Secrets of the Tudor Court (26 page)

I rise from my curtsy. Like a fool, I stand before him. My head is tingling. The color has drained from Cat's face as she regards me, her eyes filled with tears. Her hand has ceased its tender ministrations on the royal leg.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty." My voice is drawn forth in a tremulous whisper. "I did not hear you, I think."

He nods as though repeating himself is not a problem. "Yes, he took quite ill. An imbalance of the humors of the bowels. He was cast into the sea." He sighs. "Such a loss. The lad was a wonderful lute player. Quite able at the virginals as well. And his voice! Ah, he is no doubt a credit to the angelic choir."

I curtsy, bowing my head. I cannot look at his massive countenance, nor Cat's pity-filled eyes. "I thank you, Sire."

I must leave. I will not remain at court. Cat is sympathetic. She will dismiss me. I will go to Kenninghall. I will help Frances with the children. Yes, that is what I will do. For how is it to remain where
we
have been? Everything at this palace calls to mind his image. And now...now...

I must leave this room. One foot, then the other. I can walk. I can walk...

I turn but am stopped by the king's thunderous voice.

"Lady Richmond, I do not recall--are you a dancer?" he asks.

Am I a dancer...My love is dead...Am I a dancer? I will never see him again. Never hear him sing or strum his lute. Never hear him play a new composition on the virginals. Never hear him laugh. Never be challenged by him. I will never kiss him, never hold him, never...He is gone...cast into the sea. The sea...

My hands have gone numb. My face is numb. "Wh--what?" I breathe.

"Look how flustered she is!" he cries in delight. "We asked, do you dance?"

I stand before him. I cannot move. Can I dance? Have I ever danced?

I shake my head. "I do not know if my dancing will please you, Sire," I manage to say.

"Let us be the judge of that. Do a pretty turn for me now, will you?" he urges.

I remain rooted in place. I stare at him as though he is some creature from a faerie tale, some ogre...He will eat me or kill me and there is nothing I can do about it.

"Your Majesty," Cat says in her sweet tone, "if I may beg your indulgence. Poor Lady Richmond complained of a headache earlier this evening and hoped to take to her bed. Perhaps she can dance for Your Grace on another occasion?"

The king's eyes take me in, assessing me from the tips of my slippers to the hood on my head. "All right, then, another time." He grunts in disappointment. "How old are you now, Lady Mary?"

"Twenty-five, Sire," I answer. Twenty-five years behind me and God knows how many left. How much more must I endure now, now that I am completely and utterly alone?

"Twenty-five," he says. "A good age. Past the age of being silly...A woman's twenties are her prime, wouldn't you say, Cat?"

Cat nods. "Indeed, Sire."

He strokes his crumb-ridden beard. "We will continue to consider a match."

I curtsy. I must not look at him. If I keep looking at him I will vomit.

"You are dismissed, Lady Richmond," he says. "Do feel better. We will expect that dance."

I flee his presence, brushing past Norfolk, who tries to seize hold of my arm. I wrest free of his grasp and run to my rooms, where I throw myself on my bed, my lonely bed, and sob.

He would have taken me away, he said. He would have taken me away. But me, foolish me...

I sob until my throat is raw.

In the morning I am summoned to Norfolk's privy chamber. He is holding a wooden box with intricate carvings of roses on it.

I am so overwrought from sobbing that every move is sluggish. It is as if I am wading through water, pulled down by my heavy skirts. If I wade deep enough the water will take me to its breast where waits my love...

I curtsy, resisting the urge to sink to the floor and remain there in a defeated heap.

"In the event of Cedric Dane's death," he begins, causing my heart to leap, "an event that apparently has transpired, it was his express wish that you have this."

I rise, accepting the box with trembling hands. I do not think to ask how he came about acquiring it.

"I took the liberty of going through it," he tells me. "To make certain it contained nothing harmful to your reputation."

I open it, taking in a breath. It is a necklace, the pendant of which bears the perfect likeness of his face. The signature of the artist is tiny but decipherable. Hans Holbein. I close my eyes a moment, warding off fresh tears for kind Master Holbein, also in the next world, almost two years dead of the plague.

Holbein, whom I always felt a special rapport with, saw beauty in my Cedric. Indeed it is his eyes that are most pronounced in the miniature, those startling violet eyes that behold me even now with an expression of the utmost compassion and love.

At last I allow my tears to stream down my cheeks unchecked. "Where did you get this?" I breathe.

"Intercepted the messenger," he confesses.

"W--was there anything else?" I ask. "Anything at all?"

He shakes his head as I look at the empty box as though if I squint hard enough something will appear.

"You tell me the truth, my lord?" I ask him.

"I tell you the truth, Mary," he says. What is it I detect in his voice? Is it, could it be, that there is a note of gentleness there? Sympathy?

"You knew," I state in awe.

He nods.

"And yet you did nothing." I clutch the miniature. "Why?"

"It could come to nothing," he says.

His one gift to me, then. A season of happiness.

I regard the miniature a long moment, memorizing every feature of Cedric's likeness, wishing that somehow it would spring forth into life. I hold it up to the light; the chain twirls about a moment, and something catches my eye. Three words, not in Holbein's hand, are painted on the back:

Sing. Write. Pray.

I clutch the pendant to my breast. All those years ago, after the loss of my Anne, when I had to hide my grief, he told me...he told me...

I begin to sob.

Norfolk wraps his arm about my shoulders and ushers me to the window.

"Look outside, Mary," he says in his soft voice. "Look out at the beautiful new day."

I cannot see through the tears.

"Look, Mary," Norfolk urges. "It is misting today. Look, child. Do you see it? Look to the river. Do you see the rainbow touching the water?"

I blink away my tears. Indeed, a rainbow, vibrant in its color, stretches down from the heavens to greet her soul's mate, the water, the river...the river that leads to the sea.

It is both of them, then. Harry and Cedric together, guiding me, blessing me...

I lean my head on Norfolk's shoulder and watch it fade into the mist.

He never asks, not once, about Cedric, though he does deny my request to leave court. I do not fight him. It takes too much energy. Instead I drift through the days in a sort of altered state. The queen, in her unending capacity for understanding, lets me be. She asks for nothing. She makes no demands of me. She is surrounded by her own circle of devoted ladies, Kate Brandon being a favorite of both Majesties, and they provide all the entertainment and stimulation she needs. I am content to circle on the fringes.

I am not suited to this life anymore.

While the world presses on about me I am still, suspended in reverie. I think of Cedric, of what was and what can never be. I think of his children. Do any of them have violet eyes? Do they sing and play the lute? Do they know what a wonderful man their father was?

I would not know how to find them. The Danes of Cornwall are as the magical island of Avalon, hidden by an enchanted mist. I have no access to their world.

Tears stain my pillow every night. Pain grips my belly. He is gone. I am empty. He is gone.

And yet, I think to myself, I would not have married him. He would have returned and still I would have adhered to my convictions. I would never have thought that I would have to live without him completely...I believed he would always be there. I am a fool and curse myself for mourning my foolishness as much as I mourn Cedric.

Cat and Kate Brandon discuss religious reforms, hoping to arouse some sort of response from me, but all I can do is smile and add a few comments here and there. Though I am still passionate about the topic, I am too numb to be an enthusiastic contributor. It takes too much effort to offer an opinion on anything; regardless of my thoughts the world will go on, and all will occur as God ordains, whether He be Catholic or Protestant. I imagine our battle over the issue is very minute to Him.

Christmastide comes and goes and there is little joy to be found, both because of the great French failure and, for me, my personal loss. It is a bitter winter. I spend many a night snuggled deep in my blankets, blowing on my fingers to keep warm.

Lent arrives, and we pass our guilt-ridden days of deprivation until at last it yields itself to Easter, and Easter to spring. A year ago Cedric and I were making merry at this court. We had no life plan; we lived for the present, and how we enjoyed every moment! Now that present is swallowed by the past, and I cannot wrench free of it.

A strange distraction arrives in the form of Anne Ayscough, a young reformer who has more courage than I could ever hope to possess. Not only has she defied her husband by not taking on his surname when they married, but she has dared preach against transubstantiation, the idea that the Host transforms into the Body of Christ during the sacrament of Holy Communion. It is a belief I happen to agree with, but unfortunately am not brave enough to discuss. Anne has even distributed banned Protestant books, which gets her arrested, to my queen's regret. Upon Her Majesty's intervention she is released, only to be arrested later that year for her passionate Protestant sermons.

This time there is no mercy. Sir Kingston, the same constable of the Tower of London who observed my Anne in her last days, is ordered to put the girl on the rack. Though he obeys, her courage and eloquence under duress touch him so that he cannot continue torturing her, leaving Lord Chancellor Wriothesley, a ruthless man who hides behind a handsome facade and dear friend of my father, to proceed in his stead. The girl is tortured until she is so crippled she is without use of her limbs. I am certain they hoped she would name more Protestants, perhaps even people such as the queen, Kate Brandon, maybe even me. But this Anne is stubborn, as devout as any martyr, and implicates no one.

The court follows the saga on tenterhooks. Indeed, we had all known Anne. She was an intimate of Cat, and though I sometimes feared her fervor, I admired her. But now is not the time to be sympathetic to those who are considered heretics. Gardiner is far too eager to have any and all arrested for daring to disagree with the king. There does not seem to be a day that goes by when we do not hear of so-and-so burned at the stake or hanged or beheaded for some unfathomably inane crime. Even Archbishop Cranmer is not exempt. To his great fortune the king gave him his signet ring to safeguard him should such an instance arise, and it was that which saved him from the stake when his reformist sympathies were called into question.

The king's insatiable thirst for blood causes my belly to churn and ache in despair.

I take pleasure in neither court life nor the passing holidays and feast days, nor do I delight in the entertainments and the tourneys. The small things, all the small things that Harry told me to derive joy in, are too far out of reach at this place where fear and distrust reign supreme.

I begin to fret for the queen. It is no secret that Cat leans toward the New Faith; she is even authoring a book some could call heretical, though in my mind I can see nothing about the devotional that does not support Scriptures. In any event, she is brave to compose such a thing; I cannot imagine how she can continue to hold herself with such an extreme measure of composure.

It is now summer, 1546. Cedric has been gone almost two years, and yet every day I expect to see him among the musicians, strumming his lute or playing the virginals. I walk past the practice room, that room so filled with bittersweet memories, that room I have dared not enter, not once, since his death; and still, still I hope to hear his voice on the other side of the door.

It is more than I can bear.

What I need, I decide at last, is a visit to Mother. She may not be the warmest of women but she is wise. Perhaps she can offer me some respite. And if she cannot, there is always Bess, sweet Bess.

When I approach Norfolk with the request I find he is not alone. Bishop Gardiner is there, seated at his breakfast table eating comfits. He is an altogether unattractive man, his features so nondescript I could not tell anyone what he looked like had I seen him but a minute ago. He is not as fat as the king, but round enough to huff about and look uncomfortable wherever he is.

The two men seem to be involved in an intense conversation. Norfolk is leaning forward, elbows on the table, hands folded in front of his mouth as he watches Gardiner touch almost every dessert on the plate before choosing one.

Fear grips me. Gardiner is one of the men to evoke the most anxiety about the court, so eager is he to catch someone in a heretical moment.

"You must leave this to me," Norfolk is telling him in low tones. "You must trust that I know how to handle the delicacy of this matter."

I offer a deep curtsy, deciding it best to speak before learning whatever dark task Norfolk is handling now. "The guards did not tell me you were entertaining, my lord," I say, forcing a smile. "I shall come back--"

Gardiner shifts his weight, leaning back in his chair, licking his fingers and smiling. "No, no. Not at all, my dear. Won't you sit with us?"

I inch forward and sit in the chair the bishop has pulled out for me.

"There's a good girl," says Gardiner. "Tell us how you are faring, Lady Richmond."

"Well, Your Grace," I answer, casting my eyes to my folded hands.

"You attend Her Majesty?" he asks me.

"Yes, sir," I answer.