Secrets of the Tudor Court (31 page)

H
e is dead! On 28 January in the year of our Lord 1547, the king, that rotting, vile, putrid mass, succumbs to his mortality at last!

The news is not announced for three days. When the bells at last begin to toll, the palace of Whitehall is in an uproar. It is real. The rumors are true. The king is dead.

I cannot imagine that many tears are shed over the loss of His Majesty. I wonder if anyone has told Norfolk and, if so, how he reacted to the news. Is he saddened at all over the loss of the man whose life was so inexorably tied to his own?

No tears are shed here. Indeed, I could dance for joy. I would congratulate Cat Parr for outliving him if I were brave enough, but refrain. Outlasting Henry VIII is such a victory that the observation is too obvious to require reiteration.

The little prince, nine-year-old Edward, is now King of England. The streets are lined with merrymakers cheering the accession of the little boy now to reign over us all.

"Long live the king!" they cry, their voices raised in jubilant chorus. "God bless and keep His little Majesty!"

Indeed, this little boy is a king who, I pray, will reign a good long time. He is a sweet child, not much loved by his father. He was so coddled, for fear some harm would come to him, that he was never allowed to prove his athletic abilities to old King Henry, which created a chasm between them. But that is in the past; the king left Edward a throne, and no more will anyone have to fret about the production of heirs, at least not for quite some time. In this regard, the king saved one last act of kindness before passing. He reinstated his daughters as princesses and placed them back in the succession. Should, God forbid, something happen to little Edward before he had children of his own, Mary would take the throne, and then my cousin Elizabeth.

It seems at last everyone has what they want. Everyone but the Howards, who have been left to scramble about on the periphery.

I wait for news of my father. Have they murdered him in secret, as went one rumor? If so, then what did they do with him? Is there no one to care for his body, to take him home and lay him to rest? Desperation seizes my heart. I am drowning in helplessness.

Edward Seymour is named lord protector of England. Called to mind are images of Surrey, insisting there would be no regent other than the great Duke of Norfolk when little Edward came to power. Oh, foolish Surrey. Would he have kept silent had he known his words would not only implicate himself as a traitor but send his beloved duke to the Tower as well?

There is no use going back. No use trying to warn a dead man of his fate. Instead I wait, as it seems I have spent the majority of my life doing.

At last, the same week the nation learns of Henry VIII's passing, I am informed that Norfolk has been spared. Tears stream down my cheeks as I thank God for allowing one member of my family to escape the executioner's axe, even if it may be the one person most deserving of it.

"We will not begin our reign with bloodshed," the little king informs me in his shrill voice. "He will remain in the Tower, as is our pleasure."

I dip into a deep curtsy before my young brother-in-law. As I regard him, I search for Henry VIII. Is there any sign of his ruthless, paranoid nature in his son? As yet I see no trace of madness in the gentle brown eyes. In fact, I like to think I see a bit of his half brother, my Harry, in him.

"Your Majesty is most merciful. Thank you and God bless you, dear Sire," I say, careful to keep my head bowed.

The king nods. I am impressed by his regal bearing. Between the queen's loving influence and the masterful governance of the Seymours, King Edward VI shows a great deal of promise.

"You are dismissed, Lady Richmond," he tells me. "And may God keep you."

I retreat from the throne room of my new sovereign and, upon leaving him, depart the life of a courtier as well.

It is a life I am most content not to return to.

Most of Norfolk's lands are seized by the Crown. He had willed them to his godson, King Edward, but his wishes were not carried out, and many of our manors are divvied up between the Seymours and other favorites in their faction. I can only imagine what Surrey would have made of that.

It does not matter so much to me. As long as I am left with some living family members I care not for landholdings.

I am certain Norfolk would not agree. Most of his lands were gained from the dissolution of monasteries or granted from the elevation of his two nieces, my beautiful cousins, to the English throne. To lose them signifies how low he has truly fallen in the eyes of the Crown.

I am sure it is this that he ponders most while sitting in the Tower. The loss of the lands, the grand manors, the
things.
I wonder, does he ever once think about the people?

In February I am permitted a visit.

I do not know how to describe walking through the Tower, that place that held captive so many members of my family. As I am led to his cell I recall the fate of my uncle Thomas, who wasted away behind these cold stone walls for the simple crime of loving Margaret Douglas. Will that be Norfolk's fate as well?

I am so nauseated I have to keep swallowing back burning bile as I look about this dismal place. I have been inside the Tower before, on numerous occasions. But I have never seen this; I saw only the grandeur of Anne's lovely remodeled apartments when she prepared for her coronation in the years of my innocence.

There is no grandeur or luxury to be found in these damp and darkened halls that carry the echoes of screaming prisoners all too well.

Before entering Norfolk's cell, the lieutenant offers me his arm. "Are you quite well, madam?" he asks in solicitous tones.

I can only stare at him. Tears strangle me. I must gather control. Norfolk would not like to see me this way. It would only annoy him. I nod. He opens the door.

The room is barren of any comforts. No wall hangings or tapestries warm the damp stone walls. There are no books to entertain my lord, not even so much as a blanket for his bed. There is nothing but a little window to let in the light.

He must have hours to spend in introspection; hours to go over a long list of what I hope to be regrets.

Norfolk's back is to me. He is staring out the window. It affords nothing but a view of a gray sky and the moat below.

I clasp my hands together in a moment of uncertainty. "My lord..."

No response. He does not turn toward me.

My lips quiver. There is naught to do but run to him as I always have. I embrace him from behind and lean my head on his back, sobbing. "Oh, my lord, my lord...what have we come to!"

He emits something like a laugh.

I pull away, turning him about by the upper arms so that he might face me at last. He stares at some fixed point above my head.

I reach up, cupping his face between my hands. "You...know about Henry, Lord Surrey, my lord?"

At last his eyes travel downward to meet mine. He takes my hands, lowering them from his face and placing them at my sides before taking a few steps backward.

"Yes," he says. He draws in a shuddering breath. "You know, it is strange. When I was married to the Lady Anne Plantagenet and we had our first boy..." His black eyes gaze beyond me into the distant planes of the past. A trace of a smile curves his lips. His eyes sparkle. "I was in my twenties, optimistic about life, as most young men that age are. My boy was my pride. He was so filled with promise, my first little Thomas. Next came Henry, the first Henry...I held him aloft like so." He holds out one arm, fingers splayed as though supporting a baby's fragile head. "And, you know, Mary, I just loved to look at him. He had blond hair--the softest hair, like down. His eyes were so clear, and when he looked at me...he would study me. Anne used to laugh at me, holding him like that, the two of us staring each other down for hours at a time." He laughs but there is no joy in it. "He was so dear." He squints at his arm as though any moment the baby will appear on it. "All I could say to Anne was, 'Look at those little feet.'" He drops his arm. His Adam's apple bobs several times before he continues. "Those...perfect little feet. Such an insignificant thing." He turns to the window once more. "When he died I would sit and hold his shoes and just stare at them, those...empty little shoes." He squares his shoulders. "Then came William. Such a solid little lad. Surely"--his voice catches--"surely nothing would happen to him. But then--then--suddenly there I was again, left with another pair of little shoes." He shakes his head in a moment of frustrated disbelief. "But I still had my little Thomas. He was thriving. We--Anne and I--we explained things as best we could. His brothers were in Heaven, you see. That was when I believed in such nonsense." He turns to regard me, his eyes hard as onyx. "Little Maggie was born, then. I didn't mind so much that she was a girl. She brought Anne delight and was a lusty little thing. But she died in my arms when she was six. They had to wrest her away from me. I...couldn't...let...her...go..." His shoulders heave as he chokes back a sob.

Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked. What can I say to all this? How can I begin to grapple with the profundity of his losses?

Collecting himself, he continues. "Then little Thomas...oh, God, little Thomas. He followed not a year later. All of my babies--all four of them, gone by my thirty-fifth birthday. And what do I have to account for them? Little pairs of shoes.

"When Thomas went I could not stop screaming. I screamed and screamed till my throat bled. The servants had to hold me down and force a sleeping posset down my throat." He laughs his bitter laugh. "When I awoke, he was still gone, Anne not long in following." He draws in a breath. "So you see, that is why this should be so easy for me.

"Except for one thing..." His face is void of calculation. It is open, bewildered as a child's; the complete picture of vulnerability. "I am thinking, despite it all, Mary, can you believe it? I am not thinking about your brother's valor on the battle field or of his poetry. I'm not thinking about Tower Hill. I am not even thinking about the stupidity and recklessness that brought me here." For a moment he opens his mouth. No words come forth. And then in a strangled voice he says, "I--I am thinking about his little baby feet." He covers his face with his hands.

"Oh, Father," I say, knowing any words uttered now are feeble at best. "Would that I could have saved you both.... I--I didn't know what to do. I had no counsel. I did what I thought was right. I tried to save you..."

He says nothing as he removes his hands, revealing a calm, cool countenance.

My shoulders slump. "There was no saving my lord Surrey. But God has seen fit to spare you, and I swear by all that's sacred I will try to get you out. I shall petition His Majesty and the Council--whomever I have to in order to secure your release." I reach out to him again, taking his cold hands in my own. He is shivering. "Oh, my dear lord, you are so cold..." I lead him to his bed, where we sit. I wrap my arms about him and rock back and forth, but the movement does nothing to soothe either of us. It is wrought with sorrow.

Norfolk reaches up and holds my wrist. I lean my head on his shoulder and sob. I sob for Surrey, for all of my brothers and sisters who went before, for my cousins, for the Howards' ill-fated ambition. I sob for Norfolk and all the empty pairs of shoes.

The lieutenant knocks on the door to signal that my time has expired.

I rise. Norfolk has not released my wrist.

I whisper, "I will come back to you. I will get you out. You have but to wait."

His hand slips from my wrist to my hand. He squeezes it.

I squeeze his in turn. "I--I would stay with you if I could," I tell him in vain.

His mouth twists into that bitter smile I know so well.

The lieutenant enters, offering his arm.

One last look at Norfolk and then the door is shut. I am led away.

The lieutenant sighs. "You know," he says, "I think I believe you, Lady Richmond."

"I beg your pardon?" My voice is tremulous with tears.

"You really would stay with him, wouldn't you?" He stares at me in befuddled admiration.

I blink back tears. "Yes," I tell him. Where else would I be?

"You've a great deal of heart, my lady," says the lieutenant as he shows me out.

I quit the Tower and commence to my London home, Mountjoy House, one of the few Norfolk holdings allotted us, where I proceed with the first of my petitions appealing for the freedom of Thomas Howard.

I have betrayed my family once. I must find a way to mend what can be mended.

I will not be remembered as a Jane Boleyn.

I will not be remembered as a Thomas Howard, for that matter.

I want to be remembered as the woman who with all her heart tried to hold her fragmented family together. That has to count for something.

In March my father is granted clothing and appurtenances befitting his station. Still viewed as too much of a threat to be freed, it is clear that the Seymours and their like plan on his being a long-term resident of the Tower, and it hurts no one to make him a little comfortable.

In May, with a mixture of delight and apprehension, I learn that Cat Parr has married her longtime love, the man I twice rejected, Tom Seymour. Delight because for so long this was all she ever wanted. Delight because maybe now she can have the normal life Henry VIII denied her. Apprehension because despite Tom Seymour's looks and charm there is something about him, something shady and restless. Old rumors echo in my mind; old questions are raised. Was he a rapist?

It occurs to me that I do not want to know. My days at court have provided me with a lifetime of horrific memories, and I am more than pleased to be excluded from everyone's dark secrets.

I want to be happy for Cat. I admire her so. She has no care of the scandal she has created in marrying so soon after the king's death, halfhearted scandal though it is. Anyone surviving marriage to Henry VIII should be immediately elevated to sainthood and be privy to whatever happiness that is to be found. No, Cat's marriage is just another episode to provide the court with further gossip, and as Norfolk so accurately said, gossip is the court's sustenance.