Secrets of the Tudor Court (3 page)

Now it rests about my waist, quite nonthreatening. In a moment forged out of the desperate need for reassurance, I reach out and take it in my own.

“I am so glad to be with you, Father,” I tell him, and in that moment I am filled with the utmost sincerity.

He pauses. “I have been shown your embroidery. Quite fine,” he says. “And I am told you have a nice ear for the virginals and dance prettily. At court you shall learn all the new dances. It is vital that you study all the womanly arts, Mary. It is also important to keep up with your education. It pleases me to learn that you are a good reader and know your letters.”

“In English and Latin, sir,” I brag, trying to mask my hurt that he has not yet told me he is glad to be in my company. Perhaps, because he is first a soldier, he does not know how to return a compliment.

“The most important thing to remember, Mary, is to keep your cousin Anne happy. Serve her, please her, whatever she wants. She is favored by the king and our family’s hopes lie with her,” he goes on to advise. “But as high as Anne is raised, never forget who the head of this family is. Never forget who your first allegiance is with; that it is your goodly and Christian duty to obey your father always. Swear to me, Mary. Swear to me your obedience and fidelity in all things.”

“I swear,” I say, unnerved by the intensity of his tone.

“Good,” he says. “Very good.”

He squeezes my hand.

I shall be everything he wants, I think to myself. I shall work very hard so that someday he will look at me and say
Mary, I am so glad to be with you.

London!

H
ow is it I, little Mary Howard, can be so fortunate as to enter this fairest of cities? My heart is swollen with joy as I behold all the sights and smells of this magical place. It is so very
big!
Tears sting my eyes as I behold beggars on the street, but my eyes are filled with as much excitement as compassion when they are drawn to the fine ladies and gentlemen that stroll the market, many of whom I have been assured are mere servants from the palace. If the servants are garbed in such finery, then how must it be for the true set!

Most of the streets are dirt but some are cobbled, and I love the sound of our horses’ hooves as they strike against them. I ride my own pony now, sitting straight and proud. Some of the fishwives and other ladies of the market shout blessings out to me and I imagine that this is how the Princess Mary must feel when she travels about in the open.

I firmly believe that God chose England as the spot to place His most beautiful river, the Thames. In its shimmering waters float barges and little rowboats. I squirm in delight, longing to be a part of it. Ahead I can see London Bridge and the approaching Tower, where all the fair kings and queens stay upon their coronations.

“It’s not all a tale from faeries’ lips,” one of Norfolk’s pages tells me. He is young; not much older than my brother Henry. I estimate him to be about fourteen. “See that river? Every day they pull hundreds of bodies out of it. And the pretty Tower? Below it are some of the most gruesome dungeons ever constructed. They torture people on the rack and—”

“Enough!” I cry, urging my pony forward. I refuse to think of anything unpleasant as I make my debut into London.

But somehow the day is a little less sunny, the river a little less sparkly.

And the Tower is a lot darker.

Westminster is a bustling palace! There are people everywhere. Up and down the halls rush servants and heads of state, foreign dignitaries, and courtiers more beautiful in person than I could ever have imagined. As we walk down the halls, I note that my father is greeted with a mixture of aloofness and what I would call sugared kindness. He greets them all the same; with no expression and a grunt of acknowledgment.

I have to refrain from skipping. Norfolk walks with a brusque, determined step and I am all but running to keep up as it is. My face aches from smiling as I take in all the beauty around me.

“Don’t be a fool, Mary,” Norfolk says
sotto voce
when he catches my expression of bewildered joy. “You haven’t just stepped out of a stable. Behave as though you’re accustomed to some level of refinement.”

I sober immediately, swallowing tears. He is right, I remind myself. I must do the family proud. It would not do my father much credit to appear ignorant before the court.

As we walk we encounter an older woman accompanied by a small entourage of ladies. She wears a somber blue gown and a long mantilla over her graying auburn hair. Her blue eyes are soft and distant. She clutches a rosary in her thin hand and every step she takes seems laden with weariness.

My father sweeps into a low, graceful bow. “Your Grace,” he says in a gentle voice.

I sink into a deep curtsy before Queen Catherine of Aragon.

“Returned from your business?” the queen asks. Her voice is low and sweet—motherly. I imagine it would be very nice to sit at her feet while she reads.

“Yes,” Norfolk answers. His face is wrought with tenderness. His hand twitches at his side. He wants to reach out to her, I deduce.

“Who is this little creature?” she asks, and a wistful smile plays upon her thin lips.

She lifts my chin with two velvet fingertips. I manage to lower my eyes in respect.

“May I present my daughter, Mary,” Norfolk answers.

“Ah, so you have brought another Howard girl to court,” she tells my father. She removes her hand from my chin. “To ensure we do not run out?”

Norfolk does not answer.

The queen emits a small, mirthless laugh. “I must attend Mass now. Do you and your little girl wish to accompany me, my lord duke?” She does not wait for him to respond. “No, I suppose not. Attending Mass with the queen has grown quite out of fashion of late, I think.”

She moves on and my mother joins her small assemblage of ladies. Norfolk bows, holding the position until she has long since passed.

When he rights himself his eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

I avert my head, realizing with a pang that while my father is avowed to Mother and enthralled with Bess, it is Queen Catherine of Aragon he respects.

It is an esteem I, too, hope to earn.

Anne

S
he is surrounded by adoring courtiers. The ladies flutter about in their bright dresses like so many butterflies, squawking like chicks in a pen. Her apartments are grand and alive with music and poetry. So much is going on that I do not know where to look.

And then my eyes behold her.

She is not beautiful, not to those who define such as light and golden. She is breathtaking. Dark, with skin like a gypsy, her obsidian eyes are luminous and lively, her lush black hair long and glossy, worn parted down the middle and flowing down her back beneath her stunning French hood. She wears a dress of fine green velvet with the most resplendent sleeves I’ve ever seen. Resting at the base of her swanlike throat is a pendant of an intricate
B
for Boleyn.

She is tilting back her stunning head now, laughing at something one of her many male courtiers said when we walked in. She turns white at the sight of my father, her laughter catching in her throat.

“I decided to bring your cousin Mary back with me,” he says. “She will serve you.” He glances about the room and shakes his head. “I will have speech with you later.”

With that he quits the room and I am alone, with no instruction. I have no idea when I will see him again, where I am to sleep, who is to look after me. I draw in a deep breath. I must press onward. I am a Howard.

I urge myself toward my cousin and curtsy. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, Mistress Anne,” I say.

Anne laughs. She reaches out a hand and seizes my chin. Her touch is not as gentle as the queen’s.

“You have a big nose like your father,” she says in a slightly French-accented voice.

At once tears fill my eyes. This is the last thing I expect to hear. On instinct my hand flies up to cover the offensive appendage, though all my life I have been unaware of its effect. It is all I can do to keep from sobbing out loud. I blink. I must think. I must win her favor.

I lower my hand and smile. “Were it only like yours, my lady,” I say. “Perhaps you can show me how to make the best of this unfortunate circumstance?”

Anne ponders me a moment, then bursts into laughter. There is something about it, an edge that makes it less joy-filled than nervous.
Immoderate.

“You shall sleep with the other maidens,” she says, putting to rest one of my anxieties. “You’ll find yourself in good company. Our cousin Madge Shelton is with us, and here is my sister, Mary Carey.”

She gestures to a curvaceous blonde who reminds me of my Bess. I smile at her. I remember that Bess told me she had once been the king’s mistress. Through servants’ gossip I heard that her two children are his bastards. She is very beautiful; soft and round to her sister’s willowy delicacy. It is easy, however, to see how one could be attracted to both of them.

Mary Carey approaches me and takes my hand. “We’ll take good care of you here,” she assures me, and my stomach settles a bit upon hearing the soothing sincerity of her tone.

“But we must figure out a way to differentiate between all the Marys,” Anne comments. “Is it the only name in England?” She rises, flinging her grand hair over her shoulder. “My sister shall be big Mary and you shall be little Mary.”

“What about Princess Mary?” I ask.

Anne’s face darkens and I curse myself for mentioning the princess’s name. I have so much to learn about this court and I just cannot take it in fast enough!

Anne bats her eyes and adopts a playful expression. “Ugly Mary.”

The room erupts into titters of girlish laughter and I stifle the guilt that churns in my gut as I imagine Princess Mary, rumored to be plain and studious, alone and unloved in her own father’s court.

But I am sworn to the Howards. I am sworn to the preserving of Anne’s happiness. It is not for me to fret over the princess.

Yet late that night, after I am settled into bed with my cousin Madge, I find myself mumbling a prayer for her.

No one should ever be without a friend in the world.

It does not take long to realize that there exist two courts here. One small faction remains faithful to Queen Catherine and the other—the younger, more flighty set—flocks to my lady Anne, the star ascendant. I am caught up in all the excitement. There is nothing but merriment when around Anne. We recite poetry and sing, her favorite musician, Mark Smeaton, accompanying us on his lute, playing with slim deft fingers. We playact together, rehearsing masques we will perform for the king.

The king! What a dazzling figure! He is so big and charming one cannot help but be rendered speechless in his majestic presence. One afternoon while we are readying ourselves for a picnic in the gardens, he struts into Anne’s apartments with the confidence and beauty of a peacock, decked out in his finest velvet and ermine.

As he enters I am brushing my lady’s hair, as she prefers my hand to her sister’s when they are in disagreement, which is often.

“And how now, Brownie?” he asks her.

She laughs at the endearment and shoos me away. I manage to put the brush down but am too awed by His Grace to move, so stand transfixed.

“Who’s this little beauty?” he asks, directing his gaze at me.

“Surely Your Grace met my cousin Mary, Uncle Thomas’s daughter.” Anne’s voice is flat.

“No, we would remember encountering such a fair child,” he says, stroking his tawny beard.

While it is true I have seen the king from afar at meals and entertainments since coming to court, and even bear some vague childhood memories of him, I have never been formally introduced.

He reaches out and places a bejeweled hand on my head. “Bless you, little one,” he says. “How do you find our court?”

“It is the most splendid place in all the world, Sire,” I say, breathless.

He laughs, a robust sound as mighty as he is. “You see? From the mouths of babes! May you always find happiness here, young Mary.”

I am delighted by the encounter. He is so strong and cheerful I allow myself to imagine being held against his doublet, snuggled up safe and warm in my sovereign’s arms. I wonder if his relationship with Princess Mary is affectionate.

His relationship with Anne certainly is. Now he is kissing her hand, turning it palm up to devour her little wrist. She pulls back. It is her bad hand, the one with the nub of a sixth finger on it, a very subtle deformity she hides well.

It withdraws into her voluminous sleeve. She distracts him from the gesture by fluttering her thick dark lashes at him. “And to what do we owe the honor of this impromptu visit, Your Majesty?”

“We would like to present you with a gift,” he says, his crisp blue eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to the mass of courtiers eavesdropping. “Ladies and gentlemen, why don’t you prepare for the gardens? We will join you shortly.”

We have no choice but to do as we are told.

Madge Shelton is now my best friend at court. She is not altogether attractive, but is spirited and full of a vibrancy that creates an aura of beauty that deceives the untrained eye. She and I stand in our maidens’ chamber gossiping over His Majesty’s “gift.”

“No diamonds or rubies for Anne,” Madge says, laughing. “But Wolsey’s own Hampton Court!”

I bow my head a moment. “I can’t help but feel sorry for the Cardinal…”

“Shhh!” Madge puts her finger to my lips. “Don’t say such things. We aren’t permitted opinions. He failed in granting an annulment and proving the invalidity of the king’s marriage, so suffered the price—confiscated lands and a confiscated title. He’s the archbishop of York now, remember?”

“But he was so close with the king,” I continue in genuine puzzlement. “It’s frightening to think one he loved like a brother can be thrown down so fast. And so far.”

“This is strange to you?” Madge’s tone is incredulous. She is a true Howard, I think. There is a hardness in her voice that echoes of my father. “Haven’t you observed how he treats his once-beloved wife? How many tales have we grown up listening to, of the king’s love-madness for Queen Catherine—that once, before his affairs and neglect ruined her, she was the loveliest princess in Christendom? Still he manages to throw her aside. Strange, Mary?”