Two Ladies

Thomas Howard, 1528

Two years, Bess has been beside me and still they fight over me like she-cats. Flattering as it may be, it still will not do. It is Elizabeth’s fault. If she could just accept the situation like a good wife, all these endless battles and dramas could be avoided. Another solution will have to be reached.

But there are more urgent matters requiring my attention. Two other women occupy my mind. One is the steadfast Queen Catherine, whom the king seems to be setting aside in favor of my niece, Thomas Boleyn’s girl Anne. She’s a raven-haired, sharptongued wench who is far too thin to be considered comely in my eyes. If she suits the king, however, I shall extol her virtues to my very best ability. The king is besotted with my black-eyed niece, far more so, it seems, than any woman he has known thus far.

“This must be played out differently,” I tell Elizabeth one night. I am beyond knowing what guides me to her—it seems no matter how distracted I am, I always find my way to her apartments. There is no use trying to figure out anything where my wife and I are concerned. As it is, I am here, so I may as well stay a while. “We are after a bigger prize this time.”

Elizabeth arches a brow. She is sitting before her fire embroidering. “What prize could be bigger than the king’s favor in your eyes?” she asks me in her low voice.

I smile and sit across from her. My limbs are tingling with excitement. “A crown, Elizabeth. A crown for the Howards!”

Elizabeth scowls at me, then shakes her head. “Are you mad to speak this treason?” she whispers. “How could you come here and tell me this, thinking I would support it? What kind of intrigue are you about, Thomas Howard?”

“The king is having an attack of conscience, it seems,” I tell her. “He believes he has not been allowed to conceive a healthy male heir with the queen because of consanguinity. He found a passage in Leviticus that states a man shall not ‘uncover the nakedness of his brother’s widow.’ He truly believes he has committed some grievous sin and wishes to solicit a papal dispensation granting an annulment of the marriage so that he might marry our Anne. Can you believe it?”

“No, I can’t believe it,” Elizabeth snaps. “I can’t believe he is willing to even think of putting his wonderful wife aside, not to mention the affect it would have on the princess. What will an annulment make her? A bastard no better than Fitzroy or Mary Carey’s children? How can he even contemplate such a thing?”

“He’s given it a great deal of thought,” I tell her. “So much thought that a papal legate is coming from Rome, a fellow by the name of Campeggio, to preside with Wolsey over a trial that will come up with a decision that, once reached, is final. The Pope will not challenge it.”

“No.” Elizabeth shakes her head in awe. “Thomas, no. What does that Anne girl possibly have that the queen does not?”

“A young, healthy body capable of producing heirs,” I say.

“Why would he not just keep her as a mistress if he needs her so badly? He can legitimize Fitzroy if he is so set on a male heir. Why does he have to wreak so much heartbreak?” Her voice is wavering.

“Elizabeth, you must understand civil war could break out if Fitzroy is named heir,” I explain. “There is not enough support for his cause as yet. The king wants an heir born of a legitimate bond.”

“But a bond with that little slut could not be called legitimate!” she cries, throwing her embroidery off her lap and rising. “There are a million reasons the king shouldn’t marry her! What of the precontract she made with the Percy boy that got her sent from court that time? And while we’re on the subject of consanguinity, it should be noted that His Majesty had her sister already, and some say he even bedded the mother!”

I laugh at her wild talk. “That may be so, but the king will fashion it all to his advantage; he has a veritable army of people willing to help him do it.”

“With you at its head,” she seethes.

“With me at its head,” I agree. “Elizabeth, I know how you love Catherine, but you must adjust to what is going to happen—if this is played right, we can have it all.”

“Now she’s just Catherine?” Elizabeth cries. “You do not even have the respect for her to call her by her rightful title?”

I wave a hand in dismissal, then continue to air my thoughts aloud. “I will defer to the queen with the respect she deserves as long as she holds the title,” I say. “But it will not be for long, Elizabeth. Mark my words. Anne is in the ascendant.” I smile as I think of all the favors that will fall upon the Howards like a summer shower. “Anne will not be his mistress. She will be as upright and Christian as a lady can be. She will drive him wild with the chase—I have made it clear to the girl that in no way should she compromise her virtue and give in until that crown is secured on her little head.”

“Do you hear yourself, Thomas?” my wife cries. “ ‘Upright’? ‘Christian’? As if any upright Christian woman in possession of her senses would plot to steal a king from under the nose of his anointed queen! Oh, Thomas, just when I thought you couldn’t sink lower—”

I rise, seizing her shoulders. “You will never understand, will you?” I ask her. “You must do everything you can to support your niece and our endeavor. You have no idea the favor that is in store for us if we win this.”

Her face is slack with sadness. “No. Never, Thomas. I told you long ago where my loyalty lies. Queen Catherine is a princess of the blood. A queen anointed by God. I will never abandon her.”

At once her conviction startles and attracts me. Suddenly, I have never been confronted by a woman more beautiful than my wife. I reach up, tucking a stray tendril of hair, which has escaped from her hood, behind her ear, my hand lingering a moment to trace her jawline.

“Elizabeth,” I tell her with the utmost seriousness, “if you give up Catherine, I will give up Bess. I swear to you. I will send her away this very night.”

Elizabeth offers a laugh edgy with bitterness. “Oh, that’s fair! Offer to give up something you should never have had to begin with! No, Thomas, you cannot tempt me by using your harlot as a bargaining chip,” she tells me. “If you were as Catholic as you proclaim, you would see that.” She purses her lips and closes her eyes. Her thick, long lashes sparkle with unshed tears. “I cannot give up my queen. I swore myself to her as a little girl. I will not abandon her.”

I drop my hand from her cheek and release her shoulder. I shake my head. “We have been called to court. You in your capacity, I in mine. Catherine will be dethroned, Elizabeth. It is inevitable. It may take time, but it will happen. I wish you wouldn’t persist in tying yourself to the mast of a sinking ship.”

Elizabeth shrugs. It is as if she knows she is defeated and continues in her vein anyway. Somehow this show of strength and defiance touches me. On impulse I gather her in my arms, holding her fast.

“My girl, can’t we work together, just once?” I whisper, swaying from side to side. “Think of everything we can gain.”

“I have never been as moved by that as you,” she tells me. She pulls away, tipping her face up toward mine. “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

“I am, too,” I say. “Because you are the one who will lose ultimately. You know it. And you stay your course anyway. I don’t understand you, Elizabeth. I don’t understand you at all.”

Elizabeth’s lips quiver a moment. She bows her head. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” she says in quiet tones lacking in accusation. It is as though she is just making an observation, a regrettable observation that I cannot understand in any way.

It was futile coming here; I don’t know why I bother with her. With one last glance at the woman who forever stands alone, illuminated by the firelight that warms her skin with a golden glow and plays off the auburn threads in her chestnut hair, I shake my head, my heart gripped with inexplicable sadness and frustration. To think of everything that could be had if she’d only work with me!

I am done with her. I turn away and quit the room, then head directly to the chambers of the woman I promised just moments ago to give up should my stubborn wife do the same with her queen.

Bess listens to me; there are no arguments or reproaches. When I tell her about my niece’s elevation in favor she says, “Oh, how wonderful for you, Your Grace!”

Just what I want to hear.

When at last I make it to my own apartments that night, I am surprised to find my daughter Mary waiting for me outside.

She sits against the door, her night shift drawn over her knees, head bowed, the light of the taper resting beside her dancing off her golden hair, which tumbles down her back in waves. Her arms are folded over her knees and her head is buried in them, and I cannot tell if she has fallen asleep in this strange locale.

“Mary!” I bark. I am wearied by the evening’s various exertions, both mental and physical, and cannot imagine why this child would seek me out. I cannot summon to mind two words I’ve ever said to her consecutively.

The little girl’s head snaps up, her wide green-gold eyes meeting mine in a mingling of shyness and fear. “I-I had a terrible dream,” she informs me.

“Well, where is the nurse?” I demand.

“I didn’t want to wake her,” she says, her tone soft with apology. “I went to Bess’s room, but I heard her talking to somebody and thought her brother must have been in there. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

My heart leaps as I thank God that the child didn’t walk in to discover what her beloved friend was really about.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” I ask as I open the doors to my apartments, causing her to fall backward.

She catches herself with her hands. “I . . . I don’t know, my lord. It’s just that—it’s just that it was a terribly frightening dream and I’m afraid the nurse would think me evil if I repeated it.”

“Nonsense and drivel,” I tell her. “You can’t control what you dream.”

She stares at me unconvinced, her little button mouth pursed in thought. I avert my eyes, stirred by her beauty and mysterious fancies that are forever reminiscent of another world, another time, when life was so very different from now.

“Where is your mother?”

Mary bows her head, hugging her knees to her chest again. Her little shoulders quiver a moment.

“Well?”

“I-I went to her, Your Grace,” she tells me. “I was going to go in her apartments but . . .”

“But what?” I demand, impatient with the child. I want nothing more than to lay head to feathers and not be bothered by this strange little creature.

She raises her head once more. Tears swim in her eyes; they are as bright as emeralds. “She was crying, my lord. So very hard. I-I was afraid to intrude.”

I grit my teeth against this news and heave a sigh. “Well, come in, then,” I say at last, since there seems to be no possibility of removing her at the present moment.

The little girl scrambles to her feet and slips her hand into mine as we progress inward. The gesture takes me by such surprise that I start. Cathy would never have done that; she is far too proper. And the boys seem to bear the intrinsic knowledge that I am not fond of being handled. But this child reaches up and seizes my hand as though it is the most natural thing in the world. She huddles close against my arm as we take to the settle.

I remove my shoes and sit, then with effort rest my pain-infused legs on the ottoman. My arm is on the back of the settle and Mary scoots in beside me, curling up as close as she can get without having the audacity to climb on my lap. She lays her head in the crook of my shoulder.

I am discomfited by her proximity and stiffen. I do not understand why, and somewhere I am troubled. If she were my little Maggie born of the princess, I would have sought her out for such moments. But everything is different with this child, this child whose birth sent me into a rage of madness, this child whose very presence causes my heart to lurch and twist in a strange agony I cannot identify or understand.

“Tell me about the dream, Mary,” I say in soft tones.

The child shudders against me. “You won’t think I’m evil or possessed?”

I laugh. “I will think no such thing,” I assure her, for I do not believe in such utter nonsense as possession anyway. People are good or evil of their own accord; they do not need supernatural intervention.

She relaxes a bit. One hand strays to the lace on my doublet and idly fidgets with it as she talks. “Oh, Da.” Her voice catches. “There were pretty ladies all dressed fancy,” she tells me. “And they were taking turns wearing a beautiful ruby necklace. The first girl put it round her neck and was admiring herself in a pond full of black swans . . . but then . . . Oh, Da, then suddenly the rubies were dripping blood! But the girl didn’t see it! Nobody saw it but me! I tried to warn them but no one listened. They just laughed at me! The bright blood dripped into the water, coloring it red, but all the while she kept admiring herself until at last she fainted dead away. Then—then another girl took the necklace and clasped it round her neck. It was just the same as before. At first it was just a collar of rubies, but then—” She is sobbing now, great gulping sobs that make it hard for me to understand her. “She began to twirl and dance until the necklace changed again! Blood began to drip down her neck onto her chest! Oh, Da, it was terrible. At last she, too, fainted and the necklace slipped off her neck onto the grass, just plain rubies once more.” Choked by tears, she is rocking back and forth. Not quite knowing how to respond to her hysteria, I reach out and stroke her hair. “And the very worst of it is, Da, is Henry . . .”

“King Henry?” I ask.

“No, our Henry! He seized the necklace from the ground and went running with it. I chased after him and tried to stop him, but he just kept saying, ‘It’s mine! Mine at last!’ and then put it on! I tried to unclasp it, but something was holding me back, great invisible hands too powerful for me to fight against. Henry stared at me a long moment till his eyes grew most round. His face turned white as a dove and he clasped his throat—when he removed his hand, it was covered with blood! And then . . . then, oh, my Lord, he fainted, too! He lay beside the pretty ladies and nothing I could do could rouse them. I reached down to touch the necklace, wondering what power this evil thing held, but in my hand it was nothing but a collar of rubies. . . . Oh, Da!” Here she commences to sob with abandon, so much so that she clutches her belly and begins to cough.

“Mary, now that’s quite enough,” I command, disturbed by her detailed dream and annoyed at myself for asking her to share it. “Stop this crying at once before you make yourself ill.” I add in gentler tones, “Come now, it was only a dream. You’ve heard too many tales in the nursery of strange and terrible things that your little head can’t grapple with. It was just a queer dream, that’s all.”

With effort the little girl tries to modulate her breathing. She wipes her face on my doublet and crawls onto my lap. As annoyed as I am, the childish gesture is endearing. I wrap my arms about her, my throat tight as I try to stay relaxed.

“You won’t ever let anything bad happen to Henry, will you, Da?” she asks me, pulling away, her tearstained face solemn.

“Of course not,” I vow. “Never ever.”

“I knew I was right coming here,” she says, burying her head in my neck. “I knew you would make it better—you’re the greatest duke in the land, the greatest man who ever lived. You will protect us and keep us safe from all harm.”

Her flattering words of innocent adulation touch me and I kiss her silky hair. “Of course I will. You know me well, little Mary. I am the head of the greatest house in England; I am the premier duke in the realm and you must always trust me to know what is best for our family. I will always keep those who are dear to me safe.”

“I don’t ever want to own rubies, not ever!” she cries with sudden vehemence.

I begin to laugh. “I will make certain that you never shall, my love,” I assure her. “I will encircle your pretty little throat with emeralds to match your eyes. And you shall be the most prized girl at court.” I pull away, cupping her cheek in one hand, my breath catching in my throat. I am rendered helpless by her innocent beauty. “I will find you a husband who will elevate you to greatness,” I say then.

She does not seem to care so much for this vein and nuzzles back against my chest. “Da, will you tell me a story?”

Confounded by the request, I try to summon to mind something that doesn’t involve blood and dragons and battles, stories that Henry and Little Thomas would thrive on, but not this delicate girl.

“Tell me about the faery folk,” she prompts.

I swallow an immediate onset of tears. I stroke her hair a long moment, then reach over to pull the throw blanket strewn over the arm of the settle atop us. In this little nest I hold her close and commence to tell my tale.

“I met a faery once, you know,” I say in husky tones.

“You did?” She tilts her face toward me. “A real live faery?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “A real live faery.” At once all discomfort at her closeness melts away as I draw her near. I cannot seem to hold her close enough, tight enough. My heart is filled with emotions I cannot wrangle with or understand, but it does not matter. She is the closest thing to Heaven I will ever see. I must hold her while I am allowed.

“She was very beautiful,” I begin. “She had hair the color of autumn leaves and her eyes were like the twilit sky on the eve of a storm—a sort of honeyed green. She was very tall and long limbed and I loved her, oh, how I loved her from the very first moment I set eyes on her. . . .”

“What happened to her?” she asks me in her soft, lilting voice.

At once I am drawn from my reverie; for a moment I had forgotten that I was speaking out loud. I clear my throat. “She—danced with me a while. She took me to her gardens and there she showed me how to sing and play and . . . and just be.”

“And then?”

“And then . . .” Tears again clutch my throat. “Then she was called back to the faery country, a place mortals cannot go. I watched her disappear behind the mist . . . and I—I could not follow. . . . She was gone.”

“D’you think she’ll return someday?” Mary asks.

I recall the day of Mary’s birth, the blinding light, the vision in the corner of the room. . . . I am transported to another time, another world. My princess stands before me that first day we plight our troth at Westminster. I am sliding the ring on her slim finger. . . . I see her on her deathbed, devastated by the consumption . . . the blood. . . . Oh, God . . . And then this child again, this child in my arms, in my heart, in my blood . . . more blood . . . I do not understand. . . .

“She did return,” I tell her, cupping her face between my hands. My voice is taut with urgency. Tears obscure my vision. “She is with me now but, oh, why like this?” I utter in a tortured whisper. “I do not understand! Help me understand! It isn’t fair! God, it isn’t fair!”

“What isn’t fair?” The question assaults me like a whip across the back. I am drawn from my bizarre fancy and can only stare at her, her little head cocked to the side, her eyes wide with bewildered fear.

I drop my hands, rendered helpless and confused and impatient by this whole interlude. “Mary.” Yes, this child is Mary. She is just Mary. There is nothing more to her than that. “Mary, you’d best get to bed now,” I tell her, collecting myself. My voice is calm, clear, and cool. “You are too old to be fretting over nightmares and far too old for these demonstrations.”

Mary regards me a long moment, her face fraught with such profound sadness that I am forced to avert my head. She slides off my lap, backing away from me. “Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord.” She bows her head. “Good night, Your Grace.”

I cannot speak.

Long after she departs I sit on the settle, curled under the blanket, dreaming of the faery country and a time long gone.

That spring, Elizabeth and I take to Norfolk House in London to fulfill our duties at court. The children are left behind at Kenninghall because a new outbreak of the dreaded sweating sickness is ravaging the country.

Bess trembles when I leave her.

“Oh, my lord, should one of the children take ill, I shall die! What’s to be done should the sickness come to Kenninghall?” she asks me in her little-girl voice.

“All that can be done,” I tell her. “We’ve a competent physician about,” I add, then shudder as I recall the “competence” of the physician who bled my other children . . . but they are no more. It does no good to think of them. “There’s no use fretting,” I go on. “What is meant to be will happen despite any worrying on our part.”

Bess blinks back tears. “I’m so frightened, Your Grace. So many have been lost. This dreaded sickness hits anyone . . . oh, Your Grace,” she wraps her arms about my middle, burying her head in my chest. “Do take care.”

I stroke her abundant curls. “Do not worry, my Bess. Don’t worry,” I soothe, touched by her concern. I pull away, cupping her face between my hands. Her wide brown eyes are the picture of innocence. “I can survive anything.”

Bess leans into my hand and smiles. “I think you can,” she says, her little voice registering a sort of awe as she turns her head to kiss my palm.

I draw her forward, bestowing a fierce kiss upon her perfect mouth as though to remind her of who owns her, then turn on my heel and, without looking back, quit her chambers.

It is best not to think of Bess when I am away from her.

Keeping a place for everything, and everything in its place. That is the key.

In London my ability to survive anything is put to the test, for almost immediately upon my arrival I am taken with the sickness. I do not realize it at first. Always riddled with leg pain, I did not think it odd when the pain traveled up my body, assaulting my shoulders, arms, and belly with a churning ache that set me into such a state of nausea, I was constantly swallowing the bitter bile rising in my throat.

Every day, there is news of someone else being taken by the dreaded sweat. Sir Edward Poyntz, my nephew William Carey, and Sir William Compton of the king’s privy chamber perish one and all. My niece and current jewel of the family, Anne, took ill with her father, my idiot brother-in-law Thomas Boleyn, but the king’s physician, Dr. William Butts, tended them and they recover at Hever.

The little duke of Richmond is sent farther north for his protection while Princess Mary seeks a safe haven at my former residence of Hunsdon.

While this torrent of sickness rains upon us, I think of the offices vacated by the dead that can be filled by able-bodied Howards.

“You are soulless,” Elizabeth tells me one night when I am reviewing the options aloud.

“Not soulless, my dear, just practical,” I return, annoyed at her summation of my character.

As it is, my plans for arranging the lives of my family members are put on hold. While making my way to my apartments that evening I am seized by a pain so fierce that it takes hold of my body like a great hand, squeezing me till I moan in agony. I am burning, searing hot. My shirt is soaked through with sweat and I cling to a tapestry hanging on the hall, drawing in shuddering breaths, determined to make it to my rooms awake.

I stagger down the hall, leaning on the wall for support. Everything is a blur. My thoughts come to me sluggish and jumbled.

“Your Grace . . .” A voice. Somewhere . . . a voice.

I turn my stiff and aching neck to its source. My stepmother stands before me, her face wrought with concern.

“Your Grace, you are ill. We must get you to your rooms,” she says. “Come now.” She wraps her arm about my waist. “Lean on me.”

“You are my mother?” I ask in a small voice as I allow my weight to fall upon this strong-shouldered woman. She half drags me down the hall to my rooms.

“Now, wouldn’t that be a trick, considering I am younger than you are,” she laughs as she helps me into bed. “Come!” she is calling to some unknown presence. “Fetch blankets for His Grace! He must sweat this out!”

A darkness is creeping in. I want to yield to it, oh, how I want to! It is warm and soft there. I do not have to think or plot or plan. I can just sleep.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep, Thomas Howard.” Another voice. Ah, yes. How could I fail to recognize Elizabeth’s uncompromising tone? I feel a slight slap on my cheek. “You stay awake, you hear me? You stay here.”

My eyes flutter open and try to fix on my wife’s face. I cannot focus. She is a blur obstructed by blazing white light.

“That’s it, Lady Elizabeth,” my stepmother is saying. “Keep him awake. That is the only way to outlive this thing. If they can stay awake for the first twenty-four hours, they will survive.”

“I can survive,” I mumble.

“Of course you can,” Elizabeth says. “Isn’t that the Howard motto? Besides, you are far too stubborn to leave this earth a moment before you are ready. Don’t close your eyes, Thomas! Stay awake!”

I start at her voice. The pain is unbearable and the heat, oh, this intolerable heat.

“So many are dying,” a gentle male voice is saying. I recognize it to be the king’s physician, Dr. Butts, the same man who treated my niece Anne. “And the duke is not a young man.”

“I am in finer form than most men half my age!” I cry. I begin to writhe under the oppressive blankets. I want to tear them off me. I am so bloody hot!

“Yes, you are,” the doctor agrees with a chuckle. “And God willing it is that fine form that carries you through this.”

“God willing,” my stepmother chimes in.

The darkness seeps in again. My head lolls to the side and I begin to drift off. Somewhere, there is singing. Is it the faeries? Are they calling me? Princess? Oh, Princess, have you come to take me to your strange country? A form in the mist.

“Is it you?” I murmur, reaching out, hoping to part the mist that forever separates us and feel her slender hand in mine once more.

Elizabeth squeezes my hand. “Stay awake, damn you!” she cries.

“We shall give him some treacle and setwell,” my stepmother is saying. “And if he makes it through this first day, I’ve found it best for the victims to fast sixteen hours and lie abed at least twenty-four. But of course we should not think too far beyond these first crucial hours.”

There she is again! She stands in the corner of the room, her arms outstretched, a trace of a smile curving her lips upward. . . . I sit up, throwing the blankets aside. I cannot speak. I reach out. Find me! I am here! Find me!

She approaches, but as she does so becomes smaller and smaller. I draw back, confused.

She is not my princess but my own little girl.

“Mary . . .” I murmur when I find my voice, torn from my throat in a painful rasp.

Elizabeth exchanges a look with my stepmother.

“Who is he asking after?” the Dowager Duchess asks.

Elizabeth is silent a long moment, then offers a shrug. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

I collapse against the bed. It is no use. Someone is drawing the blankets up over my shoulders. I want to sleep; why won’t they just let me sleep? My eyelids are so heavy. . . .

“Stay awake, Thomas,” Elizabeth is urging, patting my cheeks again and again.

I force my eyes open and fix my gaze on her face. “Elizabeth,” I mutter. “Steadfast Elizabeth.”

As the minutes turn into hours, I fight. The poison pours out of my body in the form of the sickening sweat, and the stench of death fills the room. But I will beat death. I will show God that this Howard will choose when to die.

When I reach the twenty-four-hour point in the illness’s course, it is decided that I will indeed live.

Strength begins to flow back into me, surging through my limbs like wine. I can move without being gripped by pain. My stomach, churning and empty, is still protesting the thought of food, but I force broth down my throat to keep up my strength.

My stepmother, exercising her rights as mistress of the household, makes certain I am kept abed for a week.

While recovering, I receive a most unusual gift.

“From Her Grace at Waltham,” says Elizabeth as she places the wriggling blanket in my arms.

“Why on earth would the queen send me a present?” I demand.

My wife shrugs. “God knows it isn’t because of your loyalty to her cause,” she says.

“I see you’ve returned from doting wife to disagreeable self in no time,” I observe, and unwrap the blanket to reveal a greyhound pup with a gold collar studded with emeralds, sapphires, and rubies.

Its resemblance to my favorite childhood dog, Rain, the dog that my grandfather slew in a rage, causes my throat to constrict with tears. My lip quivers. I swallow hard. The pup climbs up my chest, wagging its tail, and I find myself stroking its soft scruff and cooing at it like an idiot.

“It comes with this dispatch,” Elizabeth tells me as she hands me an unopened letter bearing the queen’s seal.

To His Grace, the good lord Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk,

My good lord, it has come to our attention that you have taken ill with this dread plague that smites England like the hand of God. Upon learning of your recovery we fell to our knees, giving thanks to God. You are most fortunate to have your beloved wife at your side.

Please accept this token of our esteem and appreciation for all of your services over the years past. We know you to be a good Catholic man, a faithful servant who adheres to tradition. We put our trust in your continued services and constancy and look forward to seeing you at court upon our return.

God bless and keep you,

Catherine R.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter, tossing the letter aside and turning my head away before Elizabeth can note the tears I am blinking back.

“Good Catholic . . . faithful servant . . . constant,” Elizabeth is saying, her voice bitter with sarcasm. “Either Her Grace remains willfully ignorant of your many charms or she has a startling command of sarcasm that I was not aware of. In that case she should be congratulated.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” I ask her.

Elizabeth smiles; it is as hard as her tone. “But I am your devoted wife, here to tend your every need. Until the court returns, I will remain by your side.”

I shake my head. The pup is wriggling about so much that I hand him to her. She softens once the creature is in her arms, smiling upon it as though it is a baby.

“It is sweet of her, Thomas,” she says. “She’s always thought so highly of you. Even when I was a little girl . . . I remember looking at you once when you were jousting and she asked me to pray for you. She was always thinking of you, wishing you the best.”

I bite my lip, touched by my wife’s reverie. Trying to keep the conversation from swaying to the queen, I ask, “And what were you thinking the day you saw me at the joust?”

Elizabeth strokes the pup’s silky ears. Her eyes mist over. “I-I was thinking of how handsome you were, much more so than the young lads the other maidens were swooning over.” She raises her head, meeting my eyes. Tears course down her cheeks as she reaches out to cover my hand with hers. “How did we ever get from there to here?”

I am silent. I do not know how to answer her question, how to explain to her that what has happened was meant to happen. How to explain that I should go mad if I could not keep Bess as a counterweight to Elizabeth and a distraction from something so disturbing that I dare not allow myself to think of it.

I clear my throat, squeezing her hand. “I suppose I should name this little thing. What do you think of Storm?”

“It is a good name,” my wife says in quiet tones. “Living in this storm of the court in these uncertain times . . .” She lowers her eyes.

“It’s a strong name,” I say. “Take him to the nursery. The nieces and nephews should enjoy a turn with him. There’s a sweet little girl there just out of swaddling bands—what did my brother Edmund name her? Catherine. How could I forget? Yes, I think they call her Kitty. Show the pup to Kitty; she’ll love it.”

Were we at home I would have ordered the dog to be taken to our nursery but as it is, it may as well receive attention from the children of Norfolk House.

Elizabeth quits the room, her expression soft and wistful, causing my heart to lurch in unexpected pain. There is nothing to be done. It is best not to think on her overmuch.

When she has departed, I take up the queen’s dispatch once more, rereading it, the words faithful servant and constancy standing out like vicious taunts, racking my conscience and making me wonder how well King Henry has estimated the strength and stubbornness of his wife and adversary, Queen Catherine of Aragon.

With the sweating sickness on the decline, the court returns to London and in October the papal legate Cardinal Campeggio arrives. Anne and the king are more in love than ever, which, while it makes me sick, favors the family with elevations that otherwise would not be achieved. Meantime I have taken to arranging marriages for my children. Thomas is betrothed to my ward, Elizabeth Marney (that was quite the ordeal; I had to solicit her wardship at her father’s deathbed, but the end result was worth the pains. The child will bring a great deal of wealth to the family). It is a good match and, from the look of the little girl, should warrant many grandchildren. As for my daughter Cathy, now comely at the age of fifteen, I have found for her a groom in the Earl of Derby, Edward Stanley.

She will be a good wife; she always had the makings of a great lady. Her future will be assured and as a countess she will be secured a place at court. Hopefully, she will soon wait upon her own cousin. I scrunch up my shoulders at the thought. Imagine!

With their futures in order, there is but to think of Henry and Mary.

“The solution for our Henry is simple,” says my niece Anne, flashing her black eyes at me as I visit her one evening at Durham House. We are in the parlor playing dice. “He should wed the Princess Mary. God knows all her other betrothals have fallen through. The Spanish brat is cursed.”

My heart lurches at the thought. “I’m not the idiot Buckingham was,” I tell her in harsh tones. “I will not be accused of trying to place myself too close to the throne. I like my head where it is, thank you very much. Best not mention that again.”

Anne offers her edgy laugh in response. “Oh, but it is a travesty! The Pope told His Majesty that rather than grant an annulment of his marriage, he would grant a special dispensation allowing Princess Mary to wed Fitzroy! Can you believe that? He would rather a sister and brother marry than allow the king’s desired annulment!” She shakes her head. “Sheer madness.” She cocks her head, surveying me with a slight smile. “Besides, I have another solution for Fitzroy,” she adds in her throaty voice.

I lean in toward her, taken in by the conspiratorial tone.

She covers my hand with hers. I note the little nub of a sixth finger on it and withdraw mine. She grimaces at the empty spot, then covers the hand with her sleeve.

“One of your girls,” she says. “Catherine or the little one, what’s her name?”

“Mary,” I say, my heart catching in my throat at the thought of the ethereal child. “Her name is Mary.”

“Whoever,” Anne says, waving a hand as though the girls were interchangeable. “No one could accuse you of putting yourself too close to the throne then.”

“An intriguing thought,” I say. “But Catherine is spoken for. It would have to be Mary.”

“Mary, then,” Anne says in decisive tones. “I shall bring it to His Majesty’s attention.”

“Be subtle, Anne,” I caution her.

“I know how to handle him, Uncle Thomas,” she assures me. “You’ve taught me well.”

With that she rolls the dice. “Ha!” she cries. “I win! See? I win!”

I laugh.

The gaze she fixes on me is cold and hard. “I always win, Uncle Thomas. Remember that.”

Something in the certainty of her tone causes me to shudder.

She is an unnerving creature, this Anne Boleyn.

At Christmas, much to Anne’s chagrin, the queen presides over all the festivities alongside her husband. Anne makes merry in her apartments, entertaining courtiers who trade piety for vibrancy. She is sought out for favors more than anyone save His Majesty, including Queen Catherine and the hated Wolsey. His decline in favor causes my heart to expand with joy as I wonder what the pompous old fool thinks of the Howards now.

Elizabeth keeps company with Her Grace and I with the king, who puts on lavish entertainments for the papal legate. But despite whatever means of avoidance I employ, I am paired off with the queen during the dancing that follows one of the banquets. The sweet face regarding me is lined with such open misery and anguish, I am forced to avert my eyes.

“You are quite recovered, Your Grace?” she asks me in the Spanish accent I always found disarming.

I nod. “Many thanks for the fine hound,” I tell her. “Though I can hardly claim him as mine anymore. He is smitten with my baby niece.”

“Your nieces have that affect, it seems,” the queen says in wry tones.

I say nothing. The hand that holds the queen’s is rigid. My body is tense and achy. My dancing days are over and I want nothing more than to end this farce and go to bed.

The queen’s thumb strokes mine a moment and my heart lurches as my eyes seek out hers. The blue gaze is soft with unshed tears.

“My champion,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Many years ago you saved my husband’s kingdom from the Scots.” Her smile reveals a trace of triumph. “And years before that, you rode for my honor in the lists. Would you ride for me again, Your Grace, or do you carry another’s banner?”

I force my gaze to hold hers. “I carry the banner my king commands,” I tell her.

Her face falls. She seems to age ten years in that moment. “You are a good subject, Your Grace, but you are also His Majesty’s friend. As a friend, would your higher obligation to God ever compel you to interfere in a matter of conscience?”

I am growing impatient with the leading nature of her questions and the desperation creeping into her tone. I draw in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “The king’s tender conscience serves as my moral compass,” I say in firm tones. “I adhere to his will, which is tantamount to God’s on earth.”

“Despite whatever divinity courses through the royal veins, he is still a man and influenced by other men, men whose ambitions are far from holy,” the queen says. “As his faithful friend, you would not try to guide him if you saw he was headed down a path that could jeopardize his soul?”

What is it with these women and the soul? I want to scream. I doubt my Bess would think twice about such utter nonsense. How I miss her!

“I am not a man of the cloth,” I tell her. “Matters of the soul are best left to the theologians. I do not attempt to guide His Majesty; I trust and defer to his judgment.”

The queen’s lip quivers. My heart stirs.

“Then I am alone,” she says, almost to herself. “All alone in a foreign land.”

“Your Grace—” I begin but am cut short by my own inability to reassure her.

“Of course,” she says with a flash of her blue eyes, “there are a few left whose loyalty I never have to question. Your wife, for instance?”

She is enjoying this, enjoying being caught in the middle, enjoying being one of the main sources of the ever-growing chasm between Elizabeth and me. This good pious woman is enjoying her position and does not seem to know or care what it is costing her friend.

For the first time, I feel sorry for my wife. Frustration heats my cheeks and I clear my throat. Elizabeth decides her own fate; pitying her is a waste of time.

The dance ends. Her Grace curtsies; her smile is twisted in irony.

I bow. The smile curving my own lips is forced.

She returns to her faction and I to mine, wondering which of these two very different ladies will emerge the victor: the Spaniard whose beauty has long since abandoned her or the fresh, new star at her peak?

It is all in the hands of a gouty little cardinal from Rome.