Secrets of the Tudor Court (23 page)

I cannot tear my eyes from the blood-soaked straw.

Surrey leads me away. "Come, now. We will go. We will go home."

I cannot hear him. I can hear nothing but the whir of the axe slashing through the air, then slicing through the bone and gristle of my Kitty. The blood...there is so much blood.

"I want to die, Henry," I tell him.

"No, you don't. Don't be silly," he says, dragging me away.

"I want to die," I repeat over and over again.

B
ecause there is no longer a queen, there is no longer a call for ladies-in-waiting. The court is vacant, empty. No longer does Kitty's girlish laughter flit through the halls. Now all that remains of her is an echo of a desperate scream as she ran through the gallery begging for her husband to save her.

Cedric confronts me before I retreat to Kenninghall, pulling me into our usual meeting place, the practice room.

"What is the meaning of avoiding me these past months?" he demands.

I stare at him as though he is a stranger. His handsome features and startling violet eyes do little to affect me now. I am numb. I can only see
her.
Her little head on the block...her pretty little mouth moving in prayer...I see Anne, her swanlike throat cut through with a French sword. I see nothing beyond this.

I heave a deep sigh. "What do you expect from me?" I ask in weary tones.

He grips my upper arms; his touch is gentle, however--not filled with the cruel urgency of Norfolk's. "I could have helped you," he says in soft tones, tears lighting his eyes.

I shake my head. "How on earth do you think you could have helped me? You, a lowly musician? What do you propose you could have done?"

He drops his hands, staring at me, his eyes soft with pity. "Mary, do you think I meant something political?" He shakes his head. "I know I'm nothing but a 'lowly musician' and glad am I of it, considering the luck 'better' men than I have run into at this court." He draws in a shaky breath. "I am not talking strategy or politics or manipulation. I am talking as a man to a maid. I could have been there for you to...to talk to, to lean on...Mary, why didn't you come to me?"

I shake my head again. "I am too tired for this. I am going home. There is no need of me anymore, thank God, and now I am leaving."

"You will go to him?" he asks, his voice taut with resentment. "You will exchange one cursed place for another?" Again he reaches for me, pulling me into his arms. I do not resist. "Don't go back there." He kisses the top of my head, then my cheek. His breath is hot in my ear as he whispers, "Come away with me, Mary. Marry me. We will be a family. I will give you children. Yes, it will be a far humbler existence than what you're accustomed to but--"

I pull away, gazing up into his dark face. Tears stream unchecked down my cheeks. "You know it is not possible, not as long as my lord lives."

He purses his lips. It is clear to see he has a remedy for that obstacle but is far too respectful to suggest it.

I go on. "He would see to it that you and I are made to suffer no matter where we might go; his vengeful pursuit of me would only cause you to hate me as well." I lower my eyes.

"So you will remain his." His voice is low, bearing a dangerous edge. I shiver.

"I wish you wouldn't say
his,
" I say, annoyed. "You twist everything up. You rearrange my words. I am not
his.
I can belong to no one. I made a promise once, a long time ago, to my Harry. I am free to love you, Cedric, but never can I marry."

"It makes no sense!" Cedric cries, running a hand through his black curls in frustration. "Why on earth would you hold yourself to a promise you made when you were seventeen? You had no idea what you would encounter then, what you would be made to endure. If Harry had any notion--"

"Harry did have a notion," I correct him, my tone firm. "He knew far more than I ever did. He knew my lord, what he would do if he were not given control of my match."

"Still, you give him control by not making a match of your choosing," Cedric points out.

"No." I shake my head with vehemence. "Don't you see? He has control regardless. He would find ways to make me pay for my disobedience should I give myself over to you or anyone else. He would--" I cannot go on. Tears clutch my throat. "There is nothing to be done. If you do not want me, then go. Do not see me again. I do not hold you to any pledges said or unsaid." I pause, swallowing several times. "But if you do desire to see me I am receptive to it, now and again. I will be at Kenninghall. There are ways we can achieve happiness without wedding rings."

Cedric's shoulders slump. "You have had a tremendous shock in your cousin's death. You are not in your right mind. We will address this topic again when you are yourself. Good day, Lady Richmond."

With a stiff bow he retreats, leaving me alone with silent instruments, beckoning to be touched, to be made to sing.

I sit on the bench behind the virginals and sob.

I return to Kenninghall where waits a household scrambling to recreate a semblance of normalcy in the aftermath of our great family tragedy. It consists of Surrey's increasing brood, Frances de Vere, Margaret Douglas, and Bess. Of course Norfolk cannot be included in this group, though he is here. His reflections on the situation are kept to himself, and if there is any remorse or regret we will never know of it.

When not sequestered in his study, absorbed in affairs of state or whatever new scheme he is undoubtedly concocting to return to royal favor, he takes long walks or sits in the gardens, feeding the swans in the pond. He does not associate with us for the most part, though now and then he and Bess can be seen leaving each other's rooms.

Two people have taken a keen interest in Norfolk. They are Surrey's boys, Little Thomas, age six, and Little Henry, a big boy of two. In their innocence they have chosen my father as a sort of idol, and follow him about wherever he goes. Little Thomas plagues him with questions about knights and battle. Norfolk is pleased to oblige him with swashbuckling tales of glory on the field and tiltyard (stories that always include him as the hero), while Little Henry sits on his knee and repeats a word here and there.

The other children, Jane and Catherine--yes, another Catherine Howard--are as pleased to stay away from him as I am, for he criticizes them for everything from their table manners to their hair to proper facial expressions. Once I heard Jane pull her sister aside and confide that she hated her grandfather and couldn't wait for him to return to court.

Little Margaret, a babe of two months, is far too young to receive any criticisms, and remains in the care of her nurse or, whenever I can, myself. As fertile as my sister-in-law Frances has proven herself to be, she is not very maternal and is more content to gossip with Margaret than attend to her children, leaving the blessed duty of coddling my nieces and nephews to me.

At Kenninghall I also find time to write. Margaret Douglas and I pass the spring and summer composing verse. Whenever Surrey is home he finds the time to join us and at last we find some merriment. To my annoyance, he still finds ways to jab my writing style at every turn.

"I don't know why you don't say something to him," Margaret says one afternoon as we throw breadcrumbs into the pond for the swans. "He is needlessly cruel to you with his unnecessary criticisms."

I shrug. "Margaret, you know as well as I what we have suffered. I have seen my three beloved cousins beheaded. I have lost my husband. I have fought and won my meager inheritance after a great deal of grief. After all that, allowing my brother's words to bother me would be petty and vain."

"You've a better heart than I." Margaret laughs.

Whatever resentment I may feel for Surrey is replaced with pity when after returning to court, he is promptly sent to Windsor as punishment for hitting a man named John Leigh. What they disagreed about, I can only imagine. Surrey's temper is so hot it could have been over something as silly as insulting the feather in his hat.

At supper that evening Frances is in a state. "I don't know why he has to be so thoroughly disagreeable and showy," she laments. "It will bring him nothing but trouble. The king is amused by him, thank God--sees something of himself in him, he's said. But that won't last. King Henry's affections are fickle, as well we Howards know." She glares at my father.

Norfolk, who is holding Little Henry, glares back. "That will do, Lady Frances," he says in his soft tone, bouncing the toddler a bit.

"I don't know why you insist on bringing him to table, either," she continues, narrowing her eyes at Little Henry. "He should take his supper in the nursery. I'm certain you didn't allow your children to eat at table till they were at least three or four."

"Lady Frances, I said that will do." Norfolk's voice bears an edge to it, a warning Frances should heed. He takes in a breath. "My son is a smart lad, an accomplished lad. He has a bit more growing up to do, that is all. Has to rein in that--what did you call it?--
showy
side of his nature. I assure you we will have words on the subject. For now, however, it is best not to discuss his situation in front of the children."

"Yes, you certainly know what's best," says Frances. "Your
wisdom
has carried us all so far!"

The table is stunned silent. The rest of the children's heads are bowed, though Little Thomas stares at his grandfather through thick dark lashes.

"Lady Frances!" Norfolk barks. Little Henry jumps in his arms. "Excuse yourself. Your spirit is vexed and I believe you have not made a full recovery from Margaret's birth."

Frances rises with such abruptness the bench we are seated on wobbles. "Yes, I must be sure to recover! I shall recover, Lord Thomas. I will be a good wife to my celebrated husband, who comes home just long enough to make certain to get more babes on me, then leaves to cause a ruckus somewhere and land himself in detainment! Yes, I shall recover, my dear 'Father,' if only so that I might spit out more precious Howard brats to carry on this cursed line!"

In a whirl of red skirts, Frances runs from the room, sobbing.

Little Henry sniffles. "Are we cursed?"

Norfolk laughs, squeezing him to his breast. "Us?" he asks as though this is the most ridiculous assumption one could make. "Come now, everyone finish supper. We shall be merry tonight. Let's have a contest. Which lad can finish his supper first? Whoever wins shall get a prize."

Little Thomas cries, "I shall win! I am bigger than Little Henry. I shall win for certain!" He commences to shovel his supper into his mouth as though he hadn't seen food for a week. The little girls watch, appalled, knowing should they attempt the same thing Norfolk would scold them for being piggish.

After a brief silence Margaret Douglas laughs. "You know what I heard? That grandfathers are better to their grandchildren than they ever are to their own brood. It's sort of a second chance. Do you find it to be true, Lord Thomas?"

Norfolk smiles at the king's pretty niece. "I don't know about that. I've always delighted in my children."

"Have you?" she asks, tilting a brow.

I bow my head. I can still feel his hand on my neck, his belt on my back. Still my temple throbs from his fist all those years ago.

I raise my head, meeting his black eyes. "Yes, it's quite true," I tell her. "He has certainly taken a great measure of delight in me."

Margaret leans back, her expression smug.

That autumn Surrey joins my father against the Scots, who are advancing south to personally reject King Henry's invitation that King James V cast aside the Catholic faith and join the Church of England.

The day my father leaves, Little Thomas mans his own training short sword and follows him through the great hall.

"And where do you think you are going, lad?" Norfolk asks him, his tone so solicitous one would not believe he could summon it forth.

"I'm coming with you," Little Thomas informs him, his wide brown eyes earnest.

"You don't believe you're a little young for such an expedition?" Norfolk's tone is conspiratorial as he gets down on one knee, placing his hands on the child's shoulders.

Little Thomas offers a grave shake of the head. "I have to protect you, my lord."

Norfolk's lips twitch. "And why is that?"

Little Thomas pauses. "Well, sir...because you are quite advanced in years."

Norfolk erupts into laughter. "Yes, I suppose so. But still you cannot come along, I'm afraid, though I've no doubt you would make an excellent soldier." He casts his eyes toward the rest of us, who linger by the table. "I will give you your own mission, my dear Lord Thomas. I order you to watch over my estate while I am gone fighting the Scots. Watch after the fair ladies living here, and your little brother. Be diligent in your studies, for a good soldier must also be a learned scholar. Can you do that for me?"

Tears light the large brown eyes. "Yes, my lord. You can trust me with this task."

"Good lad," says Norfolk, ruffling the black curls and rising.

Long after his departure, Little Thomas clings to his short sword, standing outside the manor watching for intruders, and nothing we can say will coax him indoors.

During his grandfather's absence Little Thomas stands guard, circling the manor every day, short sword in hand, waiting for news from the North.

It comes soon enough.

Norfolk proves successful in the beginning, razing the borderlands with little resistance, but retreats before the battle of Solway Moss, the decisive encounter that grants England her smug victory over the Scots.

Little Thomas believes Norfolk had a part in the victory, however small, and tells him so. Coming from anyone else, these words would be interpreted as an insult, but Norfolk embraces the boy and tells him he is a very wise lad and will be a credit to the Howard name.

"I am proud to be a Howard," Little Thomas tells his idol.

"As well you should be," says Norfolk, but he is looking at me.

Norfolk returns to court for a while, which grants us a measure of peace until the spring of 1543, when he comes home with the news that the king will take a new bride, the newly widowed Catherine Parr.

I ache for my friend whose heart belongs to Tom Seymour. As misguided as that may be, he is far more preferable a pick than Henry VIII. I can only imagine how it must have been, accepting his proposal. One does not say no to a king unless it is with the express purpose of eventually saying yes, as it was for my Anne and Jane Seymour.