Secrets of the Tudor Court (8 page)

I close my eyes, allowing the melody to envelop me. "The sea. Rolling waves, a calm blue sky...a ship...it is a lovely scene but sort of melancholy. It is good-bye. A man has left his maid..." I bow my head and know from the heat of my face I am flushing furiously.

"Why did you stop?" Cedric asks.

I avert my head, unable to meet his eyes. "Mayhap it is a little...I'm not sure..."

"Mistress Howard, please. Continue," he urges.

I raise my eyes to him to find his head is bowed toward the keys. His eyes are closed and he weaves subtly in time with the tune. He is a musician in complete harmony with his song.

"I--I see the maiden. She stands alone on shore, bidding her lover good-bye." I swallow. I am caught up in my scene. "Somehow she knows his voyage is perilous. She will not see him again."

"Tragic," says Cedric. "But beautiful, as tragic love tends to be. Leaves you blissfully unsatisfied, yet somehow there is a perverse pleasure in the agony of it all."

I never thought of it like that. Perhaps I have witnessed too much agony to find it pleasurable. Or I have not witnessed the right kind.

"Will you sing for me, Mistress Howard?" he asks. "Put verse to your story. Breathe life into my song."

"I can't--"

"Come now." He chuckles. "You're not afraid."

"Yes," I admit. "My voice might grate on you."

"It might," he says. "But I promise I will tell you."

I giggle. "I am not good at verse on the spot."

"Not many people are, save your brother, I hear."

"Henry?" I arch an eyebrow.

"I had the privilege of keeping company with him and the Duke of Richmond of late. Your Lord Surrey is a wonderful poet--a hot-tempered boy, but a gifted writer with a great deal of heart," he tells me.

"Boy!" I cry. "He's no older than you!"

"He's a boy," he says.

"And you're not?" I tease.

"That's for you to learn."

"Master Dane!" I cry, scandalized.

"Forgive me, Mistress Howard," he says. "I grow too comfortable in your charming company." He clears his throat and continues playing. "Now. Do enlighten me with a few verses."

I pause a long while, allowing images and words to whirl in my mind and take form. It is a creation in itself, writing verse, and I envisage the Psalmists feeling a similar exuberance when composing God's Word. I am tingling with inspiration. Slowly but in a clear, low voice, I begin.

"O happy dames...that may embrace the fruit of your delight." Tears fill my eyes. "Help to bewail the woeful case and eke the heavy plight..." I take in a breath. "Of me, that wonted to rejoice the fortune of my pleasant choice: good ladies! Help to fill my mourning voice..."

I trail off, unable to continue. Cedric stops playing. He is staring at me.

"Where did that come from?"

Embarrassed, I avoid his eyes. "I--I don't know."

He rises, approaching me. "You are more gifted than I could ever have imagined. You compose from your innermost being, from your soul, your heart...You are an artist." He reaches out and takes my hand. "Tell me you will write that down and finish it for me."

I nod.

He sits on the bench once more. "Please," he says, gesturing to the vacant space so near to him. I sit. I have never been so close to a man outside of my family before. His presence, his warmth cause me to shiver all over. Gooseflesh dots my arms and I'm grateful my sleeves cover it.

"Your voice is beautiful, fraught with emotion." At my dubious expression, he goes on. "It is not mere flattery, Mistress Howard. I don't waste my time with empty obsequiousness. I leave that to the courtiers," he adds with a wink.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Thank you." He nods toward the keyboard. "Will you play for me as well?"

I place my hands on the smooth keys. They are at home here. I close my eyes. I find I cannot do anything but his bidding. I want to elongate this moment forever. I begin to play one of my own compositions. Unlike his bittersweet melody, mine is violent and dark, with a heavy bass hand and strong minor chords. As I play, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. When I finish I stare at my stilled hands. Blue veins are raised against the fair skin like a surging network of rivers from my efforts. My breathing comes quick and shallow.

Cedric is silent. "You have a talent." He pauses as though considering. "Where does all that darkness and passion come from? I should think a girl your age would be composing light, frilly little songs."

I bow my head. I cannot say where it comes from, only that it emerges from some depth of my soul and cannot be ignored. When my fingers touch the keyboard they are commanded by something else, something illogical and not of this world.

I say nothing. I cannot speak past my emotion.

He seems to perceive this so clears his throat, changing the subject. "Are you--are you excited about Mistress Anne's elevation ceremony?"

I nod, relieved. "I am carrying her robes," I say with pride.

"Quite an honor," he says. "Your family is steeped in honors, I think."

"Yes," I agree, then realize I should take offense. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," he says. "Such is the way with the king's favorites. The blessings spill over. I'm certain Mistress Anne isn't the only one benefiting from her match."

I rise from the bench. "You mean my father?" I cry. "Every honor that is bestowed upon him is earned. He is a man to be feared by all--"

"Odd that should be the attribute you mention first," Cedric observes in soft tones. He arches a well-defined black brow. "Do you fear him, Mistress Howard?"

My words catch in my throat. I see my bruised mother. I feel the pain in my scalp. I recall the humiliation of being made to wipe my puppy's mess with my red velvet wrap. I blink back tears. "I fear him as I fear God," I say at last. "It is a fear born of respect for his greatness."

"Greatness." Cedric regards me with eyes that belong to a man much older than himself. "Can greatness be born of bloodshed and suffering, from manipulation and cruelty?"

"You go too far, Master Dane," I tell him, my heart sinking at knowing our moment of beauty has fled.

"Forgive me. I get caught up in debate for the spirit of it," he tells me. "I mean no offense against the great Lord Norfolk. I am certain he is a most loving and attentive father who will think of nothing but your happiness all of his days."

"Of course," I insist. "He always thinks of my happiness. He wants me to be a great lady. He is showing me how to walk...." I cannot stop the tears from coming now. "If he didn't love me, why would he lower himself to such things?"

"Indeed," says Cedric. "God bless the man who instructs his thirteen-year-old daughter on how to walk."

"Why are you being cruel?" I demand.

"Oh, little Mistress Howard," he says, taking my hands. "I want you to know something, and please take it to heart. I am the least cruel person you will find at this court. The only words that leave my lips are honest ones. Mistress Howard," he says in a voice so gentle it wrenches my heart. "Mary. Take care of yourself. Look after your own interests first for, believe me, no one else will."

I withdraw my hands. "You forget yourself and my rank. You will neither address me informally nor lay hands on my person again," I say haughtily as I turn about in a whirl of skirts and quit the room.

But his words haunt me as I make my way to Anne's apartments. He is wrong, surely he is wrong. He is just an arrogant musician who is not nearly as mature as he thinks he is. He knows nothing of me or my father or my life.

He is wrong. I am well looked after. Norfolk does think of my best interests.

Norfolk
does
love me.

T
hough my feet ache from practicing my walk, it is well worth it when at last the day of Anne's elevation ceremony arrives. I vomited everything I ate that day, so decide against eating anything else, and Madge Shelton continually pinches my white cheeks to bring color to them.

"You mustn't worry so," she reassures me as we dress Anne for the event. "You're going to do wonderfully."

"You'd better," Anne cries as ladies flutter about her in an effort to dress her. Nothing is good enough for Anne today, and the slightest thing causes her to unleash a string of curse words I did not think ladies even knew. No one can do anything right. Her corset is not tight enough. Her sleeves are not tied right. The velvet itches. The ermine smells. Her bum roll is lopsided. Any grievances that can be aired against both her gown and attendants, are; and it is no surprise to fall under her criticism.

"All I need is you falling with my robes," she goes on in a sharp voice as her sister brushes out her long black hair. Despite her foul temper and the scowl that crinkles her forehead, she is the most alluring woman I've ever seen.

"I won't, my lady," I assure her. "I've been practicing." Indeed, the last few times I was with Norfolk he piled a few cloaks in my arms so that I would adjust to the weight of the robes.

Anne scoffs and regards her reflection in the glass as the other ladies offer their admiration.

When my father comes to escort her and the procession to the king's presence chamber, I cannot contain my trembling. This is the moment. This is what I have been practicing for.

I will be solemn and grand. I will do my lady and Norfolk proud. I carry the robes and the coronet to the presence chamber, following my lady with slow, measured steps.

Once there I behold the king in all his majesty beneath his canopy of cloth of gold. He radiates light and glory and
power
. This is a stunning personage and not one to be crossed. To think my cousin will soon be his wife. They will be a formidable couple. A sudden lightness in my heart tells me they will be a happy one as well.

I follow the standard-bearers, each carrying Anne's symbol: the falcon, a creature as exacting as she is. My father follows them. The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, a cantankerous old buzzard with an ever-present scowl, is there offering begrudging support to his brother-in-law the king.

The countesses of Sussex and Rutland help Anne to kneel on the platform, and already I am eager for the ceremony to end. I am shaking, and fear my father will notice and begin rehearsing his lecture in his head even as we speak.

I endure all the prayers uttered by the king's less-than-personable secretary, Bishop Gardiner. I am amazed the king has shown such mercy to Gardiner after his vociferous disapproval of the king's becoming head of the Church of England, but sometimes he surprises me. Instead of burning him at the stake or some such horror, he merely confiscated his home, Hanworth, and made it another gift to Anne.

I wonder fleetingly how many other bold clerics might lose their homes to Henry and his bride before his reign is out, then chastise myself for the treasonous thought.

At last the king approaches me, taking the robes and coronet. I am relieved to hand them off. He meets my eyes with his own glittering blue gaze and offers a bright smile. I smile back. Perhaps that is his way of telling me I did a good job and he is proud of me.

He wraps the robes about my lady's shoulders and, with the utmost loving care, places the coronet atop her dark head, creating her Marquess of Pembroke.

She stands beside her intended, glowing with pride and triumph. The air thrills with their happiness. The world seems full of hope and endless possibilities.

W
hen I think that Anne cannot be defeated and is at last allowed a moment of quiet to revel in her joy, something spoils it, causing her to be up in arms all over again. The very next day we are informed that the queen of France will not come to Calais or Boulogne to meet my lady. This is a blatant demonstration of the French queen's disapproval of the match and the king's break from the Church of Rome.

Anne breaks down in a moment of fury and calls the queen as many derogatory names as she can think of on short notice, but the much-favored Master Cromwell, ever calm, reassures her that King Francois's sister, the queen of Navarre, will attend her instead, which does something to mollify Anne. Now she will at least be able to meet King Francois and make an impression upon him as future queen of England.

Later Anne decides that, though she is satisfied with the jewels she has planned for her trip, she would like to have in her possession Queen Catherine's jewels as well.

I am saddened at this. I do not understand why she would want another woman's jewels. But then she wanted another woman's husband, so I suppose the jewels are the least of it now. Such uncharitable thoughts do not become me, I think, and vow to be more compassionate toward my lady, whom I imagine is under the highest level of anxiety.

When the king tells her my father will be sent to fetch the jewels from Catherine, Anne's wild black eyes lose their glint of madness. She calms and, exhausted, sinks onto her chaise, demanding one of us to fan her. She is trembling and smiling, but tears fill her eyes.

I am starting to think it is not so great a thing to be Anne Boleyn.

It pains me to admit that the days my father is up north visiting the queen--I mean, the princess dowager--are my most peaceful. I pack my things for our trip to France. I break from the norm and write some frivolous verse, which I share with some of my friends who are writing their own. We decide we will make a little compilation of our work. I vow not to write anything in "O Happy Dames" for Cedric Dane. I will not write a thing for him ever. Indeed, I hope not to have any future run-ins with the presumptuous lad again.

My peace is short-lived, for Norfolk returns, somber and unsuccessful in his attempt. Her Highness said she would not relinquish her jewels without a direct order from King Henry.

"No matter what I told her, she would not hear," he sighs. "Strange. Was a time not too long past when she heeded my advice. Yet she clings to these ideals that are foolish and false. She lives in another time, or a time that never existed at all. Damn romantic fool." His face twists in a sort of agony. Is it the agony Cedric described to me that day--the agony a lover feels? "If she'd give in, her life and that of her daughter would be so much easier. Doesn't she want peace? She tries to avoid bloodshed, yet by remaining so obstinate she will cause it just the same," Norfolk grumbles that evening as I sit before him, giving an update.

"She loves him," I venture.

He flinches. "It is a matter of pride for the both of them. Love doesn't enter into it at all. It is about religion and power and being right. That's all it's ever about with anyone. When will you see that?" He removes his cap and runs his hand through his thick black hair. "She's not only obstinate, she's fanatical, a martyr. Nothing is more pathetic than a martyr, Mary. See to it you don't become one."

I nod, then bow my head. I don't want to discuss poor Catherine with him, so try another course. I raise my head and offer my sweetest smile. "I'm so excited to go to France, my lord."

"I suppose you are," he says idly, then meets my gaze with his impenetrable black eyes. "I expect you to conduct yourself like a lady. I know how it gets when traveling. Don't get caught up in any foolishness. You think just because you're abroad your actions have no consequences here, but they do. You have a reputation to maintain and I won't have it sullied by girlish fancies."

"Yes, my lord," I say in a small voice, shrinking in my chair.

He rises. I do the same. He has not removed his eyes from me and I shift, uncomfortable under the raptorlike gaze.

"You will be watched, Mary--don't think you won't. There is not one thing that happens at this court that escapes me." He lays a hand on my shoulder. I tremble, wondering if he knows about the time I spent with Cedric Dane. At the thought of the musician my heart bounds in an involuntary leap. Norfolk applies such pressure to my shoulder; dots of light appear before my eyes. The pain drives out any thoughts I'd been indulging in. He continues. "If I learn of any unseemly behavior on your part I will beat you within an inch of your life. Do you understand?"

I begin to tremble. Tears fill my eyes. It is the first time Norfolk has threatened me with physical violence. I know it is within his rights to discipline me as he sees fit, but I am not eager for such a demonstration.

I reach out, daring to take the hand that squeezes my shoulder with such force. "My lord...Father." I swallow hard. "Don't you think I'm a good girl?"

He withdraws his hand. "That remains to be seen." He nods toward the door. "Dismissed."

I curtsy, choking down tears, wondering how I can prove my worth to this formidable man.

His Majesty didn't waste any time with soft words and negotiations. He ordered from Catherine the very jewels he had bestowed upon her in the years he claimed she was his only love. Catherine relinquished them.

Anne's black eyes shine with triumph. She unpacks the diadem inlaid with sapphires and diamonds, the necklaces and eardrops, running her fingers sensually over each item as though they were the flesh of a lover.

"See?" she cries over and over. "See what my king does for
me
whom he loves?" She tips back her head and laughs that edgy laugh, her throat as long and graceful as a swan's. "There is nothing he will not do to please me."

"Unless you don't get an heir in that belly of yours," her sister teases.

Anne draws a hand back and brings it across Mary Carey's cheek in a resounding slap. Tears light Mary's eyes as she stares at her sister, scowling. As I regard her I realize, as if for the first time, how much Anne has taken from Mary; her lover, her place of high favor, and even her son. Anne has been given wardship of little Henry Carey, who is said to be another bastard of the king's, because Anne supposedly feared for the boy's moral development under Mary's care. The court gossip is that in truth Anne adopted him in case she does not produce a male heir of her own. The likelihood that Henry would name the boy his heir is very slim, and everyone knows it to be a desperate move on Anne's part. In any event, hopefully that is a plan she will not have to resort to. After all the trouble and heartache she and the king have wrought upon so many, the least they could do is produce a prince for the realm!

Mary brings her hand to her cheek and I am reminded of Mother doing the same whenever Norfolk spoke to her. Yes, there is a great deal of Howard in Anne.

For a moment the ladies are silent, until Anne adopts her lovely courtier's smile. "I'm certain that is an area my"--she cocks a sweeping black brow in mischief--"virile king and I will have very little trouble in," she says, causing many a speculative glance to be exchanged.

She has succeeded in lightening the mood, and soon everyone is back to discussing the voyage.

But Mary Carey stands in a corner, head bowed, staring at Catherine's jewels--more things that Anne has stolen.

After we ogle the jewels some more, Madge Shelton and I extricate ourselves from Anne's apartments and return to the maidens' chamber to pick out our favorite gowns for the trip.

"She's a wench, isn't she?" Madge asks as she helps me unlace my sleeves to get ready for supper.

I am surprised she offers such open criticism of our mutual relation and want to agree, but guard my tongue. One never knows from one moment to the next when another's loyalties will shift.

"I know I wouldn't have wanted Princess Catherine's jewels if I were her," Madge goes on. "I'd want my own. Really, Mary, it'd be like wanting the wedding ring of your husband's dead wife. It's sort of...well, rather like a circling vulture, don't you think?"

I can't help but nod at that.

As she helps ease my sleeve off she brushes against the shoulder my father had squeezed with such enthusiasm some time ago. I try to stifle a groan, but it has escaped and Madge grabs my arm, examining the bruise that has faded from onyx black to a deep purple.

"God's blood, Mary, who did this to you?" she asks, raising concerned blue eyes to me.

I withdraw my arm, smiling. "It was so silly," I tell her. "I ran into a doorway. I'm so clumsy sometimes."

Her lips twist. "Did the doorway resemble a man's hand?"

I cover my shoulder with my sleeve. I have no words. I want to defend myself, to contradict her implications, but cannot. I bow my head, blinking back tears.

"It's him, isn't it? The duke?" she wants to know. Her voice is gentle but bears an edge, the same edge Anne adopts when angry. When I say nothing she continues. "Everyone knows about him, Mary. How he treats your mother. Tales have circulated..."

"It isn't true," I say, knowing I must stop her. "Whatever you've heard, put it out of your head. Please, if you have any love for me, stop this and do not take part in spreading any false rumors about my honored father."

Madge's eyes fill with tears as she finishes helping me dress. "You are very loyal, Mary. May it serve you well."

I say nothing in my panic, wondering what the court whispers about my father, about my mother, about dark secrets that should never be aired.

That night I cannot contain my misery as I report to Norfolk. I tell him of Anne's triumphant exclamations when her jewels were delivered, of her slapping her sister, of her provocative comment, which he makes me recite over and over. He tilts his head this way and that as he analyzes the statement.

"She's far too confident in her own abilities," he says after a while. "Her arrogance will destroy her if she isn't careful. Damn!" He slams his fist on the desk. "If she'd heed my advice--what's the matter with you?"

He has noted my tears, which I do not keep hidden as I stand before him.

"People are talking about you," I tell him.

He offers what I describe as his almost laugh. A sound lacking in sincerity and warmth. "That's nothing new. People talk about everyone; I daresay gossip could sustain the court should our foodstuffs run out."

"They say you are cruel," I go on.

"Not the worst reputation a man can have," he says. "Better to be cruel than soft. Soft people don't get ahead in life, do they?"

He then continues about Anne, airing his complaints as though my interposition has not affected him at all, as I am sure it has not. I close my ears to his words. There is nothing that pertains to me anyway.

My hopes for the conversation die. Hopes that he would be moved to repent of his ways and perhaps offer kindness and...softness.

I am diverted by our departure for France. The mood is gay and there is happiness even in our frantic, last-minute preparations. When we board the ship I am delighted to learn my brother and the Duke of Richmond are also joining us.

My brother Surrey clasps me to him when he sees me. "Look at you! Aren't you the little lady?" he cries when he sees me standing at the railing on deck. I am relishing the feeling of the crisp wind, salty with sea spray, whipping against my face, the roll of the waves beneath my feet. In its uncertainty the sea feels wonderful and dangerous and exciting.

"Oh, Henry!" I am so thrilled at his affectionate display I wrap my arms tight about his neck. "It is so wonderful to see you! These glimpses at court I have been afforded are never enough!"

He laughs his easy laugh and holds me at arm's length. "My God, you are a beauty. Has Father spoken to you about your marriage, then?"

I shake my head. I know it is inevitable and a slight thrill causes me to shiver as I entertain the thought. "Not since the plans for Bulbeck were tossed aside," I answer. It is just as well, too. Imagine how much I'd miss if I were some country lord's wife!

"Well, soon enough..." he says. "Lady Anne has plans for you. She and Father and--"

"Mistress Mary!"

I curtsy to the Duke of Richmond, who is running toward me, hands outstretched. I place mine in them and he rights me. At once the ship lurches forward, carried on a wave, and to my extreme embarrassment I topple over onto Fitzroy, knocking him to the ground. My brother helps us up, laughing.

My cheeks are burning. "I'm deeply sorry, my lord."

"It's Harry!" he grumbles in perfect imitation of his father. He offers a sideways grin. "That's a greeting I'll well remember!"

I bow my head, hoping my display doesn't get back to Norfolk or the king, especially the king. I don't want him to think I behaved wantonly in front of his son, illegitimate or not.

"A merry voyage this will be!" he continues. "We are invited to stay among the princes, Surrey and I, so a jolly time we shall spend with the naughty court of France!"

"How wonderful!" I cry, envying the lack of supervision at the famed French court where Lady Anne spent her own youth. "Henry, I have so much to show you! I've written verse. I write all the time. Will you look at it?"

"Of course!" he cries, and I run to retrieve my little casket of poems, eager to show my brother, so adept at poetry himself that I am at once intimidated and thrilled that he'd deign to look at my humble works.

We find an unobtrusive little corner where I allowed my brother full access to my compositions, save the unfinished "O Happy Dames."

My brother looks them over. I am surprised at how fast he can read, for he flips through the pages almost carelessly. I am a little annoyed. I had hoped he would take his time with each phrase and offer helpful criticisms.

"You write a lot about God," he says. "About your desire to be closer to Him and understand Him more through His own Word. Do you think this is wise?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" I ask, defensive. "Who doesn't want to learn more about God?"