Rivals in the Tudor Court

In May, one hundred royal guard accompany my family and me to the island its natives call Erin. It is a beautiful place, this Ireland, a land as green as an emerald and lush as Babylon. If it were not populated with the damnable Irish, it would be ideal. Elizabeth and the children are set up in Dublin. The residence is a mite too modest for our tastes and God knows the girl deserves better, but I remind her to be patient. Someday sooner than later we shall have nothing but the very best.

Elizabeth is proud of my endeavors; she calls me her shining knight. “The great White Howard,” she teases, wrapping her arms about me and covering my cheek with kisses.

Her faith inspires me to carry on with my first task, which is to raid Connell O’More’s territory southwest of Dublin. It is successful; the churls are put in their place and now the pretended Earl Butler has joined me, bringing with him other lords to support the cause. Once I return to Dublin, I am joined by still more Irish lords, all of whom have personal quarrels with other Irish lords. It is hard to keep track. One thing remains certain; almost everyone’s name begins with an O or a Mc.

With their help I subdue most of the island. I am alive with that tingling thrill that surges through me whenever participating in a battle. I tremble with excitement as the plans are drawn up and executed. This is what I am meant for; more than anything else, I am a fighting man. I am a soldier.

By July, I am optimistic that if things continue in this vein, Ireland might be governable after all. I seek out Elizabeth, who is now in confinement, to report the latest developments.

“It is this lack of money that will undo us,” I tell her. “The troops are underpaid and griping louder than fishwives in the market. No matter how I entreat His Majesty, he just doesn’t seem to understand that they cannot live on four shillings a day.”

“How does he propose you finance this endeavor?” she asks in her low voice. She is lying abed, her dark hair plaited down her shoulders, her alert eyes calculating and keen. I smile ruefully; there is nothing dull about her. She is the picture of cleverness.

“From Irish revenues. But I cannot extricate anything from these bastards without resorting to Kildare’s own questionable methods,” I tell her as I sit at the end of her bed.

She purses her lips in thought. “What if you sent someone to plead on your behalf? That Wallop gentleman, perhaps. Everyone always says the king cannot resist a personal appeal.”

I nod. I could do that. King Henry seems to have a weakness for personal entreaties. Perhaps he will endow me with more funds if I send Sir Wallop to London. No use telling her I may employ the idea; she is far too headstrong as it is. But the idea has merit.

“Thank God you weren’t born a man,” I say with a light laugh. “Else the house of Howard would really have something to worry about.”

“Without a doubt,” she assures me with a smile. She rubs her belly, closing her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, Thomas . . .”

“Elizabeth?” I reach for her hand. “What is it?”

She opens her eyes; they are wide with fear. “The baby . . . it’s time.” She withdraws her hand to clutch the covers and begins to shrink away from me, biting her lip. She averts her face.

I stare at her a moment, then begin to back away.

It is better I am not present for this, better for her, better for me.

“I’ll—I’ll fetch the midwife,” I tell her as I quit the room.

Our son is born on 31 July after ten hours of labor. She did well, my Elizabeth, coming through as vibrant with health as she was before.

“What shall we call this young Howard boy?” I ask her as I hold my little lad.

Elizabeth regards him through tear-filled eyes a moment before fixing her piercing blue gaze on me. Her smile is tentative. “I thought . . . I thought perhaps we could call this one Thomas, for your lordship.”

My throat constricts with painful tears as I behold our son, his ruddy face scrunched up as though he is thoroughly annoyed by the whole ordeal of entering this world.

I think of my first namesake, the Thomas born of my princess. He was so full of life . . . so full of promise. . . . Is it a curse to name this child such?

Nonsense and drivel. Whatever is meant to happen will occur whether your name is John or William or Charles. It doesn’t matter. There is nothing to a name as long as it is affixed to a great surname. And we can assure him that.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“That would be fine,” I tell her in a husky whisper. I hand her the baby. She clasps him to her chest, returning her fond mother’s gaze to his tiny face.

“We do have a beautiful family, Thomas,” she says.

I nod.

I cannot speak.

By September, Sir Wallop returns from London with four thousand pounds. But I am told that the king will spare no more; further funds for this campaign will have to be raised on my own. It is his hope that the rents I collect after Christmas will prove sufficient.

The summer triumph is eclipsed by sickness in the Pale, which not only claims the lives of many of my troops but puts morale on the decline. It is not long before they are plotting their escape.

When I catch wind of a plot that eighteen of my men are planning to make off with a boat in order to capture a larger vessel and turn to piracy as an alternative to the honor of soldiering, I am incensed and order their immediate imprisonment.

“I’d hang them all if the damnable lawyers would let me!” I cry to Elizabeth one evening in our parlor. “Damned fools! As if they’d survive anyway! Pirates!”

I pace back and forth before our hearth, running my hand through my hair in frustration.

“It’s about discipline, my girl,” I explain to her. “If the men do not have that, they are lost. These men need to be made an example of so as not to give any of the others ideas. Mutiny can be more contagious than the plague.”

Elizabeth raises her eyes from her embroidery. “If only you had the power over life and death that you hold as admiral at sea.”

I stare at her a moment, then offer a half smile before removing to my study to ask my clerk to draft a dispatch.

It’s strange how useful this girl has come to be.

Elizabeth Howard

While Thomas busies himself with the rabble both the Irish and his troops are proving to be, I am occupied with the running of my Dublin household. For everything Thomas has against this lot, I must say our Irish staff has been most accommodating. The children adore them and I am grateful their adjustment to this place has not been too taxing.

Through his travels, Thomas is allowed to see the beauty of the island and makes a full report cataloguing its many charms, but as I am tethered to Dublin, I see none of them. I miss Hunsdon and London and the queen. I long for our plans for Kenninghall to be set into motion. I long for our lives to resume at home.

We pass a bleak winter in which the city snow is gray and slushy instead of white and fluffy. Cathy stares down at the street out the window of our parlor and heaves a deep sigh. At eight she is a beautiful girl of slight build, with Thomas’s black hair and my blue eyes. Her face is wistful.

“What do you suppose we’d be doing if we were at home?” she asks me.

“We would be at court, most likely,” I say. “Passing the winter with the queen.”

“That would be lovely,” Cathy sighs. She sits beside me, taking up her embroidery. “Do you suppose I shall be made lady-in-waiting to the queen someday?”

My heart swells with pride at her noble desire. She is a good girl; her deportment and carriage is fraught with dignity. She is graceful and gentle, and looking upon her now, I have no doubt that she has the makings of a great lady.

I reach out to caress her cheek. It is smooth and fine as ivory. “You shall. Her Grace will adore you,” I tell her.

Cathy rewards me with a smile.

We have grown quite close during our exile. Were she not with me, I do not know how I’d make it through.

It seems sons are destined to lead lives of glory; to them we hand our fortunes and our names and our titles. But the daughters, they are a mother’s salvation. To them we hand our hearts.