Rivals in the Tudor Court

Thomas dotes on that harlot Bess Holland with the same enthusiasm King Henry demonstrates for Anne Boleyn. They make me sick, the pair of them. Here they are, a king and a duke with everything and both made mad by two lowborn girls, neither of whom can be called great beauties.

After my daughter’s wedding we return to court, where I promptly remove to the queen’s side while Thomas plots his niece’s rise and Wolsey’s fall (the latter of which I can’t help but support). Queen Catherine is my only refuge now and my heart aches for her as much as it does for my own daughter. Though I am happy to see Cathy secure, I miss her. Our visits to Kenninghall were infrequent, but she was always there, my sanity in a world that had become swallowed up in my husband’s lust for another. Now there was no one to rescue me from it, no respite in my Cathy’s apartments, that one place at Kenninghall where grace and refinement still existed. Letters are too few and far between and a pitiful replacement for my girl.

And so, with a loneliness more acute than ever before, I throw myself into the service of my queen, who seems my only friend in this world.

Today the queen has requested me alone to sit with her while she embroiders. I sort thread and try not to think of my Cathy, or Thomas and Bess Holland.

The queen is forty-three years old but looks at least ten years older, so aged by her husband’s antics has she become. Shadows circle her eyes; her face is puffy. The weight she has gained appears awkward on a frame that is meant to be thin. As I regard her I wonder if I am looking into my own future. Will the misery my Thomas inflicts render my image the same?

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” the queen asks when she notes me scrutinizing her. I bow my head in shame.

“I do not know to what Your Grace refers,” I say.

She offers a laugh without joy. “Oh, my dear lady duchess, there is no reason to lie to me. I’ve known you far too long. It has been a long journey for the two of us, has it not?”

I nod, my throat swollen with tears.

“You have been my faithful little maid since you were twelve years old,” she says, reaching out to stroke my cheek. The gentle gesture causes warm tears to spill over; they course down my cheeks unchecked. “And you have been an example of loyalty and devotion. We have suffered much, you and I, at the expense of those who profess to love us. There are times when it would seem most appropriate to yield, to give in—to take the easy path. But God did not walk the easy path, did He?”

I shake my head.

“He likewise did not promise us, as Christians, an easy time of it. However, my dear duchess, it is what is at the end of the path that makes this struggle worthwhile.” Her voice is husky with fervency.

I lean into her hand, trying to suppress the sobs that are rising in my chest. “But, Your Grace, do you really think there is something at the end of the path? What if . . . what if there is nothing there?”

“Losing faith, Lady Elizabeth?” she asks me, but her eyes are filled with compassion rather than judgment.

“I do not know,” I confess. “Oh, Your Grace, far be it from me to trouble you when you are enduring so much but—” My sobs burst forth, my chest heaves, my shoulders quake. I gasp and gulp like a child. “Forgive me, Your Grace—”

The queen sets her embroidery aside and gathers me in her arms. “Dearest girl,” she murmurs, kissing my hair. “What is it? Tell me, please. You are not burdening me. I am your queen and as your anointed queen I am also to be regarded as your loving mother. Tell me, darling, what is it?”

I gaze up into her sweet face, softened by compassion, and attempt to collect myself. “I fear I am suffering a similar situation as Your Grace. My lord husband has been . . . unfaithful and—and I do not know how to accept it.”

“You do not have to accept it, Elizabeth,” she says in firm tones, abandoning the strict protocol to which she adheres. “But you do have to forgive it, as I forgive His Majesty. It is what our Lord commands.”

I fall to my knees before her. “But how?”

“Through God’s grace,” she tells me, taking my hands in hers. She expels a heavy sigh. “I know that my husband has been led astray by men made wicked by their own ambitions, that he does love me in his good and generous heart, and that, if he can be made to see the error of his ways, he will abandon these blasphemous plans in favor of what is right. Through fervent prayer and study, it is my hope that I can sway my husband from this evil path. You must do the same.”

“I do, oh, Your Grace, I do!” I insist. “But it is so different with my lord. Your husband seems to demonstrate some struggle with his conscience on this issue; mine does not. He knows what he is doing and it doesn’t matter! He has no care or regard for me at all. He has installed this Bess Holland in our home and has given her fine apartments. He gives her everything her sinful heart could desire and, worst of all, let’s her usurp my place in the children’s hearts—they’re so detached from me now, they are as good as strangers!” The depth of my sorrow has caused my strength to depart. My limbs are quivering. I wipe my eyes. “No . . . that is not quite true,” I add in quiet tones. “They were removed from me long before that. My Thomas and I both seem to have trouble—handling the children. I admit after losing my Edward it has been easier to create a sort of barrier between us. But to see Bess take that place, knowing everything else she has stolen from me . . .”

“So it is a matter of pride as well,” Her Grace observes.

“It is my greatest sin,” I confess.

“Mine as well,” she says with a sad smile. “It breeds stubbornness. But it also gives us the will to endure these dark times.” She draws in a deep breath, then regards me with a steady gaze. “Elizabeth, as Mistress Anne is a symbol of problems arising long before her entrance into our lives, I believe this Holland woman is the same for you. The real matter lies between you and His Grace. If you can solve that, perhaps your marriage can be made happy once more.”

Once more? I think with an edge of desperation. I look down at the embroidery threads and begin to sort through them to bring comfort to my fidgety hands. “We are forever at odds,” I tell her. “I do not know how to overcome that. It seems he deliberately believes the exact opposite of me just to spite me.”

“He is a determined man, an ambitious man,” the queen says. She lowers her eyes. “His position is not an easy one. He is the head of the Howard family. As such, he is witnessing the rise of his niece and feels obligated to support her, as that is what the king believes he needs. Your duke is nothing if not the king’s man.” She closes her eyes a long moment. “Which brings me to the biggest obstacle between you and Lord Norfolk.” She opens her eyes. “Me.”

I am silent.

“Please, my lady, you will not insult me by agreeing,” she says with a bitter laugh. “It is true.” She cups my face. Tears stream unchecked down her cheeks. “Elizabeth, I am your anointed queen. I know you love and support me. But if you need to . . . if you need to abandon me for the sake of preserving your marriage, then you must.”

I recall my lord’s promise to give up Bess Holland should I abandon the queen. But he is more attached to the curly-haired strumpet than ever. There is no guarantee that, should I cease to serve Her Grace, he would leave Bess now. And then what would I be left with? I would be left with no husband, no children who require me to be anything but a figurehead, and no friend. The notion is unthinkable.

I shake my head. “How could I desert Your Grace? I could not even pretend to do such a thing. I am your servant, always your servant. My loyalties cannot shift as easily as others—they will not. It is not a quality I choose in myself but something given.”

“But you must think of your husband,” the queen tells me in soothing tones. “And your family. You still have three children at home.”

I am shaking my head. “No, no. He is not mine. And the children,” I lament. “They are his. His and Bess Holland’s. I have nothing but my service to you. Please, Your Grace, do not ask me to surrender it.”

She removes my hood, smoothing my hair and stroking the tears from my cheeks. “Oh, loyal Elizabeth, God will bless you for your devotion. You have chosen a course most difficult. To serve an anointed queen is a higher calling than that of wife and mother. But you will be rewarded. I promise you. We must remember God’s word, which I have told you many a time, that long-suffering produces perseverance. We will persevere, Elizabeth. And someday, we will know happiness for our strife.”

“You are very brave, Your Grace,” I comment. “I shall pray for your continued strength during your ordeal.”

She bows her head. “Yes. My ordeal.” She covers her mouth with her hand and grimaces as though in pain. “The trial will begin soon.” She lowers her hand, her face hardened with resolve. “God will see us through, Lady Elizabeth. He is on the side of right. And we are right!” Her voice wavers with sustained passion as she draws me into her arms again.

I seek comfort in the embrace of my queen, the woman who has remained the one constant throughout my life, and think if anyone deserves God on their side, it is she.

Thomas Howard

The legatine court at the priory of the Blackfriars in London opens on 31 May. There the fate of the divorce will be decided by two of the most idiotic men ever to wear cardinals’ hats. Wolsey is as round as an apple and wheezes all the way to his chair, while gouty old Campeggio hobbles in beside him. They are pathetic and it grates my nerves just looking at them.

The court is called to order. His Majesty enters and takes his place on his throne of state. When the queen comes forth, it is not to sit beside him but to kneel before him.

It is obvious she is in pain for it takes her a moment to lower her trembling self to the floor. My heart is pounding as I regard her. I want to avert my eyes from her shame but cannot.

She raises her tear-streaked face to the king and begins in a voice smooth and soft, “Sire, I beseech you for all the love that has been between us and for the love of God, let me have justice and right. Take on me some pity and compassion, for I am a poor woman and a stranger born out of your domain.” She closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath, expelling it slowly before continuing to address a court silenced by this remarkable demonstration. “I love all those whom you loved only for your sake, whether I had cause or no, whether they were my friends or my enemies.” At this her eyes find me. They are lit with profound sadness and I swallow a painful knot of tears. “These twenty years I have been your true wife or more, and by me you have had many children, though it has pleased God to call them from this world, which has been no fault of mine.” This she says with sustained vehemence. “And when you had me at the first, I take God to be my judge, I was a true maid.” Her voice is soft, reminiscent, as though she is recalling a moment very tender, their wedding night perhaps. She raises her eyes to the king, who is gazing down at her with an expression of mingled shame and impatience. She shakes her head. “I knew no touch of men and whether it be true or no, I put it to your conscience.” She blinks several times. “It is a wonder to hear what new inventions are now invented against me, that never intended but honesty,” she says almost to herself. Then to the king, “I most humbly require you in the way of charity and for the love of God, who is the last judge, to spare me the extremity of this new court until I may be advertised what way and order my friends in Spain will advise me to take. And if you will not extend to me so much indifferent favor, your pleasure then be fulfilled and to God I commit my cause.”

The queen struggles to her feet, then dips into the deepest curtsy before her husband and, leaning on her receiver general’s arm, leaves the court to the calls of the crier, who demands her return.

Outside, the cheers of the people can be heard shouting blessings to their anointed queen. I close my ears against their common voices and my eyes to what is now forever committed to memory, a great woman reduced to shame for the love of my black-eyed niece.

But I open my eyes soon enough. What is done is done. Whatever pity I feel for Catherine of Aragon must be put aside for a greater cause.

The king has risen. His face is wrought with sadness. “She has been to me as true, as obedient, and as conformable a wife as I could in my fantasy wish or desire. She has all the virtuous qualities that ought to be in a woman of her dignity or in any other of baser estate.”

I force back a twist of the lips as I imagine what my niece will make of this tribute.

His Majesty then proceeds to discuss his scruples. It is a heavy burden he carries, making this painful decision, but for the good of the succession and England, it must be made. His consistent argument remains in the fact that the queen consummated her marriage to Prince Arthur, which voids their union and has them living in a state of sin. It is a condition King Henry’s delicate conscience cannot abide.

The Archbishop of Canterbury is nodding in agreement. “You speak true, if it pleases Your Highness,” he tells the king. “I don’t doubt all my brethren present will affirm the same.”

John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and perhaps one of the only men wholly devoted to Queen Catherine, interposes with, “No, sir. Not I. You have not my consent thereto.”

In a rage the king shakes a paper in the old bishop’s face. “Then what is this? Look here! Is this not your hand and seal?”

Bishop Fisher shakes his head. “No, Sire, it is not my hand nor seal.”

“You speak true,” says the Archbishop to Fisher. “But at the last moment, you were fully persuaded and let me sign for you!”

“Under your correction, my lord, there is no thing more untrue,” the bishop scoffs. “The marriage of the king and queen can be dissolved by no power human or divine.”

The king shakes his head, his lips twisting with a bitter smile. “No matter,” he hisses at the bishop. “You are but one man.”

Undaunted, Bishop Fisher meets His Majesty’s gaze with eyes that smolder like embers, bearing the promise of the fire to come.

The next few days are spent arguing about Prince Arthur’s ability to consummate his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. Forty nobles give evidence as to their own fitness in the sport.

“I was not yet sixteen when I knew my wife,” says the Earl of Shrewsbury.

Anthony Willoughby tries to suppress a laugh when he testifies. “Prince Arthur says to me, he says, ‘Willoughby, give me a cup of ale, for I have been this night in the midst of Spain.’ And then he says, ‘Masters, it is a good pastime to have a wife.’ ” Willoughby sits down with a satisfied smile, made playful by the memory of young men telling tales.

Thomas Boleyn and Lord Fitzwalter waited upon the prince at table, where was repeated the same joke. Lady Fitzwalter recalls seeing the couple in bed together.

And I, when called to bear witness, confess that I knew my wife at age fifteen and was more than capable of performing The Act. This is true only in part, for I did not know my wife till my early twenties, but it is what the king wants to hear, so hear it he shall.

Even when sheets sent to Catherine’s mother, Queen Isabella, are displayed, the bishop of Ely confesses that Catherine often told him she never carnally knew Prince Arthur.

I do not know what to believe. While the evidence is compelling, the queen’s passionate adherence to her story is just as convincing. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Truth is rather a moot point in this world.

On 23 July, Cardinal Campeggio adjourns the case to Rome. Enraged, the king stalks out as the Duke of Suffolk slams his fist on the table and shouts, “By the Mass, it was never merry in England while we had cardinals among us!”

Wolsey regards the duke, his fat face wrought with sorrow. “Of all men in this realm, you have least cause to be offended with cardinals for if I, a simple cardinal, had not been, you should have at present no head upon your shoulders!”

Humbled into silence as Suffolk perhaps recalls Wolsey’s intervention for him when he wed the king’s sister Mary, his fist unclenches and he bows his head.

I shrug. If the cardinals cannot give us the divorce, we will find another way.

The best thing to come of this, oh, the very best thing, is that no singular event is more worthy of bringing about Wolsey’s downfall.

He knows it. As we lock eyes, I find in them an appeal. I offer him a sure and steady smile. Were our situations reversed, there is no doubt he would do the same.

The case against Wolsey is all too easy to procure. The cardinal will be indicted under the Statute of Praemunire, which prohibits interference from Rome in English affairs without royal consent, such as receiving papal bulls. On 17 October, it is with great delight that Suffolk and I strip the corpulent cardinal of his post as lord chancellor by taking the Great Seal from him at Esher.

The king seizes much of the ecclesial property, Wolsey’s favorite houses of York Place, the More, Tittenhanger, and Esher. The jewel of them all, however, is Hampton Court, which is a palace in and of itself.

With Wolsey fallen, the post of lord chancellor has opened up. My heart thrills as I ponder the possibility of being chosen, but it is not me but Suffolk—stupid, arse-kissing Suffolk!—the king considers. When I point out that the man is powerful enough, he capitulates and chooses, instead of me, Sir Thomas More, humanist, Lutheran-hating author of the fanciful Utopia, which I say I read but didn’t and he knows it.

The whole thing is ridiculous! Even I can see that More doesn’t want the post! He wants no part in the nullity suit, has no care of anything worldly. His goal in life is to punish Lutherans and himself for whatever unlikely sins he may have indulged in, and spend time with his horde of a family at Chelsea, where he is free to study and ponder and mock his wife in Latin. To think this is the man the king has chosen . . . !

“Ah, but there will never be a chancellor as honest and so thoroughly accomplished as he,” says the new imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, in his broken English.

There is nothing but to agree and it is with a reluctant but whole heart that I do so. For More is not like other men. He has something in him that we political-minded lack. The sweet, openfaced man is good, pure of heart and intention.

In reality, I cannot think of a king requiring more than that.

Elizabeth Howard

“All is not lost yet, my dear duchess,” Queen Catherine tells me in her chambers while we sew shirts for the poor.

“Your Grace conducted herself with the utmost dignity before the court,” I tell her, my voice wavering in awe that she could summon forth words now famous throughout England. “There is so much to be admired in you.”

The queen shakes her head. “My motivations are not worldly,” she tells me. “I am driven toward a higher purpose. My husband must be made to see . . .” She bites her lip a moment, then shrugs, continuing her sewing. “Meantime I must fight for what is mine.”

I nod. “Your Grace, I am compelled to apologize for the behavior of my niece. As a relation, I cannot help but feel responsible.”

“Nonsense, Lady Elizabeth,” she says with a sad smile. “You’ve no control over that girl. I daresay she has very little control herself. She is a tool as we all are, a piece of iron meant to be bent and wrought to the designs of others.”

“She seems more than willing to be made malleable,” I say in a tone edgy with bitterness.

“Perhaps.” The queen cocks her head as though in thought. “But that is on her conscience.”

Conscience. I am sickened by the misuse of the term. If I have to hear about His Majesty’s tender conscience once more, I fear I shall retch.

The queen draws in a breath. “It has been difficult. I will not lie,” she tells me then. “Since your niece entered my life, I have not known a day of peace. Never before has anyone been able to sway the king as that woman has. I do not know why and how, except to say that she wields some dark power beyond my understanding.”

It would be simple believing raven-haired Anne Boleyn to be a witch. But it is not so and in my heart I know it. She is a concubine and a harlot with French tricks, no different from Bess Holland.

I do not give voice to this, however. I nod and offer a sympathetic sigh.

“Your Grace, the imperial ambassador is here to see you,” a servant informs the queen.

Her Grace rises, her face alight with a smile. “Do show him in.”

“Perhaps I should leave you?” I ask.

“Please stay, Lady Elizabeth. You bring us much comfort,” the queen says, gesturing for me to remain seated at the window.

The ambassador enters and offers a deep bow. An exchange in Spanish rings in my ears melodic as a bubbling brook and I close my eyes a moment, wishing I could speak it, that I might be more intimate with the queen’s world. How much more could I understand her if I could speak her language!

“Ambassador, it is my pleasure to introduce to you my dear friend, Her Grace Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk,” the queen says and I rise from the window seat. “Duchess Elizabeth, this is the imperial ambassador to my nephew, Charles V. Eustace Chapuys.”

The ambassador takes my hand, placing upon it a warm kiss as he bows. “My lady.”

When he rights himself, I am startled by his handsomeness. He is young, forty years old, I am told, which is only eight years my senior and it shows in his fine form. His liquid brown eyes are alert and engaging, his black hair cascades to his shoulders in glossy curls, and the beard surrounding his full mouth is close-cut. Each feature, from his straight nose to high cheekbones and angled jaw, is sculpted as though from fine marble. His smile is warm and inviting. Regarding him I am reminded of the dashing Fra Diego, dismissed from court so many years ago for his wild ways. I wonder if this man who radiates the same raw sensuality is as amorous, then am ashamed for the thought. My cheeks flush and I bow my head.

“Duchess Elizabeth has remained a dear friend to me throughout my many trials,” the queen is telling the ambassador, who, upon hearing her voice, shifts his gaze from me to her. “Besides Maria Willoughby, she is my staunchest supporter in this foreign land.”

“No doubt you value her very much,” the ambassador says in his broken English. “Good friends can be most useful.”

At this I am compelled to fall to my knees before the queen. “Allow me to demonstrate my loyalty to Her Grace and her cause in any way I can,” I say, my tone impassioned. “I am her humble servant.”

The ambassador takes my hand, helping me to my feet, and I admit to a certain thrill at his touch. He holds my gaze a long moment.

“We are most grateful, Duchess,” he says. “Your devotion is admirable. I am certain we will call upon you for assistance in the very near future.”

“I am at your command,” I say in husky tones.

At that moment no words are truer. It is not only the queen who has rendered me helpless but this man, this imperial ambassador who champions her cause with as much devotion as I, this dark and devastating Eustace Chapuys.

Thomas Howard

The king is far too generous with Wolsey. How that fat man weasels his way into His Majesty’s heart I have no idea. In any event, the king allows him to linger too close to court for my comfort. His Majesty has pardoned him—granting him the bishopric of York and his home at Esher once more, not to mention the rings he sends him as tokens of affection. I could tear out my hair at the thought!

I will destroy him.

My dark musings are interrupted by more pleasant diversions. On 8 December, Thomas Boleyn is created Earl of Wiltshire and Ormonde, wresting the title from the Irish Butlers at last. My dashing nephew George is styled as the Viscount Rochford, while Anne and her sister Mary are the ladies Rochford. George is also appointed as a gentleman of the privy chamber, which will keep him close to the king. I admit a certain pride in the boy; he is an accomplished diplomat and consummate courtier, slick and sly as they come. All Howard.

The next day, the king gives a beautiful banquet to celebrate Thomas Boleyn’s ennoblement. The court can hardly retain a gasp when they note Queen Catherine’s absence. Who sits in Her Grace’s chair? None but my black-eyed niece, whose pretty cherry lips curve up in a smug smile that I return when my eyes fall upon her.

Ah, the taste of success!

My wife and stepmother are not as enthusiastic about the seating arrangement, and their blatant scowls reflect it; it is the popular belief that the king’s sister Queen Mary should have been seated in Catherine’s chair in her absence. But there is naught they can do but grumble, so I leave them to it.

After dinner, there is dancing and I am paired with Anne. “Ah, my little gem,” I say with a slight laugh. “How goes it?”

“You have eyes,” she quips. “What do they see?”

“An arrogant little girl,” I state, “who must be careful. All is not won yet. Queen Catherine has made it clear that she will not yield easily.” I pause, then am reminded of another point as I watch the king dance with his sister. “Tell me—you are still being admired from afar?”

She nods. “It isn’t easy. He is a persuasive man.”

“Don’t underestimate your own powers of persuasion,” I say. “Remember, keeping your virtue is all that separates you from being another of his dispensable whores. You must not give in till that ring is on your finger—and the crown is on your head.”

Anne breaks into a fit of edgy laughter. “Yes, Uncle,” she says, squeezing my hand.

We take to whirling and spinning about the floor and I toss back my head, adding my own triumphant laugh to hers.

It is good to be a Howard.

The queen is beside His Majesty as a figurehead for the Christmas festivities, over which my niece throws one of her now famous tantrums, and only the promises of her future station will soothe her. Queen Catherine is packed off to Richmond soon enough, and Anne is reassured of the king’s devotion to their cause when he removes with her to York Place.

In January, Thomas Boleyn, for the sheer fortune of being Anne’s father, is named Lord Privy Seal and begins to savor his newfound power.

That same month, Elizabeth and I remove to Kenninghall to see the children. I have been appointed governor to the king’s son, Henry Fitzroy, who is based at Windsor, and have decided to send my Henry to him as one of his companions. I have also decided to observe the girl Mary to examine her fitness for court. If I find her adequate, she could be a little maid to her cousin Anne and prove useful to me.

As a gift I bring the child a little circlet that I took great care in designing. A subtle piece, it is silver and inlaid with tiny seed pearls, and gazing at it I cannot think of a more appropriate adornment for one such as Mary. When I see the girl, I make a show of placing it upon her golden head and she scrunches up her shoulders in her peculiar display of delight. Gazing at her, her delicacy, fine bone structure, and bewildered green eyes, I realize it is expedient for her to be at my side so that she might be in full view of all. She is eleven years old now, ripe for the plucking. Anne has discussed with the king a possible betrothal between her and Fitzroy. At court she can be seen by the king and approved by him. I have been told by Bess and her tutors that she is an accommodating little girl, a talented embroiderer, musician, dancer, and composer of verse, a skill I find rather useless but one King Henry seems to admire in women.

Elizabeth, predictable as the sunrise, is against the idea of Mary coming to court.

“She isn’t like us, Thomas,” she tells me in my study. “She never has been. Court is a dangerous place for such as she.”

“She’ll get used to it right enough,” I tell her in impatient tones.

“I don’t want her to get used to it!” Elizabeth cries. “I don’t want her to become hard and cold and accustomed to deceit and betrayal! Don’t take her, Thomas! Please!”

I have tired of the constant arguing; she must be taught who her master is. I have been far too lenient thus far.

I take her in hand.

It seems to be the only form of discipline she will understand.

And so, with an Elizabeth made compliant, Mary accompanies us back to court, where she waits upon her cousin and is given explicit instruction to report anything and everything involving Anne and the king to me. I do not worry overmuch about the girl’s behavior; should anything untoward come my way, I am not afraid to dole out the fatherly discipline that is my right. But she seems malleable enough and fortunately should not require such stricture.

Meantime I am busy wreaking the final downfall of Wolsey. The former cardinal’s secretary, Thomas Cromwell, a lowborn son of a blacksmith with, I must admit, considerable potential in the political arena, has aligned himself with the Howard star and is maneuvering away from his master in order to serve one of more prominence. By March he has begun a polite detachment from Wolsey and acts as messenger. When, uncomfortable with Wolsey’s proximity to court at Winchester, I send Cromwell with a message.

“What will he do there?” I demand. “No, let him go to his province of York, where he has received his honor, and there lie the spiritual burden and charge of his conscience. So show him!”

The king sanctions this move and sends Lord Dacre to assist him. But they do not move fast enough! What is that portly priest up to?

“Show him that if he does not remove himself shortly, I will tear at him with my teeth!” I cry to Cromwell, who stares at me with wide eyes. He nods so much that his jowls jiggle. I think he believes me.

In late April, Wolsey remains fifty miles from York, determined to be as close to His Majesty as possible. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d find the display pitiable. But there is no use getting excited about it; he is as far north as I can send him for the time being.

Now it is to the king’s divorce. I begin to oversee the collection of opinions from the theologians of English and European universities about the legality of his marriage while trying to sway Pope Clement to see His Majesty’s side of the situation.

The Pope issues a bull revoking His Majesty’s case. In Rome’s eyes, the king is forbidden to remarry.

“The best course is to ignore the bull and do it anyway,” I say to Eustace Chapuys.

The handsome ambassador tosses back his head and laughs. “And you are worried about Charles V declaring war? There would be no need, for His Majesty’s own subjects would rebel and their king be deemed a heretic!”

I bite my lip in impatience. Something has to be done! How long will this drag on?

In the midst of this I am served a dispatch from a messenger of Derby.

No doubt Cathy has learned her sister has arrived at court before her and is wondering when she, too, will have a place. Impatient with the thought of such trivialities when I am beset with so many other heady tasks, I tear open the seal.

It is no such thing. It is a letter from Derby telling me that Cathy has succumbed to the plague. She is dead.

I am immobilized. Cathy . . . my perfect lady. Born and bred for court life and now . . . now . . .

It was bound to happen. They all die. They all die. . . .

I crumple the dispatch in my hand in a moment of fury as I work my jaw. I try to focus on something to no avail. The carpet is a blur. I close my eyes against the burning tears.

“My lord?” Chapuys takes my elbow. “You are well?”

I nod, pulling away from him. “The duchess . . . I must see the duchess.”

She must hear it from me.

She is in her apartments, lying across her chaise before a dying fire, a piece of embroidery abandoned on her lap. Her eyes are closed, her feet are crossed at the ankle, and the contrary expression adopted in her waking hours has exchanged itself for a softer one. For the first time in many years, I wonder how she occupied herself this evening, what she ate, if she enjoyed her day, what she is embroidering. . . . Silly, useless thoughts, these.

I reach down, touching her shoulder.

She stirs, her expression hardening as her gaze fixes itself upon me. Her lips curve into a wry smile. “Why, it’s Thomas Howard. Is it a sign of the apocalypse or are you come to see your wife of your own accord?”

For a moment, all I can do is stare at her. I want to speak. Something prevents me. I sit beside her on the chaise, reaching out to touch her cheek. She flinches at my touch. My heart lurches. I swallow hard.

“Elizabeth,” I begin. I bow my head. “Elizabeth . . . it’s Catherine.”

“The queen?” Her eyes are wide.

I shake my head. I wish it were the queen, then am struck by a peculiar surge of guilt.

“Our Catherine,” I amend. “She’s—she’s dead, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth parts her lips. No sound comes forth. She begins to shake her head. Her breathing is rapid. She rests a slim-fingered hand at her breast as she swings her legs over the side of the chaise and doubles over.

“H-how?” she chokes.

“Plague,” I tell her. I hand her the dispatch from Derby. She scans it, then lets it fall to the floor as she covers her face with her hands.

“Elizabeth . . .” I wrap my arm about her shoulders and attempt to draw her near.

“No!” she cries, rising, balling her hands into fists. “Don’t touch me!” She turns toward me, pointing at me. “Do you really think to try and comfort me now when you’d just as soon beat me tomorrow?”

“One has little to do with the other,” I say, baffled.

Elizabeth shakes her head, then covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Thomas . . .” She sinks to her knees on the carpet. “What have we come to?” She crumples to the floor and begins to rock back and forth, sobbing broken, wretched sobs.

My heart is pounding. Pain is surging through me. I swallow again and again in an attempt to assuage the sensation of my throat closing. Six children gone, three left. How long? How long before the next one goes? I am cursed to outlive them all, I believe.

I kneel beside her and take her in my arms. She does not struggle or offer words of protest. “There now, Elizabeth. ’Tis the natural order of things,” I tell her. “Long ago I warned you not to get too wrapped up in them lest it kill you. You know?”

Elizabeth sobs harder. “I wasn’t there. She died and I wasn’t there. Just like little Edward . . . oh, Thomas, I wasn’t there to hold her hand and brush her hair and bathe her face. I couldn’t even close her eyes.”

I have closed plenty of eyes and held enough dying hands to last my life through. I have no longing for such things and cannot understand it in Elizabeth. Being as far away from Cathy as possible in her dying moments suits me fine.

“It is better like this,” I say, almost convincing myself. “This way you can remember her as she was.”

Elizabeth turns her face up toward me. “Ah, but she was beautiful, wasn’t she, Thomas?”

I nod as I recall the young woman I had given away in marriage such a short time before. “She was a lady,” I say. “A great lady.”

I hold my wife for a long time that night.

Elizabeth Howard

She is dead. My Cathy is dead and there is nothing I can do about it. She was my light and now that light has been doused by the icy water of reality. Of all my children, it was she with whom I felt the greatest bond. It is unfair and I don’t know what separated her from the rest, save her age and our common bond as females. She was like me in a way. Intelligent and well bred, with no other desire but to be a grand lady and servant to Her Grace. That she should be denied that causes my heart to burn in anguish.

When my sister the Countess of Westmorland arrives at court, she is full of sympathy. Seeing her only fills me with irrepressible anger as I think of everything she has: the man I wanted, the life I wanted. . . . It is easy for her to offer sympathy, I should think as I regard the well-dressed, well-loved woman before me.

“Please, sister, understand that I do grieve for you,” she entreats me in my apartments.

“I’m certain you do,” I say in cold tones. “Tell me, Lady Westmorland, how many children do you and Ral—the earl have now?”

She lowers her eyes. “Nine, my lady.”

“And of those nine, how many have you lost?”

“None, my lady,” she tells me; then, regarding me with wide blue eyes, she shakes her head. “I have been fortunate. Would you resent me for this? How can I control what God doles out? We land where we fall, Elizabeth! I didn’t want to marry Ralph—I knew he was yours. Do you think I wanted to infringe on your happiness? But by the time I married him, you were long married to Lord Norfolk. The decision, as well you know, was far beyond my control. So I married Ralph. And since being married, I have known joy and have been blessed with living children—but again it is purely by chance that I should be blessed with everything I could have hoped for. Our situations could have as easily been reversed.”

“But they weren’t,” I say, my tone laced with bitterness.

My sister wrings her hands. “Would you feel better if they were? Would you, as my sister, wish upon me misery? Do you think I revel in yours?” She approaches me, taking me in her arms. I cannot respond to the embrace. I want to. But I can’t. “Oh, my dear lady,” she continues. “Would that you had found some sort of happiness to cling to that you might endure this grief somehow. If you have not, I am not to blame. I come here to offer my condolences and be a comfort to you, but if my presence only serves to bring you more pain, then I shall excuse myself directly.”

I cannot speak. My sister backs away from me. Her eyes are stricken. I want to beg her not to go, but the words will not come forth. I am rooted in pride and anger and disappointment and cannot be moved.

She quits the room and I am alone.

My daughter Mary writes me a letter filled with sweet words and my response is involuntarily curt.

“I curse myself for not being able to see her, but when I think of her I am only reminded of what is lost,” I lament to the queen. “Mary is so unlike me. Where Cathy was practical and realistic, Mary is whimsical and governed by fancies. I want to see her; I want to speak with her. But any comfort I would endeavor to offer would be forced and empty and she would feel it. I would feel it. There is no connection. Not with her or any of them, save my Cathy. And she is gone. I do not know what kind of parent this makes me; I daresay I am about as good a mother as Thomas is a father, which puts me in a sorry state of affairs indeed.”

The queen, who is so good herself it is impossible for her to conceive of evil in another, holds my hand and shakes her head at me. “Nonsense. I am convinced both you and the duke love your children in your own ways. Sometimes it is very difficult to express. Children are people, Lady Elizabeth, and as with any person, there are going to be qualities that you can approve in some better than others. You must not punish yourself for being unable to be close to your daughter right now. You are a woman struck by grief; you cannot be expected to be all things to all people. Give yourself some time and approach the girl when you are stronger.”

“I fear I am losing my strength,” I confess. “And Mary is kept so far away from me. Thomas sees to that. When she is not cloistered with my niece and her circle she is with him, sequestered in his apartments. It pains me to admit this, but I believe she is an agent of his.”

“Of course she is,” the queen says, but her voice bears no malice. “But she is a child. Likely there is nothing she uncovers that he does not already know. And she does not work against me. She keeps him abreast of her cousin’s doings.” The queen sighs. “Quite a heady task for a child.”

“Mary would do anything for him, she and my son Henry both.” I cannot withhold the bitterness from my tone. “It is unnatural. She makes sheep’s eyes at him like he is . . .” I shake my head. I do not want to say it.

The queen regards me a long moment. “The duke is . . . a bit awe inspiring. And part of awe is fear. Do you not think that Mary and Henry are as afraid of their father as they are admiring and it is that which makes them so acquiescent?”

I bow my head, shamed. “I suppose I’m giving her more control than she has,” I say. I offer a heavy sigh. “What hurts most is she is learning all the wrong things and demonstrates a loyalty to all the wrong people.”

“It hurts to be betrayed,” observes Queen Catherine.

“Cathy would not have been like that, I do not think,” I say, my voice catching. “She was so eager to be presented to you so that she might serve you. . . .”

“Best not compare, Lady Elizabeth,” the queen cautions. “It pleased God to call her from this world. She serves a being far greater than my humble self.”

I bow my head, unable to speak. I am held captive by shattered dreams and do not know how to wrest myself from them.

“As it is, you are here and my good servant,” she tells me. She draws in a breath as though she wishes to speak but is restraining herself.

Protocol forbids me to prod her, so I force myself from my wounded reverie to give her my full attention.

“Lady Elizabeth,” the queen says in low tones, “I am reluctant to remind you of a promise you made me not one year ago, that you would serve me for the benefit of my cause. Are you able to do so, my lady?”

I blink back tears, touched that she should ask. Rather than being embittered at the thought of being deprived of my grief, I welcome the chance to distract myself with a challenge.

“You know you have but to command me and I shall accommodate,” I tell her, my voice wavering with fervency.

The queen rests her fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face toward hers. “I do not want to command you, Elizabeth. I want you to help me because you want to, because you are my friend.”

Tears clutch my throat. “I am your friend, Your Grace, always. Tell me what to do, so that I might help you.”

The queen hesitates a moment more, then says, “It is very hard being separated from my husband more often than not,” she tells me. “It is increasingly difficult to obtain the things I desire.” She offers a small laugh. “You know how I adore oranges from my homeland,” she tells me with a reminiscent smile. “They will be in season soon, and Eustace Chapuys has promised to send me some, but the king often prevents him from visiting me personally. Were my dear friend to give you a basket of oranges, you would make certain no one received it but me? I would hate for them to become mislaid; I love them so.”

I nod in understanding. “Of course, Your Grace,” I assure her, squeezing the hand that holds mine. “Nothing would please me more.”

With this new charge I am rejuvenated. I will not think of my daughter, the one dead or the one living. I will not think of my Thomas and his Bess. I will not think of anything that brings me pain.

I will think about baskets of oranges.

Thomas Howard

I do not think about my Cathy. To be honest, I didn’t give her much thought to begin with after her marriage was secured; she was safe in the country and, I assumed, since she lived to maturity, she would escape the fate of her siblings. She would have children; she would come to court. Her children would come to court. And so on. But she is gone, and gone with her are my hopes for her. It does me no good to dwell.

As it is, another death consumes me, though not with grief. With joy, maddening joy. For Wolsey, that pompous, arrogant fool, is dead! I cannot say it enough. The exiled cardinal collapsed on the way to his execution in London. He was brought up on charges of treason; irrefutable evidence was provided stating that he was corresponding with foreign monarchs and Rome that he might enlist their support for his pathetic cause. Well, perhaps the evidence was not irrefutable. But it was strong enough to obtain the signature on his death warrant. But instead of death at the block, he succumbed to a demise fitting for a butcher’s son, twitching in the mud like one of his father’s pigs at slaughter. What a delight! Ah, but it would have been nice to see him beheaded, to look into his eyes and convey in my gaze my ultimate victory over he who endeavored to bring my family and me down since his rise to power. Who is brought down now, Cardinal? Oh, excuse me. I had forgotten; gone is your cardinal’s hat. Seized it was when you failed.

Thomas More does not share my enthusiasm over his predecessor’s passing.

“Corrupt as he was, I think he wanted to do right in the end,” he tells me in his soft voice one day when I visit him at his Chelsea home.

“You never liked him,” I say gruffly. “You side with him now because he was a churchman, and you are nothing if not the Church’s man. Look at you in your quaint choir robe! God’s body, my lord chancellor!” I laugh. “A parish clerk! A parish clerk! You dishonor the king and his office!”

More laughs but it contains no humor.

“You cannot tell me you mourn him,” I demand.

“Perhaps not as one should,” More confesses. “But I am in mourning, Lord Norfolk. We are at the end of something. And I do not know if I am equipped to handle what lies ahead. I fear for the king. If a lion knew his own strength, hard it would be to rule him.” He purses his lips, drawing in a breath. “Wolsey knew that and used it to his advantage. Cromwell does not know it. Boleyn does not know it.” He turns his gaze to me, his eyes so penetrating, my heart begins to pound. “I do not think you know it, either. Now the lion is unfettered and we all will pay dearly for it.” His eyes grow distant. “Yes, my friend, I am in mourning. Wolsey is dead and with him the king’s sense of restraint. There is no question as to who is next. Only when. Perhaps I die today and you tomorrow.”

I wave a dismissive hand. “Drivel, Thomas,” I tell him, hoping to dispel the feeling of dread pooling in my gut. “All we have is now,” I say. “We must celebrate our victories.” I offer a smile that suddenly seems forced. I bow my head, deciding the best tactic is to completely shift the direction of the conversation. “Your family must prove a distraction. Quite the lot. They are lovely children.”

“I am very blessed,” he says and seems as relieved as I am. There is a certain respite in useless banter. “As are you. I have seen the girl Mary at court, a beautiful child. So pure.”

My heart lurches; all feelings of respite depart. “Mary.” I expel a wavering sigh. “Thomas, sometimes when I look at her . . .”

“Yes?” More prompts. “What do you see when you look at her?”

I shake my head in bewilderment. What do I see? The pearly essence of her skin, the wistful face, the golden hair I love to brush . . . “I see the embodiment of someone else. Not just someone else but something else. The embodiment of another time, another place, a place of innocence . . .”

“Lord Norfolk, she is not someone else,” More tells me in firm tones. “She is your daughter. See her as she is. Love her as she is. And, for love of God, do not make her pay for your disillusionment upon the realization that she is just an ordinary girl.”

No, I want to scream, not Mary. She is far from ordinary. She is some kind of siren, a creature I long to both treasure and protect myself from. It is nothing sordid, as God is my witness. . . . Oh, what is this curse that has befallen me?

I shake my head and clear my throat. This is no conversation for More, the traditional family man. I should have known. Mary is not a topic to be discussed with anyone at any time. There is no one who would understand. I do not understand it myself.

I turn the conversation toward lighter things. Wolsey’s death. Yes, think of Wolsey’s death, not the children, neither the ones snuggled in their graves nor the one who inspires in me such dark and frightening fancies.

I will think of Wolsey. And I will revel.

Elizabeth Howard

Eustace Chapuys begins sending the baskets to the queen through me with very little trouble. I never look inside. As their communications are in Spanish, I would not be able to understand them anyway and it would do me little good. I am just the messenger and it does my heart good to know I am providing this service to Her Grace, who is pitiably short of friends.

We meet in a secluded area of gardens, where he passes the basket to me with a smile and pleasant exchange. He is never too personal, is always polite, save for those eyes, which are so keen and scrutinizing that they cause me to avert my eyes with the bashfulness of a girl.

One warm summer afternoon he meets me, the basket looped over his arm, and I greet him with a smile. It is a beautiful day. The scents of citrus and roses assault me and I draw in a deep breath.

“A shame to think of anything being conducted within doors on such a day as this,” I tell him, expelling my breath. On impulse I give myself over to the childish urge to twirl about. “This must be what paradise smells like.”

He laughs. “It is divine,” he agrees in his thick accent. “Surrounded by roses.” He closes his eyes, sniffing the air. Upon opening them, he smiles at me. “Roses and the beauty of a great lady.”

Another typical courtier, I think, as I recall the suave Fra Diego.

“Why the face you put on?” he asks me, his English so broken I am forced to laugh.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking of an old acquaintance who used fair words to win fair ladies,” I say as we take to one of the benches.

“Did he succeed?”

I begin to giggle again. “No! He was sent home in disgrace. He was the queen’s own confessor, Fra Diego.”

He joins me in laughter. “Well! Imagine a priest with such unholy designs!”

I wipe a tear of mirth from my eye as I laugh harder. By now everyone knows of Cardinal Wolsey’s many mistresses and I am certain Chapuys is thinking along the same order as he makes the jest.

“Tell me, are the gardens of Spain as beautiful as this?” I ask him.

“As the Spanish envoy, I am obligated to say, ‘No, my lady, they are far more beautiful than this,’ ” he says. “And while they are pretty, I must tell you that I am not in truth from Spain, so my heart does not think upon it as home. I am from Savoy. You know this place?”

I nod, charmed helpless by his musical accent.

“My first languages were actually French, then Italian when I attended the University of Turin,” he tells me. He smiles as though recalling a memory most dear. “And always Spanish, of course, which is now the one I use most. Then there is this English.” He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Well, you can see my English is not so good. English is not, I am thinking, a very pretty language.”

“No,” I agree. “It is as hard and cold as the English people.”

He regards me with soft eyes. “Not all of them,” he says quietly. In cheerful tones he adds, “I am most content to speak my romantic languages. For the rest, I have a good translator.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Some of the things I need to know are not learned by the spoken word. I observe people, their faces and their ways. A lot can be learned just watching.”

I nod. “And what have you learned about me?” I venture, feeling impetuous as a courtier.

He hesitates, regarding me a long moment before saying, “I have learned, Lady Elizabeth, that you are sad.”

I bow my head.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, reaching over to take one of my hands. “I was very bold.”

“Very,” I say.

We are silent a while and then, reaching into the basket, Chapuys removes an orange. “We were speaking of gardens. Do you know oranges grow on trees, Lady Elizabeth? Beautiful trees. Nothing smells as sweet as an orange orchard. Do you favor this fruit, my lady duchess?”

I swallow hard. “I have never tried one.”

“The Spanish queen’s maid and you have never tried an orange!” he exclaims. “Well, you must!” He commences to peel it, concealing the peels in a nearby bush. He breaks the fruit in half, then into sections. The juice runs down his elegant hand as he gives me one. “Here. Try, my lady.”

I take the orange and pop it into my mouth. Juice squirts out, running down my chin, and I emit a little giggle. A burst of tangy sweetness erupts in my mouth and I offer a purr of delight.

“You like this fruit?” he asks me.

I nod, covering my mouth in embarrassment. I have forgotten my handkerchief, which is tantamount to mortal sin for one of my breeding, and am trying to think of a polite way to wipe my chin.

The ambassador chuckles, then lowers my hand, removing his handkerchief from the pocket of his doublet. Slowly he reaches forward, then dabs my chin with the fine linen. When with his other hand he takes the handkerchief away, one hand remains. Gently it seizes my chin, his thumb running over my lips soft as butterfly wings. I shudder somewhere deep within as our eyes lock.

I do not want to break away.

But I do, averting my head.

The moment is lost.

“Thank you for taking the basket to the queen,” he tells me in a whisper. “It means a great deal to us.”

“It means a great deal to me as well, my lord,” I tell him, rising, taking the basket, and turning away.

“Eustace.”

“Eustace,” I say slowly.

I walk away, gripping the basket with white knuckles, all the while trying to force away the images that are assaulting me, images that serve me not well at all.

I must stave off thoughts of this dark man. Each time we meet, it is harder to leave him. We do nothing improper; we do not touch. We talk. He tells me of Europe and the handsome Charles V, of beautiful Turin, and romantic Savoy. He asks me how I feel about things. How do I feel about Anne Boleyn (whom he refers to as The Concubine)? How do I feel about my daughter’s passing? How do I feel about Thomas? I tell him. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I tell him of my shame for the Boleyn woman, my involuntary coldness toward my living children, of the deep sense of mourning for Cathy, and of my mingled love and hatred for Thomas. He listens. He does not judge, save to agree with me about Mistress Boleyn. He listens.

It is dangerous to bare one’s soul so; I know it. But I do it anyway. The gentle nature and compassionate eyes of this beautiful man make it impossible to do otherwise. It would be so easy to yield to my deepest desires, to follow my husband’s example and steal what is not mine. . . .

How ashamed would Her Grace be if she knew of my fancies! The Lord tells us that just to think an adulterous thought is tantamount to committing the sin itself. Based on this standard, I have done it a thousand times over.

I am no better than Thomas.

Thomas . . . my lawful husband. We have not been together in so long.

There is naught to do but go to him. If I have to use him as he uses this Bess woman to get the ambassador out of my mind, I will. Far better to give myself to him than sacrifice my honor. Tears constrict my throat as I think of how much I long to abandon integrity and follow my darkest dreams. But that would make me like them, those of this court who have lost all sense of morality and decency. Those who take the easy path.

Perhaps something good will come of it. Perhaps he’ll realize . . . no use getting caught up in more useless fantasy.

Eventually, I go to my husband’s apartments.

“You were not summoned, my lady,” he tells me when I am permitted entrance.

I close my eyes a long moment. “I had thought perhaps to visit you.”

Thomas laughs. “What do you want, Elizabeth? Surely you don’t desire my company, or is it that you miss our stimulating conversation?”

I swallow my reply and approach him, wrapping my arms about his neck, drawing him close. He is my husband. I must focus on him, for whatever he is. And he is a handsome man, at least to me. Once he was a good man. If I can forget . . .

Thomas is rigid in my embrace. “What’s this, girl?” he asks as he encircles me in his arms. He regards me with bewildered black eyes.

“Thomas, I . . .” I do not know how to go about this. It has been so long. I don’t want to be a harlot. But I need a distraction.

He breaks away and pours himself a cup of claret from the buffet. “My little niece is a bit peeved with you, I think,” he says.

“Who is she to be peeved with me?” I ask, my face heating in anger that the Boleyn whore should be brought up at a moment I had hoped to make tender.

“Most likely she is your future queen,” Thomas tells me. “The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can find some peace. Elizabeth. Stop playing the go-between for the queen and Chapuys.”

My heart lurches.

“God’s body, girl, you are as transparent as that window,” he tells me, gesturing to the pane behind him. “You think I don’t know? You don’t think it is only a matter of time before the king finds out? I am only playing the innocent to spare you.”

“To spare you, you mean,” I say in short tones.

“My clever girl,” he says, setting the cup down and approaching me once more. “Now, before you and Anne take to fighting like she-cats, I suggest you cease this lunacy and be a good auntie. She is quite useful to us. Because of her . . . influence, the king is considering a match for our little Mary with his son Henry Fitzroy.”

“Fitzroy? The bastard?” I cry.

“Besides me, that ‘bastard’ is the premier duke in the realm,” he snaps. “Don’t you see how perfect it is, what it would mean for us? Mary would be King Henry’s daughter-in-law.”

“Oh, there’s a privilege! We all know how good he is to his family!” I am scandalized. Tears burn my eyes. “So Mary will wed Fitzroy and then what will become of her? She’ll be swallowed up in this world of treachery. She’ll learn how to lie and connive and cheat—”

“High-minded till the end,” Thomas says, shaking his head in disgust. “I’d rather the girl learn to keep up with the best of them than be trodden down by it. This is how it is, Elizabeth. There’s no shame in trying to get the best.”

“And this is the best?” I ask, shaking my head at him. “Do you ever once think of her happiness? She’s our only daughter now, Thomas. Your baby. Don’t you want to protect her?”

Thomas’s expression changes; it softens with a whimsy rarely seen. His eyes mist over. “I am thinking of her, Elizabeth. I know you don’t believe me.” His tone is husky. “But, in addition to the obvious benefits the title will hold for us, this marriage will ensure that she will always be beside me.”

I screw up my face in confusion as I try to sort out this new line of reasoning.

Reading my puzzlement, he continues. “She’ll still be a young girl for quite some time, even after the alliance is made. It won’t be consummated right away. I’ll make certain she doesn’t go to Fitzroy a day before I think she is ready. Till then, she will be mine—er—with us.”

My heart drops in my chest. I begin to back away from him.

“What I’m saying is that beside me, she’ll be safe. I will make certain of it,” he assures me.

“And happy, Thomas? Will she be happy with you?” I ask in soft tones.

“Of course,” he answers, as though he cannot conceive of someone being unhappy with him. “I give the child gifts all the time. She has everything. She has a hundred little friends to play with, a pup she adores, pretty gowns—what more could she desire?”

“You,” I tell him. “Are you kind to her, Thomas?”

He grimaces. “What do you mean? Of course I am!”

“But have you ever—have you ever . . .” I don’t know how to ask. I don’t want to ask.

“Have I taken her in hand?” he finishes. “Only when needed.”

“Ah,” I say as I sit on one of the plush chairs in his privy chamber. “Hence the gifts.” I draw in a wavering breath. “The gifts you give her all the time.” The last three words are deliberate, measured.

“I’m her father,” he says, as though this answer should satisfy me. “And head of this family. It is not for you to question the discipline that is in my right to administer, girl.”

“No,” I sigh. Suddenly I am overcome with exhaustion. “I suppose not.” I don’t want to fight him anymore. I don’t want to think about things I can’t control. Mary is growing up fast enough in this court; what she does not know, she will learn. Thomas seems an eager teacher. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard.

“Now. Returning to the subject at hand. You’ll stop serving as Chapuys’s messenger, thank you very much,” he tells me. Then in thoughtful tones he adds, “And whatever else you do for him. You’ll stop that as well.”

I rise, anger surging through me as hot as wine. “You will withdraw whatever it is you are implying at once, my lord.”

Thomas smiles. “Touchy, lady wife?”

“You know I have been nothing but devoted to you,” I cry.

“Oh, you are devoted,” he remarks. “But not to me. No, I should say the queen has your devotion before any living being. Her cause and whatever you can do to further it. I must admit I am a little surprised. I did not think you’d reduce yourself to such intrigues. . . .”

“Thomas Howard! You know me better than that!” I cannot stop shaking my head. I cannot believe what I’m hearing. “I’m yours! No matter how ill used, no matter how miserable I have been made in your company, I am yours!”

With this I throw my arms about his neck and do what I had intended to do since arriving in his apartments. Strangely, the anger fuels my passion and I cover his face with kisses, then press my lips firmly against his in a frantic show of possessiveness.

“Yours,” I murmur. “Don’t you see?” I begin to remove his doublet. “Yours . . .”

Thomas returns the kisses, translating his own sense of desperation. Together we sink to the rush-strewn floor, meeting in a coupling of such intensity that we are left breathless and sobbing. There are no words that can explain or compensate for what is gained and what is lost in each other’s company.

As with everything concerning Thomas and me, it is expressed through the physical. Right or wrong, good or bad, that is how it is.

Nothing changes.

In the end, I go to my apartments and he remains in his.

I meet with Chapuys. The smell of the sweet citrus fruit that masks the dispatches between ambassador and queen is also the fragrance of my own betrayal in mind and spirit to my husband and his cause. The honor that remains intact is that of my body, which has committed itself to the marriage vows I was forced to take at fifteen years of age.

I carry out my noble charge, despite warnings from Anne Boleyn herself, who taunts me at every turn. I tell myself that serving this high purpose is worth the pain and disregard of Thomas, that in the end some divine reward must come of it. But my resolve grows weaker with each passing day.

The queen will lose this battle. There is no doubt of it. This world is not meant for the pure and the good. It swallows them up, claiming them as one of their own unless they can escape. And the only escape is death.

It is obvious the queen is dying. Her burden is too heavy; the cup of her deteriorating health spills over onto her poor daughter, so overwrought by the stress and pain of her father’s lust for the Boleyn whore that she is tortured by a string of illnesses. This mad king will kill anyone who stands in his way without employ of axe or sword. He will murder them with heartbreak, heaping upon these two pious creatures sorrow after sorrow until, broken, they collapse and yield to the embrace of the angel of death.

And yet this task gives me meaning. I hold fast to it, cherishing it. If I am fighting a losing battle, I will fight nonetheless as I have my life long.

Anne Boleyn, that traitorous slut, has confronted me. No longer satisfied with subtle threats, she comes to my apartments specially to address the matter, all dressed in purple—purple! The color reserved for royals alone! There are no words to capture the hatred that stirs in my breast upon looking at the raven-haired girl whose shrewd, calculating eyes belong to her uncle and whose body belongs to the Whore of Babylon.

Her lips curve up into their courtier’s smile as she enters with a great flourish as though to say, “Make way for the queen!”

She dips into the smallest of curtsies before me, as though it is a favor that she should make any deferential show of respect to me at all.

“I come to visit with my auntie Norfolk,” she tells me. “How are you, my lady?”

“Quite well,” I answer.

“I have had the pleasure of acquainting myself with my cousin, your daughter,” she goes on to say in amicable tones as she runs one long-fingered hand along the cherry wood of my breakfast table. “A beautiful little girl,” she comments. “She has a great future ahead of her, Lady Norfolk.” She drums her elegant nails on the tabletop. “With my help, the king and your husband have arranged things quite nicely. Uncle Thomas loves her quite madly, I should think.” She turns, mocking me with her eyes. “Quite madly,” she adds deliberately.

“I don’t see how that is any of your concern,” I say.

“She is my family,” Anne counters. “Naturally, she is my concern. And my concern extends to you as her mother and my aunt.”

I fix her with a hard stare.

Anne raps her hand on the table. “Lady Norfolk, I know all about my uncle. I know how he waves his mistress under your nose; I know how he’s beaten and humiliated you.” She lowers her eyes. “I know how he treats poor little Mary.”

“I’d have thought he would serve as your inspiration,” I say. “Do you really fancy yourself better than Thomas Howard? Than any of them? Are you not just another Bess Holland? How does your treatment of the Princess Mary differ from that of my husband’s treatment of our daughter? Who do you think you are to offer me sympathy and counsel? What do you want from me, Mistress Anne Boleyn?”

Anne’s black eyes flash with anger. “Stop this nonsense with Chapuys! It does not help your case nor that of the queen’s. It makes you all look like fools.”

“Fools?” I cry. “I look the fool? Who is more foolish? The whore who tries to seduce His Majesty from his faithful wife and holy Church with her heresy and wicked French tricks or the woman who has been nothing but loyal to queen, country, and husband? Fool? Fool indeed!”

“You are a fool, Elizabeth Howard!” Anne cries, balling her white hands into fists. “For by supporting that woman, you are throwing away every chance of happiness! You will lose, Lady Norfolk, not I! Your place at court, your husband, your children—everything. And for what? Principle?” Her eyes soften. The pity reflected in them incenses me more than any previous mockery. “I could have been your ally,” she says in quiet tones. “I could have been such a help to you. I still could. One word and Uncle Thomas would be forced to rid himself of that harlot girl.”

“As if that matters to me!” I cry. “Do you think I want my husband to be forced to rid himself of her? He will put her aside for love of me or he won’t. I’m certain his”—I choose my words with care—“conscience will advise him—like his king.”

Anne bows her head. “Very well.” To my astonishment her eyes are moist. “Be advised, Lady Norfolk. Your days are numbered.”

Anne Boleyn may be many things, but a woman of false word she is not. Moving with the swiftness of a falcon descending on a rabbit, she makes certain word of my transgression reaches the royal ear.

I am banished from court and from the service of my lady.

I knew this was a risk I was taking. I knew it and yet shock courses through me as though I have been thrown against a stone wall. Though a farewell to the ambassador is forbidden, I am permitted one last audience with the queen in her privy chamber, where every endeavor of staying calm is destroyed by her compassionate countenance.

“You have been nothing but a good and faithful servant,” she tells me in her soft, low voice. “And God will bless you for it. There are no words to express the sorrow I feel that you should be treated with such disrespect. You are not alone, my lady. Even now the king plots my removal from his presence. It is easier for him, you see,” she tells me. “Easier to live with his sin if he is not made to look upon me daily. So I will go. I will be removed.”

“Would that I could go with you,” I say with fervency, tears sliding in warm trails down my cheeks.

The queen offers her sorrow-filled smile. “It is a journey, this life, and God is our end. I will pray for you, my dear. I am much aggrieved at losing you, Lady Elizabeth.”

“You will never lose me,” I assure her through tears. “You have my devotion and prayers always. Along with my deepest friendship.”

“As do you, my lady,” she says.

As I begin to back away, the queen raises a hand. “Fight, Elizabeth. Fight for what is good and right. We shall prevail.”

Unable to speak, I dip into another low curtsy. And then take my leave.

“You are a fool, Elizabeth,” Thomas rails as he pokes his head inside the curtains of my coach just before I set off for Kenninghall. “Your pride has undone you.”

“Not pride, Thomas,” I correct him. “Honor. And I’d rather be undone by honor than by the ambition and avarice that consumes you.”

Thomas laughs. “I am through with you, Elizabeth. If you think you have a respite in Kenninghall you are wrong; you have no place there. You have no place anywhere. Not even beside your precious queen. You have seen to that. You are alone, Elizabeth, all alone with your honor. Take comfort in it.”

With those words he closes the curtains.

I am alone.

Bess Holland

She has returned. The duchess has returned in shame and I am forced to face her every day knowing that I am much elevated in the duke’s eyes and she is not. I do not know what kind of madness I have fallen upon. The servants all defer to me as their lady. Some of them are quite nice; everyone makes certain I am cared for. More lilac oil for your bath, Mistress Bess? More hot bricks in your bed, Mistress Bess? More wine, more food? More, more, more.

The duchess is not made merry or comfortable. She is taunted for her disgrace at court. Any and every opportunity is taken to antagonize her, from putting stinging nettles in her bed to more direct confrontations insulting her about the duke’s waning affections. No one assists the lady with anything except the most basic tasks. No extra care is to be given her. Most of all, the duchess is not allowed to disrespect me in any way lest she be promptly “corrected” by the staff. Corrected like an errant child or naughty puppy. And all because of me.

For a year it goes on like this. We do not confront each other much, keeping to our own apartments. I try to blot out that I am the cause of her despair. But the knowledge is there. I am a bad girl, no better than a common whore no matter how His Grace dresses me. I am a courtesan. And, if the duke has his way, a courtesan I shall remain. Is it, I wonder, for any affection he bears me or just to spite the duchess for some grievous sin I know nothing of?

My ladies seem to think she is deserving of such treatment.

“She did it to herself, that’s what the duke says, so that’s what we must believe,” says one portly maid called Sarah as we embroider in the parlor. Sarah and her sister were sent by the duke to attend me and take particular pleasure in tormenting the duchess. Brought up with the whip to become tough and coarse, they see nothing wrong with His Grace’s form of discipline. “Anyway, His Grace pays us good enough to believe whatever he says, eh?” she adds in her crude accent.

I swallow the rising bile in my throat and bow my head. “I never wanted to be the cause of such sorrow.”

“They cause their own sorrow,” Sarah tells me. “Bastards, all of them. They have everything in the world and, having it, don’t know what else to do but make misery for each other.” She offers a bitter laugh. “Besides, she’s a haughty enough girl. Does my heart good to see one of them brought down. Now she knows how it feels.”

“Aye to that,” agrees her sister, a sturdy girl named Becca. “Don’t know why you bother feeling so bad about it, my lady. Take what he gives you and be glad of it; few enough get your chance. Be grateful for the lusts of a noble gentleman.” She pauses a moment. “Of course, perhaps you shouldn’t be thanking His Grace. Thank the duchess.” She laughs so much at this that her double chin waddles. “Here!” She raises the mug of small ale she had been sipping at. “To the duchess! To the prideful wench who drove a duke right into Mistress Bess’s loving arms!”

“The duchess!” echoes Sarah, raising her glass. They fall together in laughter.

“Yes, to me,” a low voice seethes. Lady Elizabeth stands in the doorway, her steely gaze fixed on me. I shudder. I meet her eyes. I cannot behave as though I am devoured by guilt when I am not. Didn’t I want the duke as much as he wanted me?

Perhaps the sisters are right; maybe the harshness doled out to the duchess is earned. Was it not her pride and stubbornness that expelled her from court? Was it not her constant disobedience that sabotaged any love the duke had for her?

I tell myself this. I tell myself this to make it right. But nothing makes it right. I keep nursing the belief, however, that I might survive the knowledge that I have caused more misery in another human being than ever I could have conceived.

And it is with all this in mind that I fix my gaze upon the duchess.

She strides in wearing a wry smile. “Drink to me, ladies. Drink to my pain and my humiliation.” She stares me down. “Drink to your lover who revels in it, that generous lover who will just as soon turn against you should you displease him. Yes, you’ve a great deal to celebrate, Mrs. Holland.”

I start at the farcical misnomer. “You require something of me, my lady?” I ask her.

“Yes, I do,” she says, drawing herself to her full height, which is still smaller than me. She stands a delicate sapling struggling to hold her ground amidst the turbulent storm of my treachery. “I require you to leave this place, Bess Holland. For all that is holy, cease the life of a concubine while you still have some chance at redemption. Leave. For God’s sake, leave.” The plea in her voice is unmistakable and I close my eyes against it.

“I cannot leave, as well you know, my lady,” I tell her. “It pleases the duke that I remain.”

“Yes, ladyship,” Sarah chimes in. “It pleases the duke.”

“Very much!” adds her sister with a wicked laugh. “Have you heard how much, Sarah? I’ve heard it. In the hallway, outside His Grace’s apartments. He is very pleased indeed!”

“Hold your peace, Becca!” I cry but there is no stopping what is to come, what they have wanted to come since the duchess arrived from court.

Her Grace is trembling in rage. Red faced, she clenches her jaw as she makes for Becca, her hands like claws as she encircles the thick neck.

Becca is too strong, however, and Sarah is even stronger. Together they pin the writhing duchess to the floor. Lady Elizabeth is spitting and cursing, flailing her arms as she attempts without success to defend herself against these oxen of women.

“Stop!” I am crying. “That is quite enough! Stop!”

They do not hear. The duchess is gasping. She has clawed so much at her attackers that her fingertips bleed. She begins to cough.

“Get off her, for love of God!” I cry, running toward them to seize Sarah by her broad shoulders. “Get off her at once!”

A sharp tug of my hair reveals that the duchess is thrilled to have me in what would be a comic display were it being acted out. But it is real and we are all players on a stage in Hell, a stage set and designed by the duke of Norfolk.

When blood begins to spew forth from the duchess’s lips, the girls scramble to their feet. They back away. No apologies are uttered. Sarah dares smirk at the prostrate duchess.

“That’s from your loving husband,” she tells her. “Ye’ll not be so quick to disrespect those in his esteem now, will ye?”

Lady Elizabeth lays comatose, blood trailing down her chin in a thin crimson stream. My heart is pounding at the horror of it all.

I look to Becca. “Send for someone to attend her,” I order in harsh tones. Then to Sarah I seethe, “How could you? That was unnecessary and cruel and—”

“Don’t take offense to it, Mistress Bess. We are on orders. She was rude so we corrected her, just as we were told. We have to do what we’re told or we’re all out in the street.”

“But like this? And—and do you have to like it so?” I demand.

She shrugs. “Life is short enough without taking a few small pleasures now and again.”

With this she departs.

I stand in bewilderment. Icy fear surges through me. These women do not “correct” the duchess for my sake; they are not my friends. They are paid henchmen who derive perverse satisfaction from the pain and humiliation of another. Lady Elizabeth’s words torment me . . . that generous lover who will just as soon turn against you should you displease him . . .

How can my duke sanction this? I know he has been cruel, I know he has been wicked, but I cannot believe he would approve this.

Like everything else I am forcing myself to believe, I tell myself he would not, surely he would not. When he learns of this terrible act he will somehow set things right.

The thought is as unsteady as all my other convictions and brings with it little comfort.