Secrets of the Tudor Court (4 page)

“Now we are ruled by two queens,” I am compelled to say. I tremble at the thought, not because I am afraid but because it is so odd.

“Not for long,” says Madge. “Not now that Mistress Anne is granted Hampton Court!”

We burst into another fit of giggling, all pondering dissipated. It is all such a game to us, two girls barely out of the nursery, still naïve enough to enjoy the intrigues of the court.

“Will we all move, then?” I ask.

“I imagine the Anne faction will relocate to the palace. It sounds as though His Majesty plans on making it the new London residence,” says the all-knowing Madge.

“How terribly exciting!” I breathe.

“Oh, Mary, you’re such a little girl,” Madge scoffs, but there is no malice behind it and I respond with a smirk. “Do you think old Wolsey left all his red fabric behind?” she adds.

“Why?” I ask.

“To swathe the halls of Hampton Court, of course!”

I laugh in approval, remembering the very rotund Cardinal Wolsey.

Still, the laughter is a little forced. I do believe even cynical Madge seems to pity King Henry’s poor discarded adviser, and it takes away from the excitement of our move.

A little.

I am tired. I am so caught up in this faerie world that I do not sleep at night. I toss and turn, anticipating what wonders will await me the next day. What games will we play? What songs will we sing?

We await our move to Hampton Court. We gossip in voices that ring out like the tinkling of little chimes. We drink wine. Anne thinks it’s funny to see my face get flushed.

We all congregate at supper and I can’t keep my eyes open. My father sits far out of my reach with the other members of the council. As Mother predicted I do not see her, but I catch glimpses of the duke at court. We do not speak, not until he lays a hand on my shoulder in the hall on the way back from an evening’s entertainments, pulling me aside.

I am thrilled to be acknowledged. “How now, Father?” I ask with a cheery smile. It is Anne’s smile. I practice it whenever I’m alone.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face. You look like a harlot,” says Norfolk. He grips my shoulder and guides me down the hall toward his apartments.

He takes me to his privy chamber and sits behind his austere mahogany desk, folding his hands before him and regarding me, one eye squinting, as though I am a diamond he is examining for flaws. “How is Anne?” he asks after a long pause.

“I think she is well, sir,” I say.

“Has she slept with the king?”

I am shocked at the question. My face burns and I bow my head.

“Don’t play innocent. I know how maidens talk.” He has not raised his handsome voice; it is thin and impatient but not loud.

I still cannot look at him. “She does not speak of that,” I say.

“Don’t you
listen
, fool?” he demands, slamming his hand on the desk. “Do you think you’re here for your own entertainment? Do you realize your task in this? You are to be my ears, Mary. I depend on you to report to me all that is said and done in those chambers.”

“What am I to do if she does…if she is…” I cannot say it. I don’t even know what it really means.

“Nothing,” he says. “It is not your place to advise her, not that she’d take it from the likes of you as it is. You are my ears, Mary, that is all. I will expect a nightly report from this day hence. It seems she is weakening under his pressure. No doubt with Hampton Court now dangling before her, she feels secure in her position and thinks she’d have nothing to lose by giving in. Fools, all of them.” The fist on the desk clenches and my eyes are drawn to it. A melding of perfection and anger. “She is difficult to manage,” he says now, more to himself. “It would have made life easier if he’d have settled for that dolt of a sister of hers; she’s already proven her capacity for childbearing.” He shakes his head, then returns his black eyes, eyes that are much like our Anne’s, to me. “It is vital that Anne understands the king’s fickle nature; that he tires of his playthings once he has them.”

I do not know how to respond to this monologue so remain silent, wondering if he will dismiss me.

“Do you understand, Mary?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

I nod. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

“Go on, now. It’s late,” he says. “To bed with you.”

I turn to leave, but he raps his hand on the desk. I turn.

Without raising his head he says, “News from Sir Edward Stanley.” My brother-in-law? What news could there be of him? Was my sister with child? My heart leaps at the thought of being an aunt. “Seems your sister Catherine passed from the plague.”

I am dizzy. My head tingles. Catherine…my fair sister, Catherine, newly married. She was going to have a happy life; a quiet country life with many children. She was so gentle and sweet…Catherine. How could he tell me like this? How could he just sit there and mention my sister’s death with the same dismissive tone he’d describe a failed crop or broken axle?

I approach the desk, trying to remind myself that he is a soldier. It is not in a soldier’s nature to show emotion; they see death all the time. Should they cry, I imagine their tears would never stop.

Rounding the desk I inch closer to where he sits. He has not raised his head. He is looking through some documents. Letters from Stanley? From behind I wrap my arms about his shoulders in a feeble embrace, leaning my head against his cheek. He stiffens, every muscle growing taught beneath my touch. I drop my arms and bow my head, tears burning my eyes.

“Will we go to her interment?” I ask hopefully.

“Of course not,” he answers, his tone gruff. “It’s foolhardy to go where the plague has been.”

For a moment I just stand before him, helpless. There’s so much I want to say but cannot articulate. “Should we say a prayer for her?” I ask at last, my voice small.

He sets the document on the desk, facing me at last. “Prayers never brought any of my other children back. I don’t expect it will work for her. Off with you now.”

I turn once more.

“Mary.” His voice is low.

I do not face him this time. I do not want him to see the tears paving cool trails down my cheeks.

“Your hair is your finest feature,” he says, reaching out to finger a tress of my thick, honey-blond mane, which falls unbound to my waist in keeping with the fashion of unmarried maids. “See that you brush it every night,” he instructs. “A hundred strokes.”

“Yes, my lord,” I answer as I quit the room.

In the maidens’ chamber my tears cannot be hidden. I walk in with my face covered. I do not want to see the other girls. I want to be alone; I want to think about Catherine, about her sweet, lilting voice, her delicate features, her patient smile. She was everyone’s perfect lady, far more suited to court life than I could ever be. Perhaps it is better this way; court life seems every bit as deadly as plague, and uglier, too. Catherine was too pure for it. She was elegant, charming, composed. She was to be a country wife…oh, how I cried when she left. How I longed to accompany her. Waiting on her would have been far more gratifying than service to any queen.

Swirling unbidden through my mind is a memory, far more like a dream to me now. My head is tilted up toward her. She crowns me with a garland of flowers. I close my eyes. I can almost feel the flowers about my head. I take in their sweetness, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the love of my sister Catherine. The queens of Kenninghall, Bess had called us. How ill-fated is our reign.

At once Anne’s voice hisses into my reverie. “Where were you, little Mary? Reporting my behavior to your father, little spy that you are! Do not think I don’t know what you’re about, little innocent!”

I cry harder, great gulping sobs as I throw myself on the bed I share with Madge, burying my face in my pillows.

“Little Mary…?” Anne’s voice bears a gentler note. “Mary, what is it?” The mattress sinks down with her weight as she leans over me and touches my shoulder.

“My sister,” I sob. “My dear sister Catherine…she’s dead of the plague.”

At once Anne is moved to tears, gathering me in her thin arms with a fierceness that almost frightens me. She rocks back and forth with a franticness that is not soothing, but I applaud her efforts just the same.

“Damn bloody plague,” she seethes. “Why is it all so unfair? Why do we have so little control?”

It is a question that I realize has very little to do with the loss of my sister, but it doesn’t matter. I allow Anne and the other girls to soothe my tears and offer their sympathies. I soak up their embraces, wondering why it is only during tragedies that people are driven to physical demonstrations of love.

That night Madge tries to distract me from my grief by telling me stories of King Arthur.

All I can think of is my father as he imparts the news of Catherine’s death.

He did not even look up.

Because my mother has not condescended to talk to me since my arrival at court, I write her a little note and send it by messenger to her chambers.

My dearest Mother,

I am so aggrieved by my sister’s passing that the joy of court life has been sucked out of me. Filling my mind are memories of us as children, writing poems and singing songs, picking out the names of our future children. Life was simple then. Why does it all change?

All my sympathies are with you, Mother. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose a child. I pray for you every night and hope you are finding comfort in the Lord.

Your loving daughter,
Mary

Daughter,

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. We have no control over our fate. We can only press on. We are Howards.

Bless you,
Mother

Dearest little Mary,

My heart breaks for you. I know how close you and Catherine were, growing up. How well do I remember all of your childhood antics! You were such beautiful sisters. She was fair and good and sweet. I pray for her soul and for you as you grieve. Remember, my dear little love, that God is merciful and kind. His ways are mysterious and beyond our understanding. Now Catherine celebrates with the angels and knows no suffering. Her good soul is put to much better use than it could have ever been down here. May she watch over all of us.

I hope you are well and that you are making many friends at court. I hope to see you soon and that all is well between us.

With much love,
Your Bess

In the maidens’ chamber, I clutch Bess’s letter to my breast. I have read it over and over and it is stained with my tears. Bess knew us best. She loves us best. But thinking of Bess only makes me sadder, so I tuck the letter in my little silver keepsake casket along with the one from my mother, a letter I have read only once.

Mary Carey tells me she lost her husband to the sweating sickness. Many other girls come forward and confide of their losses, how one parent or sibling perished to the plague and other terrible things.

I feel less alone but the sadness remains. There is so much unresolved. If I had only been allowed to see her interred, perhaps there would be more closure. It would seem real. As it is, it’s still as though she is off in the country, married to Lord Derby.

Norfolk never mentions her name again. He does not say much of anything during my nightly reports, which consist of nothing since Anne is careful with her words. I tell him she knows why I am there.

“Of course she does—she’s not a complete idiot,” he says. “May you serve as a reminder.” He pauses. “She spends quite a bit of time with her brother George, does she not?”

I nod, smiling at the thought of her handsome brother, who is the picture perfect courtier. “He’s very fine,” I tell him.

“See to it that they aren’t alone too often,” Norfolk instructs.

“They’re not alone,” I say in confusion. “Mary Carey’s with them most of the time.”

“The court is talking,” he tells me, but I have that feeling I often get when he’s speaking; that the words are never directed at me. “Jane Parker’s jealousy is…twisted.” He refers to George Boleyn’s wife, an anxious sort of woman who seems just the sort to be “twisted,” always lurking about in doorways, or hovering just beyond a circle of friends in the hopes of attaining some juicy piece of gossip. Mary Carey warned me of her before, saying that her mind was poisoned with all manner of perverted ideas. Despite my curiosity I never pressed her for particulars. There was more than enough perversion at court without becoming preoccupied with hers.

“How?” I ask, overcome with curiosity.

“None of your concern,” Norfolk snaps. “Just see to it the three Boleyns are accompanied as often as possible.”

“But what if they don’t want me along?”

“You go with them anyway,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Children are annoying creatures, immune to subtlety.” He leans forward and meets my eyes. “In other words, Mary: be yourself.”

I am struck as dumb as he thinks I am. At once every condescending word and derisive jibe he ever directed toward me is brought to mind, constricting my heart as though it were clutched in his perfect fist. Tears burn my eyes, but it would humiliate me further to let them fall in front of him. I must hide them from him, as I always do. I draw in a breath. This talk of siblings brings Catherine to mind, and an image of my brother Henry soon follows.

“Are we to see Henry soon, Father?”

“Henry who?”

I can’t fault him for this. Everyone is named Henry.

“Howard—Surrey, of course!” I say with a giggle, wondering if there is anything under God’s sun I can do to make this man smile.