Rivals in the Tudor Court (30 page)

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Authors: D. L. Bogdan

BOOK: Rivals in the Tudor Court
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“I fear I am losing my strength,” I confess. “And Mary is kept so far away from me. Thomas sees to that. When she is not cloistered with my niece and her circle she is with him, sequestered in his apartments. It pains me to admit this, but I believe she is an agent of his.”
“Of course she is,” the queen says, but her voice bears no malice. “But she is a child. Likely there is nothing she uncovers that he does not already know. And she does not work against me. She keeps him abreast of her cousin's doings.” The queen sighs. “Quite a heady task for a child.”
“Mary would do anything for him, she and my son Henry both.” I cannot withhold the bitterness from my tone. “It is unnatural. She makes sheep's eyes at him like he is . . .” I shake my head. I do not want to say it.
The queen regards me a long moment. “The duke is . . . a bit awe inspiring. And part of awe is fear. Do you not think that Mary and Henry are as afraid of their father as they are admiring and it is that which makes them so acquiescent?”
I bow my head, shamed. “I suppose I'm giving her more control than she has,” I say. I offer a heavy sigh. “What hurts most is she is learning all the wrong things and demonstrates a loyalty to all the wrong people.”
“It hurts to be betrayed,” observes Queen Catherine.
“Cathy would not have been like that, I do not think,” I say, my voice catching. “She was so eager to be presented to you so that she might serve you. . . .”
“Best not compare, Lady Elizabeth,” the queen cautions. “It pleased God to call her from this world. She serves a being far greater than my humble self.”
I bow my head, unable to speak. I am held captive by shattered dreams and do not know how to wrest myself from them.
“As it is, you are here and my good servant,” she tells me. She draws in a breath as though she wishes to speak but is restraining herself.
Protocol forbids me to prod her, so I force myself from my wounded reverie to give her my full attention.
“Lady Elizabeth,” the queen says in low tones, “I am reluctant to remind you of a promise you made me not one year ago, that you would serve me for the benefit of my cause. Are you able to do so, my lady?”
I blink back tears, touched that she should ask. Rather than being embittered at the thought of being deprived of my grief, I welcome the chance to distract myself with a challenge.
“You know you have but to command me and I shall accommodate,” I tell her, my voice wavering with fervency.
The queen rests her fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face toward hers. “I do not want to command you, Elizabeth. I want you to help me because you want to, because you are my friend.”
Tears clutch my throat. “I am your friend, Your Grace, always. Tell me what to do, so that I might help you.”
The queen hesitates a moment more, then says, “It is very hard being separated from my husband more often than not,” she tells me. “It is increasingly difficult to obtain the things I desire.” She offers a small laugh. “You know how I adore oranges from my homeland,” she tells me with a reminiscent smile. “They will be in season soon, and Eustace Chapuys has promised to send me some, but the king often prevents him from visiting me personally. Were my dear friend to give you a basket of oranges, you would make certain no one received it but me? I would hate for them to become mislaid; I love them so.”
I nod in understanding. “Of course, Your Grace,” I assure her, squeezing the hand that holds mine. “Nothing would please me more.”
With this new charge I am rejuvenated. I will not think of my daughter, the one dead or the one living. I will not think of my Thomas and his Bess. I will not think of anything that brings me pain.
I will think about baskets of oranges.
Thomas Howard
I do not think about my Cathy. To be honest, I didn't give her much thought to begin with after her marriage was secured; she was safe in the country and, I assumed, since she lived to maturity, she would escape the fate of her siblings. She would have children; she would come to court. Her children would come to court. And so on. But she is gone, and gone with her are my hopes for her. It does me no good to dwell.
As it is, another death consumes me, though not with grief. With joy, maddening joy. For Wolsey, that pompous, arrogant fool, is dead! I cannot say it enough. The exiled cardinal collapsed on the way to his execution in London. He was brought up on charges of treason; irrefutable evidence was provided stating that he was corresponding with foreign monarchs and Rome that he might enlist their support for his pathetic cause. Well, perhaps the evidence was not irrefutable. But it was strong enough to obtain the signature on his death warrant. But instead of death at the block, he succumbed to a demise fitting for a butcher's son, twitching in the mud like one of his father's pigs at slaughter. What a delight! Ah, but it would have been nice to see him beheaded, to look into his eyes and convey in my gaze my ultimate victory over he who endeavored to bring my family and me down since his rise to power. Who is brought down now, Cardinal? Oh, excuse me. I had forgotten; gone is your cardinal's hat. Seized it was when you failed.
Thomas More does not share my enthusiasm over his predecessor's passing.
“Corrupt as he was, I think he wanted to do right in the end,” he tells me in his soft voice one day when I visit him at his Chelsea home.
“You never liked him,” I say gruffly. “You side with him now because he was a churchman, and you are nothing if not the Church's man. Look at you in your quaint choir robe! God's body, my lord chancellor!” I laugh. “A parish clerk! A parish clerk! You dishonor the king and his office!”
More laughs but it contains no humor.
“You cannot tell me you mourn him,” I demand.
“Perhaps not as one should,” More confesses. “But I am in mourning, Lord Norfolk. We are at the end of something. And I do not know if I am equipped to handle what lies ahead. I fear for the king. If a lion knew his own strength, hard it would be to rule him.” He purses his lips, drawing in a breath. “Wolsey knew that and used it to his advantage. Cromwell does not know it. Boleyn does not know it.” He turns his gaze to me, his eyes so penetrating, my heart begins to pound. “I do not think you know it, either. Now the lion is unfettered and we all will pay dearly for it.” His eyes grow distant. “Yes, my friend, I am in mourning. Wolsey is dead and with him the king's sense of restraint. There is no question as to who is next. Only when. Perhaps I die today and you tomorrow.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Drivel, Thomas,” I tell him, hoping to dispel the feeling of dread pooling in my gut. “All we have is now,” I say. “We must celebrate our victories.” I offer a smile that suddenly seems forced. I bow my head, deciding the best tactic is to completely shift the direction of the conversation. “Your family must prove a distraction. Quite the lot. They are lovely children.”
“I am very blessed,” he says and seems as relieved as I am. There is a certain respite in useless banter. “As are you. I have seen the girl Mary at court, a beautiful child. So pure.”
My heart lurches; all feelings of respite depart. “Mary.” I expel a wavering sigh. “Thomas, sometimes when I look at her . . .”
“Yes?” More prompts. “What do you see when you look at her?”
I shake my head in bewilderment. What do I see? The pearly essence of her skin, the wistful face, the golden hair I love to brush . . . “I see the embodiment of someone else. Not just someone else but some
thing
else. The embodiment of another time, another place, a place of innocence . . .”
“Lord Norfolk, she is not someone else,” More tells me in firm tones. “She is your daughter. See her as she is. Love her as she is. And, for love of God, do not make her pay for your disillusionment upon the realization that she is just an ordinary girl.”
No,
I want to scream,
not Mary
. She is far from ordinary. She is some kind of siren, a creature I long to both treasure and protect myself from. It is nothing sordid, as God is my witness. . . . Oh, what is this curse that has befallen me?
I shake my head and clear my throat. This is no conversation for More, the traditional family man. I should have known. Mary is not a topic to be discussed with anyone at any time. There is no one who would understand. I do not understand it myself.
I turn the conversation toward lighter things. Wolsey's death. Yes, think of Wolsey's death, not the children, neither the ones snuggled in their graves nor the one who inspires in me such dark and frightening fancies.
I will think of Wolsey. And I will revel.
Elizabeth Howard
Eustace Chapuys begins sending the baskets to the queen through me with very little trouble. I never look inside. As their communications are in Spanish, I would not be able to understand them anyway and it would do me little good. I am just the messenger and it does my heart good to know I am providing this service to Her Grace, who is pitiably short of friends.
We meet in a secluded area of gardens, where he passes the basket to me with a smile and pleasant exchange. He is never too personal, is always polite, save for those eyes, which are so keen and scrutinizing that they cause me to avert my eyes with the bashfulness of a girl.
One warm summer afternoon he meets me, the basket looped over his arm, and I greet him with a smile. It is a beautiful day. The scents of citrus and roses assault me and I draw in a deep breath.
“A shame to think of anything being conducted within doors on such a day as this,” I tell him, expelling my breath. On impulse I give myself over to the childish urge to twirl about. “This must be what paradise smells like.”
He laughs. “It is divine,” he agrees in his thick accent. “Surrounded by roses.” He closes his eyes, sniffing the air. Upon opening them, he smiles at me. “Roses and the beauty of a great lady.”
Another typical courtier, I think, as I recall the suave Fra Diego.
“Why the face you put on?” he asks me, his English so broken I am forced to laugh.
“I'm sorry. I was just thinking of an old acquaintance who used fair words to win fair ladies,” I say as we take to one of the benches.
“Did he succeed?”
I begin to giggle again. “No! He was sent home in disgrace. He was the queen's own confessor, Fra Diego.”
He joins me in laughter. “Well! Imagine a priest with such unholy designs!”
I wipe a tear of mirth from my eye as I laugh harder. By now everyone knows of Cardinal Wolsey's many mistresses and I am certain Chapuys is thinking along the same order as he makes the jest.
“Tell me, are the gardens of Spain as beautiful as this?” I ask him.
“As the Spanish envoy, I am obligated to say, ‘No, my lady, they are far more beautiful than this,' ” he says. “And while they are pretty, I must tell you that I am not in truth from Spain, so my heart does not think upon it as home. I am from Savoy. You know this place?”
I nod, charmed helpless by his musical accent.
“My first languages were actually French, then Italian when I attended the University of Turin,” he tells me. He smiles as though recalling a memory most dear. “And always Spanish, of course, which is now the one I use most. Then there is this English.” He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Well, you can see my English is not so good. English is not, I am thinking, a very pretty language.”
“No,” I agree. “It is as hard and cold as the English people.”
He regards me with soft eyes. “Not all of them,” he says quietly. In cheerful tones he adds, “I am most content to speak my romantic languages. For the rest, I have a good translator.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Some of the things I need to know are not learned by the spoken word. I observe people, their faces and their ways. A lot can be learned just watching.”
I nod. “And what have you learned about me?” I venture, feeling impetuous as a courtier.
He hesitates, regarding me a long moment before saying, “I have learned, Lady Elizabeth, that you are sad.”
I bow my head.
“I'm sorry,” he says quickly, reaching over to take one of my hands. “I was very bold.”
“Very,” I say.
We are silent a while and then, reaching into the basket, Chapuys removes an orange. “We were speaking of gardens. Do you know oranges grow on trees, Lady Elizabeth? Beautiful trees. Nothing smells as sweet as an orange orchard. Do you favor this fruit, my lady duchess?”
I swallow hard. “I have never tried one.”
“The Spanish queen's maid and you have never tried an orange!” he exclaims. “Well, you must!” He commences to peel it, concealing the peels in a nearby bush. He breaks the fruit in half, then into sections. The juice runs down his elegant hand as he gives me one. “Here. Try, my lady.”

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