The Duke of Norfolk
Thomas Howard, May 1524
He is dead! My father is dead! Just when I thought the old man was going to live forever, he passes into the next world at Framlingham on 21 May.
I am not completely without heart. I did like him, for what I was allowed to. He was a good man, a good knight, and servant to his kings. But I’ve no time to grieve. He was in his eighties after all, had lived a fruitful life, and brought the Howards from shame to triumph. For that I owe him a debt of gratitude. But I cannot dwell on any of that. What’s done is done. Now I must remove from the wilds of the north to London to organize the funeral and claim my title.
I shudder with delight. I am the Duke of Norfolk now. Me, Thomas Howard! I think of my grandfather, remembering the beatings, the hatred. I was nothing to him, nothing but an undersize child with little hope for a future. He was wrong, oh, how he was wrong!
I am the duke of Norfolk now. I, Thomas Howard!
I am the duke of Norfolk, the wealthiest peer in England.
As I go through my father’s papers, I am overwhelmed by the amount of wealth I am inheriting. Though my stepmother retains a bit of property and moneys as the Dowager Duchess, I still will be taking in four thousand pounds per annum.
I think of my son, now the Earl of Surrey, and of the legacy I will pass down to him and his sons and his sons’ sons. I will hold this dukedom fast.
I am the Duke of Norfolk!
Elizabeth Howard
“My duchess!” Thomas exclaims as he picks me up and twirls me about like a child.
I cannot laugh. He is too happy about his accession and has not once expressed grief over his father’s passing. It seems unnatural to me, inhuman.
He sets me down. “How do you like the sound of that?” he asks breathlessly, his black eyes sparkling.
“It is very fine,” I say quietly.
“It does not seem fine,” he observes. “What is it?” he demands, his voice threaded with impatience.
I bow my head. “Thomas. Don’t you feel anything at all? Your father has died.”
“It is the order of things,” Thomas tells me, screwing up his face in genuine confusion. “Everyone dies, Elizabeth. The living cannot waste their time mourning something they cannot change.”
A shiver courses through me and I hug myself to ward off the chill.
“I am to return to the north to settle a matter regarding the Earl of Angus,” he goes on.
“Leaving again,” I mutter.
“What do you think I am going to do? Retire to the country?” He shakes his head. “Don’t you realize what this elevation means?” he asks. “I am the Duke of Norfolk!”
“So you have said,” I say. “And I am very proud. But as a duchess, I now require a home of my own. It is far past time.”
“Upon my return, my lady, we shall take to renovating Kenninghall,” he says, taking my hands and squeezing them. “On my dukedom, I promise.”
And he departs.
I watch him go, proud and straight on his black charger. My knight, my husband, my duke.
It is on that day that I cease to think of him as Thomas.
No bridge can cross the chasm between us.
He is not my Thomas anymore.
He is Norfolk.
He does not take to renovating Kenninghall upon his return, for he is immediately called to pursue other matters more pressing to His Majesty. I am alone, waiting, watching the children grow without being able to understand them. Thomas has hired a staff to care for their every need. They adore their nurses and tutors and have very little need of me.
Perhaps it is better. Perhaps it is as Thomas once told me: Leave the maintenance to the nurses, then the brunt of the inevitable heartbreak shall be on their shoulders.
In 1525 we are pleased to attend the elevation ceremony of Henry Fitzroy, who is created Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Earl of Nottingham at six years old. He is a bonny little boy, I must admit, and is his father in miniature. Thomas grumbles about Suffolk being made earl marshal for the ceremony, not necessarily because he relishes the duty held by his father and grandfather before him but because it was denied him by Wolsey. I am just as glad not to have him participate. Though the child is pretty, he is still a bastard, and in truth these elevations are a slap in Her Grace’s face, just as his new little half sister, Catherine, by Mary Boleyn is. I attend to support my husband, but my heart churns in sympathy for the open display of recognition by His Majesty.
Richmond is even made admiral of England on 16 July as well as warden general and lord lieutenant of the North Marches. While the boy runs and plays and learns about the world in which he is to enter as a peer, his council performs his responsibilities.
It is a heady thing being the king’s natural but not legitimate son. Acknowledged and spoiled but not quite a prince.
I shrug. He is north now. I suppose he matters very little in the grand scheme, save that he is just another pawn for King Henry’s use.
At last in 1526 my Thomas returns to me. Wolsey has ousted him at nearly every turn in his political pursuits and my husband is frustrated and exhausted. Pain stalks him daily and he hobbles about on legs that protest being stood upon. I urge him to rest, but he tells me rest leads to death and he is not an invalid. He will get better. He just needs a distraction.
“Then let us renovate Kenninghall,” I tell him.
He smiles at me then. “It is long overdue, isn’t it?”
I offer a nod.
“Then we shall. We will make a grand palace for ourselves, Duchess Elizabeth,” he says.
I soften at his affectionate tone.
And so the renovations begin and I wait, but this time it is in joyous expectation of my first true home.