Change Winds
Thomas Howard, Winter 1512
It is a thoroughly disgusting affair. No one has come through for me, not the kings of England or Spain. I am short supplies, horses, everything needed for any successful endeavor of war. I write Wolsey, that ridiculous upstart, appealing for some sort of objective in all this. After our success at Bayonne, I am left with little or no direction. Should we try for Aquitaine? No one knows and they’re certainly not inclined to inform me.
Meantime I am beset with sick men, bad weather, and worse morale. Wolsey is blamed for it all, to my good fortune, and it is not long before I decide it prudent to wash my hands of the whole affair.
I hire ships to take us home. The king is in a Tudor temper, but there is nothing else to be done. I am not going to remain so that we might be obliterated by dejection, inactivity, and Spanish food.
And so I leave Spain behind. I have not failed. I cannot help if no one cooperated with me and I was given no aid or support. This affair could not have been handled more ineffectively. It is Wolsey’s fault, not mine. Yes, that is it. Someday the king will see that, hopefully sooner than later.
I will not think on it anymore. There will be other wars and other victories. For now I am content to go home to my princess and rest.
She is at Lambeth with my stepmother, Agnes, and her increasing brood. When I arrive, Agnes greets me with a sad shake of her head.
“She cannot rise from her bed,” she tells me in her gruff voice. “She’s in a bad way, my lord. I am sorry.”
I rush to her chambers, panic gripping my heart. It is thudding wildly in my chest; I hear it pounding in my ears. I slow my steps upon entering her sanctuary. Everything about her suggests the need for quiet and tranquility.
She lies abed. Her rose-gold hair is plaited and worn over her shoulder. Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent, pearly and ethereal as a seraph. She is so much thinner than when last I saw her. Once so tall and fine of figure, she is now all bones. Upon seeing me, she offers a weak smile. Her lips are blue.
“My lord . . .”
I have not cried in a long while, not since the death of my Thomas. I had thought to be through with tears forever, but now they come easily enough, flowing icily down my cheeks unchecked as I approach the bed. I am as tentative as the child I was when I approached my mother’s bed after she bore my Alyss, another life fated to be stolen from me.
I sit beside my wife, reaching out to stroke her fevered brow. I remove her nightcap. “This is making you hotter,” I say uselessly. Then in a strangled voice I add, “I do not understand. You were not this bad when I left. . . .”
“Don’t be frightened, my love,” she tells me, reaching up to cup my cheek. With a slender thumb she wipes away a tear. Her eyes are soft, unafraid, and filled with something I had not seen in what seemed like an eternity: hope. “Soon it will be over. I am going to the faery country. I will be with the children.”
My heart lurches at this. She has not spoken of her faery folk in years. I do not know what to say. I continue stroking her brow, but my hand jerks and trembles and I imagine it does little to soothe her.
“I waited for you,” she whispers, coughing. “And now that you are here, I beseech you for your blessing, dearest Thomas.”
“You have it,” I tell her in urgent tones. “You’ve always had it.”
She closes her eyes. The smile remains.
“Princess!” I cry, cupping her face.
Her eyes flutter open. They are filled with pity. “Let me go, Thomas,” she whispers. “Let me go. Please. I am not meant for this world. I never was. You know that.”
Despite my urge to dispute this, I find myself nodding. It is true. From the first she seemed to belong to some other place, some intangible realm of existence forbidden to lesser beings.
“What will become of me?” I ask in a small voice, feeling as desperate and despondent as an abandoned child.
She offers a slight laugh. “I don’t worry about you,” she tells me. “You are a Howard. Howards survive.”
She avails herself to a fit of coughing. Blood spews forth, coating the front of her nightdress.
Now, I have seen much in battle. I have been drenched in the blood and gore of my enemies as well as my own, but nothing compares to this. This is my princess. This is not supposed to happen to my princess. . . .
My heart skips in wild fear. “Somebody help her! Somebody help her!” I cry.
Servants flood the room, attending her with gentle hands. But she has no need of it. Her eyes have focused on her faery country; she is gone. I gesture for the servants to cease their ministrations. They depart, heads bowed, some making the sign of the cross.
I gather my princess in my arms. She is limp, heavy. I cradle her head in the crook of my shoulder, watching my tears glisten off her rose-gold hair.
I begin to sway, humming some tuneless song in nervousness.
I am alone. She is the last of my short-lived family.
I am alone.
After her interment, I lie abed at Lambeth, allowing myself the luxury of dwelling on the past. I do not scream or cry or rage against God. I think of my princess, of the first time I saw her at Westminster. I think of our wedding, of our babies. . . . I do not want to think of the losses just yet. I want to imagine them all twirling and laughing in some faery garden. I want to imagine her smile, her sweet soft voice, her gentle touch.
My father comes to me one night, interrupting my musings with more unwanted realities. He sits on the edge of my bed, regarding me with sad brown eyes.
“We both know what it’s like to lose,” he begins, folding his hands and bowing his head. “What I am about to tell you may sound cold, even cruel but, my son . . . you must move on now.”
“Move on? Are you mad? I just buried her!” I cry, sitting up.
My father nods. “Yes. She is gone. Now you must rebuild. You are an earl’s firstborn son. Someday everything I have will go to you. And then where? You need a young, sturdy wife and a houseful of children. Your marriage was dead long before your princess—”
It is all I can do to refrain from slapping him outright.
“I have arranged for you to meet with Buckingham’s daughters at Shrovetide,” he informs me, unaffected by my outraged expression. “You would do yourself credit to make a match with one of them. They are offering a good dowry and it seems the Staffords are of fertile stock.” He pauses, then reaches out to pat my leg. His tone is gentle. “We are not a breed who can afford to love. That is left to the peasants; call it their one great extravagance, their compensation for their miserable lot in life.” He shakes his head. “But us . . . no, not us. We marry for advantage; we marry so that we might be the founders of dynasties. It is a business, Tom. You were fortunate with your princess if you found some affection. But now you are of an age to put such nonsense away and look toward what is practical. Marry. Assure me a great line of successors.”
The anger fades to numbness. I nod, accepting the truth in his words. I am the son of an earl. I cannot leave my inheritance to a sibling or nephew. I have to rebuild.
The princess would understand. She told me I would survive, and part of ensuring that survival is marrying again. It will not be the same. How could it ever be the same?
“A Stafford girl,” I say, lying back down and closing my eyes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter who she is as long as she’s a good breeder.”
“Good lad,” says my father, patting my leg again. He rises. “Nothing like having your bed warmed again to abate your grief. That’s what I did, and Agnes and I have proven quite successful.”
“Yes,” I say in cool tones. “It is a good business.”
No longer will marriage be considered anything else to me.
Elizabeth Stafford, Yuletide 1512
Everything is so wonderful. Father is home safe but has been so preoccupied that Ralph and I have had plenty of time to be alone. He reads me poetry and sings me frivolous little songs. We play with the dogs and take long walks in the snow. My sister Catherine teases me.
“I see roses in winter!” she cries.
“Where?”
“On your cheeks!” She laughs. “Who put them there?”
We dissolve into giggles as I recount Ralph’s attributes. Is it his smile I like best or the silkiness of his blond hair, or perhaps his spontaneous laugh? I shiver and giggle for no reason and every reason. Oh, to always remain young and in love and happy!
Ralph decides to ask for my hand at Christmas. It is the perfect arrangement. One of the primary benefits of taking on a ward is ensuring the right of marriage to a member of the guardian’s family—in this case, me. How could anyone object? It is probably what they have been planning all along.
While Ralph takes my parents aside in the parlor for a cordial, Catherine and I wait in the dining hall.
“Father loves Ralph,” I say, my hands twitching in nervousness. “He must have had plans for him to enter our family from the start, don’t you think? Oh, Catherine, it will happen, won’t it?”
Catherine offers her gentle laugh. She is a plump and merry girl with deep dimples on either side of her rosy mouth and lively blue eyes. “It will be fine, sweeting. Don’t fret so. It was ordained from the start!”
My heart is pounding. My cheeks are hot and my breathing short. My head tingles. I don’t know what to do with my hands and keep flexing my fingers.
At last my parents emerge with Ralph. His face is drawn, his eyes are red, and his lips are puffy. He rushes past Catherine and me and I rise, trying to stop him, but am not quick enough. Father reaches me first, seizing my hand.
“I did not tell him no,” he informs me in his gentle voice. “But it must wait.”
“Why?” I ask, biting my quivering lip.
“We are having a guest,” he says slowly.
“What does that matter?” I furrow my brow in frustration.
He reaches out to rub my upper arm. “He is coming to look you girls over and decide which of you he would like to take to wife.”
Catherine and I turn to each other. I approach her, taking her hands in mine. We draw near one another.
“Who?” I whisper.
“Lord Thomas Howard.”
“Lord Howard!” I cry. “But he’s married!”
He shakes his head. “He is a widower newly made.”
“How newly?” I demand.
“Lady Anne Plantagenet passed in late November,” he replies, bowing his head. “God rest her sweet soul.”
“Gracious, he doesn’t waste any time!” I cry, furious.
“Elizabeth!” Father’s voice is sharp. “Remember yourself! His reasons are not for us to question.”
I look to my sister, who at thirteen is already more rounded in figure than I. As uncharitable as it may sound, I hope he chooses her. I shall have speech with her later about endeavoring to make a good impression on him.
My shoulders slump. “He’s so much older than we,” I find myself saying despite the fact that I wish to make him seem a favorable match to my sister. “He is at least forty,” I am compelled to add.
“That may well be, but he is an earl’s son and that family is rising in favor every day,” Father says, wrapping his arms about both our shoulders.
“And,” quips Mother, “you must admit he is in finer form than many men half his age.”
I don’t care a fig about that. Ralph Neville may not have Lord Howard’s well-turned legs, but he is the sweetest, most beautiful . . . oh, please God. I turn to my sister. She looks as dumb and appealing as any man would want a girl to look. Surely he’ll choose her. . . .
Thomas Howard
It seems the sun still shines and the snow still falls. The birds sing and I manage to take in nourishment. I sleep and dream and think and live even without the princess. But the ache, that relentless dull throb filling my chest, encircling my heart like a coiling snake, never abates. It pursues me with the ardor of a new lover.
I divert myself with hunting. I watch the crimson blood of my kill stain the snow and try not to remember the blood of the princess against the stark white of her cheek. It is no use. Sometimes I sink to my knees with my bow amongst the silence of the trees, watching the sun filtering through the canopy of branches above. I watch a chipmunk scamper across the moss. Does he talk to the faeries? Does he know my princess? Can he tell her . . . What would I have him tell her? There is so much, and all left unsaid.
I abandon these strange fancies and at Shrovetide remove to Thornbury, where I must fulfill my obligation to my family and choose a bride.
The pre-Lenten celebrations are in full tilt when I arrive. A feast is laid out in my honor and though food holds little appeal for me now, save for the fact that it is what keeps me alive, I partake of the lamb in mint jelly, peacock, cheese, warm bread, and sweet comfits with feigned enthusiasm.
It is very strange, this choosing of a wife. My first marriage was arranged for me, which was most appropriate for that time in my life. I did not have to fret about a thing. Negotiations were made above our innocent heads and all we had to worry about was pleasing each other. That was easy to do.
But now it is different. Now I am in control of my fate and I must choose a wife, mother, and helpmate. And I have one night to do it.
I assess the girls. They are quite young. I recall the one called Elizabeth from our few encounters at court. Though she is on the thin side, she has grown into a beautiful young lady with her long waves of chestnut hair threaded with auburn tumbling loose down her back. Her blue eyes remain fierce and determined and she has retained that set jawline. Her smile is slow in coming but worth waiting for.
The younger sister Catherine is a beauty as well, though a little too plump for my liking. It is pleasant now, but I imagine once she drops a pup, she will give herself over to resembling the broad side of a ship, which just wouldn’t do.
Yet there is a sweet element in Catherine that seems lacking in Elizabeth.
How does one know what is right? We eat and make small talk but they say little. I converse more with the duke, who proudly lists his daughters’ talents and virtues, and I listen attentively. Catherine excels at embroidery, but Elizabeth can sing like a bird. Catherine is a beautiful dancer, but Elizabeth is a skilled equestrienne.
I will just have to see how this night goes.
Elizabeth Stafford
Look at him narrowing his black eyes at us as though he is assessing jewels for scrapes and flaws! Oh, I remember him right enough. A well-intended man but an arrogant knight nonetheless. Well, I shan’t do a thing to impress him tonight. I will be myself and say and do exactly as I like and if Father is displeased with me, so be it. Let him have Catherine. I love her and I truly don’t want to make her a sacrifice, but if it comes down to her or me . . .
“So, Mistress Elizabeth,” he begins, leaning forward to look down his long nose at me. “What is your favorite thing to do?”
“I enjoy passing time with young people,” I tell him in sharp tones. “Young, merry people.”
Mother shoots me a warning glance.
Lord Howard’s lips curve into a half smile. “Yes. We all delight in that. And what do you do while passing time with these young merrymakers?”
“We are not all about frivolity, Lord Howard,” I tell him. “But as we are of an age, we have much in common to discuss that people of . . . well, a different age would not be able to understand.”
He laughs. “Of course. Because people of a different age have never been where you are, is that it? Or have we in our dotage forgotten, perhaps, since it was so very long ago?”
I pause. I do not seem to be the victor in this battle of wits. “Perhaps,” I say at last.
Lord Howard rises, extending his elegant hand toward me. “Dance with me, Mistress Elizabeth.”
“My sister is the pretty dancer,” I tell him. “I do not like to dance.”
“Dance with Lord Howard,” Mother snaps, then offers a quick smile at the haughty knight.
“You mean to say you, the young merrymaker, do not like to dance?” His tone is mockingly incredulous. “Come now.” He takes me in his arms and turns me about the floor.
It is then I recall the first time I danced with Lord Howard, when at twelve years old I felt that strange energy flowing between our joined hands. It is there again. At once my body is not obeying me. It begins to tremble and tingle. A frightening heat surges through my veins.
Lord Howard’s face is soft, sort of wistful. I meet his eyes and wonder what it is like to be a man having to start completely over at his age when he should be enjoying his children and maybe even a grandchild or two by now.
I must not pity him. I must not give him any indication of warmth.
Thomas Howard
She’s shorter than I, this Elizabeth. The other one looks like she has a few inches in her yet and I definitely do not need a woman who is both tall and fat. This one’s drawback is in her slight frame, but from holding her, I have been able to assess her hips with a reasonable amount of discretion and they seem round enough to facilitate childbearing.
And that face! The challenging eyes, the sarcastic little smile . . .
Of course there is absolutely nothing to love in this girl. She will look lovely on my arm, but she does not inspire the madness I once felt for—enough of that. No, if I lost her, I would not be sorry. I could replace her.
But there is something about her face. . . .
After I allow Elizabeth to be seated I dance with the other one. She is a pretty dancer, far exceeding her sister’s abilities, and all of Stafford’s guests stop to gaze and compliment the fleet little steps.
This one is a bit dull, however. Her face is as docile as a cow’s and her eyes lack any real intelligence. I imagine she will be quite fertile, however, and, as I feel her hips, know without doubt that if I choose her, I would beget a veritable empire.
She makes pleasant conversation if one likes to talk about weather and shoes and food, but after a while the shrill little voice begins to grate on me. Perhaps I am being a bit unfair.
I suppose I knew from the moment I saw her again that I would choose Elizabeth.
Elizabeth Stafford
“No!” I cry when Mother tells me the next afternoon that it is I, not Catherine, whom Lord Howard has chosen to wed. “I won’t do it. I . . . I am to marry Lord Neville.”
“Did he give you a ring?” asks Mother in soft tones as she strokes my hair. “Did you plight your troth to one another?”
“We—we—” I sob, falling against my bed, burying my head in my pillows, knowing it is all useless. Mother leans over to gather me in her arms.
“Darling, I understand how disappointed you are,” she tells me. “We have all been in your position.” Tears light her gray eyes and I find myself wondering who she gave up for my father. Strange to think one’s parents loved and dreamed and hoped with the same passion as oneself. “But this is God’s will,” she continues in practical tones. “If you were meant to be with young Ralph, the way would have been provided for you. However, it is not to be. You will marry Lord Howard at Easter.”
Easter! Why does it all have to happen right now? Why does it have to happen at all? My heart is racing. I want to scream in protest but know it is futile. My father is the premier duke in the realm. What he says is law.
Still, I cannot help but ask, “Why didn’t he want Catherine? She’s so sweet and agreeable; she’s what every man should want.”
Mother bows her head. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. He wants you. It’s all settled. Even now they are arranging the dowry.”
“Yes, God forbid they wait a moment on that,” I say, my tone laced with bitterness. “So that’s it, then. I will go to him with however many marks Father sends and you will be rid of me. And what of. . . of Lord Neville?”
“Other plans will be made for him,” Mother says, averting her eyes.
“What other plans?”
Mother returns her gaze to me. The gray eyes are hard, impenetrable. “Other plans.”
I bury my face in the pillows once more and give way to the release sobbing provides.
Despite the urge to suggest running away to Ralph, I resist. I will not shame my family with such nonsense. There is naught to do but say good-bye.
We stroll in the gardens hand in hand. The air is crisp but the sun is shining, warming my tearstained cheeks.
“Do you believe in the will of God?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “It is what we have been taught.”
“It is the easiest explanation,” I say. “Easy to say God is responsible for this and that and not us.” I swallow the tears in my throat. “Oh, Ralph . . .” I lean my head on his shoulder.
He offers a heavy sigh. “I want you to be happy, Elizabeth,” he says at last. “I hope you have many children.”
“Please don’t speak of it,” I tell him. “I can’t bear to think of all that just now. Let us be silent and take comfort in each other’s company while we can.”
Ralph nods. We sit on one of the garden benches. He wraps his arm about my shoulders and draws me near, holding me thus for a long while.
There is no kiss good-bye.
It would not be proper.
It is not the grand ceremony I hoped for. My dress is beautiful enough, yards of soft pink damask inlaid with seed pearls, fitted sleeves, and a five-foot train. But everything else is wrong. It is so rushed. No one, not even my own parents, seems to be in a celebratory mood. Lord Howard kneels beside me at the altar, his face drawn with solemnity. I steal glances at him throughout the ceremony, but his expression does not change. There is no reassuring smile, no squeeze of the hand. Nothing to indicate he is happy with our match.
He slips a tiny gold band about my finger and I hear the words of the bishop pronouncing us man and wife. I hear myself being introduced as Lady Elizabeth Howard.
I turn to my lord. It is over. I have given myself over to the wills of my parents and God and whatever other cruel forces have a role in these decisions, and I am his. He leans over, offering me the briefest of kisses on my cheek.
I begin to tremble with fear. I have just wed a forty-year-old man with experience and I am a fifteen-year-old maiden. I try to still my quivering lip and blink away the tears but find as we quit the chapel, my arm looped through his, that they stream down my cheeks unchecked.
If Lord Howard notices, he says nothing.
Thomas Howard
Well, I did what my father wanted so will hear no complaints from him. I am married. Strange to say it, knowing the wife to which I refer is not the princess I shared seventeen years of my life with.
The girl is a reluctant bride, that much is clear. Her father informed me, with a face flushed in embarrassment, that she had a little infatuation for their ward, Ralph Neville, which explains the boy’s stony countenance and brusque manner whenever I tried to converse with him. I am assured, however, that the girl comes to me intact. Whatever childish feelings she holds for the lad will soon subside when distracted with the duties of marriage.
We retire to our bridal chamber. I am pleased to be unaccompanied by the court this time, so I can conduct this business in private. The girl wears a white nightdress of satin trimmed with pink ribbons.
For a while we lie side by side in the darkness. I have not been with many women, but I cannot say I was faithful to the princess. Things happen when a man is at war. She never questioned me; as much as she did not belong in the world, she knew well the ways of it. Our couplings were filled with tenderness, however, and when I was with her, there was no other woman on my mind.
Now, faced with a new bride, I must force the princess from my thoughts.
The girl trembles beside me. She clutches the covers over her shoulders. I do not know how to approach her. I do not know what to say.
At once I decide the best tactic is to just get it over with. With abruptness I draw the covers back and roll on top of her, attempting to raise her nightdress over her hips. She cries out. I cannot rouse my desire looking into those terrified blue eyes, knowing they are not the eyes of my princess, knowing there is no love to be had in them. What am I thinking? I knew well there would be no love in this match when I chose her. I must put aside these infantile fantasies.
I offer a frustrated sigh and roll onto my back.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I just didn’t expect—”
I grunt and rise. Perhaps it is best if I spend my wedding night in my own chambers. I have the rest of my life to consummate this marriage.
Elizabeth Howard
I lie alone in the big bed, feeling the vacant spot beside me with my leg. I was monstrous. I should not have demonstrated my fear. I rise, fetching my wrap. I am not about to fail in my duties. I cannot dwell on Ralph Neville now. I have married Thomas Howard and I will be his wife.
At last I arrive at my lord’s bedchamber. I enter on soft feet. He is lying on his side, back to me, giving no indication that he has heard me. I pad toward the bed, drawing in a breath before turning down the covers and climbing in beside him. For a moment we are still. From the rhythm of his breathing I discern that he is awake.
Trembling, I move closer to him. I wrap my arm about his middle and snuggle in between his shoulder blades, folding my legs against his so we resemble a pair of spoons.
“I did not marry to sleep alone,” I tell him in low tones.
He rolls toward me, cupping my cheek with his hand, stroking idly. It moves to the back of my neck, drawing me forward so that he might offer soft little kisses on my cheek, then my jawline, till at last he reaches my mouth. His lips are soft and warm but filled with urgency rather than gentleness. I return the kiss with equal ardor. His other hand explores my body, bringing about sensations I have never experienced before. I tremble when he encounters my bare leg with his fingertips. I dare run my hands over his chest. Through his nightclothes I feel the warmth and strength ebbing through him. I run my hand down his side to his hip, reaching under his gown to feel the strong leg everyone admires. It is now mine. He trembles beneath my touch.
At once he pulls away. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. I am so startled I can think of nothing to do but sit up with him. I stare at our feet. His are as well sculpted as his hands. Mine are tiny and delicate. I move one toward him; our ankles entwine.
“Do I displease you?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. The moonlight filtering through the window reveals the tears glistening off his cheeks. My heart stirs.
“It will not be the same,” I tell him in soft tones. “But I will try and be a good wife to you.”
Lord Howard turns to me, offering a sad little smile.
He wraps his arm about my shoulders.
We sit out our wedding night in companionable silence, watching the sapphire sky through our window give itself over to indigo, then pink as the sun rises and brings with it a new day.
Whatever overtook my lord’s ability to carry out his wedding chore is more than compensated for that morning, and half of the day is occupied with the activity. It isn’t the worst of ordeals and I imagine I could grow to like it were not my husband’s eyes so distracted and my thoughts on Ralph Neville.
It is fruitless torturing myself with these fantasies. They do not serve any purpose. One of us has to be cognizant of the fact that we are married to each other and not to the ones occupying our hearts. And I cannot bear dreaming about Ralph, pretending it is he and not Thomas Howard caressing me. Perhaps if what Lord Howard did could be called caressing, it wouldn’t be so difficult, but he is such a rough, urgent lover that I am forced into awareness. It is he and not Ralph who is destined to be my reality for the rest of my life.
So I will be the kind of lover I imagine he wants. I will meet urgency for urgency, passion for passion. I will try to ignore the fact that there seems to be no joy in our couplings but rather a strange frustrated melancholy that leaves one stifling bittersweet tears.
It has to get better. I must remember he was just widowed and Anne Plantagenet would be hard to forget; she was the consummate lady, the epitome of grace and nobility. Not only did he suffer her loss but that of all four—all four!—of his children. One cannot remain unscarred from such tragedy.
I will be patient. In the meantime I will be the best wife I can be. I will not be Lady Anne. I will see that he values me for who I am, and when our first child arrives, it will serve to abate his pain as well. I am not fool enough to believe I can replace his first wife, that our children can replace his first children.
But I can bring him joy, if he will accept it.
Lord Howard occupies himself with the running of his estates, keeping to himself much of the time. He takes day trips, not arriving at Lambeth until long after I am abed. I am always awake when he comes in, eager to fulfill my marital duties, which have become quite pleasant if nothing else has.
We never talk. There is little opportunity and when we do manage a sparse conversation here and there, it is about the most mundane things.
It will take a long time to know his soul, I think.
We are not married a month when my lord learns of his brother’s death. Lord Admiral Edward Howard, everyone’s favorite little Neddy, was trying to avenge his brother-in-law Thomas Knyvet’s death in Brest where the English fleet had been holding off the French navy.
“Not Edward!” Lord Howard cries after shooing the breathless messenger away with a distracted wave of his hand. I send the lad to the kitchens for refreshment, then take to my husband’s side.
He shakes his head. “Not Neddy,” he says in soft tones, sinking onto the bench in the dining hall. I sit beside him. “He . . . he always defended me.” His voice is almost a whisper. He turns his head. After a moment he draws in a breath, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. “I am lord high admiral now,” he tells me.
I think this is a strange way to follow up the lament for his slain brother but say nothing.
“I will have the power to avenge his death,” he goes on, his voice so calm it is eerie. His black eyes are burning with the same fire present when making love.
“I’m so sorry about Ned,” I tell him, daring to rest a hand on his arm. “He was much loved.”
Lord Howard withdraws his arm, rising with such speed he rocks the bench off balance, and only my catching the table behind me with my elbows saves me from falling on the floor.
“Yes, everyone loved Ned,” he says, his voice taut. “The king especially. What will he do without his favorite Howard? Rely more on Wolsey and Charles Brandon, I suppose.” He draws in a sigh. “But no matter. There are other ways we can retain his favor.”
“How can you think of such things and your brother not even buried?” I breathe in awe. “No wonder you worry about retaining the king’s favor with deeds—you will not win him with personality!”
Before I can say another word, Lord Howard leaps toward me, pulling me off the bench by the shoulders. “I did not ask for your opinion, madam,” he seethes.
“Release me!” I cry, wrenching free, appalled by such barbarous tactics.
His chest is heaving. He is pointing—actually pointing!—at me, his finger inches from my face as though I am a disobedient child. “You cannot understand,” he says. “You will not speak of things you do not understand.”
Rather than inspiring my silence, this treatment causes a surge of anger to course through me. “I will say as I please!” I cry. “I am your wife—”
“That is right!” he returns, drawing back his hand, and before I can dodge or deflect the blow I find I am being struck on the cheek. The slap resounds in my ear with a high-pitched ring; my face tingles with such intensity it seems to hum.
“And what is expected of a Christian wife?” he asks in calm tones that are so incongruous with the violence he just exhibited. “To obey thy husband.”
I am far too enraged to think. I respond to the slap with one of my own, enjoying the sound of my palm striking his skin. Lord Howard stands rubbing his cheek in a moment of befuddlement from which he quickly recovers, adopting an expression of impenetrable hardness.
It is an expression I have no trouble matching. I fold my arms across my chest and scowl. “I will obey you, God knows,” I say in low tones. “No wife in the realm will be as obedient. I promised to be faithful, to take care of you, and to endure by your side. Endure I shall. But nowhere in the Bible does it say that I cannot speak my heart. Part of being faithful is telling the truth at all costs and, Thomas Howard, I will always tell the truth.” I close my eyes a moment. My cheek is hot from the slap. I shake my head. “And now the truth we are facing is that your brother, the favored brother, is dead, and you are as angry about his place in the king’s heart as you are about his death.” I open my eyes to find that my husband’s face has traded its ferocity for attentiveness. I dare continue. “If you do not take time to mourn him and sort out your resentment before seeking your revenge, you will be poisoned with it; your judgment will be clouded and you will fail. When going into battle, go in with a cool head. Plan your objective. You want the king’s favor? Then you must learn to be what the king loves best: merry, humorous, useful, and intelligent. Above all, indispensable. We already know you are useful in battle, which requires an intelligence of sorts. But there is another kind, a sort of emotional element that you clearly need to improve upon. You have to learn to be in sympathy with the king in the ways he appreciates.”
“One would think you to be quite the seasoned adviser,” he comments, his tone a mingling of sarcasm and admiration. His black eyes are lit with a kind of approval that I relish.
“You did not marry a fool,” I tell him with an annoyed click of the tongue.
He says nothing to this but offers a half smile. “While we are on the subject of truth, do enlighten me with another. Tell me about Ralph Neville.”
My heart lurches in my chest. How does he know? I have not seen him since we were wed; I am innocent of anything he could accuse me of, but Lord Howard’s expression indicates he does not care whether I am innocent or not.
But I will hold to my creed. I vowed to speak the truth and so I shall. I draw in a breath. “What about him?”
“You loved him,” he says.
I nod, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”
What is it softening his eyes? Disappointment?
“You did not want to marry me,” he states, his voice very quiet.
I shake my head.
He turns toward the window, looking out at the gardens. Spring has arrived. Little green shoots push their bare heads through the soil to greet the sun with the promise of donning their flowery headdresses.
“But I have married you,” I tell him, my voice gentle. “And as I said, I will be a good wife. I will be faithful and steadfast as is required of me.”
“Yes. As is required.” He sighs. He clasps his hands behind his back, turning toward me once more. “Your father warned me of your plight; I do not know why I asked for a recitation. Besides, I was required to marry you as well. Were it expedient, I would have remained in the single estate.” He chuckles. “Worry not, my lady. There is no love lost between us. But if you obey me, plan no dalliances, and behave as befitting your station, we shall get on quite well.”
I swallow a lump rising in my throat.
He approaches me, reaching out to stroke the cheek still stinging with his slap. “I rather appreciate your honesty,” he says offhandedly. “In turn I shall favor you with your own philosophy. I will always tell you the truth, Elizabeth.”
He drops his hand. I stare at him in a moment of confusion. Now that we have promised to tell the truth at all times, there are too many to impart and most of them are unwanted. I do not want to know that my lord has a side to him that is dark and cruel. I do not want to know that he is filled with irreparable bitterness. I do not want to know that our marriage has very little chance of being loving.
“And now the truth is I must excuse myself and prepare for my excursion to Plymouth, where I will prepare my fleet,” Lord Howard tells me, rubbing my cheek a moment more before quitting the room, leaving me quite alone and wretched.
In all these confrontations with truth, I have neglected to inform him of one that could have changed everything.
I am carrying our child.
Thomas Howard
I sit on my bed and stare at the hand that struck her. I close it into a fist. I hit her. I hit my fifteen-year-old bride.
What would the princess make of this?
It is the grief that made me do it, the grief and the anger about Neddy. The girl called it. She is not a fool, this Elizabeth, that is certain. I rather like her. But she needs discipline. Regardless of her desire to adhere to her code of truth, she cannot use that as a cloak for disrespect. I am her husband, after all. And she is far more child than woman yet, requiring a bit of reining in. Buckingham must have overindulged her, causing her to become too accustomed to expressing unwanted opinions.
She is almost too clever. I wonder if it would have served me better to marry the dullard. It is too late now.
I sigh. I must make some kind of reparation.
Before setting out to Plymouth, I purchase an aquamarine as clear and eternal as her eyes. The morning I leave, I set it on the pillow beside her, pausing a moment to admire her face, which is set in determination even while asleep. What is she thinking about so hard?
I ponder leaving a note with it but can think of nothing to say, and being that we’ve spoken a vow of truth, I won’t disrespect us both by becoming another composer of courtly nonsense.
On impulse I lean down and brush my lips against her forehead.
I cannot help myself. She looks . . . well, I suppose she looks sort of endearing lying there like that.
Elizabeth Howard
I open my eyes after my husband has quit the room, to admire the aquamarine he has set on the pillow where rested his head the night before. I prop myself up on one elbow and seize the object between thumb and forefinger. It is almost too large to be real, even larger than the knuckle on my thumb. Perhaps I shall have it set in a pendant and wear it on a gold chain about my throat. Or maybe I’ll save it for the baby. If it’s a girl, she can wear it; and if it’s a boy, it can go to his betrothed someday.
I think of trying to catch my lord before he departs but am too tired. I imagine he does not want to see my reaction to his gift anyway; if he did, he would have bestowed it upon me while I was awake.
It is thoughtful, I can say that much, and I am not immune to the charms of a sparkling bauble. But if the only way of obtaining jewels is achieved by bearing the brunt of his hostility, I prefer to remain unadorned.
And so he has left me and prepares to fight in Brittany, where he might prove himself a hero. His enterprises seem to be cursed when it comes to the inconvenience of weather and supply issues and it isn’t until June that he can even depart. Meantime, I am three months gone with child and, as I am so small, must add panels to my gowns to hide my condition. I avoid my stepmother-in-law’s questioning glances when I take ill in the mornings and rest in the afternoons. I do not want anyone to tell him first. I want to be the one. I blame my nausea on something I ate that day or the heat of summer.
I begin to dream about the baby. This will make my lord so happy, I just know it. Then everything will change. He will soften and I will stop thinking about Ralph Neville. It will not do to dream of a man who isn’t the father of the child growing within me. No, I must concentrate on my husband. I focus on all the good I have seen in him, as it is said bad thoughts could be unhealthy for the baby. I dream of Thomas Howard’s handsome voice, his intense eyes, his strong and slender hands. I recall dancing with him, how strength and energy flowed from his embrace, filling me up. I think with a fluttering heart of the passion that has brought this child into my womb. My heart is light as I anticipate his reaction. It will rejuvenate his shattered spirit, I know. He will be excited and probably accept anything so long as it survives. Wouldn’t anyone after his past?
I do not know what I’ll call it. I suppose Edward or Thomas if it is a boy, depending upon what my lord thinks. He may want his brother honored, but then again, considering his mingled love and resentment, he may not. And he may not like the name Thomas either since his firstborn was christened thus. I suppose we could go with Henry, after the king.
If it is a girl I shall name her Catherine for my queen and my sister. I would even go so far as to call her Catalina for the queen’s true name but dare not. That would be too Spanish for my family and I’d never hear the end of it.
This is how I wait out the war, sewing a baby’s wardrobe and dreaming of names and cradles, of the sweet kissable cheeks of my little one and the tenderness that is sure to descend upon my husband’s face when he gazes at the scene.