“…There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow;”

William Shakespeare (Hamlet V, ii 220-221)

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

December 12, 1546 – Reigate Castle, Surrey, England

 

A young boy was playing archer, guarding one of the tower’s narrow windows, when he caught sight of what must have been a messenger arriving shortly after noon. The cloaked rider’s grey and winded horse snorted and panted billows of smoke into the gathering chill, and the youngster could clearly hear the sound of iron shod hooves clacking on the cobble stoned path from the drawbridge. Despite the bitter weather, both rider and horse were visibly flushed and perspired, having travelled in great haste, for a considerable distance. Always observant and with a keen eye for detail, the boy concluded, from the rider’s pointed shoes and tilted, flat cap, that he had ridden all the way from London.

After a sharp rap upon the door and a brief conversation with the porter, the rider, who had received strict orders to deliver his message in private only to the master, was escorted without ceremony into the presence of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.

Howard knew full well that his friends had scattered like grass seeds to the wind, once it became known that he had fallen from the King’s grace. Although there were not many who would admit to being his friend, there were more than a few who hated Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford, as much as he did. One such enemy of his enemy was also his brother-in-law, John de Vere (Uncle John), the Earl of Oxford. De Vere heard from a reliable source that the Privy Council had issued warrants for both Surrey’s arrest and that of his father, Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk. It was said that the King had placed his seal on both warrants the previous morning and that the Duke was already in custody. At great risk to himself, de Vere had dispatched a trusted servant to Reigate to warn Surrey.

Much to the rider’s astonishment, The Earl appeared more perplexed than surprised by the news. He seemed oddly relieved, perhaps even satisfied with the sudden finality of it all. Surrey grunted his gratitude and dispatched a servant to see to the messenger’s mount. Remembering himself, he ordered another servant to escort his weary guest to the kitchens for a tankard of ale and a warm bowl of mutton stew.

Left alone to digest this long foreseen intelligence, Surrey withdrew to his study, in the familiar company of his books, to consider his options. He now knew how his enemies were going to move against him and how soon they would strike. The more he thought about it, the more furious he became. The charge of treason was patently absurd. As he paced the flag stones of the spare, almost Spartan room, whose only furnishings were a row of chests, labelled and filled with manuscripts, a small, table-like desk and one armless, straight backed chair, he glanced up at the formal portraits of his war-like ancestors. The Howards had served the crown with pride for over 350 years. Theirs was royal blood, after all! He observed, with a smirk of self-satisfaction, that the shield, cut into one of those ancient frescos, depicted the three golden lions of the Plantagenet dynasty.

The trial, if there was to be one, would be a sham. It would be quick and sure like the thrust of a sword. Nevertheless, all that now remained to set this ludicrous chain of events into motion was for there to be another visitor from London to serve the warrant.

Dismissing it all with a shake of the head, Surrey turned his attention to the present, calling an immediate conference with his wife, Lady Frances, their 11 year old son, Thomas, and his chief steward, Will Townsend. No, he would not flee to Scotland or to France. There clearly wasn’t time, and besides, Howards do not run in the face of danger. He wanted to inform the younger children that he might be going away for a while, but Lady Frances insisted that they be kept out of it.

“You’ll frighten them to death for no good reason. This will all pass; you’ll see. The King’s been furious with your father many times, but they’ve always reconciled. He will repent his fit of anger and recall the warrants. Everyone will be preparing for Christmas and the whole thing will be totally forgotten by the New Year, if we can only just stay out of sight for a while.”

Surrey waived the idea away with an outstretched hand. “This time is different. The dogs have scented blood, and they will only be satisfied with the kill.”

What Lady Frances didn’t realise was that one of the younger children, her seven year old son, Henry, the one who had been playing sentry when the messenger arrived, had been with his brother when the latter received his summons to meet with their father. Young Henry had followed at a distance and was listening outside the door. He didn’t fully understand what a warrant was or where his father might be going, but he could tell that it was not good news. The adults were always whispering in secrecy. He hated their secrets! He had to find out what they didn’t want to tell him.

A cold rain began to fall at around three o’clock that afternoon, soaking the ground and permeating the dank air. Darkness descended rapidly over England, as the decaying year plodded inexorably toward its end. Even the dwindling daylight hours were dim and colourless. A bitter, northerly wind screeched and howled like a widow at the gallows, driving leaves and drizzle in sweeping circles against the narrow windows of the castle.

Normally, despite the weather, there would still be the buzz of excitement in the air, well into the darkening hours. The Earl and Lady Frances always insisted on having an early family holiday feast with the children before going off to Whitehall for Christmas with the King. Their servants would ordinarily be busy late into the evening with cleaning and decorating for the event. This year, however, there was only the cold stillness of waiting, interminable waiting for the sound of approaching horses and a percussive knock at the door.

They took their supper as a family, as was their custom, but the table was uncharacteristically muted. Earl Henry tried to put on a cheerful face, but Lady Frances was clearly troubled and distracted. The meal concluded almost without conversation, and then there was more whispering and murmuring in the parlour before Lady Frances called the nanny to put the children to bed. The young boy, Henry, walked slowly and lingered in the hallway long enough to overhear his mother say: “If only we can remain undisturbed tonight, we just might make it.” In that instant, the child was seized by a violent chill, goose bumps on his arms and the back of his neck. He was certain (he didn’t know how) that his father would not get that peaceful night. Reluctantly, he went to bed, but not to sleep.

The boy tossed and turned until the bed clothes came completely undone and were all twisted in ribbons and tossed in a heap on the stone floor. Unable to pretend to sleep any longer, he arose as noiselessly as he could and took hold of a pewter candle stick that was on his night table. Just outside the door of the room he shared with his older brother, who clearly had no trouble sleeping through all of this, he stretched on his toes to light the candle from a wall sconce. Pressing himself as close as possible against the wall, he made his way downstairs, concealing himself behind the large pillars that supported the roof and separated the rooms. As the hushed voices in front of him came closer and closer, he paused, blew out the candle and then held his breath for a minute or so, until he was sure that he was undetected. Looking around, he found concealment behind the curtain that separated his father’s study from the hallway leading to the room where his parents received guests in times past. His father was speaking rapidly to Townsend.

​“Here is a list of the deeds for all of the tenants. This mark (You see, here?) next to a name indicates whether or not each has paid his rent for the year.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Lady Frances is to have absolute authority to deal with the tenants, as well as with all of my debtors and creditors. You will take orders only from her.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Dear Frances, you will take the children and go to some place safe. Don’t come anywhere near London or try to visit me in the Tower. They will be quick. They have to be. The King, they say, is seriously ill. He uses a stamp because his right side is immobile and he cannot even write his name.”

“No! I won’t let them have you! Command the sentries to raise the drawbridge. We can hold out for days…weeks with the provisions already secured for Christmas.”

“No. I will not impede the officers of the King. There is to be no resistance. I’m responsible for everyone who lives and works here. We will give them no pretext for slaughter.”

“…but what’s to become of us?”

“They wouldn’t dare to harm you; they have no cause. Above all, you must keep the children safe. Our sons carry the Howard name…”

Surrey was interrupted in mid-sentence by a commotion of voices and the thunder of hooves over the drawbridge. Townsend peered out of the window slit to the outside and spotted seven men on horseback, three carrying spears and two holding up torches. One led a saddled horse without a rider. Their leader, his jewelled sword clanking at his side, rode in front, on a white war horse richly decked out with a silver bridle and a tasselled silk cover on his saddle. The man himself was wrapped in furs, against the cold, over which he sported a stylish flat cap of red silk embroidered with a spray of fine jewels that sparkled like a fresh snowfall. In fact, the rain was just then turning into snow, and when the leader and two lancers dismounted, the ground upon which they lighted sprayed up slushy solids over their boots and hose. Townsend grinned darkly, when he saw them slide about for a moment before regaining their footing. The leader stepped forward with great authority and ceremony, and began to hammer at the thick oaken door using the blunt end of one of the pikes, which he grasped in his gloved fists.

Once, twice, three times, the night stillness was shattered by the horrible, cracking sound of wood against wood. The heavy door vibrated like a tuning fork and set off a sympathetic, rhythmic shuttering in the walls and floor boards throughout the keep. The tremor continued even after the pounding had stopped.

There followed another wave of repeated, resonant pounding. With each ear splitting contact, the door began to vibrate anew, and the whole anteroom of the castle became an echo chamber, augmenting the low vibrating sound like a giant drum.

The earthquake-like tremor struck again with an even stronger shock, but the Earl returned to his desk and gave the intruders no notice. A silence fell, broken again by the same insistent pounding. Townsend looked anxiously at his master to secure permission to respond to it and make it stop.

Once again, the intruder’s pike struck with a vengeance. The whole house was rattled and tumbled awake. The sound was everywhere, but the shaking of that which should have been solid and unyielding was even more terrifying. Lady Frances dispatched a servant to tell the younger children to stay in their rooms.

Each period of deafening stillness was punctuated by the resumption of even more insistent pounding. This time, the hammering was followed by a hoarse and impatient voice bellowing: “Open, in the name of the KING!”

The pounding resumed with a vengeance. The mounting noise was like the sharp report of cannon. The rooms of the keep and their contents shook again in morbid sympathy with the pulsating boom.

From the stairwell emerged Surrey’s elder son and heir, Thomas, holding a sword that was much too big and heavy for him to wield. He was intercepted by Lady Frances who took the sword out of his hand and placed it on the table next to the Earl. Lady Frances pulled the boy into position with her, behind his seated father.

“OPEN, I command you, in the King’s name!”

Surrey dipped his quill and continued to write in an unhurried and disinterested manner. Still the pounding continued. The seismic movements of the floor and walls were even more sickening than the horribly amplified noise.

Townsend could finally take no more. “For God’s sake, you’ll wake the dead with your knocking!” Still, the rhythmic bursts of sound and motion continued.

With each knock, the seven year old boy shook from behind the curtain, as if his bones would shuffle off the muscle, flesh and skin that covered them. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched the candle stick in his hand as if it held him up and kept him from crying out. He felt the warmth of his own urine, as it streamed down his leg to the floor at his feet.

Finally, Surrey looked up, and with the slightest nod of his head, gave permission for Townsend to unbolt the door.

In stalked two lancers and the leader of the intruders, a tall, broad shouldered man impeccably dressed for one who had just ridden hard for a long distance. His clothes betokened his rank, for both Surrey and Lady Frances recognised their chief nemesis, Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford. The latter was brandishing a scroll from which hung an elaborately decorated seal, bearing the insignia of King Henry VIII.

Without even bothering to break the seal, inasmuch as he was unable to read the Latin anyway, Hertford addressed the still seated Earl of Surrey with undisguised contempt and complete disregard for the latter’s rank, station and ancient family lineage. “Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, I arrest you in the name of the King on a charge of high treason.”

Surrey still did not stand, nor did he express the slightest regard for the nature of the charge. He looked at Hertford with a dismissive smirk and calmly addressed him, as insultingly as he could imagine, by his Christian name, rather than his title. “Why Edward, is this what brings you to my home at this ungodly hour of the night? Spare me your rhetoric and let’s get on with it, then, shall we?”

Had Surrey been standing, Hertford might have slugged him with his clenched fist, but he retained his composure and official demeanour. “Please rise. You are to accompany me this very evening, after which you will be turned over to the custody of the Warden of the Tower, in whose keeping you will be subject to the King’s swift justice.”

Surrey rose slowly to his feet, his voice calm and controlled. “I trust myself to his Majesty’s judgement and to his tender mercies, in which I confess that I have greater confidence than I place in your Lordship’s custody. May I first take my leave of my family?”

“Say your ‘goodbyes’ quickly, for I mean us to be back in London by tomorrow morning.”

Hertford wore a bored expression as Surrey and his wife moved toward each other to share a parting embrace. Suddenly, everyone turned to the sound of something metallic striking the stone floor from behind the nearby curtain. Hertford reached the curtain in one stride and pulled back the cloth barrier with his left hand, his right covering the hilt of his sword. The two lancers immediately pointed their weapons at the curtain and stopped when they saw the figure of a boy, near to tears having so given his position away. On the floor next to him rested the pewter candle stick he had carried from his bedroom.

Hertford looked amused, when he realised he was not being ambushed. “What’s your name, boy,” he breathed into the child’s face, deliberately speaking in a loud voice to frighten him even further.

“Henry, sir, Henry Howard.”

“That will be ‘my Lord’ to you.” Hertford seemed to be relishing the chance to bully the boy. “Well then, Henry Howard. Take a good look around you; you’ll never call this place ‘home’ again. “

Satisfied with having frightened the boy, Hertford shifted his attention to the tenderly embracing couple, as if to pass final sentence on both. “His Majesty decrees that all of your prior titles, lands and possessions are hereby forfeited to the crown, from whose bounty they originated.” Both boys were looking for a cue from their father to know what they should do next. Surrey raised a finger to his mouth and silently bade them say nothing.

Since there would be no further provocation or reprisals this night, Hertford turned and bade the lancers accompany Surrey out of doors.

Surrey looked at one of the lancers. “May I take a coat against the cold?”

“You’d better,” interspersed Hertford himself. “You’ll need it to stay warm in the Tower. I hear it’s a damp and chilly place.” An ugly sneer spread across his face, and he added: “Make it quick.”

Townsend produced a fur lined cloak for his master. Hastily heaving the cloak over his shoulders, Surrey followed the intruders into the blackened courtyard, soon to be swallowed by the swirling snow, the howling wind and the darkness. The younger Henry Howard stood staring at the door, too frightened and grief stricken to cry.