Secrets of the Tudor Court (16 page)

I can only imagine what it is like to be George. No, that isn't true. I can't imagine. I cannot begin to imagine what it is like to learn I will die, betrayed by my own uncle, and not even afforded the comfort of my spouse's loving prayers.

It is a sorry state we are in.

George, my sweet cousin George, is dead.

I watch him and the other four brave souls swing from the gallows on Tower Green, the same place so many festivities have been held in years past. I will never view this as any place but one of needless slaughter.

I will never see my father-in-law the king as anything but a brutal sadist.

I am numb. I cannot even cry.

George is dead. One moment here, the next gone. My heart is wrought with agony. I am fortunate to be far enough from his widow so as not to strangle her myself, nor do I stand by Norfolk.

I stand with Surrey. We hold hands and watch the handsome courtiers die.

They say Anne lost her mind in the Tower, alternating between tears and laughter, making strange comments and the like. But this is nothing I do not expect; how can one keep one's wits in her circumstances?

She puts to rest rumors of a shattered mind on her execution day, appearing a font of calm.

A French swordsman is ordered to carry out Anne's execution. Perhaps it serves to mock her for her love of the French court and its fashions; perhaps the king is merciful, taking into consideration the swanlike throat and the accuracy needed to smite it from the body he once craved. I do not know.

It is a private execution, for the pleasure of the court. The king is not here, of course. I do not think he is very good at farewells. He did not say good-bye to Catherine or Lady Mary. He does not see the little Princess Elizabeth, God protect her.

No, there are no farewells or reprieves, even after the glimmer of hope that shone briefly when his marriage to Anne was invalidated days before. We had thought he would divorce her in the manner he had Catherine. It is not so. The end he seeks for Anne is more final.

Once the king wants you out, you're out.

In all the years I have seen Anne, I find it strange that she appears most beautiful this dark day. She wears a deep gray damask gown trimmed with fur over a scarlet kirtle, a mantle of ermine, her black hair bound beneath her French hood.

I am glad she wears the hood; she has remained true to herself.

Today I am again beside my brother Surrey. I am grateful Norfolk is not near me, but I spy him regarding his niece with tears in his eyes. I am startled at the show of emotion and wonder if the tears are for the fall of the Howards, or the fall of this wronged lady.

My husband is here, too, but we are not able to stand together for the thickness of the crowd. He is white-faced and trembling as he watches the mother of his sister meet her fate.

She stands before the courtiers, with the ladies who attended her in the Tower. Her spine is straight, her little shoulders square as she regards the assemblage. She is Norfolk's image of perfect posture.

"Good Christian people," she begins in a clear, calm voice. "I am come here to die, for according to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come here to accuse no man nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle, and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh, Lord, have mercy on me. To God I commend my soul."

The executioner's eyes sparkle with tears. Anne kneels but keeps her spine straight, her head held high. In French executions there are no blocks, so she remains thus, a perfect embodiment of dignity. Her hood is removed and replaced with a blindfold.

"Where is my sword?" the executioner asks then.

Anne turns her head, distracted, and it is then that I realize the swordsman's strategy.

He did not want her to know when it was coming.

In one clean cut her head is severed from its beautiful body and she is gone. The executioner is required to hold it up before the crowd. Her lips almost appear as though they are moving.

I bury my head in Surrey's shoulder. "No!" I murmur against his chest.

He rubs my arm. "Say nothing," he orders.

I obey.

Anne's body is placed in an arrow chest, as a coffin is not provided. She is buried in an unmarked grave in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. She was twenty-nine years old.

She is gone. The vivacious, spirited, and delightfully frustrating woman is gone.

I tell myself over and over I will not see her again.

I try to believe it.

"Good-bye, Your Majesty," I whisper as the crowd disassembles. "God keep you."

H
arry and I are allowed to meet in the gardens the next day when Henry VIII announces his betrothal to stupid Jane Seymour. I do not voice my thoughts to Harry; he is the king's son after all, and it isn't prudent for a Howard to be too vocal at this point. Instead I clutch his hands in mine and swallow tears.

"I wanted to tell you..." he says with wide blue eyes, his voice a whisper. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry for all that's happened." We seat ourselves on a bench and I try not to recall all the days spent in the gardens with Anne and her merry court. Anne and Mary Carey and George...how we'd play and sing and gossip. How nothing could touch us then. No! I must not think of it. I'll lose my mind if I do.

Harry shakes his head in despair. "Words seem empty," he says in helplessness. He releases my hands to rub his chest. Tears light his blue eyes; they are bright as the ocean under the afternoon sun.

"Words are empty," I tell him. "Actions give them meaning." I dare rest my head on his upper arm. No one sees us. No one cares now. The court is consumed with the scandal of Anne and George and the others; they are obsessed with the king's new love affair. We do not matter at all, and that is how I want it. I do not want to matter. It is too high a price to pay to matter to Henry VIII.

"We are almost seventeen, Harry. If I appeal to my father, will you appeal to the king?" I ask. "Will you ask him if we can now be together?"

Harry's face is white with terror. "Yes. I'll ask him soon, but, Mary...we may have to wait a bit."

I draw in a breath of panic. I do not want to be here. I do not want to serve that wench Jane. I do not want to be near Norfolk. I want a home and babies. I want Harry. I want not to be afraid all the time, afraid of death, afraid of the king, afraid of my father, and what seems to be my worst fear of all: transience.

Harry brings a finger to my lips. "Just a bit, Mary. Till more distance is put between us and this...event. After he has settled himself with Lady Jane."

I swallow my disappointment.

Harry and I say nothing more to each other. We sit side by side, trying to digest the tragedy, neither knowing how to bring comfort to the other.

The king and Jane Seymour are wed May 30, eleven days after the slaughter of my lady. She is proclaimed queen of England on June 4 and Parliament passes a new Act of Succession. Now only children of Queen Jane are to be acknowledged as lawful heirs to Henry VIII. My little princess, dearest Elizabeth, is as much a bastard in the king's eyes as her half sister, Mary. The only justice that is served is that the king meets with the willful Lady Mary at last, at Queen Jane's urging; perhaps some of their differences can be resolved now, despite the fact that Mary is a staunch Catholic and completely resolved not to acknowledge any of the king's reforms.

I bend my knee to the new queen. I have no choice. Norfolk, his mood sullen, does the same and acknowledges his rival family's rise to power with a grudging respect. He thrives off challenge. Even now I am certain he is devising ways to elevate himself in the king's favor once more. He will not be long thrown down.

He does not summon me to his apartments and I do not seek him out. I have not seen him since Anne's execution. I have not seen him alone since before her trial.

It is just as well.

I do get to see Harry more. He comes to court to pay his respects to the queen. I suppose I don't hate her so much. If she is a tool of her brother Edward Seymour, she is no different than our Anne was to Norfolk. She is encouraged to be as opposite in trait and demeanor to her predecessor as possible; indeed, she quite resembles Catherine of Aragon with her piety and devotion.

She is not what one could describe as fun, and our court is not nearly as merry, but the king still keeps his lively retinue of musicians, and Will Somers is still commanded to be at his comedic best, which he is. But I see his sober face when he thinks no one is paying note, the sadness in his eyes, the downward turn of his lips. He has known the king a long while--he could even be called his friend, after a fashion--and the events of the past nine years have taken a toll on the witty man.

Cedric Dane has been retained as well and performs at his best when called. When I am afforded a moment with him at one of the entertainments, his face is drawn with solemnity.

"You are fortunate to be married to Richmond," he tells me. "It is not a good time to be a Howard."

"I'm a Howard regardless," I respond, tears clutching my throat. "Oh, Master Dane, these days we have known..."

Cedric scans the room. "Best not to say anything here. Best not to say anything anywhere."

"Sometimes I feel if I don't say something I'll die," I tell him with sustained fervency.

"Turn it over to prayer, Lady Richmond," he says. "And your music. Sing. Write. 'Tis the best way to handle grief."

"Yes," I say in feeble tones. I purse my lips, regarding the king and queen from across the room. She appears completely enamored. Her dull face is turned up to his jocular one; she hangs on his every word. Yet what are her consequences if she does not? My breathing becomes shallow. My face is tingling.

"Lady Richmond?" Cedric's tone is solicitous. His violet eyes are tinged with concern.

"Please..." I tug at the ruff about my neck. It is strangling me like a hangman's noose. "I must excuse myself."

I cannot be here anymore.

The secret betrothal of Margaret Douglas and Uncle Thomas has been discovered. For two reasons the beautiful Margaret is sent to the Tower, the first being that those of royal blood must seek the king's permission to marry, the second being her choice of husbands. Lord Thomas is a Howard, and the king is feeling none too merciful toward anyone associating with a Howard these days. My poor uncle is accused of placing himself too close to the throne and is sentenced to death.

The king is negligent in the signing of the warrant, however, making Uncle Thomas a permanent resident of the Tower. I sob in despair and, in desperation, seek out my father.

Norfolk is quick to chastise me. "If you were involved in any way, make no mistake, you will be thrown in the Tower alongside my idiot brother and will meet the same end. And if you think I will come to your rescue, you are wrong."

"I would expect nothing less from you," I seethe. "Why wouldn't you betray a duchess? You did not hesitate to betray a queen--a queen who was your own niece!"

"You do not realize why?" Norfolk grips my shoulders. "Everything I do is for this family. Everything. But in the end it comes down to this: us or them. In the choice between Anne and myself, who did you think I would choose?" He shakes his head, frustrated at what I'm sure he believes is my naivete. "If you think I revel in it you are mistaken. I did what had to be done and no less. I will preserve our name. But I will preserve myself first."

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.