Secrets of the Tudor Court (22 page)

The words are so cold, so self-serving that I begin to tremble in terror. I sob harder, knowing it is all futile. Knowing there is nothing I can do. If I could not save my cousin, queen of this realm, how can I save my uncle, a virtual nobody?

“But they love each other,” I say. “Why shouldn’t they be together? Who are they hurting?”

“Love, always love with you.” Norfolk waves an impatient hand. “Don’t you see that isn’t what this is about? He was placing himself too close to the throne. He was being an upstart.”

“Aren’t we the same thing?” I ask, no sarcasm implied. I am genuinely puzzled at what creates the distinction between us and Lord Thomas Howard.

I earn a slap for my confusion. Fortunately it is not the bad side of my head and I can recover my senses enough to back away from him.

“If you had a part in this, you keep it to yourself. I don’t even want to know, you hear me?” He shakes his head in impatience. “Dismissed.”

“Yes, my lord,” I whimper as I exit, holding a hand to my swelling cheek.

My uncle is to be added to the mad king’s increasing death toll. My uncle is to die, and my father expresses no grief.

No one speaks of Margaret and my uncle. They are in the Tower and that is that. The ladies occupy themselves with a quieter court life. King Henry pretends to be normal. And Harry has taken ill.

He is at St. James’s Palace. I am told it is not serious and I am not to worry, but I see the lines of anxiety crinkle my father’s forehead as he fetches me one sunny July afternoon.

“You are to go to Lord Richmond,” he tells me. “You will be accompanied and guarded. Discuss your visit with no one.”

Alarmed, I take Norfolk’s arm. “Is my lord well?”

He says nothing.

At St. James’s Palace I find out for myself.

Harry, my sweet, innocent Harry, is on his deathbed. His lips are blue, his face is white, and he is wracked by an agonizing cough that dots the white handkerchief he covers his mouth with in bright flecks of blood.

The guards remain at a discreet distance as I sit beside him, clutching his hand. “Oh, my dearest, why? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“It was so sudden,” he says in a thin voice, reaching up to stroke my cheek. “I didn’t want to worry you. And the king…” He draws in a rattling breath. “He doesn’t want anyone to know. I can’t imagine anyone being alarmed at my passing.”

There are those who suggest Harry is capable of stirring up a rebellion so that he might seize power; those who do not know my gentle husband, and enjoy spreading vicious lies. Yes, anyone who does not want the princesses to come to power would have good reason to be alarmed should anything happen to Harry.

Now is not the time to remind him of this, however. It no longer matters.

“Mary…” Harry reaches up, cupping my cheek. “Promise me you will not marry again.”

“I’m married to you,” I tell him. “There is no reason for me—”

He is seized by a fit of coughing. When he recovers himself he places a hushing finger to my lips. “Promise!” His voice is a husky whisper. “It will be difficult for a while, I know. But as the Dowager Duchess of Richmond you will be afforded the kind of life ordinary widows are not; a freedom other women cannot enjoy. I do not pretend to think that you won’t fall in love, but you must not marry for it. Love, Mary, but do not wed. Neither someone of your father’s choosing nor someone you have found for love, for regardless, Norfolk will see to it that your life is made a terror.”

I am certain of that. But not to marry again, not to have babies…

“Do you realize what you are asking of me?” I breathe.

He offers an earnest nod. “Fight for your inheritance, Mary. You can have happiness, more than you know, when the fight is won.”

“But I never win,” I whisper brokenly, tears sliding cool trails down my cheeks.

“You will not think that way, dearest,” says Harry. “You will not. You will find happiness in the smallest things: summer, picnics, flowers, rainbows—”

“Rainbows…”

He nods. From his wistful expression I know he is recalling our rainbow on the beach of Calais. “Yes, rainbows. And then, upon taking such pleasure in those small things, you will appreciate life’s great wonders all the more.”

“But what of babies, Harry?” I ask. “What of them?”

He lowers his eyes. “Have them, if it pleases you. In secret. Keep them from this life. There are ways. Mary, there is always a way to get what you want. One thing I can credit the Howards with is getting what they want. In this, you must think like a Howard.”

It is futile to think of now, anyway, I surmise. Instead I am caught in the immediate. I force a smile. “Oh, Harry, you aren’t leaving me. This is all silly talk.” I stroke his pasty cheek. “You will come through fine. I…I must tell you something, my love. Father, good Lord Norfolk, has given his permission for us to be together at last. As soon as you are well we shall set up house wherever His Majesty deems fit, and we’ll be so happy—”

“Promise, Mary,” Harry insists, squeezing my hand.

Tears stream down my face. “I promise, my good lord.”

Harry reaches up, stroking my hair. His thin hand finds the butterfly comb securing my chignon in place. He removes it, regarding the mother-of-pearl wings and emerald antennae with tears in his eyes. “You have worn it all this time?”

“Since the day you sent it to me, the day after our wedding,” I tell him in truth.

He closes his eyes, smiling, his hand clenching over the little comb. “I shall take it with me,” he tells me. “And place it in your hair once more when we meet again.”

I swallow a sob.

A guard steps forward. “His lordship is tired. He must rest.”

I rise and am escorted home.

I am not permitted to see Harry again.

It is Norfolk who tells me a week later that he is gone.

I sit in front of him, stunned. “I was not permitted to be there when he drew his last breath…my own husband…” I sink my head into my hands and sob.

“Really, Mary, you must cease in this pretense that he was your husband. It isn’t as though you shared any sort of real history. You didn’t live together. No children tie you,” Norfolk says in cool tones.

“No, you saw to that.” I raise my head. I am unable to summon any more tears. I stare at him. “But you will never tell me we were not wed. I loved Harry well for what I was allowed.”

Norfolk folds his arms across his chest and grunts.

“The funeral,” I begin. “Where will it be held? Where will my lord be interred?”

“It has been taken care of,” Norfolk tells me.

“The arrangements or the funeral?” I cry.

“He’s been interred, Mary,” Norfolk says. “The king did not wish any attention to be drawn to his death.” He bows his head. “A damnable job they did of it. He was to be encased in lead, but the damned servants loaded his coffin under a pile of straw and hauled him off to Thetford Priory. They’ll be made to suffer for their negligence,” he adds darkly.

I am trying to digest this. He has told me my husband is dead. He has told me my husband, a duke, son of a king, is buried without acknowledgment or farewell. He has described his last journey as one would the misadventures of a merchant and his sack of wares. He has told me no one attended him at his funeral, save two inept servants.

I cannot breathe. My throat is raw. Somewhere a sound is ringing in my ears. It is a moment before I realize the sound is my own screams. Norfolk takes my upper arms. He is shaking me, his black eyes wide.

“Stop!” he orders. “Stop it, do you hear!”

“Harry…” I sob. “I want Harry…” I begin to writhe against his clutches. “Take me to Harry!”

“Stop, fool. Calm yourself. Do you want the guards to hear you? Cease!” Norfolk commands, shaking me more, as though this will serve to quiet me.

I cannot stop. I am wailing. The tears I have tried to stay, for Anne and all the others that suffered under the king, are unleashed. My temple is throbbing in pain as my sorrows pour forth.

“He is evil,” I sob. “He is mad! His son is dead and he does not mourn him! His daughters he turns away…his wives he slaughters in one way or another!” I begin to pummel Norfolk’s chest with my fists. “And you! You help him! You spirit his dead son away! You help him exile his first wife, you help him murder his second…the Devil’s right hand you are!”

Norfolk drops his arms, staring at me, his face void of expression.

I cannot slow my tears or modulate my breathing. “Oh, beat me—may you beat me to death and end my misery!” I begin to tear at my dress. “Here! I shall help you!” I bare my back and turn. “Here!” I throw myself onto the floor, spreading my arms. I pound the floor with my fists. “Here!”

For a moment I can think of nothing to add to this tirade. My head is throbbing. I feel as though I will retch. I await his belt. It does not come. He kneels beside me, laying a hand on my back. He regards me a long moment, perhaps entertaining a punishment best suited for this show of temper. And then draws me into his arms.

Such is my state of bewildered shock I am no longer able to cry. I emit little whimpers, mewing like a sick kitten.

Norfolk begins to rock back and forth. He smoothes my hair and kisses my forehead. “We will take you home to Kenninghall,” he says in the softest tones I’ve ever heard him use. “We will take you to Kenninghall and there you shall recover.” He is still rocking me. “It is best,” he says as though to himself. “You have fallen under suspicion for your involvement with Lady Margaret and Lord Thomas as it is. You will go home till it passes.”

I do not care about this new piece of information, nor that his motives for sending me home have more to do with protecting himself by disassociating with me than his desire to see me recovered from my grief. I only care that he is sending me home.

“Away from this place?” I ask, my voice small. “You will take me away?”

He nods. “Yes, Mary. I will take you away.”

I fall against his chest once more. I bury my face in his doublet and sob tears of relief.

Let Norfolk have King Henry VIII. I am through with him and his court.

The Fight

I
start the journey home in a litter, so weary am I from the exertions of grief, but find creeping upon me the sensation of being trapped, so request a horse that I might ride in the open air. I chase away thoughts of Harry and me riding in Calais. I take in the warm summer air, the green fields, the flowers in bloom—all those little things Harry told me to derive my joy from. Norfolk rides beside me for a while in silence. He is unsure of me, I think. Perhaps he believes I’ve gone a little mad. Perhaps he is right.

At last I draw in a breath and ask in low tones, “How did you sort out the loss of your first family—Anne Plantagenet and—” I swallow a painful lump. “And all those poor children?”

He is silent a long while. “I went on. I am a Howard. That is what Howards do.” He meets my eyes. “And that is what you will do. You shall see.”

And so we go to Kenninghall, where I shall endeavor to do just that.

I am alone here. Both Mother and Bess are at other manors now; Mother as a prisoner of sorts, Bess as lady of the house. I am not to seek them out, Norfolk instructs before taking leave the day after our arrival. I am to stay here, he says, and manage my affairs while he tries to repair relations with the king.

And so I remain. I lie abed most of the time in the beginning. I think about Harry and Anne. The servants try to coax me into eating, but I cannot ingest anything but broth and pottage. My stomach aches. I hear them talk about me, the servants. They believe I will be dead within the year; they take bets in the kitchens.

I do not pay them any heed. Little by little my strength returns. I begin to eat a bit more.

I keep company with one of the servants’ daughters, a young girl named Lily Rose. She is sweet, easy to talk to, and very interested in the New Learning. She is fearful, however, because as I was once an esteemed member of King Henry’s court I might condemn her for studying the Scriptures and turn her over as a heretic for her forward thinking.

I assure her that I am so low that the king can’t even condescend to grant me my rightful inheritance. The last thing I have is influence over His Majesty. I am so interested in the topic myself that it would be hypocritical to condemn her as a heretic. If she is, then, I think with a shudder, so am I.

Lily and I take to reading the Bible together. It is amazing reading it in my own language. I love to ponder Psalms and Proverbs without the bother of translating from the Latin in my head. I read the traditional stories that brought me joy as a child, stories about Noah’s Ark and Jonah and the big fish. I delve into the teachings of Jesus and the meanings behind the parables. Our discussions are animated and filled with good-natured debates. We talk about the overindulgent priests of the Catholic faith, how things should be simplified, how their coffers should be emptied. As we speak of these things I recall my Anne, sitting in her luxurious apartments, sparking my interest in the topic for the first time. I blink back tears of anguish.

Despite this, the discussions, along with Lily’s gentle company, prove to be my salvation. But I remember my mother’s warning. I keep my faith to myself and await better times.

Perhaps I should have realized that Norfolk was not going to support me, that I am expected to run this household, pay my staff—and buy food and clothing along with the rest of life’s necessities—by myself. Yet I did not. My debts accumulate. I have no concept of how to handle finances. I never had to before. I am fraught with anxiety as I try to learn. At night I lie awake and think of ways to pay the servants. I cannot dismiss them and live in a large manor by myself. And no one else is willing to take me in. Surrey is busy with his wife and children. There is no room for me in his life.

I write to Cromwell, appealing for my inheritance. But he is a busy man with much to think about. The widow of Henry Fitzroy is not a priority. I am told the king is reconsidering the validity of my marriage on the grounds that it was not consummated. My gut churns as I recall his “invalid” marriages to Catherine of Aragon and my Anne.