Rivals in the Tudor Court

Strange to think they both died in the same year, the true queen and the false one. I am sick with grief for both of them. I expected to mourn for my Catherine, but at least I am assured that she is in Heaven with her Lord and five children. Her suffering has ended at last. No longer do I have to fret over her in her exile, no longer do I have to worry about her failing health, no longer do I have to rail against all those who have shown her such profound disregard. I am at peace with Queen Catherine’s death; far better she does not see what her husband has become.

It is what I feel upon learning of Anne’s wrongful execution that stirs an unforeseen amount of grief in my aching breast. I think of all the terrible things I called her, all the accusations and confrontations and battles fought in her name. She was not the cause. She was a mere girl, a tool of greed and ambition. Her entire life, forces worked for and against her and all of them so much stronger than she could ever have been. Now at twenty-nine she is dead and a child is motherless.

The injustice of it all is like taking in the sight of a fortress for the first time: awe-inspiring for its sheer magnitude.

My daughter loses the husband she never had that same year and Thomas cloisters her at Kenninghall while Bess is in another one of his manors. I remain here, of course, and am not allowed to comfort my daughter in her time of bereavement, though what consolation I could give, I have no idea. Yet, if I could, I would tell her to be strong, that there is hope. She is a young woman with endless possibilities before her. She could know happiness and love yet if she would persevere. And if there is any of myself in her . . . but there is not. She is of another world altogether, made of some ethereal substance brilliant for its beautiful transience. And though I do not doubt her will and intelligence, I bear the inexplicable knowledge somewhere in the core of my being that Mary will be deprived of any true joy. So long as her father rules her. So long as she allows it. And she will allow it, that much I also know.

I must not think on her overmuch, else I be devoured in regret.

Instead, from the safety and loneliness of Redbourne, I learn of the happenings at court. My husband rises to prominence again when he puts down the Pilgrimage of Grace, a papist revolt against the dissolution of the monasteries and the king’s general perversion of the Catholic faith. Our son Henry, Lord Surrey, fights alongside his idol and together they put down their fellow Catholics and are praised as heroes.

Jane Seymour gives birth to the desired heir, Prince Edward, only to die twelve days later. The country is thrust once more into grief and the hunt is on for her replacement.

The king is cursed, I believe. His own actions against his first wife have cursed his subsequent marriages, and no wife of his will ever know a day of happiness.

As these dramas unfold, I write to Thomas Cromwell, a rising star at the court of Henry VIII and a rival of my husband’s. Now named Privy Seal, it is Cromwell who has the king’s ear above all others, much to my husband’s consternation. As such, Cromwell is my only hope for attaining some justice. I do not hope to win my husband from the arms of his harlot. What I need is money. I cannot live on this pathetic amount. I have servants to pay, a manor to run, and food to put on the table. My daily expenses are driving me into debt. If my daughter Mary can be granted a pension for an unconsummated marriage, then I must have some rights to claim.

I send appeal after appeal, pouring out to Cromwell every crime Thomas has ever committed against me without shame. I will humiliate Thomas into doing right by me. Cromwell’s responses are polite and filled with empty promises. Nothing changes. Thomas’s letters are filled with threats and remonstrations for my “slander.” If I recant and apologize, he will consider granting me a larger annuity.

But I remind him of the vow I spoke to him years ago, that I will speak only the truth, and thus avowed, I cannot recant or apologize for that would be lying.

I never receive a letter from Thomas again.

Thomas Howard, 1540

Cromwell thinks he is crafty and clever, the very right hand of the king, he thinks he is, but he will be brought down and I will be the one to do it. For too long he has been allowed to hover about, whispering in the royal ear, advising and manipulating to suit his desires. Knave and scoundrel! His taunts ring in my ears; he delights in throwing his correspondence with Elizabeth in my face.

“Norfolk, aren’t you the happy man,” he chuckled when last we met. “Your wife has nothing on you, for if she did, I think she might undo you.” How his narrow eyes lit up with that statement, as though he could not wait to help her bring me down! But I will show him. I will show him just as I showed Wolsey. No one fights the Howards and wins.

Cromwell is victorious at the moment, however. His cleverness has secured for the king a Protestant sow from Germany in the hopes of Lutheranizing England. He will not succeed. As it is, Anne of Cleves’s German maids will be replaced with good English ladies-in-waiting and I begin to scout out members of my family to secure places at court for as many Howard girls as possible before she arrives.

This task requires a visit to my stepmother’s London residence, where I am told resides the daughter of my late brother Edmund. They await me in the parlor, the girl dressed in a gown that verifies my brother’s modest estate. Despite this, her beauty is undeniable. Auburn hair cascades down her back in thick waves and her eyes sparkle as blue as the sunlit sea.

I nod to my stepmother and she curtsies, leaving us alone. I sit in one of the Dowager Duchess’s hard wooden chairs and shift in discomfort.

The girl offers a clumsy curtsy. For a moment we stare at each other, making assessments. Then, to my shock, she runs toward me and jumps onto my lap, wrapping her arms about my neck and kissing me on the cheek.

“Oh, Uncle, I’m so glad you came to visit me!” she cries in delight. “No one ever comes to see me!”

“So you’re Catherine,” I say at last, resisting the urge to push her off me. She could prove very useful so must be handled with care. I wrap my arms about her tiny waist, assessing with as much subtlety as possible her hips. They are rounded and ready for childbearing. It appears she is blessed with the body of a twenty-year-old, the angelic face of a ten-year-old, and the mind of a complete idiot: a perfect combination for my purposes . . .

“Kitty,” she corrects me. “I’m Kitty.”

“Ah, Kitty,” I say, reaching up to stroke her lustrous hair. It is like silk under my fingertips. “Tell me, Kitty, you must be a very grown up lady. Have you your courses yet?”

She flushes bright crimson. “Yes, for about six months now,” she tells me, bowing her head.

“And how old are you?”

“Fourteen,” she says, raising her head. It is obvious she is proud of achieving this great age.

“Fourteen!” I cry. “Tut-tut, old girl! It is a sin for a grand lady of fourteen to be shut away at Norfolk House. How would you like to come to court with Uncle Thomas?”

“Court? Me?” she cries in delight. “Oh, Uncle Thomas, but I would!”

“Will you be a good girl and listen to everything I say and follow my every command?” I ask her in severe tones.

Her large blue eyes grow even wider with fear. “Yes, of course I will!” she insists.

“Good Kitty,” I say, drawing her close so we are cheek to cheek. “I will make certain you have everything you desire. Gowns and pretty hoods and slippers, jewels even. As long as you are always my good girl.”

“I will be, Uncle Thomas!” she cries. “Oh, I will be!” She hugs me tight, kissing me full on the mouth before pulling away. I can barely control the urge to wipe the kiss away. Though there was nothing sexual in it, I am disconcerted and annoyed at being invaded by this little dolt. “Can I go tell my friends now?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her, forcing patience into my voice. “Go tell your friends that you are leaving them to become the great Kitty Howard.”

She offers a smile to light up the darkest night and blows me a kiss. “Dear Uncle Thomas, you’ve no idea what you’re rescuing me from. . . . I love you!”

I wave her off and she skips down the hall, laughing and singing.

She is perfect, I think to myself, a little triumph.

With her I can solve two problems: Cromwell and the resurrection of lost dreams.