Betrayal in the Tudor Court (51 page)

My sister, Catherine—she is a bigger girl than me and quite haughty—stands beside Henry. My other brother Thomas is at the end, shuffling from foot to foot. We are a pretty row of little soldiers.

When he appears in the nursery with Mother, another foreign figure to our nursery, he reviews us all. He ruffles Thomas’s blond hair and shakes Henry’s outstretched hand. He compliments my sister on her smart dress.

He regards me a long moment. “Mary,” he says, as though it is a new sound to his ears. “How old are you now?”

“I am three,” I tell him proudly.

He
is
a great man. I can tell. He is so stately and composed, like a living portrait.

“Three,” he says. “And what do you know at this great age of three?”

I think about this. I am not sure how to answer his query. Do I tell him about my letters and numbers, my colors and shapes? What does he want to know? I tell him what I am most proud of.

“I never have any accidents anymore—not in three whole months. Nurse says I will have a pretty new gown.” I look up at him, beaming.

He grimaces at this. I do not think my answer pleases him. His lips twitch a moment as he stoops down, picking me up and carrying me to the window. “I shall tell you what is most important, what you should know at this great age of three,” he says, bouncing me a bit on his hip. “You are a Howard.” He looks into my face. “You are a
Howard
. You belong to the greatest family in the land.”

I am held by his gaze; his eyes are black, deep as a starless night. They are eyes that command attention. I am captivated and frightened at once.

I wrap my arms about his neck, pressing my cheek to his, hoping to endear myself to those black orbs that remind me so much of my doll’s eyes in their—what is the word? Lifelessness.

“Remember it,” he says. “Always remember it.”

“I shall,” I whisper in earnest.

2

M
y father grips my shoulders and I gaze up at his narrow face, now creased in a rare smile. His exacting eyes crinkle at the corners. My lips lift in shy response. He is kneeling before me, his knee caught on the frothy pink lace of my gown.

“A little small for your age, but you’ll do,” he intones in a voice like sustained thunder. He places a silver circlet inlaid with seed pearls on my head. I reach up to finger the delicate headpiece, in awe. This is my first gift from the Duke of Norfolk. In fact, this is the first time he has sought me out for conversation since I was a wee girl.

He rises and the abrupt movement of his knee parting company with my gown rocks me off balance. I look up. He is a thin man, which gives him the appearance of being tall. His eyes are cold again, his smile converted to a grim line slashed across his face. For a long moment he gazes upon me with eyes that are hard and inscrutable. His hands are locked behind his back. He circles me.

“You examine her like a horse at the fair,” my mother comments.

“And so she is,” he snaps. Mother shrinks back. She bows her head and places a curled hand against her cheek, though he did not strike her. She does this every time he speaks to her, as though soothing the sting of a future blow in advance.

I am too fascinated by my gift to pay attention to their exchange. By now I have removed the little circlet and am ogling the pearls, hoping to capture my parents’ attention once more. Their visits to Kenninghall are too rare. “Is it real?” I ask. At eleven I am already learning to appreciate the measure of good jewels.

“Silly question—of course it’s real!” he cries, patting my shoulder.

I clutch it to my chest and scrunch up my shoulders, smiling.

“Ah, a true Howard girl.” He laughs. “Can’t resist a shiny bauble. Go now, off with you!”

I run down the rush-strewn hallway, anticipating my maid’s expression when she beholds the finery my father bestowed upon me. What will Bess make of the gift? I am stopped short, however, by the sound of raised voices. I slow my feet and turn, straining my ears.

“It’s no place for her,” Mother is saying. “I wish you would rethink it.”

“She is needed at court,” he says. Court? My heart leaps. Dare I hope? “Mary must be in the foreground, not wasting away out here,” he adds.

“She’s much younger than the other girls,” Mother tells him. “I didn’t become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine till I was about thirteen.”

“Are you so daft that you think I would expect her to be a lady-in-waiting—to
this
queen?” His tone is mocking. It grates on my ears. I creep closer toward their voices. “She will be a member of her cousin’s increasing household.” His voice takes on a softer note. “And she will accompany us whenever we visit young Fitzroy so she can see her brother Henry. She’ll love it.”

Henry! Oh, but I
would
love it! Mother would be a fool to disallow it! But how can she disallow anything? No one opposes the duke, not even those who want to. He is Norfolk, the premier duke of all England. He is Good King Harry’s foremost military commander, the best soldier and most courageous sailor. He holds a string of impressive titles: lord high admiral, lieutenant of Ireland from 1520 to 1522, and lord high treasurer. How many battles has he, a man I cannot even refer to in my own head as anything but Norfolk, won for our sovereign?

Would he let the words of my little mother thwart his plans when the whole of England trembles in awe at his very name? I should think not! My heart swells with pride that I should be sired by such a man.

I smile, anticipating his next words with glee.

“I’ll be damned if you bring her now, at this time, so she can be influenced by yet another great whore!” Mother cries. I am shocked by this. Not so much by the profanity; my mother is not known for a sweet tongue. It is that she says so to him, this man whom I have been taught to hold in reverent wonder.

I am drawn from my reflections by the sound of a thump and a series of hard pummels against the surface of what I assume to be his chest. There is a bit more scuffling, followed by an abrupt silence. I creep toward the door, hiding in the shadows. I lean against the stone wall, sweating, my heart pounding. The wall is cool, refreshing against my skin, and I press my cheek to it. With care, I peer around the doorway to see that my father has Mother’s wrists pinned above her head and is holding her against the wall.

“Now hear this,” he seethes. “I do not need
your
permission for anything. She will accompany us where I see fit, and it is most prudent that she be present at court now.”

“ ‘Most prudent,’ ” Mother mocks, craning her neck forward and attempting to bite Norfolk’s long Romanesque nose. He manages to evade the small catlike teeth. “I know what you’re about, Thomas Howard. You’re scheming again. Isn’t it enough to have your precious niece Miss Anne Boleyn dangling under the king’s nose like so much fresh meat—now you’re to bring little Mary? To what purpose? Who is she to be dangled before? There’s none higher than the king.”

Norfolk tightens his grip on her dainty white wrists, using them as leverage to pull her forward then slam her against the wall. I can but imagine the pain my mother feels as her back meets with the stone behind the tapestry. I bite my lip and begin to tremble. This is why her little hand curls against her face when he speaks. If I encounter such a man in my husband, I shall never speak against him, I vow.

Mother goes limp but is held up despite it. Her smile oozes with contempt. “Perhaps it is better if you do take her, dangle her before whom you must, rather than operate like my father and take her away from the man she truly loves, in favor of someone like you.”

“Ah, yes, the Ralph Neville saga again,” Norfolk says in a tone that suggests the tedium of the topic. He lowers her wrists and pins them behind her back, pulling her close to him. He speaks as though reciting lines from a play. “Ralph Neville, your dearest love. And yet what are the Nevilles to the Howards? The blood of kings runs through my veins, treasured wife.” This he says with the utmost sarcasm. “Have you so soon forgotten your predecessor?”

“Have
you
forgotten that I am the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, not one of your common whores? I bear as much if not more royal blood than your scurvy lot!” Mother cries, but her face still bears that wicked smile. Both are smiling, in fact, and I find this to be a most disturbing discourse. I am unsure as to whether they are enjoying their little banter. “And I haven’t forgotten my ‘predecessor,’ ” she goes on, her tone biting. “I haven’t forgotten that your marriage to Lady Anne Plantagenet was steeped in poverty and that you lived off the pity of relatives. I haven’t forgotten that all that royal blood combined couldn’t sustain any of your offspring past age eleven, and it certainly couldn’t sustain your ‘princess’!”

Norfolk shakes her till her teeth chatter. I hear them click together like dice cast against the floor. “Venomous little bitch!”

Mother does not stop. Her voice is uneven as he jars her. “Royal blood is as red as everyone else’s and spills even easier.”

In one quick movement, Norfolk whirls her around so her back is to him as she kicks and writhes against him. He pulls her to the sedan. I stand stunned. I want to cry but cannot. I just watch, fascinated. As wiry as he is, he has the strength to hold her arms behind her with one hand and maneuver her over his knee. He hikes up her skirts and strikes her across the bottom like a naughty child. My face burns in shame as I listen to the resounding crack of skin striking skin.

What inspires the most fear in me is that Norfolk’s face bears so little expression given the severity of his actions. No anger, no malice. No remorse.

When he finishes he pushes her onto the floor in a crumpled heap. She struggles into a sitting position. Norfolk has turned his back on her and folded his arms across his chest, drawing in a deep breath.
Well done
, his bearing suggests. I shudder. Mother crawls forward. To my complete amazement she wraps her arms about his leg and rests her head against his thigh. They remain like this a long moment before my father reaches down and pushes back her hood to ruffle her wavy brown hair. Like a dog, I think, my stomach churning in revulsion.

She raises her head to him, smirking. “When shall we tell Lady Mary?”

“I knew you would see it my way, Elizabeth.” Norfolk’s tone is quite pleasant.

I turn around and lean against the wall a moment for support. Tears flood my eyes. The circlet is clammy in my cold hands. It is all right, then, what just happened? Is it some game between them? I take in a few shuddering breaths. I should not be so upset. I have much to look forward to now, it seems. Whatever occurs between my parents is best left to them. This may be how all couples relate. Should this be the case, I shall pray fervently that I am admitted into a convent. But one does not have babies in a convent! I begin to wring my hands in panic.

“My lady?” a gentle voice queries. Hands white as lilies rest upon my shoulders, and I see through a veil of tears the sweet face of my favorite maid. Her wide-set brown eyes are filled with familiar tenderness. “What is it, lamb?”

I attempt to still my trembling lip. “I … I do believe I’m going to court,” I say, not wishing to confide the disturbing scene between my parents to Bess.

Her full, rosy lips curve into a radiant smile. “But that’s wonderful!” she cries, guiding me down the hall into the nursery, where we sit on the settee. She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs my eyes. Her other hand seizes mine and strokes my thumb in an absent fashion.

“It is wonderful,” I agree, but the words are empty. I am nervous. I need to do something. I take the handkerchief. I am far too grown-up to allow her to continue blotting my tears away, and it will occupy my fidgety hands. As I bring it to my face I find the monogram, embroidered in the lovely shade of Tudor green. “T H,” I say. The corner of my mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Now, what lad would have given you this, Bessie Holland?” I reach out and tug one of her white-blond ringlets.

She flushes bright crimson and lowers her eyes. Such a demure creature, I think to myself. She is everything I want to be.