Rivals in the Tudor Court (38 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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“Bess,” I say in soft tones. “Bess, it is the duchess of Norfolk. Can you hear me?”
Bess flinches at the word
Norfolk
and stirs, forcing her eyes open. The brown orbs are glazed over; the whites are yellow. She stares at me a long moment, drawing me into focus, then offers a timid smile.
“My lady . . . you came,” she murmurs.
I take her hand, nodding. She offers a faint squeeze.
“I did many bad things to you,” she tells me.
“Yes,” I agree. I will not lie but neither will I treat her with a malice I no longer feel.
“But the very worst thing was that . . . I never stood up,” she says. “I never stood up . . . instead I stood by. I stood by while the duke tortured and imprisoned you. I stood by while he ruined my own life, a life I turned over to him for the sake of a girlish infatuation that turned cold all too quickly and ended in hate.”
“It's all right now,” I tell her. “The duke cannot hurt anyone anymore.”
“My lady.” Her voice is very weak; it is pulled forth in a raspy whisper. “My lady, I have lost my son and I have lost my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” I tilt a brow in confusion. Is she yielding to delusions?
“Oh, my lady, yes . . . the very worst thing. I stole from the duke a daughter. She was born in forty-three. Her name is Jane Goodman and she resides at Norfolk House.” Bess takes in a deep breath. “I never got to say good-bye. Will you see her for me? Will you tell her . . . ?” She gasps. Her eyes are wild with fear as she grapples with the reality of leaving this world.
“I'll tell her,” I say in urgency. I stroke her burning cheek. “You must not worry, Bess. I'll take care of everything.”
“I'll not ask your forgiveness,” Bess goes on. She raises her hand and removes from her finger a heavy signet ring bearing a lion with an arrow piercing its tongue. I recognize it in an instant as the ring my duke bestowed upon each of us at different times in his turbulent life. “But I will give you back another thing I stole. Please take it. It belonged to you first and belongs to you last.”
I take the ring but do not put it on. Instead I tuck it into the pocket of my gown.
I rise. “I shall send for your husband now, darling. He will want to be beside you.”
She smiles. “Oh, yes. My husband . . . my dear, sweet husband . . . how I love to say that word. . . .”
In that instant I realize that for years Bess was as much a prisoner as I. Charity and compassion surge through me as I seize her hand in mine and press it to my lips.
“Bess, you do not have to ask for my forgiveness,” I tell her. “Because you have it. Always.”
Tears stream down Bess's cheeks unchecked. Her hand relaxes in mine. She closes her eyes. Her head lolls to one side.
I kiss her hand once more, then lay it at her side.
Quietly, I quit the room as her husband brushes past me screaming, “Bess, no! Oh, Bess, no!”
My steps quicken as I make my retreat. I reach in my pocket. The signet ring is warm in my hand. Hot tears stream down my cheeks for Thomas's former mistress, tears I never thought I'd shed.
Oh, God, take her home. Put to rest the sweet soul of Bess Holland Reppes.
Gratia Dei, Sum Quod Sum!
Thomas Howard
W
hen Mary imparted the news of my Bess's death I cried. I did not think I would cry. After my daughter left, however, and I was quite alone, I found the tears that fell for my betrayer would not stop. Now she is dead. I cannot even restore her our daughter. It is too late. Like all my life, too late.
I had loved the girl in my way. She was pretty and sweet. She gave me a semblance of joy for many years. I cannot say I did the same for her. Her betrayal made it clear that things were otherwise.
It is just another wrong I cannot right.
The years put themselves between her death and me, and I live out my imprisonment taking pleasure in the few visitors I am allowed to see: Mary, Elizabeth, and my son Thomas, who, though we never had much use for each other, treats me with a begrudging respect nonetheless.
And then in 1553 my godson, King Edward VI, dies of consumption. The bells toll and London erupts into chaos as another resident joins me in the Tower. Her name is Jane Grey, so-called queen of England. Edward had named her his successor and for nine days she rules with her husband, Guildford Dudley—of course she does no such thing. Her ambitious father-in-law, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, rules through her.
It is short-lived. Mary Tudor takes London by storm and the Tower that little Jane Grey was to celebrate her coronation in now serves as her prison. The daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon conquers with the spirit of her royal parents, and one of the first things she does as queen is release a group of prestigious prisoners from the Tower.
I am among them.
The day of 4 August dawns bright and sunny. As I kneel at the Tower gates beside old friend and fellow inmate Bishop Gardiner, Queen Mary, the image of her Spanish mother, leans down and places a gentle kiss on my forehead. I look up at her. My liberator is obscured by the sun.
She holds my face in her hands. “Rise, Duke of Norfolk. You are free and you will be restored to our council. You will serve as our earl marshal and lord high steward as well.”
“God bless and keep Your Majesty,” I say automatically as I immediately begin to make plans for the grand coronation banquet I will throw her. I will prove indispensable to her; she will never regret freeing me.
It is almost too much to digest. After six and a half long years, I am free! Free! With effort my aching legs permit me to rise and I stand straight and proud as I survey the crowd of cheering onlookers. I search out the faces of my Mary and my Elizabeth, who wait for me in the throng.
When we find each other, Mary embraces me fast and I hug her in turn.
“Gratia Dei, sum quod sum!”
I cry. “By the grace of God, I am what I am!”
Mary pulls away, her face alight with a radiant smile. The cloak of her beauty envelops me, warming my soul, and all I can do is stare into her face. Oh, Mary . . . my dearest girl. At last I force myself to turn away and face my longtime adversary.
Elizabeth stands composed and calm, her smile filled with the same mockery that has sustained me through my years of imprisonment.
“I have been called to wait upon Her Majesty,” she tells me.
“I am glad of it,” I tell her with sincerity as I reach out to squeeze her hands. It is quite a relief to have my wife in favor with the Crown once more.
I turn about a moment, invigorated and rejuvenated. I have survived. I have survived!
I begin to laugh.
Of course I have survived, I think to myself. I am Thomas Howard.
Elizabeth Howard
Thomas has swept in with his usual confidence and commences with as much speed as possible to prove himself the same coldhearted bastard I love to hate. One of the first things he is called to do is oversee the trial of the Duke of Northumberland, whom he is happy to condemn to death for his part in the Jane Grey fiasco.
Thomas did not forget Northumberland's part in securing his imprisonment, nor did he forget the lands he stole from him afterward. For these crimes more than anything else, Thomas ordered a traitor's death for the poor duke.
After the demise of Northumberland, Thomas decided that the education our Mary was giving his grandchildren was inadequate and radical, removing them from her care. The heartbroken girl delivered them herself and Thomas set to making plans for his heir, Surrey's son Thomas, by placing him in Lord Chancellor Gardiner's household as a page.
He is at the top of his form.
Together, Thomas and I attend Her Majesty at her coronation banquet, an exquisite affair my lord arranged for her pleasure.
At one point in the evening, the queen seeks me out and embraces me. “I want to thank you, Lady Norfolk,” she tells me as she pulls away. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.
“Your Majesty!” I exclaim. “Please don't cry. 'Tis such a happy day.”
She bows her head. “If only my mother had lived to see her dream come true at last. I have been rightfully restored and I triumphed over her enemies. I will never forget your faithfulness to my mother, Lady Norfolk. Know that in turn you will always have my gratitude and protection.”
“I thank Your gracious Majesty,” I say as I dip into a deep curtsy. I send up a prayer to my queen Catherine that her daughter may rule with the same grace and conviction that she did.
In early 1554, Queen Mary sends my husband to quell Thomas Wyatt's rebellion against her impending marriage to Philip of Spain along with the plot to reinstate Jane Grey as queen of England. He is unsuccessful in his military engagement, but the rebellion is squashed after his retreat and he is celebrated as a hero nonetheless.
Queen Mary comes down on the rebels with the mercilessness of her ruthless father, condemning Thomas Wyatt to death, imprisoning her sister Princess Elizabeth in the Tower for her suspected participation, and even ordering the deaths of poor little Jane Grey, her father, and her husband. Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley had been residing in the Tower since the beginning of her reign and it was thought by all they would be released and pardoned. It is an unjustifiable tragedy. All knew the girl was completely innocent and perished only because of her father's ambitious plotting. The parallels between him and my Thomas cause me to shudder in revulsion.
I begin to fear this queen. She does not demonstrate her mother's understanding or forgiving nature. The years spent under her father's cruel shadow took their toll, and the queen who has emerged from the abused girl is a terrifying one.
But I am loyal to her nonetheless. She is my Catherine's daughter and I must try and guide her with as much subtlety as I can.
Thomas takes ill after the failed rebellion and we retire to Kenninghall for the summer.
“I'll return to court when I am better,” he tells me.
“Of course,” I say, but as I lock eyes with those hard black orbs, I know he is lying. And he knows it, too.
“Elizabeth . . .” Thomas sits on his bed and holds his arm out. I sit beside him and allow him to enfold me to his chest. “Will you do something for me?”
I nod, swallowing an unexpected onset of tears.
“Will you send for my Mary?” he asks.
Mary. Mary, who has been so wronged by this man, Mary who just now had to sacrifice the children she loved more than her own soul to Thomas's desires, Mary, who I have never allowed myself to love . . . Yes, of course he would want to see his Mary.
“Yes, my lord,” I tell him. “I shall send for her directly.”
The girl is mortally ill, that much is certain. She arrives hunched over in a Tudor green gown her father had made for her years ago, gripping a stomach that curses her with endless pain. Upon seeing me, she tries to right herself before dipping into a curtsy.
I seize her hands, pulling her toward me into an embrace. “Oh, Mary . . .” I say as I hold her close. “How much I have missed you . . . how much do I long to love you as I should have so many years ago.”
She pulls away, reaching up to stroke my face. Her sweet little countenance is surrounded by a halo of golden hair. Her green eyes shine like emeralds.
“How much do I share that longing, lady Mother,” she tells me in her tiny voice.
“Then you will stay with me,” I say, pulling her to me once more. “You will stay with me and let me take care of you. Let me be the mother I never was.”
“It is my greatest desire,” says the girl as she buries her head in the crook of my shoulder.
I stroke the honey blond hair and sway from side to side. “Your father wishes to see you.”
She pulls away, blinking rapidly. “My father . . . my Norfolk.” She bows her head.
I shudder and pretend not to have heard the agony in the last words as I guide her to his bedchamber.
When Mary emerges hours later, she clutches a little silver circlet in her trembling hands. Tears stream down her cheeks unchecked and she turns toward me, green eyes lit with helpless despair.
“How will I live without him?” she asks me.
“You will,” I tell her firmly. “You will because you
can
. At last, Mary, you will be allowed to truly
live
.”
Mary is distracted and averts her head, shaking it as though she cannot comprehend the thought of life without her Norfolk.
It is a life I have spent many an hour dreaming of and yet now that it is so near, I find myself in mourning.
When I am reassured that Mary is being cared for, I enter Thomas's apartments and close the doors, taking my place at his bedside and busying my fidgety hands by mending a shirt long since cast aside.
“I don't know why you're bothering,” he says. “I'm not wearing it again.”
I sigh. “Then someone else will,” I tell him. “It's a fine shirt.”
He offers a slight laugh, then to my astonishment reaches out to still my wrist, keeping his fingers encircled about it. I wait for the pain but none comes. His touch is light. His eyes are grave.
“Mary . . .” he begins. “I fear for her.”
“I am disappointed. Such a break in tradition is almost unworthy of you,” I say with a slight sneer. It is too late to regret the words.
“She's—she's—”
“She's dying,” I finish, keeping my voice hard and myself harder so that I might bear it.
His face is stricken. “You will take care of her?”
I offer a frenzied nod. “You would ask me to take charge of her now, after denying us a connection almost since her birth.” I cannot go on. I bow my head.
“What's done is done,” he says in gruff tones. “She is the best of us,” he adds then, his voice softer. His head sinks back onto the pillows. He closes his eyes a long moment, expelling a heavy sigh. “The very best.”
“Yes.”
“Which leaves us.” His tone is all business once more. “Why do you stay, Elizabeth?” he asks as he opens his eyes, revealing the impenetrable black orbs I know so well. I smile at the sight.
“I am just one of many circling vultures, my lord,” I say.
“You're not getting a thing,” he says, and though his voice rings with the slightest humor, there is no doubt of his seriousness. He has not forgotten my betrayal. It does not matter. I have not forgotten his. In any event, I am well taken care of.
“Believe me, there is nothing of yours that I want,” I return, my cool voice tinged with amusement. “Nothing that I don't already have: the children and grandchildren.”
He searches my face. “Elizabeth . . .” He averts his eyes, drawing in a wavering breath.
Something in his tone evokes a peculiar gentleness in me. I find my hand entwining his. In the fading light, it is difficult to tell whose fingers are whose. He reaches up and with a trembling hand strokes my cheek.
“If I could have been the man I was before things—happened,” he begins slowly, “or someone else altogether, someone common . . .” He drops his hand. “Everything was wrong.”
I cannot speak past the sudden lump in my throat.
“We were cursed from the beginning,” he goes on.
“No,” I tell him. “No one was cursed; there is no shifting responsibility for our miseries onto some divine fancy. We made our own hells and any chance at happiness we could have had, we drove away like beggars from a feast. We had everything, Thomas. Wealth, children . . . at one time even love.” I lower my eyes. “But that wasn't enough.” I return my gaze to him. His face is void of its usual indifference; he appears wistfully engaged. “It was never enough. Before your love for any living being came your ambition. It ruled over you with more stricture than God and king alike and proved your ultimate undoing. You wanted favor. You wanted power. If you couldn't have that, you would exert your control over anyone you considered less than yourself: Bess—poor Bess, whom you used as a distraction from your clever wife and beloved daughter—me, your nieces, the poor dead queens.” I pause. “And Mary, of course.”

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