Secrets of the Tudor Court (17 page)

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.

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.

I write to my father. In his brief notes he tells me he is doing all he can, that I will just have to wait. But he offers no personal assistance.

And then in October begins the Pilgrimage of Grace, a revolt that started in Lincolnshire to protest the king's dissolution of the monasteries as well as his other religious reforms--the only innovations the king has made that I actually agree with, save for the inevitable bloodshed that accompanies King Henry's every move.

It becomes a widespread rebellion in the North and I fear for all those involved, for no one deserves to suffer. Norfolk is given charge of the king's forces but does not utilize them at first, hoping to coax the rebels into peace with promises of pardons if they stop the violence. I believe he sympathizes with them to a degree, being that he is a Catholic himself and does not want to resort to carnage. The rebels begin to disperse and the situation seems quite encouraging.

But in January more rebellions break out. My father does not waste any more time negotiating with anyone this time. He supervises executions in five counties, brutal murders that send me into a panic of nightmares.

All I can see is Anne's beautiful head being severed from her body, the crimson blood pouring forth from the stump of a neck. To me, all the rebels are Anne, innocent Anne. I envisage Norfolk among them, rows and rows of Annes, watching them die and calling it a job well done.

He is rewarded richly for his work. Even his rival Cromwell helps him acquire some of the former monastic properties. He has redeemed himself and retained favor.

I have not.

I continue my appeals, drafting letters that all come to nothing. No one will see me. No one will hear me. I begin to sell one jewel, then another, then another to cover the costs that living incurs.

My brother pays a call with his wife, Frances de Vere, and I am thrilled with the company. I give a feast in their honor and, though it is modest, Surrey is polite enough to comment on the tenderness of the stuffed capons and creaminess of the cheese.

Surrey was alongside Norfolk in fighting against the Pilgrimage of Grace rebels, and I am eager to hear his perspective on the issue.

"We did what had to be done," he says of the executions. His eyes are sad, however. He shakes his head. "No one wanted it. But it had to stop. We have to have uniformity in religion, Mary. We have to support the king."

"Yes," I agree with reluctance, thinking of His Majesty's unwillingness to part with a few pounds to support his son's widow. "He is making progress but it is slow. He seems torn between making England reformist or adopting this strange hybrid of Catholicism." At Surrey's alarmed expression I add, "I am not saying we have to be a Protestant country. But how nice it would be for Mass to be conducted in our native tongue!" My cheeks flush in excitement.

"Mary." His expression is grave, a younger portrait of Norfolk. "You must curb this reformist bent. You cannot afford to be viewed as anything but compliant. Your position is precarious." He pauses. "You...heard about Uncle Thomas?"

I shake my head, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. "Tell me."

Surrey swallows. "He is dead, Mary. Wasted away in the Tower."

I bow my head. Uncle Thomas dead--and all for love. Poor Lady Margaret! How must she be coping with his loss? Tears pave slick trails down my cheeks. "Well," I whisper, my voice husky, "God bless him, then."

We are silent a moment. Poor Frances sits with her head bowed, picking at her food. I decide to engage her in a lighter conversation.

"And how is the baby?" I ask.

She raises her head. She is beautiful, with her delicate features, full lips, and wide brown eyes. "Our little Thomas is a delight. He is just now beginning to smile." Her face softens with the pride of motherhood, and I swallow the painful lump that rises in my throat as I recall my promise to Harry. How could he have encouraged me to have children out of wedlock? Oh,
why
did I promise him I wouldn't marry again? But he did say it would be hard for a while; he was far too honest to suggest my path would be an easy one. Though I have a long fight ahead of me, I must not lose heart. Perhaps he was right; perhaps I can know more happiness in the single estate.

I try to swallow my envy as Frances tells me about the baby and Surrey chimes in with, "Oh, it transforms everything, being a parent. Your whole perspective is altered. I know my writing has changed as a result; I feel a new depth..." His eyes are sparkling. I wonder if he is trying to hurt me, then dismiss the thought. Surrey is not heartless.

"Do you have any of your poetry with you?" I interpose. Suddenly I can't bear to discuss babies a moment more. I curse myself for my jealousy, but no amount of chastisement seems to dampen it.

"Here is a recent one," says Surrey, leaning back in his chair and laying his head back as he begins the recitation.

I clap my hands at its completion. Frances offers her husband a proud smile.

"What do you call it?" I ask him.

"'Description of Spring, Wherein Every Thing Renews, Save Only the Lover.'" He sits up in the chair, smiling. "And what of your work, Mary? Still attempting poetry yourself?" His eyes sparkle in mockery.

I hesitate, then laugh. "Oh, yes," I tell him, deciding not to take offense. "It is a great way to pass the time."

He nods but says nothing.

I cry when they leave.

"You mustn't worry, dear," assures Frances as she embraces me. "We'll be back time and again; this is our home, too. And soon you will be awarded that inheritance of yours and things will be set right. Be patient, love."

But they never once offer to help me.

Within a few months I learn that my brother struck a man at Hampton Court who accused him of being sympathetic to the insurgents of the Pilgrimage of Grace, and was arrested. My father's rival Cromwell, however, sees to it that he does not have to appear before the Privy Council and Surrey is sent to cool his heels at Windsor.

I curse Surrey's hot head and inability to rein in his impulses, and pray he will not end up in our late cousin's place.

I wonder if Norfolk will remember Cromwell's kindness to our family and soften toward him somewhat.

From my safe vantage at Kenninghall I am afforded a neutral view of the court and am just as glad not to be in the thick of things. I still write to Cromwell, hoping that since he was successful with my brother's case he will have some influence over mine.

But I hear nothing.

I continue my routine; my secret reformist discussions with Lily; long horseback rides through the countryside, where I visit the tenants, bringing them food and clothes sewn by my own hands, and collecting herbs and flowers from my little garden. They are peaceful days if they are poor ones.

I learn that the new queen is expecting. My heart lurches in anticipation. Will this at last be the prince His Majesty craves, or will it be another cursed princess he will soon render a bastard? I put aside my dislike for Queen Jane and pray for her with an urgency I haven't felt since Anne's last days. I fear for her. If she does not produce an heir her life is at risk, I have no doubt.

That spring I receive a note from Norfolk saying he will pay a visit. As angry as I have been at him, I am thrilled at the news. I order the slaughter of an ox and new lambs for the occasion and supervise the efforts in the kitchens to make certain everything is perfect for his visit. I sell more jewels to purchase the finest cheeses and wines. The manor is sweetened with new rushes and his rooms are cleaned top to bottom.

At the hour he is to arrive I dress in my prettiest mourning gown, allowing my hair to cascade down my back in the fashion of a maiden, as I do not need to wear it up any longer. It falls about my shoulders in a honeyed cloud.

The hours pass. He does not come. I grow worried. Where is he? Has he met with harm? Have his enemies cut him down at last? I begin to tremble as I torture myself with one tragic scenario after another.

I stroll down the drive. I stroll back. I wander the halls of the manor, drumming my chin in thought as the servants shake their heads and sigh.

At last a messenger arrives to tell me that Norfolk will not be coming. He has changed his mind. When I ask why, he shrugs.

"Just changed his mind, my lady," he says. "No real reason. Just didn't feel like making the trip, I expect."

My cheeks burn in rage. Tears fill my eyes but I blink them back. I draw in a breath as I think of the cost of this feast. "It's all right," I tell the messenger. "You will stay and be my guest. I have set a great feast."

I invite some of the tenants into the manor and tell all of the servants that they must indulge themselves tonight. They are all my guests of honor and this feast is a gesture of thanks for all of their hard work.