? You went behind our backs and acted like a common dairy maid,” Anne goes on.

My father is thrilled to join in. “Let Stafford take charge of the slut; indeed that is what she has always been and always will be. You’ll not see your son again, Mary, I guarantee it.” Mary flinches at this. With Anne granted custody of young Henry there is no doubt that my father’s words are not an empty threat. “And you will not receive a pittance from the Howards, ever. Do you understand? I wash my hands of you forever. Go.”

“I will go,” Mary Carey Stafford says, a smile of triumph curving her full pink lips. “I will go, and let there be no doubt that I will know more happiness, poor and banished, than any of you at this court of the damned ever will!”

“Dismissed!” Anne cries.

Mary dips into a farcical curtsy and, in a whirl of skirts, quits the room and our lives.

I ask if I might leave to take the air. Anne grants the request and as soon as I leave Anne’s apartments I run through the halls to catch my cousin.

I seize her by the arm. “My lady,” I say, tears clutching my throat. “You have always been kind to me. Let it be known that I think you are quite brave. I hope you know nothing but happiness.”

Mary cups my face between her hands and presses her lips to my forehead. “Good-bye, my dearest. The best of luck amongst these wolves.”

At once it is all I can do to stifle the urge to beg her to take me away, too, away from this court and its miseries and intrigues, away where there is none to answer to but oneself and one’s own dreams.

I do not see her again.

Falling Stars

1535

A
nne is expecting again! Her joy is muted, however. Her last experience with pregnancy makes her more cautious. Often her face is white, her eyes gleaming with tension as she notes every little thing that transpires. She consults her ladies and midwives frequently, making sure that this or that is a normal sign that the pregnancy is progressing as it should. She is assured by all that the birth of a healthy prince is imminent and she indeed has nothing to fear.

Things pass by in the normal manner, or what is normal for this court, and the holiday season is merry. There are feasting and masking and tourneys. Now and then I see my husband, Harry, but never alone. He sends me little gifts, however; handkerchiefs of the finest linens, bolts of fabric for new gowns, jewels, and trinkets.

He is as good a husband as he is allowed to be.

I spend my time writing. I compose more poetry. I sing and hone my musical abilities. I avoid Norfolk but take joy in acquainting myself with his family.

My half uncle Thomas has come to court. He is a dear man, so fine and fair it is hard to believe he is my father’s brother. Perhaps he favors his mother’s side of the family.

Uncle Thomas, as it seemed no one could come up with a more original name for the poor lad, enjoys being a courtier to the fullest, but unlike most courtiers he is sweet and genuine, taking good care of the hearts in his keeping.

I find myself drawn to him. I can tell him anything and his openness with me speaks of a reciprocated connection. He confides that he has fallen in love with the beautiful Margaret Douglas, niece of King Henry.

This notion causes my heart to soar with excitement. Margaret often tells me how much she admires my uncle Thomas; she cannot talk about his looks and well-turned legs enough.

I begin to act as their messenger, which gives me quite a feeling of importance as mine is such a happy task. They exchange flowery letters and love poems. I am so caught up in the romance that I compose many a verse about the secret couple and am often sighing over their blossoming love.

I do not think, not for one moment, that I am doing anything wrong.

Thomas More and Catherine of Aragon’s friend Bishop Fischer decide not to participate in the taking of any oaths that are to be sworn the country over supporting Anne’s queenhood, the king’s supremacy over the Church of England, and the Act of Succession.

They are tried before Secretary Cromwell—that crafty creature who makes me think of a well-oiled door, too eager to hit you in the bum when passing through it—and sentenced to death along with four other monks.

I retch when I hear of the monks’ sentence: hanging, castration, and evisceration, all to be done while the poor men are still alive to appreciate the depth of their torture.

More, once so dear to His Majesty, is beheaded along with the bishop. Their heads are displayed on pikes on London Bridge as a warning to others who dare defy His Majesty.

Nightmares plague me. I see kind Master More’s face being pecked at by birds, his unseeing eyes plucked out to be dropped in some faraway nest.

They went to their deaths at peace with their convictions. They would not be swayed even under the axe.

Nothing is as pathetic as a martyr,
my father said.

Nor is anything as brave.

Anne gives birth to another dead little prince. This time I am not summoned to her bedside.

She grieves alone.

My heart aches for my lady. I say nothing, however. Anne conducts her life with a forced gaiety, the strain of which shows on her drawn features and sunken cheeks. She forces herself to live beyond her exhaustion; her manner is giddy and agitated.

King Henry behaves differently after the loss of this child. He distances himself from Anne and her charade of happiness. She is the grand courtier once more, throwing her famous tantrums. But instead of sparking the king’s desire and capitulation as they used to, his face darkens in resentment and annoyance.

She plays a dangerous game.

Norfolk tries to caution her. She does not heed.

“She calls me things unfit for a dog,” Norfolk tells the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, one day.

While I’m certain they are well-deserved epithets, I agree that Anne should follow Norfolk’s advice. Now is not the time to display her renowned temper. She should be sweet and acquiescent.

For there are vultures among us.

The Seymours have begun to circle.

In September 1535 the king visited the Seymours’ estate of Savernake and met little pious Jane, a dreadfully plain and boring girl who is the complete opposite of my vibrant cousin. Perhaps it is for this reason alone that she sparks the king’s fancy.

He begins courting her in November, making it no secret to Anne, though she has announced that she is again with child.

Norfolk is tense over the development. The Seymours have been our rivals for Lord knows how long, and to see them wriggle their way into the king’s favor is not a good sign.

“The last thing we want are those damn upstarts,” he seethes.

I sigh. He does not profess concern for Anne’s well-being at all.

By now I should expect nothing less.

Catherine of Aragon dies in early January of 1536. Lady Mary, formerly the princess, is shut away at Hatfield, made to attend her sister Elizabeth, and was never allowed to go to her mother in her final hours.

An autopsy reveals the princess dowager’s blackened heart. Was she poisoned? Few express this possibility; the consequences of suggesting that foul play was involved are too dire, so we keep our thoughts to ourselves.

Those who are brave enough to voice their opinions blame everything on Anne. They also fault her for Lady Mary’s ill health, and any chill my own husband, the Duke of Richmond, might take on. They even go so far as to blame failing crops, droughts, and too much rain on my lady. To the general public Anne is a witch, and the king but a helpless victim of her evil charms.

The king still makes people suffer for objecting to the marriage and voicing anything negative about his wife, but a seed has been planted. He regards her with a wary expression now.

The court is consumed with Catherine’s death, but not out of grief. The king and queen arrange a celebration and dress in bright yellow costumes, dancing about, ordering feasts and the fool Will Somers to be at his finest. There is a sort of hysteria in the king’s blue eyes tonight. Anne’s obsidian orbs sparkle in triumph.

The display is garish. I do not think even Anne’s staunchest supporters find any of this in good taste. Indeed, my father takes to his bed early tonight. I pass by his chambers to bid him good night. I took leave of the festivities early as my stomach is upset.

He is behind his desk, his chin in his hand, his mouth covered by his fingers. He is staring on some fixed point beyond the room’s confines, a point in time perhaps when things were simpler.

I curtsy. “My lord. I came to say good night.”

He removes his black cap and runs his hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. “I respected her,” he says then. I wonder what it is to be a woman and have Norfolk’s respect. It is a rare thing. Yet despite his respect for the late Catherine, he did nothing to save her. So his respect does not amount to much, I decide with a heavy heart.

“And they dance.” His tone is a mingling of bitterness and horror.

I do not know how to respond. Anything I say could send him into a fury so I remain silent. I approach him, reaching out to touch his cheek. I lean down and kiss his hair. “Good night, my dear lord.”

He says nothing.

I leave him to be alone with his grief, as is his wont.

January 1536

The king’s greatest enemy is gone. One would think the battle is over, that now Anne can enjoy triumphant relaxation at long last. But there is no such thing.

At a joust where we pretend all is normal and right between the king and queen, His Majesty takes a fall on the tiltyard, rendering him unconscious. We watch in the stands in horror as attendants rush to his aid.

I run to seek out my husband. It is the first time I have been truly alone with him since our marriage two and a half years ago.

He takes my hands in concern. “What will we do if…?”

That is the question foremost in everyone’s minds over the next few hours as the king lies in the faerie country, that strange place between death and life.

His death would leave the realm to the little princess. A regent would have to rule in her stead until she achieved her majority, and only if civil war didn’t erupt over the rights of Lady Mary’s claim. No doubt my father and Cromwell would wrangle over their right to rule as regent…

And then there is Fitzroy, my Harry, who stands helpless and frightened before me now. His fear is more pure, however. He thinks of his father dying. He does not think of what it would be like should the country surprise everyone and choose
him
as heir to the throne, being that he is Henry’s only acknowledged male issue.

I clutch Harry’s hand. “He will be all right, Harry,” I tell him in sweet tones. “His Majesty is the strongest of men. This is nothing to him.” I force cheer into my tone, bringing about a small smile from my lord.

“Mary, I want you to come home with me after His Majesty recovers,” says Harry. “Appeal to your father, I beg you. I want you beside me. We’ll start our lives. You’re sixteen now, old enough to have children. Please. See if it can be done.”

Part of me wants to shout that he should appeal to Norfolk himself if he wants me beside him, but in the light of what is taking place on the tiltyard I say nothing. I stroke his cheek.

“It’s what I want more than anything in the world, Harry,” I tell him in honesty.

How wonderful it would be if Norfolk decided I was old enough to leave this increasingly wretched place. I want no more of it; no more plotting and intrigue and fear.

I want to be in my own home with my own husband and babies.

Much to our relief the king is revived. His leg is injured but he is expected to make a full recovery. He takes to his apartments to recuperate while Anne miscarries in her own chambers.

It is January 29, the same day Catherine of Aragon is interred.

I am at Anne’s bedside this time. She lies in a state between dreams and consciousness, uttering terrible things. She talks about her brother George, how his wife Jane always tried to come between them. She talks about the Lady Mary and how she failed in winning the bastardized princess’s respect. Sometimes she bursts into hysterical laughter, followed by an onslaught of gasping sobs.

I sit and cry beside her, helpless as always.

Then Anne discusses the most terrible thing of all. The baby, the baby that is said to have been born a monster, its spine exposed and its head nearly thrice the size of a human being. Already rumors are spreading that witchcraft is involved.

“He was not a demon child,” she says over and over. “My little prince was not evil! I may go to Hell for my sin, but he was innocent!”

I do not know how to respond. I know not of her sin and will not pry. I only know that my cousin is a mother driven to distraction by her grief, and there is nothing anyone can do about it.

When Anne recovers consciousness she is white. Her black eyes are wide in terror. “It is over for me now, little Mary,” she says. “All over.”

“No, you mustn’t say it,” I tell her, stroking her fair cheek. “It’s just the beginning. You will prevail. You always prevail.”

She shakes her head.

The woman whose determination and resolve changed the course of history is defeated.