Rivals in the Tudor Court (3 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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She does not talk much; she is a dreamer. One could never accuse her of being silly or frivolous. Often I find her staring out the window or seated in the gardens, her expression soft with melancholy whimsy.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask her one day when I find her seated beside the duck pond. She holds an old loaf of bread but is not breaking any off to feed the ducks that are gathered about in anticipation.
To my surprise, tears light her eyes. She averts her head.
“Princess?” I call her nothing else; to utter her sacred name would be sacrilege. So she is Princess, my forever princess, and her tears twist my gut with pain. There is nothing I long for more than to bring her comfort. I kneel beside her, taking her chin between my fingers, turning her head toward me. “What is it, my love?”
She blinks rapidly. “I cannot help it, my lord,” she tells me in tones that ring with desperation. “I cannot stop thinking of them. I try to will away the thoughts . . . I pray to the Lord for guidance, that He will help me banish them from my mind—”
“Who, my lady?”
She buries her face in her pretty hands. “My brothers . . . the princes . . . the princes in the Tower.”
“Oh, Princess!” I cry, gathering her in my arms, rocking back and forth. What can I say to this? Never once had I thought of how the event affected her. Truly she must have had to disguise her grief well at the courts of her uncle Richard III and now her brother-in-law Henry VII.
“I suppose we'll never know what happened, will we?” she asks, her eyes lit with an innocence I long to preserve.
I shake my head. If Grandfather alluded to anything the day we discussed the ill-fated princes, I will never share it with this poor girl. What purpose would it serve except to further her grief and drive a wedge between us?
“We must press on,” I tell her, stroking her cheek. “Pray for their souls, my love, and press on. We have so much to look forward to.”
She offers a little half smile. “Yes,” she acquiesces. “Do you suppose they are in the faery country?”
This was the last thing I would suppose, but what can I say? I shrug, offering a smile of my own. “You are truly English, I think—one moment speaking of God and the next of the fey. Only a true Englishman can seamlessly marry the two.”
The princess covers her mouth with a hand. “Do you think it blasphemy?”
I wave a hand in dismissal; I want to say I don't believe in blasphemy any more than I do the faery folk. “Of course not.”
I take her in my arms again, daring to kiss the lips I crave, daring to distract her the best way I know how.
She is a peculiar girl, this princess of mine, but her peculiarities are so endearing that I am beside myself with love for her. She leaves gifts for the faery folk, strange little gifts. A sweetmeat, a piece of string, a thimble, rose petals. In the oddest places—windowsills, the hearth of the fireplaces, my chair in my study, pressed between the pages in one of my ledgers. She writes them little notes, then burns them. The messages will be sent to the faeries in the ashes, she tells me.
When I ask her what she communicates to her faery folk, she answers in all seriousness, “To bid them safeguard of my brothers.”
Often she is seen in the garden, twirling about in her gauzy gown, her little voice lifted in song. I watch her when she thinks she is alone.
It is a beautiful sight.
A year into our marriage the princess approaches me in my study. She wears a dreamy smile as she climbs onto my lap and snuggles against my shoulder. As such a show is so opposite of her character, I wrap my arms about her, reveling in her closeness and warmth. I cover the soft cheek and neck in gentle kisses.
“My love, my love,” I murmur against her rose-gold hair. “How now, dearest?”
She pulls away, roses blooming on her cheeks. She reaches for my hand and places it on her belly.
It takes a moment to realize what this gesture portends. When at last understanding dawns on me, I begin to tremble.
“Truly?” I ask her.
She nods. “Truly.”
“Dearest little mother!” I cry, taking her in my arms once more. “We shall know such happiness! Never will our children question or wonder whether or not
we
love them. Never will they be afraid of us.”
The princess pulls away, cocking her head. She places a velvet hand on my cheek. “As you were?”
I blink, averting my head.
She does not pry. Instead she leans against my shoulder once more.
I hold my princess for a very long time.
Family Man
I
watch my wife's pregnancy advance in a state of awe. I chase the dark thoughts from my mind, cold stabbing fears of losing my princess and the baby, memories of my mother and the six siblings that succumbed to one childhood ailment or another.
My princess does not grow plump in any area other than her belly and I love watching her waddle about, cradling the curve wherein rests the life I planted. At night I hold her in my arms as she guides my hand to where it kicks and stretches. I tremble and laugh as I feel the little feet and hands jutting out.
“A regular knight we have, and so eager for combat!” I cry, rubbing her belly in delight.
She does not say much. She never says much, but now and then I catch her humming, rubbing her belly with that ethereal smile on her face, a smile she shares with her faeries and her fancies. I take pleasure in the sight of her; I drink in her radiance.
And then in the spring of 1497, the call to arms I had been waiting for arrives. I am to help subdue a rebellious lot of Cornishmen.
My princess gazes at me from her bed, her soft blue eyes lit with pain. “But the baby is to arrive any day now,” she says, her voice taut with anxiety. “If you leave, you will miss it and what if something—what if something goes wrong?”
My heart lurches. “I cannot disobey the king, my lady,” I tell her in soothing tones. “If I am successful, I may be given the favor of more royal assignments and you know what that would mean for the family. You must see that.”
She furrows her brow in confusion, cupping her belly with a protective hand. “Then you must go,” she says, her voice weary. “I know well that one must not refuse royal service.”
I lean down to kiss her, but she averts her head.
I suppose I understand her grief, though what can I do? I can't very well stay home to pamper a child when the king calls for me! This may be the first of many chances to serve him or it may be the last—in any event I will not forfeit the opportunity.
I leave my princess with a kiss and the promise of my return. She says nothing. Her blue eyes stare past me, through to that world I am never quite able to enter.
I ride away. I will not look back. I will forget the tears sparkling off the cheeks where roses once bloomed.
A man remembers his first kill. Mine is made at the Battle of Blackheath on 17 June when I run my sword through the body of a bulging-eyed Cornishman. It is a very strange sensation, holding the knowledge that someone's very existence is in my hands. But I snuff it out without hesitation; indeed, to hesitate would be tantamount to my own demise. No, this is no time to lose control and yield oneself to philosophy. I am a soldier and that is that.
The sound of sword splitting through chain mail, sliding through soft flesh is like no other in the fact that it is eerily gentle, like that of permeating wet sand with a stick. I look into his eyes, big blue bulging eyes, watching them widen in surprise. He tries to grip my hilt in a vain effort to deflect the inevitable but in his shock miscalculates and grips the blade itself, slicing his palms through to the backs of his hands. Blood begins spewing from his mouth then, a mouth that had previous ownership of the ability to scream but is now gurgling and gulping the steaming red liquid of life instead. I ease him to the ground, placing a foot on his chest in order to extricate the sword from his failing body. It is difficult, far more so than running him through.
His face drains of color; the life ebbs out of him like the receding tide and as it does, it is as though what I have taken from him is now surging through me. I am tingling, pulsating. My heart pounds in my ears. I begin to feel the creepings of philosophy, the urge to ponder my situation: Have I done right? Am I normal?
Did I enjoy it?
What makes combat odd is the closeness. I wonder what it would be like to kill a man from far away; many kings have that ability. They sit on a hill and watch the battles commence below yet, by giving the orders, have as much a part in the killing as the knights. It must be easier for a king on a hill. They are not quite so close; they do not have to look into those eyes, those bulging blue eyes. They do not smell the steel and the blood. Nor, do I imagine with that strange surge of life flowing through me, do they ever appreciate the full taste of glory on the battlefield.
I gaze at the bloodied blade a long moment. This is blood I spilt. I killed. I killed for my king and my country.
I am a soldier.
Of course I only have a moment to review this fact as I am accosted by more rebels. They are easier to take than my first man. I do not think as hard. I have not the time for such an indulgence; there is only kill or be killed.
And I will kill.
I return to my princess victorious, and my biggest reward for my efforts is in holding my son. He is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. And I should know: I have seen dozens of babies and most of them are horrific, red-faced howling things.
He does not howl or fuss much; he is robust, with my wife's almond-shaped green eyes and a tuft of rose-gold hair that I cannot stop petting.
“What do we call this little lad?” I ask my princess as I sit beside her on her bed.
She offers her gentle smile.
“I call him Thomas, my lord,” she tells me in her soft voice. “If that pleases you?”
I reach out to stroke her cheek. “Of course it does. There can never be too many Thomas Howards about.” I laugh.
The baby begins to mew a bit and I hand him to her. “Would you like me to fetch the wet nurse?”
“I nurse him myself,” she tells me. “I like nursing him.”
I screw up my face in confusion. “It isn't done, my lady. It is not good for you. A country wench suited for that type of life would be far better. But you are a dear for trying. I shall send for a proper nurse.” I rise, patting her head. “And that way we can commence with the happy task of giving Thomas here a brother or sister.”
The princess cradles the baby to her heart. I note the plea in her eyes. I cannot help but yield to her desires. She is so fair. . . . I nod, her helpless servant. She unfastens her nightdress and allows him to suckle, a smile of gratitude lighting her face.
I turn to quit the chambers but, as I do, am reminded of another birth, that of my sister Alyss so many years ago. How my mother would not take to her, how she thrust the little lamb into the hands of the wet nurse as soon as she was able to prevent any chance of becoming too attached before death claimed her.
I turn toward the princess. I want to say something; I want to warn her.
But I don't know how. Nor do I understand the nature of the warning.
And they are so lovely, sitting there like that. Almost holy.
I will not part them.
The king and queen have sent gifts for the baby, a lovely baptismal gown and fine garments sewn by the queen's own hands. They have been blessed with a flock of their own children these past years, including two bonny princes, Arthur and Henry. I wonder how often my Thomas will interact with the boys. It would be wonderful if they grew up together to become best mates. I am still in a state of awe that my Thomas is first cousins with the Crown Prince!
That summer, Neddy and I are sent north with our father, who is now lord lieutenant of the army defending the homeland against Scottish invasion. With him we will do our best to keep the barbarians where they belong. They had been making a show of support for Perkin Warbeck, a Yorkist pretender, which gave Henry VII plenty of reason to be annoyed.
I tell myself it is just in a day's honored service, burning villages, setting the thatched roofs of these little humble huts aflame while tuning out the screams of the families perishing inside. But this is a different kind of warfare, far different from hand-to-hand combat against men born and bred to kill.
I have to do it, though. It is for the country, for the king who is rescuing me from obscurity.
This is how life is, my reasoning continues. People live and people die. Everyone's time comes. One day it will be mine and if it is by the sword, I will not blame my slayer for doing his duty.
I tell myself this at night when the dreams come, when I hear the screams, the pleas, the vain cries to God for mercy. I tell myself this as I imagine the situation reversed and it is Stoke up in flames, my wife and baby inside, surrounded by merciless barbarians.
No, I cannot think of that. I must never think of that.
We prove successful and by September, King James IV of Scotland makes a truce with Henry VII. For our role, Neddy and I are knighted by our father at Ayton Castle.
I am now Sir Thomas Howard.
By Epiphany my princess announces in her subtle way that she is again with child, by setting an egg on my desk. It takes me a moment to realize this is not one of her odd gifts to the faery folk but her wordless communication to me about her condition.
I laugh, enchanted by my lady's newest antics.
She carries this precious cargo in the same manner she did Thomas, all in front. Never is a sight more beautiful to me than my princess with child. I cannot believe my good fortune, to be blessed with a fertile bride and a flourishing career. I am not about to dwell on what I do not have; that is a fool's hobby. I focus on what is to come, what is to be achieved and gained. It is this thinking that earned me my knighthood and, hopefully, further advancements, advancements that will benefit my growing family.
I must say I think it was easier fighting off the Cornishmen than standing outside the princess's birthing chamber the day she labors with our second child. As I had missed Thomas's birth, this is a new and altogether uncomfortable experience for me. I am wrought with anxiety, pacing back and forth outside the door, starting at every sound that comes from within. My mother had always screamed in childbed and I was expecting the same from my wife. My princess's silence is more disconcerting than my mother's agonizing cries ever were, and I am beset with fear as I imagine any number of terrible scenarios.
“She's a strong one, is your lady,” says Tsura Goodman the midwife in her strange accent when she comes out to report on my princess's progress. “She doesn't make a sound.” She cocks her head, searching my face for something I am unsure of. She is a peculiar woman, this midwife, said to have descended from the wandering Gypsy folk. Her ancestry reflects in her dark skin and penetrating gray eyes. Her black hair is wound atop her head in a knot; loose tendrils escape to frame her olive-skinned face, and her dark beauty is as alluring as it is haunting.
The woman takes my sword hand. “Beautiful,” she says as she admires it, turning it palm up. “Beautiful and dangerous.” She raises her eyes to mine. I shudder. I have never been keen on what some call the dark arts; indeed, my wife's attachment to her faery folk is unsettling enough. Looking at the woman before me confirms that she is in possession of something otherworldly. “Take care of its power, my good lord,” she tells me in an eerie tone suggesting that she speaks not by choice but at the command of some higher being with which I have never become familiar.
“What are you about?” I snap, trying to quell my trembling.
She is unaffected, unafraid. Her full, claret-colored lips curve into a slow smile. “There is always a chance for redemption; no fate is ever certain,” she hisses in urgency, and the incongruity of her seductive expression and harsh tone causes me to start.
“Attend your charge at once, woman!” I cry, snatching my hand from hers and backing away, stifling the urge to make the sign of the cross and run in terror.
Tsura the Gypsy dips into a curtsy, then returns to my wife's bedside.
I stand outside the chambers, studying my hand a long moment. I clench it into a fist.
Take care of its power indeed.
It is a boy! Another bonny boy! We call him Henry after the king and his son. He is a delight, so blond and rosy. His eyes are lighter than his brother's; their silvery blue gaze penetrates the soul as he studies me, his little face earnest as a judge's. I find myself particularly attached to this wee mite, perhaps because I was here when he was born, and I love holding him, caring for him. It touches me to feel his tiny hand curling about my thumb and I marvel at his perfect small feet, an example of God's attention to the finest details.
I never knew I could love like this.
The princess and I spend many an hour in the gardens with the children. She laughs more now. Our toddling Little Thomas brings her delight as he discovers his world; he is everywhere at once and it takes a great deal of energy to keep up with him, but it is energy we are happy to spare.
When Thomas is out of his swaddling bands and put into short pants, assembling words into short sentences, following me about wherever I permit him to go, my princess tells me I should begin considering names for our third child.
I stare at her in wonder. How is it a man can be this happy?

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