Rivals in the Tudor Court

With His Grace at court, there is nothing to do but carry out my duties as washer and play with the children. Oh, but they are wonderful! I am certain no gift His Grace could bestow upon me would be equal to the joy spending time with these little lords and ladies provide. They get me through the days and help ward off the loneliness. We sing and play all kinds of games, but playacting is our favorite. We put on musicals and masques for the benefit of the staff. Little Henry himself writes many of the plays we perform and takes a great deal of pride in his talent. We go to great lengths to make our shows spectacular, building and painting sets, sewing costumes, and inviting the choir from the chapel to join us.

Even Lady Cathy participates. With her mother away, she has warmed to me. But she knows. What the others have been spared thus far has not escaped her; she is a sharp one, sharp as her mother but with the discretion to keep her opinions to herself. Being the consummate lady, she never accuses, never corrects, never says a word. It is agonizing at times, not knowing what she is thinking, wondering if she truly bears me any love or if I am just something to be tolerated for lack of anything better.

When she learns she is to wed the earl of Derby, she abandons her characteristic self-control in favor of bouncing about the nursery like the child she never was, inspiring the same reaction in the rest of us.

She takes my hands and twirls me about. “I’m to be a wife, Mrs. Holland, can you believe it? I shall keep a home of my own with babies and will hopefully attend the queen at court and . . . oh! I am to be a countess!”

“It’s wonderful, Lady Howard!” I cry, squeezing her slim hands while blinking back tears at the travesty His Grace insists I maintain for my dignity, that I must be addressed as Mrs. Holland when Holland is my maiden name and I am as far from being married as is possible.

“Oh, I do hope I get to attend you at your wedding!” Little Mary cries, her green eyes dancing. “Do you think this means I shall be betrothed soon, too, Bess?”

My heart stirs in fondness as I behold the little girl whose very being captures the essence of innocence. It is never Mrs. Holland with her. I am her Bess and she is my Mary most dear.

“Da already said you will marry soon,” Henry tells her.

“Oh,” Mary says, as though disappointed that she did not bear some knowledge of this. “Am I betrothed, then?”

He shrugs. “Don’t think so. He has to finish arranging it.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” says Lady Cathy. “Today is not about Mary.” She sits on the window seat, tilting her face toward the sun. “Oh, can you believe it? I’m to be married! I do hope I have a baby right away.”

I bite my lip, swallowing the tears that keep threatening to spill onto my cheeks. How much do I long to be in Lady Cathy’s place! To be imparting the news of my marriage, to fantasize about the babies I will have . . .

“Will you name one after me?” Mary asks her sister as she sits beside her.

“I shall name one after all of you,” Lady Cathy assures in tones smooth as honey, compensating for any previous insult. She reaches out and caresses Mary’s creamy cheek. “And you will wait on me. Wouldn’t you like that, Mary? Then when I go to court you shall accompany me.”

“Oh!” Mary cries, scrunching up her little shoulders, an endearing habit inherited from her father and exhibited whenever she is excited beyond words.

Henry laughs at this. “Nonsense and drivel!” he cries in perfect imitation of His Grace. “Da will never let Mary go.”

“Why not?” Mary asks, her tiny mouth quivering as she watches her dreams dissolve in her brother’s mocking eyes.

Henry shrugs. “He just won’t, is all. He has other plans for you.”

“How do you know?” Mary asks, eyes growing round with curiosity. “Did he tell you?”

“I hear things . . .” Henry says. “But I won’t tell you unless you give me . . . hmmmm . . .”

“Now, now, Henry, I won’t be having you taking your sister’s things again,” I tell him, knowing poor Mary would give him her beating heart should he request it. “Besides,” I add with a laugh. “You don’t know anything, anyway.”

The boy offers up a disarming smile, caught in his ruse but not the least bit ashamed.

Lady Cathy directs her attention out the window once more. “I wonder how soon I shall go to court. And will I have my own apartments as a countess or will I have to sleep with the other maidens?”

“Listen to you making your plans!” I laugh as I scoot in beside her and Mary. “What a great lady you will be. You will be everything your parents hope for.”

“I do hope so,” Cathy says. “Oh, I hope so. I want to be a credit to my family.”

“You are,” Mary says with fervency, taking her sister’s hands and squeezing them. “Oh, you are!”

With this we embrace, caught up in the happiness and fantasies of a blushing bride.

“Do you ever think to arrange a match for me?” I ask my father that evening when I call upon him in his chambers.

He is resting before the fire, laying his head back on his chair, dozing with his mouth open and a half-finished cup of beer at his side. When he hears my entreaty, his head snaps up and he laughs.

“A match, Bessie? With whom?” He arches a bushy blond brow. “Or is it that you expect the duke to put aside his wife for you?”

I flush, bowing my head. My shame is no secret at Kenninghall; it has won as many admirers as enemies, but to hear my father call it out into the open causes my heart to wrench with humiliation.

“I . . . I don’t know what to expect, Father,” I tell him, swallowing the tears rising in my throat. “I suppose that’s why I come to you, to ask after my future. Do I have one, sir? I am seventeen now. Perhaps it is time to begin considering prospects.”

“Are you mad?” Father shakes his head. “And lose your exalted position?” This he says in a voice steeped in sarcasm. “You’re what he wants, Bessie. You hold the fate of this family in the palm of your hand . . . or whatever other body part His Grace prefers,” he adds, slapping me on the bum.

I back away from him. Tears pave icy trails down my cheeks. I want to rage and scream but know it would be in vain. He is right. My father is not indispensable. If I angered the duke, he could be dismissed and lose his honor.

Strange to think my father’s honor depends on my dishonor.

His Grace sends dressmakers with bolts of the finest fabrics from which Lady Cathy will choose her gown and trousseau for her Shrovetide wedding. Together Lady Cathy, Mary, and I sit surrounded by cloth of silver and gold, damask, taffeta, silk, and fur, a garden of luxury. Lady Cathy is the embodiment of poise and refinement as she selects the material for her gowns. No longer does she exhibit the excitement displayed upon learning of her betrothal; she is composed and collected, the essence of calm.

Mary and I cannot contain our delight, however, and we finger the fabrics and ogle the shoes with wide eyes, trying on hoods and squealing with joy over Lady Cathy’s elevation.

As Lady Cathy is fitted for her wedding gown, we are stunned by its grandeur. Embroidered with seed pearls, its sleeves are split to reveal shimmering silver organza with a matching kirtle. The train is five feet long and Mary jumps up and down when she learns she will be one of the ladies attendant, vowing she will make it her solemn duty to carry the train to the very best of her abilities.

We laugh at the passion in the child’s tone, then turn to each other.

“Oh, Lady Howard, you are a picture of happiness,” I exclaim as I behold her.

Lady Cathy’s eyes flutter a moment as she endeavors to hold back tears. “I’m very blessed,” she says in husky tones.

His Grace returns with the duchess for the festivities. My heart pounds in fear and excitement as I watch the pair enter the great hall. They are splendid; Lady Elizabeth is wearing a deep blue riding habit, her chestnut hair swept under her hood, her angular face framed by escaping tendrils. She stands so straight, holding her head high and proud, her piercing blue gaze surveying her fine home, imparting to me without saying a word that this is her place. This is her place and I do not belong.

I shudder, averting my head.

His Grace walks with the same brusque steps, surrounded by an aura of pride not to be denied. He has changed a great deal; gone is the shoulder-length hair—it now grazes his jaw line and he is even slimmer than before. But his presence! Oh, his commanding presence! I shudder in mingling excitement and fear at the sight of him.

He and the duchess greet the children arm in arm, and my heart wrenches to see the anticipation on the four faces as they wait for some sign of affection. Mary holds her arms up as her father passes, only to drop them by her sides, hopes for an embrace dashed.

Duchess Elizabeth’s greetings are measured with equal coolness. It is something I do not understand. Watching this, I vow that my future children will be showered with all the open adoration they deserve.

That night I am summoned to the duke’s apartments. I make certain to perfume my body with the scent of lavender that His Grace adores and don my prettiest gown, brushing out my white-blond curls until they shine.

When I am permitted entrance, he encircles my waist with his arms and twirls me about the room. I emit a giggle, touched at his demonstration. At once my heart is seized by a pang of guilt as I wonder what separates me from his children. Am I stealing their share of his love? If I were gone, would they receive the affection they so need?

His Grace sets me down, cupping my cheek. “What is it, my dear?” he asks in solicitous tones. “Is that a pout I see?”

I shake my head. “You are well, Your Grace?” I ask him, resting a hand on his chest. “When I heard you had been taken ill with the sweat . . .” Tears clutch my throat at the thought. However unsteady my foothold is in his life, the thought of losing him is still unbearable. I swallow, blinking several times.

“I survived,” he tells me, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “As I always do. Now. No more fretting. How did you spend your time when I was away? Were you a good girl?”

I nod, wondering what he is implying. If he means faithful, the answer is yes. “The children and I passed a lovely winter. But I missed you so. When you are away I am . . .” I shake my head, searching for the words. “Undefined.”

“Undefined?” He screws up his face in confusion. “How so?”

“I don’t know,” I say, wishing I were more eloquent, like Lady Elizabeth or Lady Cathy. “It’s just that, well, I am of an age now when all my friends are becoming betrothed. Watching Lady Cathy prepare for her marriage, well . . . mayhap I am a little jealous.”

He pauses. “I can assure you, Bess, marriage is an institution from which happiness cannot be derived. Once you are a little older and the romance of the idea has faded, you will see how unhappy all those giddy maids of yours are and envy them you will not. You will be glad you did not enter into such foolishness.”

How long does he plan to keep me in this state? I want to ask but bite my lip, bowing my head lest he read my disappointment, not that I should be fated to endure a lifetime with him but that I should be forced to endure a lifetime of disgrace.

“But they will have children,” I venture.

“What are they but little reminders of inevitable heartbreak?” he counters. “Really, Bess, be grateful you are where you are. You have no need of any such drivel. You are mine and I shall make your every dream come true.”

The fair words do little to ease the sadness lying heavy in my heart. How can he profess that he has the ability to make all my dreams come true when the two I want most are denied me?

“Anyway, enough of this girlish nonsense,” he tells me. “You would like a ring?” he asks in absent tones. “Then I shall give you one.” From his little finger he removes a heavy gold signet ring, then, taking my hand, slides it upon my left ring finger. “Here. My coat of arms. Wear it and be reassured that you are mine.”

My heart lurches as I stare at the thing; the bezel bears the engraving of an arrow piercing straight through a noble lion’s tongue. My eyes widen. I know this ring. It was the ring Duchess Elizabeth threw at us when she found us together that terrible day. . . . It was her ring. What did he say when bestowing it upon her?

“It symbolizes our victory at Flodden,” he is telling me, noting my expression and believing it has to do with the lion and not the fact that his gesture is as good as giving me his wife’s wedding ring.

“Wh-what else does it symbolize?” I ask in a small voice as I regard the ring. My hand trembles with the weight of it.

“The strength of the Howards, of course,” he tells me.

I lower my eyes. “Your Grace . . . I am touched by your generosity, but what should the duchess do if she sees it?”

He shrugs. “It is mine to give. True, it was hers for some time, but she threw it up at me just as she does everything else; she can no longer claim it. Now, now, are you going to accept it or not?”

I blink back tears. “Of course, Your dearest Grace,” I tell him, not knowing what else to say. Somewhere, despite his explanation, it seems very wrong accepting this gift. But I mustn’t hurt His Grace by insulting him.

“That’s a good girl,” he tells me, wrapping his arms around me and leaning his forehead against mine. “Now. I have brought you presents.”

My heart lifts and I cannot deny the smile that is curving my lips. “Presents?”

“From London,” he says as he leads me to a trunk. “You see this? Everything in it is yours.”

I open the lid. Before I can gasp, His Grace leans down and retrieves the first object, a cloak lined with fur.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks me as he strokes the soft fur. “Sable.”

“Oh, Your Grace, you are so very grand!” I cry as he wraps me up in it. I hug it around myself, brushing my cheek against its softness over and over. The gesture comforts me.

His Grace is kneeling in front of the trunk now. He reaches for my hand and tugs me down beside him. Inside the trunk are bolts of fabric, a collar of fine gems, brooches, and pins shaped like flowers, all encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. I have never seen such wealth. Guilt surges through me as I regard the duke. How could I entertain the notion of starting a life with another when he lavishes on me such extravagant gifts? They are not mere baubles or trinkets but symbols of the love this great man bears me. To consider any other position in life is presumptuous and ungrateful. What can I, a mere servant girl, expect? I, who deserves nothing and instead gets everything. There is no hoping for more. I will be happy. I will bask in his adoration and endeavor to show him my gratitude and love in return all the days of my life.

“You will be attended by a dressmaker and fitted for some gowns,” he informs me. “With any luck you will be at court soon.”

“Court?” I breathe. “Me?”

“If my niece has her way, she will be queen of England,” he says with a twist of the lips that seems more sneer than smile.

“How can that be?” I am feeling most ignorant. I know Mistress Anne has stolen the king’s heart but did not think she could be any more to him than I am to His Grace.

“Leave the particulars to me,” he says, pulling me toward him and covering my cheek with kisses. “You just plan your wardrobe and think about the day you will be attending Her Majesty, Queen Anne Boleyn.”

It is a heady thing, I think, being in the arms of this man who has the power to shape a kingdom and my life.

Lady Cathy’s is a beautiful wedding, though small, and the festivities last through Shrovetide. She is Lady Derby now and conducts herself with the dignity her title requires. She sheds no tears upon leaving Kenninghall but bestows upon us the briefest of kisses, thanks her parents for supervising her upbringing, and departs.

There are no embraces, save for little Mary, who wraps her arms around her sister’s waist and erupts into tears for which she is quickly reprimanded by her father. The child rights herself, sniffling and wiping her eyes, swallowing visibly as she watches Lady Derby embark on her happy venture.

The little boys are delighted, but I imagine it is only because there were so many festivities and they were allowed to stay up late and eat sweets. Their sister’s happiness has little to do with it, and when she leaves, they do not feel the void as Mary and I do, a void that for me is made emptier when the duke announces he will be returning to court with Lady Elizabeth.

“Would that you didn’t have to go,” I lament as I snuggle against his chest the night before he leaves. “Lady Cathy’s leaving marks the beginning. Soon they will all be gone and I will be alone.”

“You’ll always have me,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “And I am giving you your own apartments—no more servants’ quarters for my Bess. Furnish them however you wish. Make a luxurious little nest for us. Fill them with whatever you like—tapestries, carpets, anything.”

I tilt my face up toward him and offer a smile. “Thank you, dear lord,” I murmur, kissing his neck. “With my own little world to create, I can divert myself in making it beautiful. Mayhap I will be too busy to be lonely.”

The duke says nothing but continues stroking my hair.

I imagine loneliness is not a problem for such as him. When he is not with me, at least he can take comfort in his wife.